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FIRST VIGIL

On Ascension Day, at three in the afternoon, a young man ran through the Black Gate in Dresden and right into a basket of apples and cakes which an ugly old woman was offering for sale. Anything that luckily avoided being squashed was scattered all over the pavement, and the street-urchins merrily shared the booty which the impetuous gentleman had thrown to them. Hearing the old woman’s outcry, the other crones left the tables where they were selling cakes and brandy, surrounded the young man and scolded him with plebeian fury, so that, speechless with embarrassment and annoyance, he merely held out his small and not particularly well-filled wallet; the old woman seized it greedily and hastily tucked it away. The tight circle around them now opened, but as the young man was dashing off, the old woman called after him: ‘Yes, run—run your hardest, child of Satan—into glass you’ll soon pass—into glass!’ There was something so horrific about the old woman’s screeching, croaking voice that the passers-by stopped in astonishment, and the laughter that had begun to spread suddenly died away.

Although the student Anselmus (for that is who the young man was) did not understand the old woman’s strange words, he gave an involuntary shudder and hastened his steps still more in order to escape from the gaze of the inquisitive crowd. As he forced his way through the throng of smartly dressed people, he heard mutterings on all sides: ‘Poor young man! Why, that accursed old woman!’ In some peculiar way the old woman’s mysterious words had given the ridiculous incident a certain tragic quality, so that, although they had paid no attention to Anselmus before, they now followed him with looks of sympathy. On account of the young man’s comely face, rendered still more expressive by the heat of his suppressed anger, and his sturdy build, the womenfolk forgave him his clumsiness, as well as his completely unfashionable outfit. The cut of his bluish-grey tailcoat suggested that the tailor who made it had known the modern style only from hearsay, and his well-preserved black satin breeches gave him a rather schoolmasterly appearance which was entirely at odds with his gait and posture.

By the time Anselmus was approaching the end of the avenue leading to Linke’s Restaurant he was almost out of breath. He was obliged to slacken his pace, but he scarcely dared to raise his eyes, for he could still see the apples and cakes dancing all round him, and a friendly glance from some passing girl seemed only the reflection of the malicious laughter at the Black Gate. In this manner he reached the entrance to Linke’s Restaurant; groups of people in their best clothes were thronging into it. The sound of wind instruments could be heard from within, and the crowd of merry-makers was growing noisier by the minute. Poor Anselmus was close to tears, for Ascension Day had always been a special occasion in his family; he too had wanted to share the delights of Linke’s paradise and even indulge himself in half a cup of coffee with rum and a bottle of strong beer, and in order to make a night of it he had brought more money with him than was proper or prudent. And now his misadventure in knocking over the basket of apples had cost him all the money on his person. Coffee, strong beer, music, the sight of girls in their finery, in a word, all the pleasures he had dreamt of, were now beyond his reach. He crept slowly past the entrance and finally went down the road leading to the River Elbe, which happened to be completely deserted. Under an elder-tree which grew out of the wall he found an inviting patch of grass, where he sat down and filled a pipe with the health-tobacco which his friend Sub-Rector Paulmann had given him.

Directly in front of Anselmus the golden yellow waves of the beautiful River Elbe rippled and murmured, while beyond it the magnificent city of Dresden stretched its gleaming spires boldly and proudly into the translucent expanse of the sky which hung over the flowery meadows and fresh green forests, and the jagged peaks half-hidden by twilight announced the far land of Bohemia. But Anselmus scowled to himself as he blew clouds of smoke into the air, and at last he gave vent to his annoyance with the following words.

‘It’s true enough, I was born to suffer all the vexation and misery imaginable! Never mind that I’ve never been chosen King in the Twelfth-Night revels, that I always guess wrong at odds or evens, that my toast always falls on the buttered side; but isn’t it a terrible fate that after defying Satan by becoming a student, I must always be a complete duffer? Do I ever put on a new coat without promptly spilling candle-grease on it or having a cursed hole torn in it by a projecting nail? Do I ever bid good morning to a Counsellor or a lady without throwing my hat away, or slipping on the polished floor and falling flat on my face? Didn’t every market-day in Halle cost me three or four pence for pottery that I had broken, because the Devil made me march straight ahead, without looking where I was going, like a lemming? Have I ever once turned up in time for a lecture, or any other appointment? What use was it to leave home half an hour early, for as soon as I was standing on the doorstep with the knocker in my hand, Satan would empty a wash-tub over my head or make me collide with someone who was just leaving, so that I got involved in endless arguments and missed the whole occasion! Oh, where have you gone, you blissful dreams of future happiness, when I was conceited enough to fancy that here I might even rise to the rank of Private Secretary! But my evil star has turned my best-disposed patrons against me. When I was recommended to the Privy Councillor, I knew he could not abide close-cropped hair; the hairdresser, with great difficulty, fastened a little pigtail to the back of my head, but the first time I bowed the wretched string broke, and a jolly pug-dog which had been sniffing round me brought the pigtail triumphantly in its mouth to the Privy Councillor. Pursuing it in alarm, I knocked over the table where he had been taking his working breakfast, so that cups, plates, ink-well, and sand-box fell clattering to the ground, and a stream of hot chocolate and ink flowed over the report he had just composed. “Are you off your head, sir?” roared the infuriated Privy Councillor as he thrust me out of the door.’

‘What use is the position as copyist that Sub-Rector Paulmann says I might get? My evil star, which pursues me everywhere, is sure to prevent it! Just take what happened today! I wanted to celebrate Ascension Day with the best of good cheer, and not count the cost. I could have called proudly to the waiter, like any other guest in Linke’s Restaurant, “A bottle of strong beer—your very best, please!” I could have sat there till late at night, close to some group of beautiful girls in magnificent finery. I’m sure I’d have plucked up courage and become a different person altogether; so much so, in fact, that if one of the girls had said, “I wonder what time it is?” or “What music are they playing?” I’d have leapt to my feet with graceful ease and without knocking over my glass or stumbling against my seat; I’d have stepped forward one-and-a-half paces, bowing respectfully, and said, “Permit me to be of service to you, Mademoiselle, it is the overture from The Woman from the Danube” or “It’s almost six o’clock.” Could anybody in the world have taken that amiss? Of course not! The girls would have looked at one another with mischievous smiles, as always happens when I pluck up enough courage to show that I can converse with ladies in an easy, man-of-the-world tone. But then Satan makes me run into the accursed apple-basket, and now I must smoke my health-tobacco all by myself . . .’

Here Anselmus’s self-communings were interrupted by a strange rushing, swishing sound which started in the grass just beside him but soon slid up into the branches and foliage of the elder-tree arching over his head. At one moment it sounded as though the evening breeze were shaking the leaves; at another moment it sounded like birds billing and cooing in the branches, playfully fluttering their little wings. Then a whispering and lisping began, and the flowers seemed to tinkle like tiny crystal bells. As Anselmus listened more and more intently, the whispering and lisping and tinkling somehow turned into faint words, trailing away on the breeze:
‘Through the trees, through the leaves, through the swelling blossoms, we slip and slide and slither—sisters, little sisters, slither through the shimmering sunshine—up and down—the evening sun shoots its beams, the evening breeze breathes and stirs the leaves—the dew descends—the blossoms are singing—let’s raise our voices, and sing with the blossoms and the breeze—soon stars will be shining—we must descend—through the trees, through the leaves, slip and slither, little sisters.’

And so it went on, bewilderingly. ‘It’s only the breeze,’ thought Anselmus, ‘though this evening it almost seems to be uttering intelligible words.’ But at that moment a trio of crystal bells seemed to peal out above his head; he looked up and saw three little snakes, gleaming in green and gold, coiled round the branches and stretching their heads towards the evening sun. Then the whispering words began again, and the snakes slithered caressingly up and down through the leaves and branches, and their rapid movements made it seem as through the elder-tree were scattering a thousand sparkling emeralds amid its dark foliage. ‘It’s the sunshine reflected in the leaves’, thought Anselmus, but then the bells rang out once more, and he saw the snakes stretching their necks down to him. An electric shock seemed to penetrate his entire body, he trembled inwardly; he stared upwards, and saw a pair of magnificent dark-blue eyes looking at him with inexpressible yearning, so that a mixture of supreme happiness and intense pain, which he had never felt before, made his heart almost burst. And as he continued, full of burning desire, to gaze into those lovely eyes, the crystal bells pealed out louder in delightful notes, and the sparkling emeralds descended and enfolded him, flickering around him in innumerable tiny flames and shimmering gold threads. The elder-tree stirred and spoke: ‘You lay in my shade, surrounded by my fragrance, but you did not understand me. The fragrance is my language, when it is kindled by love.’ The wind swept past, saying: ‘I stroked your temples, but you did not understand me; the breeze is my language, when it is kindled by love.’ Rays of sunshine broke through the clouds, and their burning light seemed to say: ‘I poured my blazing gold upon you, but you did not understand me; the blaze is my language, when it is kindled by love.’

And as Anselmus gazed ever more deeply into those magnificent eyes, his yearning grew more intense, his desire more ardent. Then everything around him began to stir, as though waking into joyful life. The flowers cast their fragrance upon him like the wondrous singing of a thousand flute-like voices, and the echo of their song was borne away to far lands by the passing sunset clouds. But as the last ray of sunlight vanished behind the mountains, and twilight covered the landscape with its veil, a deep harsh voice seemed to call from far away: ‘Hey, hey! What’s all the whispering and muttering over there? Hey! Who’s searching for the sunshine behind the mountains? You’ve sung and sunned yourselves quite enough—hey, through the bushes and the grass, through the grass and the river! Hey! Come down here—come do-own he-e-ere!’

Thus the voice died away like the rumbling of distant thunder, but the crystal bells ended in a jangling discord. All was silent, and Anselmus saw the three gleaming, shimmering snakes gliding through the grass towards the river; with a swishing, rushing sound they plunged into the Elbe, and as they vanished into its waves a crackling green flame shot up and flew obliquely towards the town, fizzling out as it went.

SECOND VIGIL

‘That gentleman doesn’t seem to be right in the head!’ said a worthy townswoman, returning from a stroll with her family. She stopped, folded her arms, and watched the crazy antics of the student Anselmus. For the latter was embracing the trunk of the elder-tree and calling over and over again into the branches and foliage: ‘Oh, gleam and shine just once more, you beautiful golden snakes, let me hear your little bell-like voices just one more time! Give me one more look, you lovely blue eyes, just one more, or else I must die in agony and ardent yearning!’ And as he said this he heaved the most lamentable sighs and groans, and shook the tree in his ardour and impatience. But the only answer it gave was a low, unintelligible rustling of its leaves, which really seemed to mock Anselmus’s agony.

‘That gentleman doesn’t seem to be right in the head’, said the townswoman, and Anselmus felt as though he had been shaken out of a deep dream or wakened suddenly by being drenched with ice-cold water. Perceiving his surroundings again for the first time, he wondered at the strange phantom which had impishly made him talk out loud to himself. After gazing at the townswoman in dismay, he finally seized his hat, which had fallen to the ground, and was on the point of hurrying away. Meanwhile her husband had arrived on the scene, with a child in his arms, and after laying the child on the grass he had been leaning on his stick and watching and listening to Anselmus in amazement. He now picked up the pipe and tobacco-pouch which the student had dropped, handed them to him, and said: ‘Don’t kick up such a din in the dark, sir, and don’t make a nuisance of yourself if there’s nothing wrong with you except that you’ve had a drop too much! Now go home quietly and take a nap!’

Anselmus was deeply ashamed and gave a miserable groan. ‘There, there,’ continued the good citizen, ‘don’t worry, sir, it can happen to the best of us, and when you’re enjoying yourself on Ascension Day you can easily drink more than is good for you, even if you’re a gentleman of the cloth—I suppose you’re studying for the ministry, sir. But if you don’t mind, sir, I’ll just fill my pipe with your tobacco, because mine has run out.’

When the good citizen said this, Anselmus was already on the point of putting his pipe and tobacco-pouch in his pocket; but now the man cleaned his pipe slowly and deliberately, and began filling it equally slowly. Several girls who had joined the group were talking with the woman in low voices and giggling as they looked at Anselmus. For his part, he felt as though he were standing on sharp thorns and red-hot pins. No sooner had he got his pipe and tobacco-pouch back than he took to his heels. All the wonders he had seen had vanished from his memory, and he remembered only that he had talked all sorts of nonsense out loud under the elder-tree. This memory was made yet more dreadful by his lifelong aversion to people who talk to themselves. His headmaster used to say that Satan was speaking through their mouths, and Anselmus firmly believed this. It was unbearable to think that he had been mistaken for a divinity student who had got drunk on Ascension Day. He was about to turn into the avenue of poplars near Kosel’s Garden, when a voice called to him from behind.

‘Anselmus! My dear fellow! In heaven’s name, where are you off to in such a tearing hurry!’ Anselmus stood stock still, convinced that a new misfortune was about to befall him. Again the voice was heard.

Anselmus, my dear fellow, do come back, we’re waiting here beside the river!’

Only now did Anselmus realize that it was his friend Sub-Rector Paulmann who was calling to him. He went back to the Elbe and found the Sub-Rector with his two daughters, as well as Registrary Heerbrand, on the point of getting into a rowing-boat. The Sub-Rector invited the student to cross the Elbe with him and then to spend the evening in his house in the suburb of Pirna. Anselmus accepted gladly, thinking this would enable him to escape the evil destiny that was dogging his steps. It so happened that, as they crossed the river, a display of fireworks was released from Anton’s Garden on the opposite bank. The rockets shot up, hissing and spluttering, and the glittering stars flew apart in mid-air, scattering countless crackling flames and rays all round them. Anselmus was sitting, deep in thought, beside the boatman at the oars, when he suddenly noticed the sparkling, crackling flames reflected in the water, and fancied that the little golden snakes were swimming through the waves. All the strange things he had seen under the elder-tree returned vividly into his mind, and once again he felt the inexpressible yearning, the ardent desire, which had made his heart quake with convulsions of agonizing delight.

‘Oh, have you returned, you golden snakes? Sing, please sing! Your song will bring back those lovely dark-blue eyes! Are you really beneath the waves?’

As he uttered these cries, the student Anselmus lunged forward as though to fling himself out of the rowing-boat into the waves. ‘Are you crazy, sir?’ exclaimed the boatman, catching him by his coat-tails. The girls sitting beside him shrieked with terror and took refuge on the other side of the boat; Registrary Heerbrand whispered something to the Sub-Rector, of whose reply Anselmus could catch only the words: ‘these fits—never noticed before?’ Thereupon Sub-Rector Paulmann also rose; assuming a certain grave and solemn expression befitting his official rank, he sat down beside Anselmus, took him by the hand and said: ‘Are you all right, my dear fellow?’

Anselmus was close to fainting, for a wild conflict had arisen within him, which he was trying vainly to control. He could now see quite plainly that what he had taken for the sparkling of the golden snakes was only the reflection of the firework display in Anton’s Garden; yet his heart was convulsed by a new and unknown emotion, of which he himself could not tell whether it was joy or pain, and every time the boatman thrust the oars into the water, making its ripples splash and bubble as though in anger, Anselmus heard amid the tumult a stealthy whispering and lisping: ‘Anselmus! Anselmus! Don’t you see us always swimming ahead of you? Our little sister will be sure to gaze at you again—believe—believe—believe in us.’ And he thought he could see three fiery green lines in the reflected light. But as he gazed wistfully into the water, hoping that the lovely eyes would look out of the waves, he perceived quite clearly that the fiery gleam only came from the lighted windows of the nearby houses. He sat in silence, inwardly struggling with himself; but Sub-Rector Paulmann repeated more insistently: ‘Are you all right, my dear fellow?’

The student replied in a despondent tone: ‘Oh, my dear Sub-Rector, if you only knew what remarkable dreams I’ve just had while wide awake, with my eyes open, under an elder-tree at the wall of Linke’s garden, you wouldn’t take it amiss that I am so absent-minded, as it were . . .’

‘Come now, my dear fellow,’ interrupted the Sub-Rector, ‘I always took you for a thoroughly respectable young man, but to dream while wide awake, and then suddenly to try to jump into the water—I’m sorry, but nobody would do that except a madman or a fool!’

The student Anselmus was feeling quite downcast by his friend’s harsh words, when Paulmann’s eldest daughter Veronica, a very pretty, blooming girl of sixteen, said: ‘But, father, Mr Anselmus must have met with something remarkable, and perhaps he just imagines that he was awake, when in reality he fell asleep under the elder-tree and had all sorts of foolish fancies which he is still thinking about.’

‘Moreover, my dear young lady, and my worthy friend,’ put in Registrary Heerbrand, ‘is it not possible to fall into a certain dream-like state while one is awake? It once happened to me that while drinking coffee in the afternoon, in the meditative state required for physical and mental digestion, I suddenly recalled, as though by inspiration, where to find a document that I had lost. And in the same way, only yesterday, I beheld a magnificent Latin text in black-letter type dancing before my open eyes.’

‘With all due respect, Registrary,’ rejoined Sub-Rector Paulmann, ‘you have always had a taste for poetical matters, which makes it easy to fall prey to romantic fancies.’

Anselmus, however, was glad that someone had come to his defence when he was so unfortunate as to be considered mad or drunk, and although it was by now rather dark, he noticed for the first time what beautiful dark-blue eyes Veronica seemed to have, never giving a thought to those wondrous eyes that he had seen in the elder-tree. In fact, the incident under the elder-tree had suddenly vanished from Anselmus’s mind; he felt cheerful and at ease, and when they were getting out of the boat his high spirits even induced him to offer a helping hand to his defender Veronica; she put her arm in his, and without further ado, he conducted her homewards so adroitly and with such good fortune that he only tripped up once, and as this was on the only muddy patch on the entire way, Veronica’s white dress was hardly splashed at all.

