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‘Because you deserved them,’ cried the old man. ‘They gave me more pain than they did you.’
‘More pain! Ha! ha! ha! more pain!’
At that moment, a hand touched my arm. It was Blitz. A ray of the moon, falling on the window-panes, scattered its light around. His face was white, and his stretched-out hand pointed to the shadows. I followed his finger with my eyes, for he evidently was directing my attention to something, and I saw the most terrible sight of which I have a memory – a shadow, motionless, appeared before the window, against the light surface of the river. This shadow had a man’s shape, and seemed suspended between heaven and earth. Its head hung down upon its breast, its elbows stood out square beside the body, and its legs straight down tapered to a point.
As I looked on, my eyes round, wide opened with astonishment, every feature developed in that wan figure. I recognised Saphéri Mutz; and above his bent shoulders I saw the cord, the beam, and the outline of the gibbet. Then, at the foot of this deathly apparition, I saw a white figure, kneeling, with long dishevelled hair. It was Gredel Dick, her hands joined in prayer.
It would seem as though all the others, at the same time, saw that strange apparition as well as myself, for I heard them breathe: ‘Heaven! Heaven have mercy on us!’
And the old woman, in a low choking voice, murmured: ‘Saphéri is dead!’
She commenced to sob.
And the daughter cried: ‘Saphéri! Saphéri!’
Then all disappeared, and Theodore Blitz, taking me by the hand, said: ‘Let us go.’
We set off. The night was fine. The leaves fluttered with a sweet murmur.
As we went on, horrified, along the great Alley des Plantanes, a mournful voice from afar off sang upon the river the old German song:
‘The grave is deep and silent,
Its borders are terrible!
It throws a sombre mantle
It throws a sombre mantle
Over the kingdom of the dead.’
‘Ah!’ said Blitz, ‘if Gredel Dick had not been there we should have seen the other – the fearful one take Saphéri. But she prayed for him! The poor soul! She prayed for him. What is white remains white!’
The voice afar off, growing feebler and feebler, answered the murmur of the tide:
‘Death does not find an echo
For the song of the thrush,
The roses which grow on the grave,
The roses which grow on the grave,
Are the roses of grief.’
The horrible scene which had unfolded itself to my eyes, and that far-off melancholy voice which, growing fainter and fainter, at length died away in the distance, remain with me as a confused mirage of the infinite, of that infinite which pitilessly absorbs us, and engulfs us without possibility of our escape. Some may laugh at the idea of such an infinity, like the engineer Rothan; some may tremble at it, as did the burgomaster; some may groan with a pitiable voice; and others may, like Theodore Blitz, crane themselves over the abyss in order to see what passes in the depths. It all, however, comes to the same thing in the end, and the famous inscription over the temple of Isis is always true:
I am he that is.
No one has ever penetrated the mystery which envelops me.
No one shall ever penetrate it.
THE BURGOMASTER IN BOTTLE (#ulink_b25e98fe-f834-5bb7-b16a-bc918c818698)
I have always professed the highest esteem, and even a sort of veneration for the Rhine’s noble wine; it sparkles like champagne, it warms one like Burgundy, it soothes the throat like Bordeaux, it fires the imagination like the juice of the Spanish grape, it makes us tender and kind like lacryma-christi; and last, but not least, it helps us to dream – it unfolds the extensive fields of fancy before our eyes.
In 1846, towards the end of autumn, I had made up my mind to perform a pilgrimage to Johannisberg. Mounted on a wretched hack, I had arranged two tin flasks along his hollow ribs, and I made the journey by short stages.
What a fine sight a vintage is! One of my flasks was always empty, the other always full; when I quitted one vineyard, there was the prospect of another before me. But it quite troubled me that I had not any one capable of appreciating it to share this enjoyment with me.
Night was closing in one evening; the sun had just disappeared, but one or two stray rays were still lingering among the large vine-leaves. I heard the trot of a horse behind me. I turned a little to the left to allow him to pass me, and to my great surprise I recognised my friend Hippel, who as soon as he saw me uttered a shout of delight.
You are well acquainted with Hippel, his fleshy nose, his mouth especially adapted to the sense of taste, and his rotund stomach. He looked like old Silenus in the pursuit of Bacchus. We shook hands heartily.
The aim of Hippel’s journey was the same as mine; in his quality of first-rate connoisseur he wanted to confirm his opinion as to the peculiarities of certain growths about which he still entertained some doubts.
So we continued our route together. Hippel was extremely gay; he traced out our route among the Rhingau vineyards. We halted occasionally to devote our attention to our flasks, and to listen to the silence which reigned around us.
The night was far advanced when we reached a little inn perched on the side of a hill. We dismounted. Hippel peeped through a small window nearly level with the ground. A lamp was burning on a table, and by it sat an old woman fast asleep.
‘Hallo!’ cried my comrade; ‘open the door, mother.’
The old woman started, got up and came to the window, and pressed her shrunken face against the panes. You would have taken it for one of those old Flemish portraits in which ochre and bistre predominate.
As soon as the old sybil could distinguish us she made a grimace intended for a smile, and opened the door for us.