Sub-Rector Paulmann did not fail to notice how Anselmus had changed for the better; the student was again in his good books, and he apologized for the harsh words he had uttered a little earlier. ‘Indeed,’ added the Sub-Rector, ‘there are cases of people being downright terrified and tormented by certain species of apparition; but this is a physical illness which can be alleviated by applying leeches—saving your presence—to the backside, as was demonstrated by a famous scholar now deceased.’

Anselmus no longer had any idea whether he had been drunk, mad, or ill, but at all events he was sure there was no need for leeches, since all apparitions, of whatever species, had entirely vanished, and he was feeling more and more cheerful the more he managed to lavish his attentions on the fair Veronica. After the frugal meal, as usual, they played music. Anselmus seated himself at the piano, and Veronica let the company listen to her clear voice.

‘My dear young lady,’ said Registrary Heerbrand, ‘you have a voice like a crystal bell!’

‘Nothing of the sort!’ burst out Anselmus, quite involuntarily.

Everyone stared at him in embarrassed amazement.

‘Crystal bells sound wonderful in elder-trees! Wonderful!’ continued Anselmus in an undertone.

Then Veronica put her hand on his shoulder and said: ‘What are you talking about, Mr Anselmus?’

The student promptly regained his spirits and began to play. Sub-Rector Paulmann gave him a black look, but Registrary Heerbrand placed some sheet music on the stand and delighted the company by singing a bravura aria by Graun. After that Anselmus played the accompaniment to some more songs, and a fugue for two voices, performed by himself and Veronica, and composed by the Sub-Rector himself, put everyone in a thoroughly cheerful mood.

It was late in the evening, and Registrary Heerbrand was picking up his hat and stick, when Sub-Rector Paulmann went over to him with an air of mystery and said: ‘My dear Registrary, I believe you meant to tell our good friend Anselmus—you know!—the matter we discussed previously . . .’

‘With the greatest of pleasure’, rejoined the Registrary, and after they had sat down in a circle, he began, without further ado, as follows.

‘There is in this town a strange, eccentric old man, who is said to study all kinds of occult science; but as there are no such things in reality, I am inclined to believe that he is a scholarly antiquary and also something of an experimental chemist. I refer, of course, to our Privy Archivist Lindhorst. As you know, he lives all alone in his old house in a remote part of town, and when he is not occupied with his duties, he may be found in his library or in his chemical laboratory, to which, however, no one else is admitted. Besides many rare books, he owns a number of manuscripts, some written in Arabic and Coptic, and even in strange characters which belong to no known language. He wants these to be expertly copied, and for this purpose he requires someone skilled in line-drawing, who can copy all these characters on parchment, in Indian ink, with the utmost exactitude and accuracy. The person he employs will work in a special room in his house under his supervision, and receive not only free board but also a thaler for each day’s work; and the Archivist also promises a substantial gratuity when the copies have been successfully completed. The working hours are from twelve to six daily, with a break for eating between three and four. Having employed two or three other young men to copy the manuscripts, but found that they were not up to the task, he finally asked me to recommend an expert calligrapher. I at once thought of you, my dear Anselmus, for I know that you not only write a good clear hand but can also make exact and elegant line-drawings. If, in these hard times, while waiting for a salaried post, you are willing to earn a thaler daily, not to mention the gratuity, then you must call upon the Archivist tomorrow at twelve o’clock precisely; doubtless you know where he lives. But take care not to make a single blot! If a blot falls on the copy, then there is nothing for it but to start all over again; if it falls on the original, then the Archivist is quite capable of throwing you out of the window, for he is a hot-tempered man.’

Anselmus was overjoyed by the Registrary’s proposal, for not only did he write a clear hand and make line-drawings, but he was passionately fond of copying letters with the most laborious calligraphic skill. He therefore thanked his patrons very courteously and promised not to miss the appointment at twelve o’clock the next day. That night Anselmus could see and hear nothing but gleaming thalers and their pleasant jingling. And who can blame the poor fellow, since the whims of fortune had dashed so many of his hopes, and he was obliged to look on both sides of every penny and deny himself many of the enjoyments that appeal to the vigour of youth. Early in the morning he gathered together his pencils, his raven’s quills, and his Indian ink; ‘for’, thought he, ‘these materials are better than anything the Archivist could invent’. Above all, he inspected and arranged his masterpieces of calligraphy and his drawings,
in order to show them to the Archivist as proof of his ability to perform what was required of him. All went well; a lucky star seemed to have taken charge; he tied his cravat neatly at the first attempt, he did not burst a seam or tear a stitch in his black silk stockings, and his hat did not fall into the dust again after being brushed clean.

To cut a long story short: at precisely half-past eleven the student Anselmus was standing in Conradi’s shop in Castle Lane, in his bluish-grey tail-coat and black satin knee-breeches, a rolled-up bundle of line-drawings and calligraphic exercises under his arm, and drinking not just one but two glasses of the best liqueur; ‘for this’, thought he, tapping his empty pocket, ‘will soon have thalers jingling in it’. Although it was a long walk to the lonely street in which Archivist Lindhorst’s old house was situated, Anselmus was outside the front door by twelve o’clock. Standing there, he looked at the fine big bronze door-knocker; but as the last stroke of the bell of the Cross Church smote the air, and he was about to seize hold of the knocker, its metal features were hideously obscured by fiery blue rays and contorted into a grin. Alas! it was the apple-woman from the Black Gate! Her pointed teeth were rattling in her loose mouth, and their rattling said: ‘You gr-r-reat gormless fool! Just you wait! Why did you run through the gate? You fool!’ Anselmus reeled back in horror; he tried to hold on to the doorpost, but his hand grasped the bell-pull and tugged it; the bell rang more and more loudly in jarring discords, and its mocking echo could be heard throughout the deserted house: ‘Into glass you must pass!’

Such terror gripped Anselmus that a convulsive shudder ran through his every limb. The bell-pull sank to the ground and turned into a transparent white boa constrictor which coiled itself round him and squeezed him ever more tightly in its folds, until his limbs were crushed to pulp and the blood spouted from his veins, seeping into the serpent’s transparent body and dyeing it red. In his frightful terror he tried to shriek: ‘Kill me, kill me!’ but his cries were no more than hollow gurglings. The serpent raised its head and placed its long, pointed, red-hot metal tongue upon Anselmus’s chest; a stabbing pain suddenly severed his vital artery, and he lost consciousness.

When Anselmus regained his senses, he was lying on his wretched pallet; but Sub-Rector Paulmann was standing before him, and saying: ‘In Heaven’s name, my dear Anselmus, what on earth have you been up to!

THIRD VIGIL

‘The spirit looked upon the waters, whereupon they stirred and surged up in foaming waves and plunged thundering into the abysses, which opened their black jaws greedily to swallow them. Like victors in triumph, the granite rocks raised their jagged heads, guarding the vale, until the sun took it into her maternal lap to nurse and warm it, enfolding it with her rays as though with blazing arms. A thousand seeds that had been slumbering under the sandy waste now woke from their deep sleep and stretched their green shoots and leaves towards the face of their mother; like smiling children in a green cradle, flowers nestled in the bud, until they too, roused by their mother, awoke and bedecked themselves with the lights which their mother, to give them pleasure, had tinged with a thousand hues. But in the midst of the vale there was a black hill, which rose and sank as does man’s breast when it heaves with ardent yearning. Vapours mounted from the abysses, gathering in mighty clouds, and strove fiercely to obscure their mother’s face; but she called upon the gale, which descended upon them and scattered them, and when the pure ray again touched the black hill, excess of delight gave birth to a splendid fiery lily, opening its petals like lovely lips to receive sweet kisses from its mother.

‘Now a brilliant light entered the vale. It was the youth Phosphorus, and when the fiery lily beheld him, she was overcome by passionate yearning love, and besought him: “Be mine eternally, fair youth! for I love you, and I must perish if you should leave me.”

‘Then said the youth Phosphorus: “I would gladly be yours, fair flower, but, like a thankless child, you will leave your father and mother, you will forget your playfellows, you will desire to be greater and mightier than any of the flowers that now share your happiness as equals. The yearning that now suffuses you will be split into countless rays and will torture you, for the mind will give birth to the senses, and the supreme joy kindled by the spark that I now cast into you is the agonizing despair in which you will perish, to grow anew in an alien guise. This spark is thought!”

‘“Alas!” lamented the lily, “cannot I be yours in the ardour that now burns within me? Can I love you more than I do now, and can I behold you as I do now, if you destroy me?”

Then the youth Phosphorus kissed her, and she burst into flame as though filled with radiant light. From the flames sprang forth an alien being which swiftly escaped from the vale and roamed through infinite space, caring not a whit for its childhood playfellows nor for the youth it had loved. He for his part mourned his lost beloved, for it was only his infinite love for the beautiful lily that had induced him to enter the lonely vale, and the granite rocks bowed their heads in sympathy with the youth’s lamentations. But one of the rocks opened its lap and brought forth a black dragon, its wings fluttering and whirring. The dragon said: “My brothers, the metals, are asleep within, but I am always wide awake, and am willing to help you.” Rising and falling on his pinions, the dragon at last succeeded in catching the being that had sprung from the lily, bore it to the hill, and enfolded it in his wings. It became the lily once more, but thought remained to lacerate her, and her love for the youth Phosphorus was an agony which breathed poisonous vapours upon the flowers that had once rejoiced in her gaze, and made them wither and die. The youth Phosphorus put on gleaming armour that shed innumerable dazzling rays, and fought with the dragon, who struck the armour with his wing and made it ring loudly. Restored to life by its mighty clang, the flowers fluttered around the dragon like brightly coloured birds; the dragon’s strength vanished, and he hid himself, defeated, in the depths of the earth. The lily was freed, the youth Phosphorus embraced her in the ardent passion of heavenly love, and in an exultant chorus the flowers, the birds, and even the lofty granite rocks paid homage to her as the queen of the vale.’

‘Forgive me, my dear Archivist, but that’s a lot of Oriental bombast!’ said Registrary Heerbrand, ‘and we asked you, you know, to do as you usually do and recount some incident from your remarkable life, such as an adventure you had on your travels, provided it was true.’

‘Let me assure you,’ replied Archivist Lindhorst, ‘what I have just told you is the truest story I can regale you with, my friends, and in a sort of a way it does form part of my life. For I come from that very vale, and the fiery lily who ended up reigning as a queen is my great-great-great-great-grandmother, so that I am really a prince.’

The entire company burst out laughing.

‘Laugh as heartily as you please,’ continued the Archivist; ‘what I have given you is of course a very inadequate account, and you may well think it mere crazy nonsense; nevertheless, it is very far from absurd or even allegorical, but literally true. If I had known, though, that the splendid love-story to which I owe my existence would give you so little pleasure, I would instead have told you some of the news that I heard from my brother when he visited me yesterday.’

‘Why, how is that? Have you really got a brother, Archivist? Where is he? Where does he live? Is he too employed by the King, or is he a private scholar?’ asked a chorus of voices.

‘No!’ replied the Archivist, coolly and calmly taking a pinch of snuff, ‘he went to the bad and joined the dragons.’

‘Did I understand you correctly, my worthy Archivist?’ asked Registrary Heerbrand. ‘Joined the dragons?’

‘Joined the dragons?’ echoed the chorus.

‘Yes, he joined the dragons,’ continued the Archivist; ‘it was a desperate move. You know, gentlemen, that my father died only very recently, a mere three hundred and eighty-five years ago, which is why I still wear mourning. As I was his favourite, he left me a magnificent onyx, which my brother very much wanted. We quarrelled about it beside my father’s body in a most unbecoming fashion, until the late lamented lost his patience, leapt to his feet and threw my wicked brother downstairs. This irritated my brother so much that he joined the dragons on the spot. He now lives in a grove of cypresses near Tunis, where he has the task of guarding a famous mystical carbuncle. A necromancer, a devil of a fellow, who has just moved into a summer residence in Lapland, has his eye on this carbuncle, so that my brother can only leave his post for the odd quarter of an hour, while the necromancer is tending his salamander-beds in the garden, to bring me the latest news from the source of the Nile.’

For the second time the assembled company burst into a roar of laughter, but the student Anselmus was overcome by an uncanny feeling, and he could scarcely meet the Archivist’s grave and intent gaze without trembling inwardly in a way that he himself found inexplicable. In particular, the Archivist’s harsh but strangely metallic-sounding voice had a mysterious penetrating quality that shook Anselmus to the core.

There seemed no chance today of attaining the real purpose for which Registrary Heerbrand had taken him to the coffee-house. After the incident outside the Archivist’s house, nothing could persuade Anselmus to attempt a second visit; for he was firmly convinced that a mere accident had saved him, if not from death, then from the danger of madness. Sub-Rector Paulmann had been walking along the street and found Anselmus lying insensible outside the front door, being tended by an old woman who had put down her basket of cakes and apples. The Sub-Rector had promptly summoned a sedan-chair and had Anselmus carried home in it. ‘Think of me as you please,’ said Anselmus, ‘call me a fool, or not, as you wish; but I tell you, the accursed face of the old witch from the Black Gate was grinning at me from that door-knocker; as for what happened next, I’d rather not talk about it, but if I had recovered from my swoon and seen that accursed apple-woman in front of me (for that’s who the old woman was who was tending me), I should have had heart failure there and then, or else gone mad.’ No amount of persuasion and rational argument on the part of the Sub-Rector and the Registrary had the slightest effect, and even Veronica, with her blue eyes, could not divert him from his pensive and preoccupied mood. They concluded that his mind must be disordered, and sought ways of distracting him. The Registrary opined that the best means would be the employment offered by Archivist Lindhorst, namely the copying of manuscripts. All that was necessary was to introduce Anselmus to the Archivist in some suitable fashion, and since the Registrary knew that the latter spent almost every evening in a certain well-known coffee-house, he invited Anselmus to drink a glass of beer and smoke a pipe there every evening at his, the Registrary’s, expense, until he should somehow be introduced to the Archivist and agree to undertake the copying of the manuscripts. Anselmus accepted this offer with the utmost gratitude.

‘God will reward you, my dear Registrary,’ said Sub-Rector Paulmann, ‘if you can restore the young man to his senses.’

‘God will reward you!’ repeated Veronica, piously raising her eyes heavenwards and thinking what a charming young man Anselmus was, with or without his senses.

Just as Archivist Lindhorst, having picked up his hat and stick, was about to leave, Registrary Heerbrand hastily seized Anselmus by the hand, stepped in front of the Archivist with him, and said: ‘My most esteemed Privy Archivist, this is the student Anselmus, who is exceptionally skilled in calligraphy and draughtsmanship, and would like to copy your rare manuscripts.’

‘I’m exceedingly obliged to you,’ replied the Archivist quickly, putting on his three-cornered military hat, elbowing the Registrary and the student aside, and hurrying noisily downstairs. They both stood there in astonishment, gaping at the door which he had just slammed in their faces so hard that the hinges were rattling.

‘What a very peculiar old man!’ said the Registrary.

‘Peculiar old man’, stammered Anselmus, feeling as though a stream of ice-cold water were flowing through his veins and turning him as rigid as a statue. But all the other customers laughed and said: ‘The Archivist was in one of his moods today, but tomorrow he’s sure to be as meek as a lamb and won’t say a word; he’ll just watch the smoke coiling from his pipe or read the newspapers; you mustn’t mind him.’

‘True enough,’ thought Anselmus, ‘why should anyone mind such behaviour! Didn’t the Archivist say he was exceedingly obliged to me for offering to copy his manuscripts? And why did Registrary Heerbrand have to step in front of him just as he was setting off home? No, Privy Archivist Lindhorst is a decent chap at heart, and astonishingly liberal—though he does say some very odd things. But what’s that to me? I’ll go to his house tomorrow at twelve o’clock sharp, even if a hundred bronze apple- women try to stop me.’

FOURTH VIGIL

Let me ask you outright, gentle reader, if there have not been hours, indeed whole days and weeks of your life, during which all your usual activities were painfully repugnant, and everything you believed in and valued seemed foolish and worthless? At such times you did not know what to do or where to turn; your breast was stirred by an obscure feeling that a noble desire for an object surpassing all earthly pleasures must somewhere, sometime be fulfilled, a desire which your mind, like a timid child brought up by severe parents, dared not put into words; this yearning for something unknown obsessed you wherever you went, like a translucent dream whose airy shapes dissolve when looked at too closely, and you lost all interest in your surroundings. You crept to and fro with downcast gaze like a rejected lover, and none of humanity’s many and varied activities gave you either joy or pain, as though you had ceased to belong to this world. If you have ever felt such a mood, gentle reader, then you know from your own experience the state in which Anselmus found himself.

And indeed, kind reader, I should like to think that I have managed by now to bring the student Anselmus vividly before your eyes. For in the night watches in which I am recording his extraordinary story, I have still to recount many peculiar events, which, like a ghostly apparition, turned the everyday lives of ordinary people topsy-turvy, and I fear that you may end up believing neither in Anselmus nor in Archivist Lindhorst; you may even have some unjustified doubts about Sub-Rector Paulmann and Registrary Heerbrand, although the latter two worthy gentlemen, at least, are still walking the streets of Dresden. You are now, kind reader, in the fairy realm of glorious wonders, whose mighty strokes summon up both supreme bliss and extreme horror, and where the grave goddess raises her veil so that we may fancy we see her face—but her grave expression often breaks into a smile, and that is the impish humour that teases us with the bewilderments of magic, as a mother often teases her dearest children. In this realm, which our spirit so often reveals to us, at least in our dreams, try, kind reader, to recognize the well-known shapes that, as the saying goes, cross your path every day. You will then believe that this magnificent realm is much nearer at hand than you had previously thought; and that is what I heartily wish you to believe, and what the strange story of Anselmus is supposed to convey.

As I told you, then, after his meeting with Archivist Lindhorst, the student Anselmus sank into a dreamy, brooding state which made him insensible to all contact with ordinary life. He felt some unknown force stirring within him and causing that blissful pain, that yearning, which assures humanity of another and higher existence. What pleased him most was to wander by himself through fields and forests, as though no longer tied to his impoverished life, and to behold the diverse images arising from the depths of his being, in which he seemed to recognize himself. So it chanced that one day, returning from a long walk, he passed that remarkable elder-bush under which, as though enchanted, he had seen so many strange sights. He felt curiously drawn to the welcoming green patch of grass, but no sooner had he sat down there than all the visions that he had seen in what seemed like heavenly ecstasy, and that a kind of alien force had since banished from his mind, reappeared as vividly as though he were seeing them for the second time. Indeed he discerned even more plainly than before that the lovely blue eyes were those of the green and gold snake which was twining itself round the trunk of the elder-tree, and that the wonderful sound of crystal bells that had so delighted and enraptured him must be radiating from the coils of its slender body. Again, just as he had done on Ascension Day, he embraced the elder-tree and called up into its branches and foliage: ‘Oh, let me see you twining and twisting and coiling in the branches just once more, you lovely green snake! Give me just one more glance from your lovely eyes! I love you, I love you, and if you do not return I must perish of sorrow and pain!’

All was silent, however, and the elder-tree only rustled its boughs and leaves unintelligibly, just as it had done before. But Anselmus thought he now knew what was stirring within his breast and lacerating his heart in the agony of infinite yearning. ‘Isn’t it simply that I love you with all my heart, you wonderful gold snake’, he said, ‘and that I shall love you till I die? I can’t live without you, and I must perish in hopeless misery unless I see you again, unless you become the beloved of my heart—but I know you will be mine, and then all the wonderful dreams that have reached me from another, higher world will come true.’

Every evening, when the sun strewed its sparkling gold only in the tops of the trees, Anselmus went to the elder-tree, and called in heartfelt and pitiable tones into the foliage and boughs, addressing his fair beloved, the little green and gold snake. One day, as he was doing this in his usual fashion, a tall gaunt man, wrapped in a capacious pale-grey frock-coat, suddenly appeared in front of him, darted a fiery glance at him, and exclaimed: ‘Hey, hey! Who’s doing all this weeping and wailing? Well now, it’s Mr Anselmus, who has offered to copy my manuscripts.’

Anselmus was not a little frightened by this powerful voice, for it was the very same voice that had called out on Ascension Day: ‘Hey, hey, who’s whispering and muttering and so forth. His astonishment and alarm made him unable to utter a word.

‘What’s the matter with you, Mr Anselmus?’ continued Archivist Lindhorst (for the man in the light-grey frock-coat was none other than he); ‘what do you want from the elder-tree, and why have you not come to my house to start work?’

In fact, Anselmus had not yet managed to bring himself to call on the Archivist, although he resolved to do so every evening. At this moment, however, seeing his beautiful dreams destroyed by the wrathful voice that had robbed him of his beloved on the previous occasion, he was seized by a kind of desperation and burst out impetuously: ‘You may think me crazy or not, Archivist, I don’t care two pins, but it was in this very tree, on Ascension Day, that I saw the green and gold snake, the eternal beloved of my soul, and she spoke to me in wonderful crystal notes, but you—yes, you, Archivist!—you uttered such frightful cries and yells from across the river.’

‘How can that be, my good sir?’ interrupted the Archivist, smiling strangely as he took a pinch of snuff.

Anselmus felt a weight being lifted from his heart now that he had managed to start talking about his wondrous adventure, and he felt quite justified in virtually accusing the Archivist of producing the distant thunderous cry. He pulled himself together and said: ‘Very well, I’ll tell the whole story of the fateful events that befell me on Ascension Day, and then you can do and say what you like and think whatever you please about me.’ And he did indeed relate the whole curious sequence of events, from his unfortunate collision with the apple-basket right down to the departure of the three green and gold snakes across the water, and how people had thought him drunk or mad. ‘I saw all this,’ concluded Anselmus, ‘with my own eyes, and deep in my heart I can still hear the echo of the delightful voices that spoke to me; it was certainly not a dream, and if I am not to die of love and yearning, I have no choice but to believe in the green and gold snakes, though from your smile, Archivist, I can see that you consider the snakes no more than the product of my overheated imagination.’

‘Not in the slightest,’ rejoined the Archivist with perfect calm and composure; ‘the green and gold snakes that you, Mr Anselmus, saw in the elder-tree, were my three daughters, and you have obviously fallen head-over-heels in love with the blue eyes of my youngest, whose name is Serpentina. What is more, I knew all this on Ascension Day, and since I got tired of hearing the muttering and tinkling as I was sitting at my desk, I called to the young hussies and told them it was time to hurry home, for the sun was already setting and they had amused themselves quite enough by singing and sunbathing.’

Anselmus felt as though he were now being told in so many words something he had long suspected. Although he felt as if the elder-tree, the wall, and the grassy patch, and all the other things around him, were beginning gently to spin, he got a grip on himself and was about to say something. Instead of letting Anselmus get a word out, however, the Archivist swiftly removed the glove from his left hand, held up a ring with a wondrous sparkling, flaming stone before Anselmus’s eyes, and said: ‘Look at this, my good Mr Anselmus, you will enjoy what you see.’

Anselmus looked, and, wonderful to relate! beams of light were radiating from the stone, as though from a fiery focus, and joining together to form a shining crystal mirror. In the mirror the three green and gold snakes were dancing and coiling, now dodging one another, now twined together. And every time their slender, sparkling bodies touched, glorious chords rang out like crystal bells, and the snake in the middle stretched her head right out of the mirror, as though full of yearning desire, and her dark-blue eyes said: ‘Do you know me—do you believe in me, Anselmus? Only in faith is there love—can you really love?’

‘Oh, Serpentina, Serpentina!’ shrieked Anselmus, beside himself with rapture; but Archivist Lindhorst quickly breathed upon the mirror, the rays returned to the focus with a crackling of electricity, and once again there was only a small emerald flashing on the hand of the Archivist, who drew his glove over it.

‘Did you see the gold snakes, Mr Anselmus?’ asked the Archivist.

‘Oh heavens, I did indeed!’ replied the student, ‘and the fair and lovely Serpentina.’

‘Hush!’ continued the Archivist, ‘that’s enough for today, and, what is more, if you decide to work for me, you can see my daughters often enough, or rather, I will give you this treat if you do a good job of work, and copy every character with the utmost accuracy and neatness. But you have never once called on me, although Registrary Heerbrand assured me that you would come forthwith, so that I have been vainly expecting you for several days.’

As soon as the Archivist had uttered the name Heerbrand, Anselmus once more felt that his feet were firmly planted on solid ground and that he really was the student Anselmus and the man before him Archivist Lindhorst. The latter’s matter-of-fact tone, sharply contrasting with the wondrous apparitions which he had summoned up like a veritable necromancer, had something horrible about it, and this effect was heightened by the piercing gaze of his blazing eyes, which shone from their bony sockets in his craggy, wrinkled face as though from some kind of casing. The student was gripped by the uncanny feeling that had taken possession of him in the coffee-house when the Archivist had related so many wondrous incidents. With an effort he controlled his emotions, and when the Archivist repeated the question: ‘Why have you not called on me?’, he brought himself to recount all that had befallen him at the front door.

‘My dear Mr Anselmus,’ said the Archivist, when the student had finished his story, ‘I know the apple-woman whom you deigned to mention; she is an abominable creature who has played all sorts of tricks on me, but to have herself made into a bronze door-knocker in order to frighten away welcome visitors is really too bad—quite insufferable. If you call on me at twelve tomorrow, my good Mr Anselmus, and notice her grinning and growling at you, please be kind enough to dab a little of this liquid on her nose, and then everything will be all right. Now goodbye, my dear Mr Anselmus; I walk rather fast, so I can hardly expect you to accompany me back to town. Goodbye! We’ll see each other tomorrow at twelve.’

The Archivist had given Anselmus a small bottle of golden yellow liquid, and now he strode rapidly away. Twilight had fallen, and the Archivist seemed to be floating rather than walking into the valley. As he approached Kosel’s Garden, the wind seized his capacious coat and blew its tails apart, so that they fluttered in the air like a huge pair of wings. To Anselmus, as he looked after the Archivist in astonishment, it seemed as though a great bird were spreading its pinions in order to fly swiftly away. As the student gazed into the twilight, a whitish-grey kite rose into the air with a harsh scream, and he perceived that the fluttering white object, which he had supposed was the Archivist striding away, must all along have been the kite, even though he could not work out how the Archivist had vanished so suddenly.

‘But he may have flown away in his own person, Archivist Lindhorst,’ said Anselmus to himself, ‘for I can see and feel that all the strange figures from a distant world of wonders, which before I saw only in rare and remarkable dreams, have now entered my waking life and are making me their plaything. But never mind! You are alive and glowing in my heart, sweet and lovely Serpentina, you alone can appease the infinite longing that lacerates my innermost being. Oh, when shall I gaze into your lovely eyes—my dear, dear Serpentina!’ cried the student Anselmus loudly.

‘That’s a vile unchristian name’, muttered the bass voice of somebody near him who was returning home from a walk. On receiving this timely reminder of where he was, Anselmus hastened away, thinking to himself: ‘Wouldn’t it be unfortunate if I were now to meet Sub-Rector Paulmann or Registrary Heerbrand?’ But he met neither.

FIFTH VIGIL

‘That Anselmus is simply good for nothing,’ said Sub-Rector Paulmann; ‘all my good advice, all my exhortations are wasted, he won’t apply himself to anything, even though he has excellent school-leaving certificates, which are the foundation of all future achievement.’

Registrary Heerbrand, however, replied with a sly and mysterious smile: ‘Let Anselmus go his own way, dear Sub-Rector! He’s an odd fish, but with plenty of ability, and when I say “ability”, I mean that he might end up a Privy Secretary, or even a Counsellor.’

‘Couns—’ began the Sub-Rector in the utmost amazement, but the word stuck in his throat.

‘Hush!’ continued the Registrary, ‘I know what I know! He has been sitting in Archivist Lindhorst’s house, copying manuscripts, for the past two days, and last night in the coffee-house the Archivist said to me: “The man you recommended is a sterling fellow, my worthy friend!—he’ll go far,” and now just think of the Archivist’s contacts—not another word—we’ll talk about this in a year’s time!’ With these words, still smiling slyly, the Registrary went out of the door, leaving the Sub-Rector motionless in his chair and speechless with amazement and curiosity.

Veronica, however, had drawn her own conclusions from this conversation. ‘Didn’t I know all along’, thought she, ‘that Mr Anselmus was a very clever and amiable young man, who will do great things? If only I knew whether he really is fond of me! But didn’t he squeeze my hand twice that evening when we crossed the Elbe? Didn’t he look at me during the duet in a strange way that quite pierced my heart? Yes, he must really be fond of me—and I . . .’

Veronica abandoned herself, as young girls will, to delicious dreams of a happy future. She was a Counsellor’s lady, living in a handsome residence in Castle Lane, or on the New Market, or in Moritz Street; her fashionable hat, her new Turkish shawl, suited her perfectly; she took her breakfast in the window alcove, wearing an elegant morning gown and giving the cook instructions for the day. ‘But don’t spoil the meat course, for it’s the Counsellor’s favourite dish!’ Passing dandies cast upward glances at her, and she overhears them saying: ‘What a charming woman the Counsellor’s lady is, and how beautiful she looks in that lace cap!’ The lady of Privy Counsellor Y. sends a domestic to ask whether the Counsellor’s lady would care to visit Linke’s Restaurant today. ‘Give your mistress my very best compliments and say that I am very sorry, but I have promised to have tea with the lady of President Z.’ Then Counsellor Anselmus returns, having gone out early to attend to his duties. He is dressed in the latest fashion. ‘It’s ten o’clock already, I declare’, he cries, making his gold watch strike the hour, and giving his young wife a kiss. ‘How are you, my pet, can you guess what I’ve brought you?’ he goes on teasingly, and from his waistcoat pocket he produces a pair of magnificent ear-rings in the latest style, which he puts in her ears to replace those she was wearing before. ‘Oh, what lovely dainty ear-rings’, cries Veronica out loud, throwing away her work and jumping up out of her chair to look at the ear-rings in the mirror.

‘What on earth is the matter?’ said Sub-Rector Paulmann, who had been so engrossed in Cicero’s De Officiis that he now nearly dropped the book; ‘you’re getting as bad as Anselmus with your crazy fits.’

At that moment, however, the student Anselmus entered the room. Contrary to his normal habits, he had not paid a visit for several days. To Veronica’s alarm and amazement, his whole manner had changed. In a confident tone which was quite uncharacteristic of him, he spoke of a new direction his life was taking and of wonderful prospects which had disclosed themselves to him but which many people were quite unable to see. Sub-Rector Paulmann, recalling the Registrary’s mysterious remarks, was still more taken aback, and could scarcely utter a syllable. After mentioning something about work that urgently needed doing for Archivist Lindhorst, and kissing Veronica’s hand with elegant ease, Anselmus hastened downstairs and was gone.

‘That was the Counsellor already’, murmured Veronica to herself, ‘and he kissed my hand without slipping or treading on my toes as usual! He gave me such a tender look—he must really be fond of me.’ She abandoned herself once more to her day-dreams, but now it seemed as though a hostile figure kept appearing among the lovely sights that filled her future domestic life as a Counsellor’s lady, and the figure laughed scornfully and said: ‘All this is stupid, commonplace stuff, and none of it is true anyway, for Anselmus will never marry you and become a Counsellor; he doesn’t love you one bit, even though you have blue eyes and a slender build and a well-shaped hand.’ A stream of icy water flowed through Veronica’s heart, and a deep horror destroyed the contentment with which she had seen herself a moment earlier wearing the lace cap and the elegant ear-rings. She very nearly burst into tears as she said aloud: ‘Oh dear, it’s quite true, he doesn’t love me, and I’ll never be a Counsellor’s lady!’

‘Romantic capers, romantic capers!’ shouted Sub-Rector Paulmann, seizing his hat and stick and hurrying off in a rage!

‘That was all I needed’, sighed Veronica, feeling very cross with her twelve-year-old sister, who had been quietly sitting and sewing the entire time. By now it was almost three o’clock, time to tidy the room and lay the table for coffee; for the Misses Oster had promised to call on their friend Veronica. But from behind every cabinet that Veronica moved, from behind the music-books that she removed from the piano, from behind every cup, from behind the coffee-pot that she took from the cupboard, that figure sprang forth like a mandrake, laughing scornfully, snapping its spidery little fingers, and crying: ‘He’ll never be your husband, he’ll never be your husband!’ And when she dropped everything and fled to the centre of the room, the creature grew to a huge size and stuck its long nose from behind the stove, groaning and growling: ‘He’ll never be your husband!’

‘Don’t you hear anything? Don’t you see anything, Frances?’ called Veronica, whose fear and trembling made her unable to touch another thing. Her younger sister rose from her sewing-frame, calm and unmoved, and said: ‘What’s the matter with you today, Veronica? You’re making a mess of everything, and shaking all the furniture; I’d better give you a hand.’

But just then the merry girls entered, laughing heartily, and Veronica promptly realized that what she had taken for a living being was really the stove-lid and that the mocking words were really the creaking of the stove door, which would not shut properly. Yet such inner terror had gripped her that she could not recover her good spirits immediately, and her friends could not but notice the unusual nervousness revealed even by her pallor and her alarmed expression. They stopped short on the point; of recounting a jolly story and besought their friend for heaven’s sake to tell them what had befallen her. Veronica was obliged to confess that she had fallen prey to most peculiar ideas and suddenly been overcome in broad daylight by a strange fear of ghosts, which was not like her at all. She recounted so vividly how a little grey manikin had been peeping from every corner of the room to tease and mock her, that the Misses Oster cast timid glances all round them and soon had quite an uncanny and ghastly sensation. Then Frances entered with the steaming coffee, and all three quickly recollected themselves and laughed at their own folly.

Angelica (such was the name of the elder Miss Oster) was betrothed to an officer who was serving with the army, and he had not been heard of for so long that he must surely be dead, or at least badly wounded. This had plunged Angelica into the deepest grief, but today she was cheerful and almost boisterous, which Veronica, as she frankly declared, found most surprising.

‘My dear girl,’ said Angelica, ‘do you think that my Victor is not constantly in my heart and my mind?—but that’s why I’m so cheerful!—good heavens—so happy, so blissful in my very soul—for Victor is well, and I shall soon see him again as a captain of horse, decorated with medals that his boundless courage has earned him. A serious but not dangerous wound in his right arm, caused by a stroke from the sword of an enemy hussar, prevents him from writing, and since he refuses to leave his regiment he is continually moving from place to place and therefore cannot send me news, but this evening he will receive firm instructions to take leave in order to convalesce. He will set off tomorrow for our town, and as he is about to enter the carriage, he will be informed of his promotion to captain.’

‘But, dear Angelica,’ interrupted Veronica, ‘how do you know all this?’

‘Don’t make fun of me, my dear friend’, continued Angelica, ‘but I know you won’t, for might not the little grey manikin peep out from behind the mirror to punish you? At any rate, I cannot rid myself of the belief in certain mysterious things, because they have often entered my life in visible and even, I might say, tangible form. In particular, I don’t find it nearly as strange and incredible as many others might to think that some people can possess a kind of second sight, and have infallible means of setting it in motion. There is in this town an old woman who possesses this gift to an exceptional degree. She is not like other people of her breed who tell fortunes from cards, molten lead, or coffee-grounds. After certain preparations, in which her client must take part, a wondrous medley of shapes and figures appears in a polished metal mirror; these the old woman interprets, and extracts from them the answer to the question. I went to see her last night and obtained the news about my Victor, and I don’t doubt its truth for a single moment.’