‘Come in, gentlemen – come in,’ cried she with a tremulous voice; ‘I will go and wake my son; sit down – sit down.’
‘A feed of corn for our horses and a good supper for ourselves,’ cried Hippel.
‘Directly, directly,’ said the old woman assiduously.
She hobbled out of the room, and we could hear her creeping up stairs as steep as a Jacob’s ladder.
We remained for a few minutes in a low smoky room. Hippel hurried to the kitchen, and returned to tell me that he had ascertained there were certain sides of bacon by the chimney.
‘We shall have some supper,’ said he, patting his stomach; ‘yes, we shall get some supper.’
The flooring creaked over our heads, and almost immediately a powerful fellow with nothing but his trousers on, his chest bare, and his hair in disorder, opened the door, took a step or two forward, and then disappeared without saying a word to us.
The old woman lighted the fire, and the butter began to frizzle in the frying-pan.
Supper was brought in; a ham put on the table flanked by two bottles, one of red wine, the other of white.
‘Which do you prefer?’ asked the hostess.
‘We must try them both first,’ replied Hippel, holding his glass to the old woman, who filled it with red.
She then filled mine. We tasted it; it was a strong rough wine. I cannot describe the peculiar flavour it possessed – a mixture of vervain and cypress leaves! I drank a few drops, and my soul became profoundly sad. But Hippel, on the contrary, smacked his lips with an air of satisfaction.
‘Good! very good! Where do you get it from, mother?’ said he.
‘From the hillside close by,’ replied the old woman, with a curious smile.
‘A very good hillside,’ returned Hippel, pouring himself out another glass.
It seemed to me like drinking blood.
‘What are you making such faces for, Ludwig?’ said he. ‘Is there anything the matter with you?’
‘No,’ I answered, ‘but I don’t like such red wine as this.’
‘There is no accounting for tastes,’ observed Hippel, finishing the bottle and knocking on the table.
‘Another bottle of the same,’ cried he, ‘and mind, no mixing, lovely hostess – I am a judge! Morbleu! this wine puts life into me, it is so generous.’
Hippel threw himself back in his chair; his face seemed to undergo a complete transformation. I emptied the bottle of white wine at a draught, and then my heart felt gay again. My friend’s preference for red wine seemed to me ridiculous but excusable.
We continued drinking, I white and he red wine, till one o’clock in the morning.
One in the morning! It is the hour when Fancy best loves to exercise her influence. The caprices of imagination take that opportunity of displaying their transparent dresses embroidered in crystal and blue, like the wings of the beetle and the dragon-fly.
One o’clock! That is the moment when the music of the spheres tickles the sleeper’s ears, and breathes the harmony of the invisible world into his soul. Then the mouse trots about, and the owl flaps her wings, and passes noiselessly over our heads.
‘One o’clock,’ said I to my companion; ‘we must go to bed if we are to set off early tomorrow morning.’
Hippel rose and staggered about.
The old woman showed us into a double-bedded room, and wished us goodnight.
We undressed ourselves; I remained up the last to put the candle out. I was hardly in bed before Hippel was fast asleep; his respiration was like the blowing of a storm. I could not close my eyes, as thousands of strange faces hovered round me. The gnomes, imps, and witches of Walpurgis night executed their cabalistic dances on the ceiling all night. Strange effect of white wine!
I got up, lighted my lamp, and, impelled by curiosity, I went up to Hippel’s bed. His face was red, his mouth half-open, I could see the blood pulsating in his temples, and his lips moved as if he wanted to speak. I stood for some time motionless by his side; I tried to see into the depths of his soul, but sleep is an impenetrable mystery; like death, it keeps its secrets.
Sometimes Hippel’s face wore an expression of terror, then of sadness, then again of melancholy; occasionally his features contracted; he looked as if he was going to cry.
His jolly face, which was made for laughter, wore a strange expression when under the influence of pain.
What might be passing in those depths? I saw a wave now and then mount to the surface, but whence came those frequent shocks? All at once the sleeper rose, his eyelids opened, and I could see nothing but the whites of his eyes; every muscle in his face was trembling, his mouth seemed to try to utter a scream. Then he fell back, and I heard a sob.
‘Hippel! Hippel!’ cried I, and I emptied a jug of water on his head.
This awoke him.
‘Ah!’ cried he, ‘God be thanked, it was but a dream. My dear Ludwig, I thank you for awakening me.’
‘So much the better, and now tell me what you were dreaming about.’
‘Yes, tomorrow; let me sleep now. I am so sleepy.’
‘Hippel, you are ungrateful; you will have forgotten it all by tomorrow.’
‘Morbleu,’ replied he, ‘I am so sleepy, I must go to sleep; leave me now.’
I would not let him off.
‘Hippel, you will have the same dream over again, and this time I shall leave you to your fate.’
These words had the desired effect.
‘The same dream over again!’ cried he, jumping out of bed. ‘Give me my clothes! Saddle my horse! I am off! This is a cursed place. You are right, Ludwig, this is the devil’s own dwelling-place. Let us be off!’