Angelica’s story cast a spark into Veronica’s mind and soon ignited the idea of questioning the old woman about Anselmus and her hopes. She learnt that the old woman was called Mrs Rauer, lived in a distant street near the Lake Gate, was to be found exclusively on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Fridays from seven o’clock throughout the night until sunrise, and preferred one to come alone. That day was a Wednesday, and Veronica resolved to seek out the old woman under the pretext of accompanying the Osters home; and that is what she did.

Her friends lived in the New Town, and no sooner had she taken leave of them at the Elbe Bridge than she flew to the Lake Gate and soon found herself in the secluded alley which had been described to her and saw at its far end the little red house in which Mrs Rauer was said to live. As she stood outside the front door, she could not withstand a certain uncanny feeling, indeed an inner shudder. Finally, despite her inner repugnance, she pulled herself together and tugged the bell, whereupon the door opened and she groped her way through the dark corridor towards the stairs leading to the first floor, as described by Angelica. On seeing nobody, she called into the dismal hallway: ‘Does Mrs Rauer live here?’ Instead of an answer, there rang out a long clear ‘Miaow’, and a large black tom-cat, arching its back and curling its tail, walked solemnly in front of her to the parlour door, which was opened in response to a second ‘Miaow’.

‘Well now, my daughter, here already? Come in—come in!’ called the figure that stepped out of the room. The sight made Veronica stop as though transfixed. A tall, lean woman wrapped in black rags! As she spoke, her long pointed chin shook, her toothless mouth, overshadowed by her bony aquiline nose, was contorted into a grin, and her gleaming cat-like eyes threw off sparks as they flickered through her huge spectacles. Black bristly hairs stuck out of the many-coloured cloth wound round her head, and her loathsome countenance was rendered hideous by two large patches of scorched skin running from her left cheek across her nose.

Veronica could hardly breathe, and the scream that was about to break from her choking breast turned into a deep sigh as the witch’s bony hand seized her and drew her into the room. Inside, all was life and motion; a bewildering mixture of squeaking and mewing and croaking and cheeping assailed her ears. The old woman struck the table with her fist and shrieked: ‘Quiet, you rapscallions!’ And the monkeys climbed, whining, on top of the high four-poster bed, and the guinea-pigs scurried beneath the stove, and the raven fluttered on to the circular mirror; only the black cat, apparently untroubled by the old woman’s scolding, remained sitting calmly on the big padded chair on to which he had leapt after entering the room.

As soon as the noise had ceased, Veronica’s spirits rose; she felt less uneasy than she had done out in the hallway, and even the woman no longer seemed so abhorrent. She now looked round the room for the first time. All manner of ugly stuffed animals hung from the ceiling, strange unknown instruments lay in a heap on the floor, and in the fireplace there burned a scanty blue fire which only sent up yellow crackling sparks now and again; but then a rustling noise came from the chimney, and loathsome bats with what seemed like contorted laughing human faces flitted to and fro, and sometimes the flame rose and licked the sooty wall, and such piercing howls and wails were heard that Veronica was gripped by fear and horror.

‘Begging your pardon, missie’, said the old woman with a chuckle. She took a large feather duster, dipped it in a copper cauldron, and sprinkled the fireplace with it. At once the fire went out and the room became pitch dark, as though filled with thick smoke; but the old woman, who had gone into a small chamber, returned with a light, and Veronica could no longer see the animals or the instruments; it was an ordinary, poorly furnished room.

The old woman came closer to her and said in a grating voice: ‘I know what you want from me, my daughter; you’d like to know whether you will marry Anselmus once he is a Counsellor.’ Veronica froze with amazement and terror, but the old woman continued: ‘You told me everything at home with your Papa, when the coffee-pot was in front of you. I was the coffee¬pot, didn’t you recognize me? Listen, daughter! Give up Anselmus, give him up, he’s a horrid creature; he kicked my sons in
the face, my dear sons, the rosy-cheeked apples that wait to be bought and then roll out of people’s pockets back into my basket. He is on the old fellow’s side; the day before yesterday he poured the damned orpiment on my face and nearly blinded me; you can still see the marks where I was scorched, my daughter! Give him up, give him up! He doesn’t love you, for he loves the green and gold snake; he will never be a Counsellor, for he has taken a job with the salamanders, and he wants to marry the green snake; give him up, give him up!’

Veronica, who in reality had a firm and steadfast character and was quick to overcome girlish terror, took a step backward and spoke in a serious and composed tone: ‘Old woman! I have heard about your gift of seeing the future, and therefore, perhaps too rashly and inquisitively, I wanted you to tell me whether Anselmus, whom I love and esteem, will ever be mine. If you are not going to fulfil my wish, but only to tease me with your silly, mad chatter, then you are wrong, for I only wanted what I know you grant to others. Since it appears that you know my inmost thoughts, it might have been an easy matter for you to reveal many things that now worry and torment me, but after your foolish slanders of the good Anselmus I want nothing more to do with you. Good night!’

As Veronica was about to hurry away, the old woman fell on her knees, weeping and moaning, gripped the girls dress, and cried: ‘Little Veronica, don’t you recognize old Lizzie, who has so often held you in her arms and nursed you and petted you?’ Veronica could hardly believe her eyes; for though the old woman’s appearance was distorted by her great age and, above all, by the scorched patches, she was recognizably the old nurse who had vanished from Sub-Rector Paulmann’s house several years before. The old woman also looked quite different now: as she had formerly done, she was wearing a decent cap instead of the ugly coloured cloth, and a flowered jacket instead of the black rags. She got up from the floor, took Veronica in her arms, and went on:

‘Everything I have told you may seem crazy, but I’m afraid it is true. Anselmus has done much to injure me, but not deliberately; he has fallen into the hands of Archivist Lindhorst, who wants to marry him off to his daughter. The Archivist is my greatest enemy, and I could tell you all manner of things about him, but you would not understand or else you would be too terrified. He is the wise man, but I am the wise woman—so let it be! I can see that you have set your heart on Anselmus, and I’ll help you with all my powers to end up happily married to him, as you wish.’

‘But for heaven’s sake, tell me, Lizzie!’ began Veronica—

‘Hush, child—hush!’ interrupted the old woman, ‘I know what you are going to say, I have become as I am because I had to, there was no choice. Now then! I know the remedy that will cure Anselmus of his foolish love for the green snake and bring him to your arms as the most lovable of Counsellors; but you must help.’

‘Tell me plainly, Lizzie! I’ll do anything, for I love Anselmus dearly!’ lisped Veronica in barely audible tones.

‘I know’, continued the old woman, ‘that you were a brave child; it was in vain for me to tell you about the bogy man to make you go to sleep, for you promptly opened your eyes in order to see him; you would go into the most distant room without a light, and you often gave the neighbour’s children a fright by putting on your father’s powdered coat. Now then! If you are serious about wanting to defeat Archivist Lindhorst and the green snake through my art, if you are serious about wanting Anselmus to be a Counsellor and your husband, then slip out of your father’s house at eleven o’clock on the night of the next equinox and come to me; I’ll go with you to the crossroads in the open country not far from here, we’ll prepare what is needed, and none of the peculiar things you may see will do you any harm. And now good night, daughter, your Papa is waiting with your soup.’

Veronica hurried away, firmly resolved not to miss the night of the equinox; ‘for’, thought she, ‘Lizzie is right, Anselmus is entangled in strange toils, but I shall free him from them and call him mine for ever and ever; he is mine and always will be, Counsellor Anselmus.’

SIXTH VIGIL

‘After all,’ said the student Anselmus to himself, ‘it may have been the extra-special strong liqueur, of which I partook somewhat too freely in Mr Conradi’s shop, that created all the wild phantoms that frightened me outside the Archivist’s front door. Today, therefore, I shall remain completely sober, and bid defiance to whatever adverse forces I may meet.’

Just as he had done before, when equipping himself for his first visit to Archivist Lindhorst, he packed up his pendrawings and calligraphic masterpieces, his ink-horns, and his well-sharpened raven’s-quill pens. As he was about to walk out of the door, his eye fell on the vial of yellow liquid that the Archivist had given him. All his strange adventures returned to his memory in vivid colours, and his heart was pierced by a nameless feeling of bliss and pain. Unable to prevent himself, he cried in a lamentable tone: ‘Lovely and gracious Serpentina, isn’t it just to see you that I am going to the Archivist?’ At that moment he felt as though Serpentina’s love might be the reward for undertaking a dangerous and arduous task, and that this task was none other than copying the Lindhorst manuscripts. He was firmly convinced that he might encounter all manner of wondrous things as soon as he entered the house, or even outside it, as had happened before. Instead of giving another thought to Conradi’s liqueur, he quickly put the vial into his waistcoat pocket, so that he might faithfully follow the Archivist’s instructions if the bronze apple-woman should venture to grin at him. And did she not poke out her pointed nose, and flash her narrow green eyes at him from the door-knocker, as he was about to lift it at twelve o’clock precisely?

Without a second thought, Anselmus squirted the liquid into the hideous face, which instantly smoothed itself into a gleaming round door-knocker. The door opened, the bells rang delightfully throughout the house: ‘ting-a-ling—young man—quick—quick—skip along—ting-a-ling’. He cheerfully climbed the fine wide staircase, enjoying the scent of the rare perfumes that were wafting through the house. In the hallway he paused uncertainly, not knowing at which of the many handsome doors he should knock; but at that moment Archivist Lindhorst appeared, wearing a voluminous damask dressing-gown, and called out: ‘I’m glad you’ve kept your word at last, Mr Anselmus; I had better take you to the laboratory right away, so just follow me.’

With these words he strode across the long hallway and opened a small side-door leading into a corridor. Anselmus cheerfully followed the Archivist. From the corridor they entered a large hall, or rather a magnificent conservatory, for on both sides there stood all manner of rare and wondrous flowers, reaching to the ceiling. A dazzling magical light was everywhere, though one could not tell where it came from, since not a single window was to be seen. As Anselmus looked into the bushes and trees, long avenues seemed to stretch into the far distance. In the shadows of thick cypress bushes he saw the gleam of marble basins, from which wondrous figures rose and scattered crystal jets that fell splashing into the cups of luminous lilies; strange voices murmured and whistled amid the forest of wondrous plants, and glorious perfumes rose and descended. The Archivist had vanished, and Anselmus could see before him only a gigantic bush of glowing orange lilies. Intoxicated by the sight and by the sweet perfumes of the fairy garden, Anselmus stood as though rooted to the spot by enchantment. Then a giggling and tittering was heard from all sides, and small, clear voices began teasing and mocking him.

‘Where have you come from, my scholarly friend? Why are you dolled up so nicely, Anselmus? Will you come and chat with us about how Grandmother squashed the egg under her bottom, and the young gentleman got a stain on his best waistcoat? Have you learnt the new aria by heart that Papa Starling has just sung to you, Anselmus? You’re a sight for sore eyes in your glass wig and your brown paper top-boots!’ From every corner, and from right beside Anselmus, this teasing and tittering could be heard. Only now did the student realize that all manner of many-coloured birds were fluttering round him and making fun of him with continual laughter. At that moment the orange lily walked towards him, and he saw that it was Archivist Lindhorst, and that the brilliant red and yellow flowers on the Archivist’s dressing-gown had deceived his sight.

‘Forgive me for leaving you, my honoured friend,’ said the Archivist, ‘but I wanted to take a quick look at my fine cactus, which will flower tonight—but how do you like my little garden?’

‘Good heavens!’ replied the student, ‘it is beautiful beyond description, my esteemed Archivist; but the birds are having no end of fun at the expense of my poor self!’

‘What’s all this nonsense?’ called the Archivist angrily, turning to the bushes.

Out fluttered a great grey parrot, which perched on a myrtle bough beside the Archivist, looked at him with the utmost gravity through the spectacles on its curved beak, and croaked: ‘Please don’t take it amiss, Archivist; my naughty boys are in high spirits, but your scholarly friend is himself to blame, because . . .’

‘Not another word!’ interrupted the Archivist, ‘I know these rascals, but you ought to keep them in better order, my friend! Let’s go on, Mr Anselmus!’

The Archivist strode through many more rooms with exotic decorations, so fast that the student, following him, had scarcely time even to glance at the gleaming, strangely shaped furniture and other unfamiliar objects with which they were all filled. Finally they entered a large room in which the Archivist paused with upturned gaze, giving Anselmus time to feast his eyes on the magnificent sight afforded by the simple ornaments in this chamber. From the azure walls there emerged the bronze-coloured trunks of lofty palm-trees, whose colossal leaves, gleaming like sparkling emeralds, formed an arch just below the ceiling. In the middle of the room three Egyptian lions made of dark bronze supported a porphyry slab on which stood a simple golden pot. As soon as he saw it, Anselmus could not take his eyes away from the pot. All manner of shapes seemed to be playing on the polished gold in a thousand shimmering reflections: at times he glimpsed himself with arms outstretched in longing, alas! beside the elder-bush, and Serpentina slithered up and down, gazing at him with her lovely eyes. Anselmus was beside himself with wild delight. ‘Serpentina, Serpentina!’ he shrieked, but Archivist Lindhorst turned round quickly and said:

‘What do you mean, my good Mr Anselmus? I believe you have just done my daughter the honour of calling to her; but she is in her room on the far side of the house, having her piano lesson. Let’s go on.’

As the Archivist strode away, Anselmus followed, barely conscious of his surroundings. He neither saw nor heard anything more until the Archivist seized him by the hand and said: ‘Here we are!’

Awaking as though from a dream, Anselmus perceived that he was in a lofty room with bookcases all round the walls and in no way different from an ordinary library and study. In the middle stood a large desk and an upholstered armchair.

‘This’, said the Archivist, ‘is your place of work for the present. Whether you will also work in future in the blue library, where you suddenly called out my daughter’s name, I don’t yet know. But now I should like some evidence of your ability to perform your work according to my wishes and requirements.’

Anselmus now took courage and produced his drawings and calligraphic exercises from his pocket, feeling rather pleased with himself and certain of delighting the Archivist by his remarkable talent. The Archivist had scarcely set eyes on the first sheet, a piece of handwriting in the most elegant English style, when he gave a strange smile and shook his head. He did the same with every other sheet, so that the blood rushed to Anselmus’s face; and finally, as the Archivist’s smile became altogether mocking and contemptuous, Anselmus burst out angrily: ‘Archivist, you seem less than satisfied with my modest talents?’

‘My dear Mr Anselmus,’ said the Archivist, ‘you have an excellent natural gift for the art of calligraphy; but for the present, I see, I must rely more on your hard work and good will than on your skill. Part of the trouble may be the bad materials that you have been using.’ The student spoke at some length about how everyone else had acknowledged his skill, and about his Indian ink and his specially chosen raven’s-quill pens. But the Archivist handed him the sheet in English style and said: ‘Judge for yourself!’

Anselmus was thunderstruck to see how wretched his handwriting looked. The strokes were not rounded, the pressure had not been properly applied, the capitals and small letters were out of proportion; here and there a line was written with moderate success, but spoiled by horrid pot-hooks such as schoolboys might scrawl.

‘Besides’, went on the Archivist, ‘your ink is not durable.’ He dipped his finger in a glass of water, and dabbed it gently on the letters, whereupon all the writing vanished without a trace.

Anselmus felt as though some monster were clutching his throat. Unable to utter a single word, he stood there with the unlucky sheet of paper in his hand. The Archivist, however, laughed loudly and said: ‘Don’t be downcast, my esteemed Mr Anselmus; the feats that you have not yet accomplished may prove easier here. In any case, you will probably find better materials here than you had before. Pluck up your spirits and set to work!’

The Archivist now unlocked a cupboard and fetched a black semi-liquid substance which emitted a very peculiar smell, sharp-pointed pens in strange colours, a sheet of paper of exceptional whiteness and smoothness, and finally an Arabic manuscript. As soon as Anselmus had sat down to work, he left the room.

Anselmus had often copied Arabic script before, and so the first task did not seem too difficult. ‘How the pot-hooks got into my beautiful English cursive script, only God and the Archivist can tell,’ said he, ‘but I’ll take my oath that they are not of my making.’ Every word that he managed to inscribe on the parchment increased his spirits and likewise his skill. The pens were indeed splendid to write with, and the mysterious pitch-black ink flowed obediently on to the dazzling white parchment. As he worked away diligently, with intense concentration, he felt more and more at home in the lonely room, perfectly contented with the task before him, and hopeful of accomplishing it and earning his reward. On the stroke of three the Archivist called him into the next room, where an excellent lunch was ready. At table the Archivist was in an exceptionally cheerful mood; he inquired about Anselmus’s friends, Sub-Rector Paulmann and Registrary Heerbrand, and had many good stories to tell about the latter in particular. Anselmus greatly enjoyed the old Rhine wine, which made him more talkative than he generally was. On the stroke of four he got up to go to his work, and the Archivist seemed well pleased by his punctuality. The copying of Arabic characters had gone well even before the meal, but now the work went better still: Anselmus was himself astonished at the rapidity and ease with which he managed to copy the curlicues of the foreign script. But there seemed to be a voice coming from his innermost heart and whispering audibly: ‘Ah! could you accomplish this if she were not in your heart and mind, if you did not believe in her and her love?’ Then a faint, faint lisping, a crystal tinkling, could be heard floating through the room: ‘I am near, near, near you! I will help you. Be brave, be steadfast, dear Anselmus! I am working with you, so that you shall be mine!’ And as soon as he heard these sounds with inward delight, he began to understand the unknown characters. He scarcely needed to look at the original any more—it was as though the characters were already traced on the parchment, and needed only to be filled in with black ink by his practised hand.

Anselmus went on working, with lovely sounds floating around him like sweet delicate breathings, until the clock struck six and Archivist Lindhorst entered the room. He went over to the table with a strange smile; Anselmus stood up in silence, while the Archivist continued to smile at him as though in scornful mockery. Hardly had he looked into Anselmus’s copy, however, than his smile vanished and all his facial muscles moved to express a profound and solemn gravity. He no longer seemed the same man. His eyes, instead of their usual fiery sparkle, now turned upon Anselmus a look of indescribable gentleness; a mild blush mantled his pallid cheeks, and his soft and well-shaped lips, no longer pursed in irony, seemed about to open and deliver words of penetrating wisdom. His entire figure was taller and more dignified; the ample folds of his dressing-gown covered his shoulders and chest like a royal robe, and the white curls on his broad and lofty forehead were enclosed by a narrow circlet of gold.

‘Young man,’ began the Archivist in a solemn tone, ‘young man, long before you suspected them, I already perceived all the hidden links binding you to my dearest and most sacred possession! Serpentina loves you, and a strange destiny whose fateful threads were spun by malign powers will be fulfilled when she is yours and you receive the golden pot, which belongs to her, as an indispensable dowry. But your happiness in a higher life can only be born from struggle. You are beset by malign forces, and only the inner strength with which you resist their attacks can save you from disgrace and perdition. By working here you will pass your apprenticeship; and provided you persevere in the task you were obliged to begin, faith and insight will lead you to your goal, which is close at hand. Carry her always in your heart—Serpentina, who loves you—and you will behold the magnificent wonders of the golden pot, and be happy for evermore. Farewell! Archivist Lindhorst will expect you tomorrow at twelve in your study! Farewell!’

The Archivist gently thrust Anselmus out of the door and locked it. Anselmus found himself in the room where he had eaten; its only door opened on to the hallway. As he paused outside the front door, astounded by all the wonders he had seen, a window was opened above his head. He looked up, and there was Archivist Lindhorst, restored to his usual guise as an old man in a whitish-grey coat. The Archivist called to him:

‘Why, Mr Anselmus, what are you ruminating about? I suppose you can’t get all that Arabic out of your head? Give my regards to Sub-Rector Paulmann, if you should happen to call on him, and come back tomorrow at twelve o’clock on the dot. The honorarium for today’s work is already in the right-hand pocket of your waistcoat.’

And indeed Anselmus found the gleaming silver thaler in the pocket referred to, but it gave him no pleasure. ‘What will come of all this, I can’t tell,’ said he to himself, ‘but even if I am caught up in nothing more than some mad mystification, still the charming Serpentina dwells in my heart, and I would sooner perish than leave her, for I know that the thought within me is eternal, and no malign force can destroy it; but is the thought anything other than Serpentina’s love?’

SEVENTH VIGIL

At last Sub-Rector Paulmann knocked out his pipe and said: ‘It is high time to retire to bed.’

‘It is indeed,’ replied Veronica, who was alarmed by her father’s staying up so long; for ten o’clock had long since struck. No sooner had the Sub-Rector entered his study and bedroom, no sooner had Frances’s heavier breathing announced that she was fast asleep, than Veronica, who had got into bed in order to ward off suspicion, got up again, very, very quietly, dressed, put on her cloak, and slipped out of the house.

Ever since she had left old Lizzie, the image of Anselmus had been constantly before Veronica’s eyes. A mysterious alien voice inside her had been continually repeating that his resistance was due to somebody hostile to her, and that this person held Anselmus in bonds which Veronica could break by the mysterious methods of magical art. Her trust in old Lizzie grew daily, and even the uncanny and horrifying impression made by the old woman faded from her mind, so that everything strange and weird in their relationship came to seem merely unusual and romantic, and thus was the kind of thing that attracted her. Hence she was firmly resolved to go through with the adventure of the equinox, even though she risked getting into endless trouble if her family noticed her absence. Now the fateful night of the equinox, on which old Lizzie had promised to aid and abet her, had at last arrived, and Veronica, having had ample time to get used to the idea of a nocturnal expedition, felt full of courage. She flew as swiftly as an arrow through the deserted streets, paying no heed to the gale that was whistling through the air and dashing big drops of rain in her face.

The clock of the Cross Church was just striking eleven, with a dull resounding clang, as Veronica, soaked to the skin, stood in front of the old woman’s house.

‘Why, my pet, here already! here already! Wait, just wait!’ came a cry from the upper storey; and a moment later the old woman, laden with a basket and accompanied by her cat, was also standing outside the door. ‘Let us go and do deeds befitting the night that favours our deeds’, said she, seizing the trembling Veronica with a chilly hand. Veronica was given the heavy basket to carry, while the old woman unpacked a cauldron, a tripod, and a spade. By the time they emerged into the open country, the rain had ceased, but the gale had grown stronger, and howled in the air with a thousand voices. Frightful sounds of heart-rending lamentation descended from the black clouds, which swiftly gathered together and enveloped everything in thick darkness. But the old woman strode rapidly onwards, crying in piercing tones: ‘Light the way, my boy, light the way!’ Thereupon flashes of blue lightning curled and crossed on their path, and Veronica realized that the cat, as it sprang to and fro in front of them, was scattering sparks which glimmered and crackled, and that its fearful, hideous caterwauling could be heard whenever the gale dropped for a moment. She could hardly breathe, she felt as though ice-cold claws were clutching at her heart, but she pulled herself together with a violent effort, clung more closely to the old woman, and said: ‘We must go through with this business, no matter what comes of it!’

That’s right, daughter!’ replied the old woman, ‘remain steadfast, and I’ll give you something nice, and Anselmus into the bargain!’

Finally the old woman stopped and said: ‘Here we are!’ She dug a hole in the earth, filled it with coal and placed the tripod over it, with the cauldron on top. All this was accompanied by strange gestures, while the cat walked round and round her. Sparks shot from his tail and formed a fiery ring. Soon the coal began to glow, and blue flames finally leapt up under the tripod. Veronica was made to remove her cloak and veil and to crouch down beside the old woman, who seized her hands and clasped them tight, staring at the girl with sparkling eyes. The strange substances which the old woman had taken out of the basket, and which might have been flowers, lumps of metal, herbs, or animals (one could not tell which) now began to boil and bubble. The old woman let go of Veronica and seized an iron spoon, which she dipped in the glowing mass in order to stir it, while Veronica, on her instructions, had to gaze steadily into the cauldron and bend all her thoughts upon Anselmus. Now the old woman threw some gleaming pieces of metal into the cauldron, along with a lock of hair which she had cut from the crown of Veronica’s head, and a ring Veronica had worn for a long time. While doing so she uttered unintelligible, hideous sounds that pierced the darkness, and the cat whined and whimpered as it ran round the cauldron.

I wish, kind reader, that you had been travelling to Dresden on the night of 23 September! As darkness fell, people tried in vain to detain you at the last stage of your journey; the kindly landlord pointed out that the wind and rain were too bad for travel, and that the night of the equinox was in any case an uncanny time to be journeying into the murk; but you disregarded him, reasoning justly: ‘If I tip the postilion a whole thaler, I can be in Dresden by one o’clock at the latest, where a well-prepared supper and a soft bed will be awaiting me at the Golden Angel, or the Helmet, or the City of Naumburg Hotel.’ Travelling through the darkness, you suddenly perceive a strange flickering little light in the distance. Approaching closer, you see a fiery ring, within which two figures are seated beside a cauldron that emits thick smoke and red flashes and sparks. Your way leads straight through the fire, but the horses snort and stamp and rear; the postilion curses and prays, and lashes the horses mercilessly, but they will not budge from the spot. Without thinking, you jump out of the carriage and run forward a few steps. Now you can distinctly make out the slim, beautiful girl who is kneeling beside the cauldron, dressed in her thin white night-dress. Her plaits have come undone in the gale, and her long chestnut hair is fluttering in the wind. Her angelic face is illuminated by the dazzling light of the flames flickering from under the cauldron, but an icy stream of terror has frozen it in deathly pallor, and in her vacant gaze, her raised eyebrows, her mouth vainly opened to utter a cry of mortal fear, which is strangled by the nameless agony clutching her bosom, you behold her horror, her terror. Her delicate hands are raised and clasped together, as though she were invoking her guardian angel to preserve her from the infernal monsters which are about to appear in obedience to the mighty spell! Thus she kneels as motionless as a marble statue. Opposite her, crouching on the ground, sits a tall, skinny woman with a coppery complexion, a hooked and pointed nose, and the sparkling eyes of a cat; her bare, bony arms protrude from her black cloak, and, as she stirs the hellish brew, she laughs and shouts in her croaking voice through the raging and roaring of the gale.

Even if you are not normally a shy or timid character, kind reader, I think that this scene, a picture by Rembrandt or Hell Brueghel come to life, would make the hair on your scalp rise in terror. But you cannot take your eyes off the girl caught up in such devilry, and an electric shock trembling through every nerve and fibre of your body instantly awakens in you the courageous idea of defying the mysterious powers of the fiery circle; this idea banishes your terror, indeed the idea itself germinated amid the terror and fright that produced it. You feel yourself to be one of the guardian angels to whom the girl is appealing in her mortal fear; you feel that you need only draw your pocket-pistol and shoot the old woman dead on the spot! But as this thought passes vividly through your mind, you cry: ‘Hallo there!’ or ‘What’s going on?’ or ‘What on earth are you up to?’ The postilion blows a deafening blast on his horn, the old woman spins round and topples into her own brew, and everything vanishes instantly in a cloud of smoke. You then search for the girl in the darkness with intense longing. Whether you would have found her, I should not like to say; but you would have destroyed the old woman’s charms, and broken the spell cast by the magic circle which Veronica had so thoughtlessly entered.

But neither you, kind reader, nor anyone else was travelling that way on 23 September in the stormy night that was so suitable for witchcraft, and Veronica had to remain by the cauldron in mortal terror until the work was close to completion. She heard the howling and roaring all around her, she heard all manner of horrible voices bleating and gibbering in a wild medley, but she did not raise her eyes, for she felt that the sight of the ghastly and terrifying beings by which she was surrounded might destroy her by plunging her into incurable madness. The old woman had stopped stirring the cauldron, the smoke grew weaker and weaker, till at last only a small flame, like that produced by strong spirit, was burning at the bottom of the cauldron.

‘Veronica, my child!’ cried the old woman, ‘my pet! look down into the depths! What can you see? What can you see?’

Veronica, however, was unable to answer, although all manner of confused figures seemed to be coiling in the cauldron; the shapes became more and more distinct, until suddenly the student Anselmus stepped forth from the depths of the cauldron, smiling at her and holding out his hand.

‘Oh, it’s Anselmus! It’s Anselmus!’ cried Veronica.

The old woman quickly opened the cauldron’s vent, and red-hot metal, hissing and crackling, flowed into a small mould which she had placed beside it. Up she sprang, whirling around with wild and hideous gestures, and screamed: ‘The work is done. Thanks, my boy! You kept good watch. Hey, here he comes! Bite him to death, bite him to death!’

But suddenly a mighty beating of wings was heard in the air, as though a huge eagle were descending on them, and a terrible voice cried: ‘Hey, hey, you rapscallions! That’s enough, that’s enough, be off with you!’ The old woman collapsed howling in a heap, but Veronica lost consciousness.

When she came to, it was broad daylight; she was lying in her bed, and Frances was standing in front of her with a cup of steaming tea, and saying: ‘Do tell me what the matter is, Veronica; I’ve been standing here for an hour or more, and you’ve been lying insensible as though you were in a fever, moaning and groaning, and frightening us out of our wits. Father hasn’t gone to teach his class today, because of you, and he’ll be here with the doctor any minute.’

Veronica took her tea in silence. As she gulped it down, the hideous images of the past night appeared vividly before her mind’s eye. ‘Have I just been tormented by a nightmare?’ she wondered. ‘But I really did go to the old woman’s house last night, surely, and after all, wasn’t it the twenty-third of September? No, I must already have been ill yesterday and have imagined the whole thing; and the only reason for my illness was that I never stopped thinking about Anselmus and the strange old woman who claimed to be old Lizzie, though I expect she was just teasing me.’

At this point Frances, who had gone out, returned carrying Veronica’s dripping cloak in her hand. ‘Just look, Veronica,’ said she, ‘what has happened to your cloak; the gale blew open a window during the night and knocked over the chair on which your cloak was lying; the rain must have come in through the window, for the cloak is wet through.’

Veronica’s heart sank, for now she realized that, far from being tormented by a mere dream, she really had visited the old woman. Gripped by fear and horror, she shuddered in every limb. Trembling convulsively, she pulled the blanket over herself; but then she felt something hard pressing against her breast, and when she reached for it, it seemed to be a medallion. She drew it out as soon as Frances had taken away her cloak. It was a little round mirror of brightly polished metal. ‘It’s a present from the old woman’, she exclaimed, feeling as though rays of Fire were shooting out of the mirror, penetrating her innermost heart, and spreading a pleasant warmth. Her shivering fit was over, and she was filled with an indescribable sense of comfort and well-being. She could not help thinking of Anselmus, and as she bent her thoughts on him more and more intently, he smiled at her out of the mirror, like a miniature portrait come to life. Soon, however, she seemed to be seeing, not the picture—no!—but Anselmus himself in flesh and blood. He was sitting in a lofty, strangely decorated room and writing busily. Veronica wanted to walk over to him, tap him on the shoulder, and say: ‘Mr Anselmus, look round, it’s me!’ But this was impossible, for he seemed to be surrounded by a shining stream of fire, though when Veronica looked more closely, it turned out only to be big books with their pages edged in gold leaf. At last, however, she managed to catch Anselmus ’s eye; it seemed to require some thought before he remembered who she was, but finally he smiled and said: ‘Oh, it’s you, my dear Miss Paulmann? But why do you see fit now and again to pretend to be a snake?’

Veronica could not help laughing loudly at these strange words; this woke her, as though she had been fast asleep and dreaming, and she quickly concealed the little mirror as the door opened and Sub-Rector Paulmann entered the room with Dr Eckstein. Dr Eckstein went straight to her bed, took her pulse, remained immersed in thought for a long time, and finally said: ‘Well, well!’ Thereupon he wrote a prescription, took her pulse once more, repeated: ‘Well, well!’ and left the patient. From Dr Eckstein’s utterances, however, Sub-Rector Paulmann was unable to derive any clear conception of what might be wrong with Veronica.

EIGHTH VIGIL

The student Anselmus had now been working in Archivist Lindhorst’s house for several days. The time he spent there was the happiest of his life, for, constantly hearing lovely sounds and Serpentina’s comforting words, indeed occasionally feeling the gentle touch of her breath, he was filled by a sense of well-being that he had never known before, and that sometimes rose to the highest pitch of bliss. All the hardships and petty worries of his wretched existence had vanished from his mind, and in the new life which had opened up before him like bright sunlight, he was able to understand all the wonders of a higher world which would otherwise have filled him with amazement, indeed with horror. His copying went on very fast, for it seemed more and more that he was only inscribing the parchment with long-familiar characters, and scarcely needed to glance at the original in order to reproduce everything with the utmost precision. The Archivist was rarely to be seen, except at mealtimes, but he always appeared at the precise moment when Anselmus had finished the last character of a manuscript, and gave him another; he then departed in silence, after stirring the ink with a small black rod and replacing the used pens with new and sharper ones.

One day, when Anselmus had climbed the stairs on the stroke of twelve, the door by which he normally entered proved to be locked, and the Archivist, in his wondrous dressing-gown strewn with images of brilliant flowers, appeared from the other side.

‘Come in by this door today, my dear Anselmus,’ he called, ‘for we must go into the room where the Masters of Bhagavadgita are awaiting us.’

The Archivist strode along the corridor and led Anselmus through the same large and small rooms as on his first visit. Once more Anselmus was astonished by the magnificence of the conservatory, but he could now perceive that many of the strange flowers hanging on the dark bushes were in fact insects resplendent in gleaming colours, flapping their little wings and dancing and flitting in a swarm as though caressing one another with their probosces. As for the rose-pink and sky-blue birds, they had turned into fragrant flowers, and the scent they emitted rose from their cupped petals in soft, lovely tones, which mingled with the whisper of distant fountains and the murmuring of the lofty trees and shrubs to form mysterious chords that uttered a deep, sorrowful yearning. The mocking birds which had teased and tormented him before now fluttered round his head once more, incessantly crying in their small clear voices: ‘Not so fast, my scholarly friend—don’t keep staring into the clouds, you might fall flat on your face! Hee, hee! Put on your powdered coat, my scholarly friend—Neighbour Screech-owl will dress your wig.’ And so they went on, uttering all manner of foolish chatter, until Anselmus had left the conservatory.

Finally the Archivist entered the azure room; the porphyry stand with the golden pot had vanished, and in their place in the middle of the room was a table draped in purple velvet. On it lay the writing materials with which Anselmus was familiar, and before it stood an armchair with similar drapery.

‘My dear Anselmus,’ said the Archivist, ‘you have now, to my great satisfaction, copied many manuscripts quickly and accurately; you have gained my confidence; but the most important task remains to be done, and that is to copy, or rather paint, certain works written in special characters, which I keep in this room, and which can only be copied on the spot. You will therefore work here in future, but I must urge you to exercise the utmost care and concentration; one wrong stroke, or—Heaven forfend!—a blot on the original, would plunge you into misfortune.’

Anselmus noticed small emerald-green leaves protruding from the golden trunks of the palm-trees; the Archivist grasped one of these leaves, and Anselmus realized that the leaf actually consisted of a roll of parchment, which the Archivist spread out on the table before him. Anselmus was astonished by the strangely intertwined characters, and at the sight of the many dots, strokes, dashes, and curlicues, which seemed by turns to represent plants, or mosses, or animal shapes, his courage almost failed him. Wondering if he would be able to copy all these signs exactly, he fell into deep meditation.