He hurried on his clothes. When he was dressed I stopped him.
‘Hippel,’ said I, ‘why should we hurry away? It is only three o’clock. Let us stay quietly here.’
I opened the window, and the fresh night air penetrated the room, and dissipated all his fears. So he leaned on the window-sill, and told me what follows.
‘We were talking yesterday about the most famous of the Rhingau vineyards. Although I have never been through this part of the country, my mind was no doubt full of impressions regarding it, and the heavy wine we drank gave a sombre tinge to my ideas. What is most extraordinary, in my dream I fancied I was the burgomaster of Welcke’ (a neighbouring village), ‘and I was so identified with this personage, that I can describe him to you as minutely as if I was describing myself. This burgomaster was a man of middle height, and almost as fat as I am. He wore a coat with wide skirts and brass buttons; all down his legs he had another row of small nail-headed buttons. On his bald head was a three-cornered cocked hat – in short, he was a stupidly grave man, drinking nothing but water, thinking of nothing but money, and his only endeavour was to increase his property.
‘As I had taken the outward appearance of the burgomaster, so had I his disposition also. I, Hippel, should have despised myself could I have recognised myself, what a beast of a burgomaster I was. How far better it is to lead a happy life, without caring for the future, than to heap crowns upon crowns and only distil bile! Well, here I am, a burgomaster.
‘When I leave my bed in the morning the first thing which makes me uneasy is to know if the men are already at work among my vines. I eat a crust of bread for breakfast. A crust of bread! what a sordid miser! I who have a cutlet and a bottle of wine every morning! Well, never mind, I take – that is, the burgomaster takes his crust of bread and puts it in his pocket. He tells his old housekeeper to sweep the room and have dinner ready by eleven. Boiled beef and potatoes I think it was – a poor dinner. Well, out he goes.
‘I could describe the road he took, the vines on the hillside, to you exactly,’ continued Hippel; ‘I see them before me now.
‘How is it possible that a man in a dream could conceive such an idea of a landscape? I could see fields, gardens, meadows, and vineyards. I knew this belongs to Pierre, that to Jacques, that to Henri; and then I stopped before one of these bits of ground and said to myself: “Bless me, Jacob’s clover is very fine.” And farther on, “Bless me, again, that acre of vines would suit me wonderfully.” But all the time I felt a sort of giddiness, an indescribable pain in the head. I hurried on, as it was early morning. The sun soon rose, and the heat became oppressive. I was then following a narrow path which crossed through the vines towards the top of the hill. This path led past the ruins of an old castle, and beyond it I could see my four acres of vineyard. I made haste to get there; as I was quite blown when I reached the ruins, I stopped to recover breath, and the blood seemed to ring in my ears, while my heart beat in my breast like a hammer on an anvil. The sun seemed on fire. I tried to go on again, but all at once I felt as if I had received a blow from a club; I rolled under a part of a wall, and I comprehended I had a fit of apoplexy. Then the horror of despair took possession of me. “I am a dead man,” said I to myself; “the money I have amassed with so much trouble, the trees I have so carefully cultivated, the house I have built, all, all are lost – all gone into the hands of my heirs. Now those wretches to whom in my lifetime I refused a kreutzer will become rich at my expense. Traitors! how you will rejoice over my misfortune! You will take the keys from my pockets, you will share my property among yourselves, you will squander my gold; and I – I must be present at this spoilation! What a hideous punishment!”
‘I felt my spirit quit the corpse, but remain standing by it.
‘This spiritual burgomaster noticed that its body had its face blue, and yellow hands.
‘It was very hot, and some large flies came and settled on the face of the corpse. One went up his nose. The body stirred not! The whole face was soon covered with them, and the spirit was in despair because it was impotent to drive them away.
‘There it stood. There, for minutes which seemed hours. Hell was beginning for it already. So an hour went by. The heat increased gradually. Not a breath in the air, nor a cloud in the sky.
‘A goat came out from among the ruins, nibbling the weeds which were growing up through the rubbish. As it passed my poor body it sprang aside, and then came back, opened its eyes with suspicion, smelt about, and then followed its capricious course over the fallen cornice of a turret. A young goatherd came to drive her back again; but when he saw the body he screamed out, and then set off running towards the village with all his might.
‘Another hour passed, slow as eternity. At last a whispering, then steps were heard behind the ruins, and my spirit saw the magistrate coming slowly, slowly along, followed by his clerk and several other persons. I knew every one of them. They uttered an exclamation when they saw me: “It is our burgomaster!”
‘The medical man approached the body, and drove away the flies, which flew swarming away. He looked at it, then raised one of the already stiffened arms, and said with the greatest indifference: “Our burgomaster has succumbed to a fit of apoplexy; he has probably been here all the morning. You had better carry him away and bury him as soon as possible, for this heat accelerates decomposition.”
‘“Upon my word,” said the clerk, “between ourselves, he is no great loss to the parish. He was a miser and an ass, and he knew nothing whatever.”
‘“Yes,” added the magistrate, “and yet he found fault with everything.”
‘“Not very surprising either,” said another, “fools always think themselves clever.”