‘Take heart, young man!’ exclaimed the Archivist, ‘if you have proven faith and true love, Serpentina will help you!’

His voice rang like sonorous metal, and as Anselmus looked up in sudden alarm, the Archivist stood before him in the kingly form which Anselmus had beheld on his first visit to the library. The awestruck Anselmus was about to fall on his knees when the Archivist suddenly climbed up the trunk of a palm-tree and vanished among the emerald foliage. Anselmus understood that the prince of the spirits had spoken to him and had ascended to his study, where perhaps he would confer with the rays, sent to him as emissaries from some of the planets, about what should happen to Anselmus and the lovely Serpentina. ‘Or else’, thought Anselmus, ‘he may be about to receive news from the source of the Nile, or a visit from a Magus of Lapland. But I had better set diligently to work.’ And he began to examine the strange characters on the roll of parchments The wondrous music from the conservatory reached his ears and surrounded him with sweet and delightful scents, and he could also hear the giggling of the mocking birds, but he could not make out the words, much to his relief. Sometimes, too, the emerald leaves of the palm-trees seemed to rustle, and the room was filled by the lovely crystalline notes which Anselmus had heard under the elder-tree on that fateful Ascension Day. Wondrously invigorated by these sounds and gleams, Anselmus concentrated ever more firmly on the inscriptions on the parchment, and soon an inner intuition told him that the characters could have no other meaning than ‘Of the Marriage of the Salamander and the Green Snake’. At that moment a trio of clear crystal bells rang out. The words ‘Anselmus, dear Anselmus’, wafted from the leaves and, wonderful to relate, the green snake came twining its way down the trunk of the palm-tree.

‘Serpentina! Lovely Serpentina!’ cried Anselmus, in the rapture of supreme delight, for, as he looked more closely, it was a beautiful girl who was floating towards him, gazing at him with unspeakable yearning in her dark-blue eyes, just as he had pictured them in his mind. The leaves seemed to descend and stretch out; thorns sprouted from the trunks; but Serpentina wound and twined her way skilfully through them, and her fluttering, gleaming, iridescent dress clung so close to her slender body that it did not catch on the projecting thorns of the palm-trees. She sat down beside Anselmus on the same chair, put her arm round him, and held him so close that he could feel the breath from her lips and the electric warmth of her body.

‘Dear Anselmus,’ began Serpentina, ‘you will soon be mine entirely; you will win me through your faith and your love, and I will bring you the golden pot, which will make us both happy for evermore.’

‘Oh*, fair and lovely Serpentina,’ said Anselmus, ‘if only I had you, what would I care about all the world besides? If only you were mine, I would gladly perish amid the strange and wondrous things in which I have been entangled since first I saw you.’

‘I know,’ continued Serpentina, ‘that you have been alarmed and horrified by the unfamiliar and wondrous atmosphere which my father, often merely following his whims, has created around you, but now I hope it will never happen again, for I am here at this moment, my dear Anselmus, only to tell you, from the bottom of my heart, from the depths of my soul, everything you need to know, down to the smallest detail, in order to realize who my father is, and to understand quite distinctly how matters stand with him and me.’

To Anselmus it seemed as though her sweet and lovely form were embracing and enfolding him so completely that he could only live, move, and have his being in her, and as though it were only the beat of her pulse that sent tremors through all his fibres and nerves. He listened to every word she uttered, and each one resounded through the depths of his being and, like a ray of light, awoke in him a sensation of heavenly bliss. He had put his arm round her slender body, the slenderest there could be, but the glistening iridescent material of her dress was so smooth, so slippery, that he felt she might slide from his embrace and slip away, without letting him detain her; and he trembled at the thought.

‘Oh, don’t leave me, lovely Serpentina!’ he cried involuntarily, ‘you alone are my life!’

‘I shall not leave you today’, said Serpentina, ‘until I have told you everything that your love for me enables you to understand. Know then, beloved! that my father is descended from the wondrous race of the salamanders, and that I owe my existence to his love for the green snake. In ancient times the wondrous land of Atlantis was ruled by Phosphorus, the mighty prince of spirits, and the elemental spirits were his servants. One day the salamander whom he loved most dearly (it was my father) was walking in the splendid garden which Phosphorus’s mother had magnificently adorned with her fairest gifts, and heard a tall lily singing in soft tones: “Close your eyes tightly, till my beloved, the morning wind, awakens you.” He stepped closer; touched by his glowing breath, the lily opened her petals, and he beheld the lily’s daughter, the green snake, asleep within the cup. Thereupon the salamander was seized by passionate love for the green snake, and he stole her from the lily, whose perfumes, in a nameless lament, called for their beloved daughter everywhere in the garden. For the salamander had brought her to Phosphorus’s castle, and implored him: “Marry me to my beloved, for she shall be mine for evermore.”

“‘Foolish being, what are you asking!” said the prince of the spirits; “know that the lily was once my beloved and shared in my rule, but the spark I cast in her threatened to destroy her, and only my victory over the black dragon, whom the earth-spirits now keep bound in chains, kept the lily’s petals strong enough to enclose and preserve the spark within them. But if you embrace the green snake, your heat will burn up her body, and a new being will swiftly grow up and escape from you.”

‘The salamander did not heed the prince’s warning. Filled with burning desire, he enfolded the green snake in his arms; she crumbled to ashes, and a winged being, born from the ashes, shot away through the air. Then the salamander was seized by the madness of despair; emitting fire and flames, he ran through the garden and laid it waste in his wild fury, so that the fairest flowers and blossoms sank down, burnt to ashes, and the air was filled with their lamentations.

‘The wrathful prince of the spirits laid hold of the salamander in his anger, saying: “Your fire has spent its fury, your flames are extinguished, your beams have lost their light; sink down to the earth-spirits, and let them tease you and mock you and keep you captive, till your fiery substance catches light again and rises radiantly from the earth with you as a new being.”

‘The poor salamander sank down, his light extinguished, but the gruff old earth-spirit who was Phosphorus’s gardener came to him and said: “Master! Who has more reason to complain of the salamander than I? Did I not use my finest metals to polish all the fair flowers that he has burnt? Did I not tend their seeds honestly, and waste many fine colours on them? And yet I shall plead the cause of the poor salamander, for it was only love—in which you, Master, have often been entangled!—that drove him to the despair in which he laid waste the garden. Spare him such harsh punishment!”

“‘His fire is extinguished for the present,” said the prince of the spirits. “In the unhappy time when the degenerate race of men will no longer understand the language of nature, when the elemental spirits, each confined in his own region, will speak to men only in faint and distant sounds, when man will be estranged from the harmonious circle and only an infinite yearning will bring him obscure tidings of the wondrous realm that he once inhabited, while faith and love dwelt in his heart—in that unhappy time the salamander’s fiery substance will catch light anew, but he will rise only to the level of mankind and must accommodate himself to their wretched life and endure its privations. But not only will he retain the memory of his primal state; he will again live in holy harmony with all of nature, he will understand its marvels, and the power of his brothers among the spirits will once more be at his command. In a lily bush he will again find the green snake, and his marriage to her will bring forth three daughters, who will appear to men in the same guise as their mother. In springtime they will hang in the dark elder-bush and let their lovely crystal voices ring out. If, in that wretched time of inner obduracy, a youth shall be found to hear their song, and if one of the little snakes gazes at him with her lovely eyes, and if her gaze arouses in him an awareness of the distant land of wonders to which he can courageously ascend by shaking off the burden of common cares, and if there grows in him, along with his love for the snake, a living and ardent faith in the wonders of nature, and in his own existence amid these wonders, then the snake will be his. But not until three such youths have been found and married to his three daughters may the salamander cast off his weary burden and join his brothers.”

‘“Permit me, Master,” said the earth-spirit, “to give these three daughters a present which will add splendour to their lives once they have found their husbands. Each will receive from me a pot made of the fairest metal I possess, and I shall polish it with rays taken from the diamond; its lustre will reveal a splendid and dazzling reflection of our wondrous realm, as it now exists in harmony with all of nature, but from inside it there shall rise a fiery lily, whose everlasting bloom will enfold the tested and true youth in sweet perfumes. Soon he will learn its language and understand the wonders of our realm, and himself dwell with his beloved in Atlantis.”

‘You must have realized by now, dear Anselmus, that the salamander I have been telling you about is none other than my father. Despite his superior nature, he was obliged to submit to the pettiest privations of common life, and that explains the malicious whims with which he teases many people. He has often told me that the spiritual character that Prince Phosphorus stipulated as the condition for marriage to me and my sisters now has a name, though one that is only too often improperly abused. It is called a child-like poetic spirit. Such a spirit is often found in youths who are mocked by the rabble because of the lofty simplicity of their behaviour and because they lack what people call worldly manners. Oh, dear Anselmus! Now you understand my song under the elder-bush, my gaze, you love the green snake, you believe in me, and want to be mine for evermore! The beautiful lily will bloom from the golden pot, and we shall live together, blissfully happy, in Atlantis!

‘But I cannot conceal from you that after a hideous battle with the salamanders and earth-spirits the black dragon broke free and rushed away through the air. Although Phosphorus keeps him in chains once more, the black feathers that fell to the earth during the struggle gave birth to malign spirits who everywhere oppose the salamanders and earth-spirits. That woman who is so hostile to you, dear Anselmus, and who, as my father well knows, is striving for possession of the golden pot, owes her existence to the love between one such feather, fallen from the dragon’s wing, and a mangel-wurzel. She is aware of her origin and of her power, for the groans and heavings of the captive dragon reveal to her the secrets of many wondrous planetary conjunctions, and she tries by all possible means to work on people’s innermost thoughts, while my father fights her with the lightning-flashes that shoot forth from within the salamander. She collects all the malign principles that dwell in harmful herbs and poisonous animals, mixes them under a favourable conjunction, and calls up many an evil sprite that bemuses man’s mind with horror and terror and subjects him to the power of the demons created by the defeated dragon. Beware of the old woman, Anselmus; she is your foe, because your innocent child-like spirit has already foiled many of her evil spells. Be true, true, true to me, and soon you will reach your aim!’

‘Oh, my—my own Serpentina!’ cried Anselmus, ‘How could I ever leave you, how could I do other than love you eternally!’

With a kiss burning on his lips, he awoke as though from a deep dream. Serpentina had disappeared. The clock struck six, and he realized with a shock of remorse that he had not copied a single stroke; full of concern at what the Archivist might say, he looked at the sheet, and, wondrous to relate, the copy of the mysterious manuscript was complete and flawless, and as he looked more closely at the characters, he was sure that he had copied out Serpentina’s story about her father, the favourite of Prince Phosphorus in the wondrous land of Atlantis.

At this point Archivist Lindhorst entered, wearing his whitish-grey topcoat, with his hat on his head and his stick in his hand; he examined the parchment on which Anselmus had been writing, took a large pinch of snuff, and said with a smile: ‘I thought as much! Well, here’s your silver thaler, Mr Anselmus, and now let’s be off to Linke’s Restaurant! Follow me!’

The Archivist strode rapidly through the conservatory, in which there was such a confused jumble of singing, cheeping, and talking that Anselmus was quite deafened and thanked his stars once he found himself out in the street. They had only taken a few steps when they met Registrary Heerbrand, who joined them in a spirit of friendship. Outside the gate they filled the pipes which they had brought with them; the Registrary complained of having no tinder, whereupon the Archivist exclaimed crossly: ‘Tinder, forsooth! Here’s all the fire you could want!’ As he said this he snapped his fingers, and they emitted big sparks which immediately lit the pipes.

‘See what tricks you can do with chemistry’, said the Registrary; but Anselmus, trembling inwardly, thought of the salamander.

In Linke’s Restaurant the Registrary drank so much strong beer that, although he was normally a quiet, inoffensive man, he began singing student songs in a hoarse tenor voice, and asked everyone in heated tones: ‘Are you my friend or aren’t you?’ Finally Anselmus had to take him home, long after the Archivist had left them.

NINTH VIGIL

The wonders and marvels which Anselmus met with every day had altogether estranged him from ordinary life. He no longer saw any of his friends, and each morning he waited impatiently for twelve o’clock, which admitted him to his paradise. And yet, although his whole heart was committed to the lovely Serpentina and the wonders of the fairy realm in Archivist Lindhorst’s house, there were times when he could not help thinking of Veronica; sometimes, indeed, she seemed to come to him and confess amid blushes how dearly she loved him and how she was striving to tear him away from the phantoms which were merely teasing and mocking him. Now and again an alien power seemed to intrude and draw him irresistibly to Veronica, whom he had otherwise forgotten, compelling him to follow her wherever she might wish, as though he were firmly chained to the girl.

It was the night after Serpentina had first appeared to him in the form of a wondrous, lovely maiden, and revealed to him the wondrous secret of the marriage of the salamander with the green snake, that Veronica came more vividly to his mind than ever before. Yes, only on waking did he clearly realize that he had merely been dreaming, for he had been convinced that Veronica really was with him, complaining with every sign of deep, heart-rending sorrow that he was sacrificing her intense love to the fantastic apparitions which, though merely products of his deranged mind, would yet lead him into misfortune and ruin. Veronica was more lovable than he had ever seen her before; he could hardly stop thinking about her, and this state of mind caused him such torment that he went for a morning stroll in the hope of ridding himself of it. A secret magical force drew him to the Pirna Gate, and he was just about to turn into a side-street, when Sub-Rector Paulmann called from behind him: ‘Why! Anselmus, my dear fellow! Amice! Amice! Where on earth have you been? You haven’t been seen for ages. Did you know that Veronica is longing for you to accompany her singing again? Do come along; after all, you were going to call on me!’

Anselmus had no choice but to go with the Sub-Rector. On entering the house they were met by Veronica, very neatly and smartly dressed, so that the Sub-Rector asked in astonishment: ‘Why are you dolled up like that, were you expecting a visitor? Look, I’ve brought Mr Anselmus!’

As Anselmus kissed Veronica’s hand with all propriety and politeness, he felt a gentle pressure, which ran through all his fibres and nerves like a warm stream. Veronica was cheerfulness and charm personified, and when Paulmann had gone to his study, she managed, through roguish teasing, to work Anselmus up to such a pitch of excitement that he ended up forgetting his shyness and chasing the high-spirited girl round the room. Then, however, the imp of clumsiness took hold of him: he knocked against the table, and Veronica’s dainty sewing-box fell down. Anselmus picked it up; the lid had opened, disclosing a little round metal mirror, into which he gazed with inexplicable pleasure. Veronica crept softly up behind him, put her hand on his arm, nestled close to him, and gazed likewise into the mirror. Thereupon Anselmus felt a struggle beginning within him: thoughts, images, flashed out and disappeared again—Archivist Lindhorst, Serpentina, the green snake—at last he calmed down, and his confused thoughts combined to form lucid consciousness. It was now clear that he had been thinking all the time only of Veronica, and that the form which had appeared to him in the blue room the previous day had likewise been Veronica, and that the fantastic legend of the marriage of the salamander with the green snake had only been written by him, but certainly not told to him. He wondered at his own dreamy fancies, and attributed them solely to the exalted state of mind produced by his love for Veronica, as well as to his work in the Archivist’s rooms, where there were such strangely intoxicating perfumes. He could not help laughing heartily at the ridiculous notion of being in love with a little snake and mistaking a respectable Privy Archivist for a salamander.

‘Yes, it’s Veronica!’ he cried, but as he turned his head, he looked straight into Veronica’s blue eyes, which radiated love and yearning. A soft moan escaped her lips, and instantly they were pressed, burning, upon his.

‘Happy man that I am,’ sighed the enraptured student, ‘my dreams of yesterday are now coming true.’

‘And will you really marry me once you have become a Counsellor?’ asked Veronica.

‘Of course!’ answered Anselmus. At that moment the door creaked, and Sub-Rector Paulmann entered, saying: ‘Now, my dear Anselmus, I won’t let you go today; you must make do with a plate of soup, and afterwards Veronica will make us some delicious coffee, which we shall enjoy together with Registrary Heerbrand, who has promised to visit us.’

‘But, Sub-Rector,’ replied Anselmus, ‘don’t you know that I must go to Archivist Lindhorst’s house, to do my copying?’

‘Look here, amice! said Sub-Rector Paulmann, holding out his pocket-watch, which showed half-past twelve.

Anselmus now realized that it was much too late to walk to the Archivist’s house, and fell in with the Sub-Rector’s wishes all the more readily, since he would now be able to gaze at Veronica all day long and hoped to receive many surreptitious glances, squeeze her hand tenderly, and perhaps even extort a kiss. Such were now the soaring ambitions of the student Anselmus, and the more he persuaded himself that he would soon be freed from the fantastic notions that could have driven him out of his senses altogether, the more comfortable he felt. After dinner the Registrary did indeed turn up, and when the coffee had been consumed and twilight had fallen, he gave the company to understand, chuckling and cheerfully rubbing his hands, that he had something with him, which, if mixed by Veronica’s fair hands and given the appropriate form—foliated and classified, so to speak—would be pleasing to all of them on such a chilly October evening.

‘Do tell us without more ado, my good Registrary,’ exclaimed the Sub-Rector, ‘what this mysterious substance is that you have with you.’

The Registrary reached into the deep pocket of his coat and produced first, a bottle of arrack; second, some lemons; and third, some sugar. Before half an hour had passed, a bowl of delicious punch was steaming on Paulmann’s table. Veronica offered the drink to the company, and all manner of cheerful and pleasant conversation ensued. But as soon as the alcohol mounted to Anselmus’s head, all the images of his recent strange and wondrous experiences returned. He saw Archivist Lindhorst in his damask dressing-gown that shone like phosphorus—he saw the azure room, the golden palm-trees, indeed he felt as though he should believe in Serpentina after all—he was shaken by a seething inner tumult. Veronica gave him a glass of punch, and as he took it he gently touched her hand. ‘Serpentina! Veronica!’ he sighed inwardly, sinking into a profound reverie.

Registrary Heerbrand, however, exclaimed loudly: ‘He’s a strange old man, is Archivist Lindhorst, and nobody knows what to make of him. Good health to him! Clink glasses, Anselmus!’

Anselmus, suddenly emerging from his reverie, clinked glasses with the Registrary, and said: ‘The reason, my honoured Registrary, is that Archivist Lindhorst is really a salamander, who laid waste the garden of Prince Phosphorus in a fury, because the green snake had flown away.’

‘Eh? What?’ asked Sub-Rector Paulmann.

‘Yes,’ continued Anselmus, ‘that is why he must now be a Royal Archivist and keep house here in Dresden with his three daughters; they, however, are none other than little green and gold snakes, who sunbathe in elder-bushes, sing enchantingly, and allure young men, like the Sirens.’

‘Anselmus, Mr Anselmus,’ cried the Sub-Rector, ‘have you gone out of your wits? For heaven’s sake, what is this absurd drivel you’re spouting?’

‘He’s quite right,’ interrupted the Registrary, ‘that fellow, the Archivist, is an accursed salamander, who lights a fire by snapping his fingers, and burns holes in your top-coat like red-hot tinder. Yes, you’re absolutely right, Anselmus, old chap, and anyone who doubts it is no friend of mine!’ And as he said this, the Registrary pounded the table with his fist so hard that the glasses tinkled.

‘Registrary! Are you crazy?’ shouted the infuriated Sub-Rector. ‘My scholarly friend, what mischief are you up to this time?’

‘Oh!’ said the student, ‘you’re nothing but a bird yourself—a screech-owl who dresses wigs, Sub-Rector!’

‘What? Me, a bird? A screech-owl? A hairdresser?’ shouted the Sub-Rector wrathfully. ‘You’re mad, sir, mad!’

‘But the old woman is a match for him’, cried the Registrary.

‘Yes, the old woman is powerful’, interrupted Anselmus, ‘though she’s of very humble origins, for her papa is only a dirty old feather duster and her mother a horrid mangel-wurzel, but she owes most of her strength to all sorts of malign creatures and poisonous vermin that surround her.’

‘That’s an abominable slander,’ cried Veronica, her eyes gleaming with anger, ‘old Lizzie is a wise woman, and the black cat is not a malign creature; he’s a handsome young man with refined manners, and her first cousin.’

‘Can he eat salamanders without singeing his beard and perishing miserably?’ said the Registrary.

‘No, no!’ shouted Anselmus. ‘He’ll never manage that in all his days; and the green snake loves me, for I have a child-like spirit and have gazed into Serpentina’s eyes.’

‘The cat will scratch them out’, cried Veronica.

‘Salamander, Salamander will defeat them all’, roared Sub-Rector Paulmann in a towering rage; ‘but am I in a mad-house? Am I mad myself? What’s this crazy nonsense I’m talking? Yes, I’m mad—I’m mad too!’ With these words the Sub-Rector sprang to his feet, tore off his wig, and hurled it at the ceiling, so that the locks were squashed and fell apart with a creaking noise, scattering powder all over the room. Thereupon Anselmus and the Registrary seized the punch-bowl and the glasses and threw them with jubilant yells at the ceiling, so that the pieces fell all over the room, clinking and tinkling.

‘Long live the Salamander, down with the old woman, smash the metal mirror, hack out the cat’s eyes! Little birds—birds of the air—eheu—eheu—evoe Salamander!’ Thus all three shouted and bellowed at once. Frances rushed out, weeping loudly, but Veronica lay on the sofa, whimpering in sorrow and anguish.

Then the door opened, everyone suddenly fell silent, and in came a little man in a short grey coat. His face had an oddly grave expression, and his hooked nose, with a large pair of spectacles perched on it, surpassed anything of the kind that had ever been seen. In addition, he wore such a peculiar wig that it rather resembled a feathered bonnet.

‘A good evening to you all,’ croaked the funny little man, ‘I believe my scholarly friend Mr Anselmus is among the company? Archivist Lindhorst sends his humble compliments, and he waited in vain today for Mr Anselmus, but he respectfully requests him to appear at the usual time tomorrow.’

That said, he again left the room, and it was clear to everyone that the grave little man was really a grey parrot. Sub-Rector Paulmann and Registrary Heerbrand uttered a roar of laughter that resounded through the room, while Veronica whimpered and moaned as though lacerated by unutterable sorrow. The student Anselmus, however, was pierced by the madness of inner terror, and without knowing what he was doing he ran out of the house and through the streets. He found his way mechanically to his lodgings and his room. Soon afterwards Veronica came to him, in a calm and friendly spirit. She asked why he had given her such a fright when he was tipsy, and warned him to beware of new fancies when he was working in the Archivist’s house. ‘Good night, good night, my dear friend’, lisped Veronica, breathing a kiss on his lips. Anselmus wanted to clasp her in his arms, but the dream-vision had disappeared. He awoke cheerful and refreshed, and could not help laughing heartily at the effects of the punch. When he thought of Veronica, however, he was filled by a feeling of comfort.

‘I have her alone to thank’, said he to himself, ‘for my recovery from these foolish fancies. Truly, I was in as bad a state as the man who thought he was made of glass, or the one who wouldn’t leave his room for fear of being eaten by chickens, because he imagined he was a grain of barley. But as soon as I’m a Counsellor, I’ll marry Miss Paulmann straight away, and be happy.’

At noon, walking through the Archivist’s conservatory, he was astonished that the objects there should ever have seemed to him so strange and wondrous. He could see nothing but ordinary potted plants, various kinds of geraniums, myrtle-bushes, and so forth. Instead of the brilliantly coloured birds that had teased him in the past, there were only a few sparrows fluttering to and fro, which made an unintelligible and unpleasant noise on catching sight of Anselmus. The blue room also looked quite different, and he could not understand how the garish blue colour and the unnatural golden trunks of the palm-trees with their shapeless gleaming leaves could have appealed to him for one minute.

The Archivist looked at him with a curious ironic smile, and asked: ‘Well, how did you enjoy the punch yesterday, my good Anselmus?’

‘Oh, I suppose the parrot must have . . . replied Anselmus shamefacedly, but he paused, recalling that the parrot’s appearance must likewise have been a delusion of his fuddled senses.

‘Why, I was myself among the company,’ interrupted the Archivist, ‘didn’t you see me? But your mad antics came close to doing me a serious injury; for I was sitting in the punch-bowl just as Registrary Heerbrand laid hold of it in order to dash it against the ceiling, and I had to beat a hasty retreat into the Sub-Rector’s pipe. Now adieu, Mr Anselmus! Work hard! I’ll pay you a thaler for the day you missed, since you did such good work until then.’

‘What silly rubbish the Archivist talks’, said the student Anselmus to himself, sitting down at the table to begin copying the manuscript which the Archivist, as usual, had spread out before him. But on the roll of parchment he saw such a jumble of crooked lines and curlicues, which bewildered the eye without giving it a moment’s respite, that it seemed wellnigh impossible to copy. Indeed, as he surveyed it all, the parchment seemed to be only a lump of marble with coloured veins, or a stone with patches of moss. Nevertheless, he was resolved to do all he could, and cheerfully dipped his pen in the ink-well, but the ink would not flow; he impatiently pressed the pen, and—oh heavens!—a big blot fell on the original.

From the blot, with a hiss and a roar, came blue lightning, which coiled its way through the room, crackling as it went, until it reached the ceiling. A thick cloud of steam gushed from the walls, the leaves began to rustle as though shaken by a storm, and gleaming basilisks, surrounded by flickering fire, shot forth from them, setting fire to the steam, so that a crackling mass of flame surged around Anselmus. The golden stems of the palm-trees turned into giant snakes which struck their hideous heads together with a piercing metallic clang, and enfolded Anselmus in their scaly bodies.

‘Fool! endure the punishment for your impudent crime!’ cried the frightful voice of the crowned salamander, appearing above the snakes like a dazzling ray of light amid the flames.

The snakes’ gaping jaws scattered torrents of fire upon Anselmus. The fiery streams seemed to thicken around his body into a solid ice-cold mass. Anselmus’s limbs were squeezed more and more tightly until they were rigid, and he lost consciousness. When he came to himself, he could not stir; he seemed to be surrounded by a brilliant light, and to knock against it every time he tried to raise his hand or make any other movement. Alas! he was sitting in a tightly stopped crystal bottle on a shelf in Archivist Lindhorst’s library.

TENTH VIGIL

I may be permitted, kind reader, to doubt whether you have ever been enclosed in a glass bottle, unless some vivid dream has teased you with such magical mishaps. If that has been the case, then you will sympathize warmly with poor Anselmus’s misery; but if you have never had such dreams, then you will do me and Anselmus a favour by letting your active imagination enclose you in the crystal for a few minutes. You are enfolded by a dazzling glitter, all the objects on every side appear illuminated and surrounded by rays of light in all the colours of the rainbow—this shimmering light makes everything quiver, shake, and rumble—you are floating, unable to move a muscle, in what seems like frozen ether, squeezing you so tightly that it is in vain for your spirit to issue commands to your lifeless body. The huge burden presses more and more heavily upon your chest; each breath you take consumes more of the scanty supply of air circulating in the confined space; your veins swell, hideous terror afflicts you, and your every nerve twitches as it bleeds in mortal agony.

Have pity, kind reader, on the student Anselmus, who suffered these unutterable tortures in his glass prison. He was well aware, however, that death could not release him; for, having fainted through excessive suffering, did he not awaken as the morning sun was shining brightly and cheerfully into the room, and did his tortures not begin afresh? He could not lift a finger, but his thoughts knocked against the glass with a discordant sound that dulled his senses, and instead of the clear voice of his inner spirit, he could apprehend only the muffled roaring of madness. In despair he shrieked: ‘Oh Serpentina, Serpentina, rescue me from this infernal torment!’

And he seemed to feel the wafting of gentle sighs, which settled on the bottle like the translucent green leaves of the elder-tree. The ringing ceased, the bewildering, dazzling glitter disappeared, and he could breathe more freely.

‘Am I not solely to blame for my misery? Alas! have I not offended against you, gracious and beloved Serpentina? Was I not base enough to doubt you? Did I not lose my faith, and with it everything that was to have made me supremely happy? Alas, you will never be mine, I have lost the golden pot, I shall never be permitted to behold its wonders. Oh, if only I could see you just once, and hear your sweet, melodious voice, lovely Serpentina!’

Cut to the quick by his bitter sorrow, Anselmus was lamenting in this manner, when someone said right beside him: ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with you, my scholarly friend; why are you kicking up such an unholy row?’

Anselmus realized that there were five more bottles standing next to him on the same shelf, and in them he perceived three sixth-formers from the Cross School and two solicitors’ clerks.

‘Gentlemen,’ he exclaimed, ‘companions in misfortune, how can you possibly be so calm, indeed so merry, as your cheerful faces show? You are confined in glass bottles, just as I am, and can’t move a muscle, nor even have a sensible thought, without a dreadful ringing and clanging, and without feeling as if your heads were spinning. But I don’t suppose you believe in the salamander and the green snake.’

‘You must be raving, my scholarly friend,’ replied one of the sixth-formers; ‘we have never been so well off as we are now, thanks to the silver thalers which the mad Archivist paid us for copying out his strange squiggles. We don’t have to learn any more Italian choruses; now we can go every day to Joseph’s Bar, or to other inns, enjoy the strong beer, stare the occasional pretty girl in the face, and sing Gaudeamus igitur, just like real students. We’re having the time of our lives.’

‘The gentlemen are quite right,’ put in a solicitor’s clerk; ‘I am likewise well supplied with silver thalers, as is my cherished colleague here beside me, and I spend all my time strolling in the Vineyard Gardens, instead of sitting indoors copying out dusty documents.’

‘But, my good sirs!’ said Anselmus, ‘can’t you feel that every one of you is sitting in a glass bottle, unable to move a muscle, let alone go strolling about?’

Thereupon all the sixth-formers and solicitors’ clerks let out a peal of laughter and shouted: ‘Our scholarly friend is mad; he thinks he’s in a glass bottle, when he’s standing on the Elbe Bridge and looking down into the water. Let’s go on!’

‘Alas,’ sighed the student, ‘they have never beheld the lovely Serpentina, they have no inkling of freedom and life in faith and love; that is why they do not feel the pressure of the prison to which the salamander confined them because of their folly and mean-spiritedness; but I, wretch that I am, will perish in misery and disgrace, unless I am rescued by her whom I love so inexpressibly.’

At that moment Serpentina’s voice wafted and murmured through the room: ‘Anselmus! Have faith, love, and hope!

And every sound she uttered radiated into Anselmus ’s prison, and the glass was compelled to yield to her power and extend itself, letting the captive’s chest move and expand! His situation became steadily less agonizing, and he realized that Serpentina still loved him and that it was she who was making his confinement in the glass bearable. He no longer troubled himself about his empty-headed companions in misfortune, but bent all his thoughts upon the lovely Serpentina.

Suddenly, however, a dull, unpleasant muttering arose from his other side. Soon he perceived that this muttering came from an old coffee-pot with a broken lid, standing on a small cupboard opposite him. As he looked more closely, the odious features of an old woman’s shrivelled face became more and more distinct, and a moment later the apple-woman from the Black Gate was standing in front of the shelf. Grinning and laughing in his face, she cried in her harsh voice: ‘Well, well, my lad! You must be patient! Into glass you shall pass—didn’t I foretell this long ago?’

‘Jeer and fleer as much as you like, you damned old witch,’ said Anselmus, ‘you are to blame for everything, but the salamander will catch you, you nasty mangel-wurzel!’

‘Ho, ho!’ replied the old woman, ‘don’t put on such airs! You kicked my little sons in the face, you scorched my nose, but I still like you, you rascal, because you used to be a decent person and my little daughter likes you too. But you’ll never get out of the glass unless I help you; I can’t reach up to you, but my neighbour the rat, who lives in the attic just above you, will gnaw the shelf you’re standing on till it breaks; then you’ll tumble down and I’ll catch you in my apron, so that you’ll keep your nice smooth face instead of breaking your nose, and I’ll carry you straight to Miss Veronica; she’s the one you must marry, once you have become a Counsellor.’

‘Leave me alone, you limb of Satan,’ shouted Anselmus in a rage, ‘it is only your hellish arts that provoked me into the crime for which I must now do penance. But I’ll endure it all patiently, for I can be nowhere else but here, where the lovely Serpentina comforts me and enfolds me with her love! Listen, old woman, and despair! I defy your power, I love only Serpentina in all eternity. I’ll never be a Counsellor, never look at Veronica, who has lured me into evil through you! If the green snake cannot be mine, I’ll perish in yearning and sorrow! Be off with you—be off with you—you horrible changeling!’

At this the old woman gave a harsh laugh that rang through the room, and cried: ‘Stay there and perish, then! But now it’s time to set to work, for I have business here of another kind.’

Casting off her black cloak, she stood there in loathsome nakedness, then spun round in a circle; great folios fell to the floor, and from them she tore out leaves of parchment; sticking the pages skilfully together and drawing them over her body, she was soon clad in what resembled a strange armour of coloured scales. The black cat, spitting fire, sprang out of the ink-well that stood on the desk and greeted the old woman by caterwauling; she uttered a cry of delight and disappeared with the cat through the door. Anselmus noticed that she had gone to the blue room, and soon he heard a distant hissing and roaring; the birds in the garden were screaming, and the parrot was croaking: ‘Hurry! Hurry! Robbers! Robbers!’

At that moment the old woman rushed back into the room, carrying the golden pot under her arm, gesturing hideously, and shrieking: ‘Good luck! Good luck! My son, kill the green snake! Up, my son, and at her!’

Anselmus thought he heard a deep moan—it was Serpentina’s voice. Horror and despair seized hold of him. Gathering all his strength, he pushed against the glass with such force that his nerves and veins almost burst. A sharp clang resounded through the room, and there in the doorway stood the Archivist, wearing his gleaming damask dressing-gown.

‘Hey, hey! You rapscallions, you mad sprites—witches’ work—come here—huzza!’ he shouted.

The old woman’s black hair rose like bristles, her red burning eyes gleamed with hell-fire, and, clenching the pointed teeth in her wide jaws, she hissed: ‘We’ll show you! We’ll seize our prey!’, with a jeering, mocking laugh like the bleat of a goat. Clutching the golden pot tightly, she took from it fistfuls of shining earth and threw them at the Archivist, but as soon as the earth touched his dressing-gown it turned into flowers which fell to the ground. Then the lilies on the dressing-gown flickered up in flames, and the Archivist hurled the crackling, burning lilies at the witch, who howled with pain; but when she sprang into the air and shook her parchment armour, the lilies were extinguished and crumbled into ash. ‘To your prey, my boy!’ screeched the old woman. The cat rose into the air and flew over the Archivist’s head towards the door, but the grey parrot fluttered over and grasped the cat’s neck in his crooked beak. Fiery red blood gushed from the cat’s throat, and Serpentina ’s voice cried: ‘Saved! Saved!’

Filled with rage and despair, the old woman threw herself upon the Archivist, dropping the pot behind her and spreading out her long, dried-up fingers in order to seize him in her claws; but the Archivist pulled off his dressing-gown and hurled it at the old woman. Blue crackling flames came hissing and spitting and roaring from the leaves of parchment, and the old woman rolled to and fro, howling and lamenting. She kept trying to take more earth from the pot and pull more leaves from the books to douse the blaze, and every time she managed to throw earth or parchment upon herself, the fire went out. But then she was assailed by flickering, hissing bolts of fire that seemed to come from inside the Archivist. ‘Hey, hey! In for the kill! Victory to the Salamander!’ rumbled the voice of the Archivist, and a hundred flashes of lightning coiled themselves in fiery rings round the screeching old woman. Locked in a furious struggle, the cat and the parrot flew whizzing round the room, but finally the parrot struck the cat to the floor with his powerful wings, and piercing him and holding him with his claws, so that he howled and moaned hideously in his death-agony, the parrot’s sharp beak hacked out the cat’s glowing eyes, so that burning foam spouted from the sockets.

Thick smoke was rising from the spot where the old woman had been lying on the floor under the dressing-gown. Her howling, her terrible piercing yells of lamentation, were dying away in the distance. The clouds of smoke evaporated, along with their penetrating stench. The Archivist raised the dressing-gown, and beneath it lay a nasty mangel-wurzel.

‘Honoured Archivist, I bring you the defeated enemy’, said the parrot, presenting the Archivist with a black hair held in his beak.

‘Very good, my friend’, answered the Archivist; ‘here lies my defeated enemy; be so kind as to do what is needful. This very day, as a small honorarium, you shall receive six coconuts and a new pair of spectacles, since I see the cat has broken your old glasses to smithereens.’

‘Yours to command, as long as I live, my esteemed friend and benefactor!’ rejoined the parrot in high good humour. Taking the mangel-wurzel in his beak, he fluttered with it through the window which the Archivist had opened for him. The latter seized the golden pot and called in a loud voice: ‘Serpentina, Serpentina!’

However, when Anselmus, delighted by the downfall of the vile old woman who had done him such injury, looked at the Archivist, he again beheld the lofty majestic figure of the prince of spirits, gazing up at him with indescribable grace and dignity.

‘Anselmus’, said the prince, ‘your loss of faith was not your fault, but that of a malign and destructive principle which strove to penetrate your heart and estrange you from yourself. You have proved your loyalty. Be free and happy!’

A flash of lightning pierced Anselmus’s heart, the splendid trio of crystal bells rang out louder and clearer than he had ever heard it—all his fibres and nerves trembled—but the chord swelled and resounded more and more loudly through the room, the glass enclosing Anselmus was shattered, and he plunged into the arms of the fair and lovely Serpentina.

ELEVENTH VIGIL

‘But do tell me, my dear Registrary, however was it possible for the confounded punch yesterday to addle our wits and lead us into all kinds of tomfoolery?’

These words were uttered by Sub-Rector Paulmann the next morning, as he entered the room where fragments of crockery were still lying all over the floor, with the unfortunate wig, reduced to its original components, floating in their midst. After the student Anselmus had rushed out of the door, the Sub-Rector and the Registrary had staggered and reeled about the room, shouting like men possessed and butting each other with their heads. Finally Frances had managed, with much effort, to put her fuddled papa to bed, while the Registrary, in the last stages of exhaustion, sank on to the sofa which Veronica had left in order to flee to her room.

The Registrary ’s head was wrapped in his blue handkerchief, and he looked very pale and melancholy. ‘Oh, my dear Sub-Rector,’ he groaned, ‘don’t blame the punch, which Miss Veronica prepared so deliciously! No, the whole thing is entirely the fault of that damned student. Haven’t you noticed that for a long time now he has been non compos mentis? And don’t you know that insanity is infectious? One fool, many fools; I beg your pardon, but that’s an old proverb; particularly when one has taken a drop too much, it’s easy to fall into a fury, and then you find yourself joining in the manoeuvres and imitating all the exercises demonstrated by the mad drill-sergeant. Believe it or not, Sub-Rector, I still feel giddy whenever I think of the grey parrot.’

‘Stuff and nonsense!’ interrupted the Sub-Rector, ‘it was the little old amanuensis to the Archivist, who had put on a grey cloak and come in search of Anselmus.’

‘Perhaps,’ rejoined the Registrary, ‘but I must confess that I feel quite wretched; there was such a strange noise of whistling and organ-music all last night.’

‘That was me,’ returned the Sub-Rector, ‘for I snore very loudly.’

‘Well, maybe,’ continued the Registrary, ‘but Sub-Rector, Sub-Rector! I had sound reasons for trying to provide some good cheer last night, but Anselmus spoiled all my efforts. You don’t know—oh, Sub-Rector, Sub-Rector!’

The Registrary leapt to his feet, tore the handkerchief from his head, embraced the Sub-Rector, squeezed his hand ardently, cried again in heart-rending tones: ‘Oh, Sub-Rector, Sub-Rector!’, seized his hat and stick, and rushed off at full tilt.

‘Anselmus will never again cross my threshold’, said Sub-Rector Paulmann to himself, ‘for I see clearly that with his obdurate madness he robs the best people of such reason as they possess. The Registrary is another such case; I have kept my wits about me so far, but the devil who rapped so hard at the door yesterday may eventually break in and do his worst. So get thee behind me, Satan! away with you, Anselmus!’

Veronica had become very pensive. She never uttered a word, but occasionally gave a strange smile, and preferred being on her own.

‘Anselmus has her on his conscience too,’ said the enraged Sub-Rector, ‘but it is as well that he does not show his face; I know he is afraid of me, that Anselmus, and that is why he never comes here.’

As the Sub-Rector uttered these last words out loud, Veronica, who happened to be present, burst into tears, and sighed: ‘How could Anselmus come here? He’s been imprisoned in a glass jar for ages.’

‘What?’ cried the Sub-Rector. ‘Heavens above, she’s beginning to talk nonsense like the Registrary; it won’t be long before she has a fit. That damned, abominable Anselmus!’

He promptly ran to Dr Eckstein, who smiled and once more said: ‘Well, well!’ Instead of prescribing anything, however, the Doctor, as he left, added to the few words he had spoken: ‘Attack of nerves! It will pass off by itself—fresh air—go for a drive—amuse herself—theatre—Sunday’s Child— Sisters of Prague—it will pass!’

‘I’ve seldom known the Doctor so eloquent,’ thought the Sub-Rector; ‘he was positively loquacious.’

Several days, weeks, and months went by; Anselmus had disappeared, but Registrary Heerbrand did not show his face either, until 4 February. On the stroke of noon that day he entered the Sub-Rector’s study, wearing a new suit of the best material and in the latest fashion, with shoes and silk stockings, despite the sharp frost, and with a large bouquet of fresh flowers in his hand. The Sub-Rector was not a little surprised to see his friend so smartly turned out. The Registrary walked solemnly
up to the Sub-Rector, embraced him with the best of good breeding, and said: ‘Today, on the name-day of your charming and esteemed daughter Miss Veronica, I will state frankly what has been on my mind for so long! On that unfortunate evening, when I brought the ingredients of that ill-fated punch in my coat pocket, I intended to acquaint you with some pleasing news and celebrate the happy day with all good cheer. I had just
learnt that I was to become a Counsellor, and I have now had this elevation confirmed by the patent cum nomine et sigillo principis which I have in my pocket.’

‘Good heavens, Reg—Counsellor Heerbrand, I mean’, stammered the Sub-Rector.

‘But it is you, esteemed Sub-Rector,’ pursued Counsellor Heerbrand, as we must henceforth call him, ‘it is you who can add the crowning glory to my happiness. I have long cherished a secret affection for Miss Veronica, and can justly claim that she has given me many friendly glances which convince me that she would not be averse to my proposal. In a word, esteemed Sub-Rector, I, Counsellor Heerbrand, request the hand of your
charming daughter Miss Veronica, and if you are agreeable, I mean to lead her to the altar forthwith.’

Sub-Rector Paulmann clapped his hands in amazement and exclaimed: ‘Why! Why! Reg—Counsellor, I mean, who ever would have thought it! Well, if Veronica really loves you, I for my part have no objection; and perhaps her present low spirits come from being secretly in love with you, my dear Counsellor! We know what tricks young girls are capable of.’

At that moment Veronica entered the room, with the pale and haggard look that she now habitually wore. Counsellor Heerbrancl walked over to her, mentioned her name-day in a few well-chosen words, and presented her with the fragrant bouquet and a small package, from which, when she opened it,
a pair of gleaning ear-rings shone forth. The colour mounted to her cheeks, her eyes glistened more brightly, and she exclaimed: ‘Good heavens! These are the very ear-rings that I took such pleasure in wearing a few weeks ago!’

‘How can that be?’ interrupted Counsellor Heerbrand, somewhat dismayed and offended, ‘I bought these jewels with base coin in Castle Lane, an hour ago.’

But instead of listening, Veronica was standing in front of the mirror, examining the effect of the ear-rings, which she had already hung in her ears. The Sub-Rector informed her, with a grave countenance and in a serious tone, of their friend Heerbrand ’s elevation and of his proposal of matrimony. Veronica gave the Counsellor a penetrating look, and said:

‘I’ve known for a long time that you wanted to marry me. All right! I promise you my heart and my hand, but I must tell you—both of you, my father and my future husband—a number of things which have been weighing very heavily on my mind; and I must tell you this at once, even if it means letting the soup get cold that Frances, I see, is just putting on the table.’

Without waiting for answers from the Sub-Rector and the Counsellor, though words were plainly hovering on their lips, Veronica went on: ‘You must believe me, my dear father, when I say that I loved Anselmus with all my heart, and when Registrary Heerbrand, who is now a Counsellor, declared that Anselmus might rise to such a rank, I resolved that he and none other should be my husband. But then it seemed as though hostile alien forces were trying to wrest him from me, and I resorted to old Lizzie, who used to be my nurse, and is now a wise woman and a great sorceress. She promised to help me and to deliver Anselmus to me. At midnight on the equinox we went to the crossroads, where she summoned up infernal spirits, and with the help of the black cat we created a little metal mirror. When I bent my thoughts upon Anselmus, I needed only to look into the mirror to control his mind entirely. But I now heartily repent of all this, and I vow that I will never again have anything to do with Satanic arts. The salamander defeated the old woman, I heard her lamenting, but there was no way I could help; as soon as the parrot had devoured her in the form of a mangel-wurzel, my metal mirror broke in two with a piercing clang.’

Veronica fetched the pieces of the broken mirror and a lock of hair from her sewing-box. Handing both to Counsellor Heerbrand, she continued: ‘Beloved Counsellor, take the fragments of the mirror, and at midnight tonight throw them off the Elbe Bridge, from the place where the cross stands, into the river, which is not frozen at that point. As for the lock of hair, keep that next to your faithful heart. I vow once more to have nothing more to do with Satanic arts and I hope Anselmus is happy, now that he is attached to the green snake, who is much wealthier and more beautiful than I am. Beloved Counsellor, I will love and honour you as your true and faithful wife!’

‘Oh heavens,’ cried the Sub-Rector in deep distress, ‘she’s mad, she’s mad—she can never be a Counsellor’s lady—she’s mad!’

‘Nothing of the sort’, interrupted Counsellor Heerbrand; ‘I am well aware that Miss Veronica had a soft spot for that tiresome fellow Anselmus, and it may well be that in her overwrought state she turned for help to the wise woman. This woman, I perceive, can be none other than old Mrs Rauer, who lives outside the Lake Gate and tells fortunes from cards and coffee-grounds. Nor can it be denied that there are indeed arcane arts which exercise a malign influence upon mankind; one reads of such things in classical authors. But what Miss Veronica says about the salamander’s victory and Anselmus’s attachment to the green snake can be no more than a poetic allegory—a metrical work, so to speak, telling of her final and entire parting from the student.’

‘Regard it as whatever you please, my dear Counsellor!’ interrupted Veronica; ‘as a silly dream, if you like.’

‘I shall certainly not do that’, rejoined Counsellor Heerbrand, ‘for I am well aware that Anselmus is also in the grip of hidden forces, which mislead him into all manner of crazy pranks.’

Sub-Rector Paulmann could contain himself no longer. He burst out: ‘Stop, for heaven’s sake, stop! Have we overindulged in the damned punch again, or has Anselmus’s madness affected us? What sort of nonsense are you talking, Counsellor? I’ll assume that your wits have been addled by love; but marriage will soon set that right. Otherwise I should be afraid, esteemed Counsellor, that you too had been touched by madness, and I should be worried about your progeny, which might inherit its parents’ mania. Now, I give my fatherly blessing to your happy engagement, and you have my permission to exchange kisses as a betrothed couple.’

This was done on the spot, and the engagement was formally agreed before the soup had time to get cold. A few weeks later, Counsellor Heerbrand’s lady was indeed sitting, as she had earlier imagined, in the window alcove of a fine house on the New Market, smiling down upon the passing dandies, who gazed up at her through their monocles and said: ‘What a charming woman Counsellor Heerbrand’s lady is!’

TWELFTH VIGIL

Very deeply did I feel the sublime happiness of the student Anselmus, once he was wedded to the lovely Serpentina and had departed for the wondrous and mysterious realm which he acknowledged as his home and for which his heart, filled with strange premonitions, had so long been yearning. But it was in vain for me, kind reader, to try to convey in words any notion of the splendours by which Anselmus was surrounded. I perceived with disgust the inadequacy of every possible expression. I felt entangled in the petty tedium of daily life; my tormenting dissatisfaction made me ill; I crept around as though lost in dreams; in a word, I fell into the state of mind endured by Anselmus, as I described, gentle reader, in the Fourth Vigil. When I glanced through the eleven Vigils that I had successfully completed, I became quite fretful, thinking that I might never be permitted to add the twelfth as the keystone; for every time I sat down at night to round off the work, it seemed as though malicious spirits (doubtless relatives of the dead witch, if not her first cousins) were holding up a brilliantly polished mirror in which I beheld my own self, pale and melancholy from lack of sleep, like Registrary Heerbrand after getting drunk on punch. Then I flung my pen away and went straight to bed, so that I might at least dream about the happy Anselmus and the lovely Serpentina. After this had gone on for several days and nights, I at last received a quite unexpected note from Archivist Lindhorst, in which he wrote as follows:

Sir: It has come to my attention that you have recounted the strange fortunes of my worthy son-in-law, the sometime student, who is now the poet Anselmus, in eleven Vigils, and that you are now labouring to say something in the twelfth and final Vigil about his happy life in Atlantis, where he has taken up residence with my daughter on the fine estate I possess there. I cannot say that I am overjoyed at having my true character disclosed to the reading public, since it may expose me to innumerable difficulties in my employment as Privy Archivist, and may indeed inspire His Majesty’s advisers to raise the question to what extent a salamander may take a legally binding oath as a public servant, and to what extent he may be entrusted with weighty responsibilities, since it is averred by Gabalis and Swedenborg that elemental spirits are by no means to be trusted. Moreover, my best friends will now shun my embrace, fearing that sudden exuberance might induce me to emit a flash of lightning and singe their wigs and their Sunday suits. Nonetheless, despite all these considerations, I am willing to assist you, Sir, in the completion of your work, since it contains many complimentary references to myself and my dear married daughter (I wish I were well rid of the other two). If, therefore, you wish to write the Twelfth Vigil, then leave your garret, come down your damned five flights of stairs, and pay me a visit. In the blue room with the palm-trees, with which you are already familiar, you will find suitable writing materials, and you may then acquaint your readers in a few words with what you have beheld. That will please them better than a lengthy account of a way of life which you yourself know only from hearsay.
I remain Sir, your devoted
Salamander Lindhorst
{pro tern. Privy Archivist to His Majesty)

This friendly, though rather crusty note from Archivist Lindhorst was extremely welcome. There seemed little doubt that the eccentric old man was well aware of the strange way in which I had learnt of his son-in-law’s fortunes, something which the promise of secrecy obliged me to conceal even from you, kind reader, but he had not taken it so much amiss as I had feared. Indeed, he himself was offering me a helping hand to complete my work, which allowed me to conclude that he was at bottom content to have his strange spiritual existence revealed in print. ‘Perhaps’, thought I, ‘the Archivist hopes that this will make it easier for him to dispose of his two remaining daughters, for a spark may enter the heart of some youth and awaken in him the yearning for the green snake, whom he will then seek and find in the elder-tree on Ascension Day. Anselmus’s misfortune in being confined in the glass bottle will warn such a youth to beware of doubt and incredulity.’

On the stroke of eleven I extinguished the lamp on my desk and went to the house of the Archivist, who was already waiting for me in the hallway.

‘So you’ve come, my worthy friend! I’m glad to see that you have not mistaken my good intentions. Come along!’ With these words he led me through the conservatory, bathed in dazzling light, to the azure room, where I saw the purple desk at which Anselmus had worked. The Archivist disappeared but returned immediately holding a fine gold goblet, from which a blue flame crackled aloft.

‘Here,’ said he, ‘I bring you the favourite drink of your friend Kapellmeister Johannes Kreisler. It is flaming arrack in which I have sprinkled some sugar. Take a sip of it while I remove my dressing-gown, so that as you sit and gaze and write, I may entertain myself, and enjoy your esteemed company, by swimming up and down in the goblet.’

‘Just as you please, my worthy Archivist,’ I rejoined, ‘but if I partake of this drink, I hope you won’t . . .’

‘Don’t worry, my friend’, exclaimed the Archivist, quickly taking off his dressing-gown. To my considerable astonishment, he climbed into the goblet and vanished amid the flames. Undeterred, I blew the flames gently aside and took a sip of the drink. It was delicious!

* * * * *

Are not the emerald leaves of the palm-trees stirring with gentle sighs and murmurs, as though caressed by the breath of the morning wind? Aroused from sleep, they rise and move, whispering mysteriously of the wonders proclaimed by the sweet and distant notes of a harp. The azure, leaving the walls, floats to and fro like scented mist, but rays of dazzling light dart through the haze, and as though rejoicing in child-like pleasure it whirls and revolves and rises to the immeasurable heights of the vault above the palm-trees. The rays of light, each more dazzling than the last, gather in a body, until the bright sunlight discloses the vistas of the grove in which I see Anselmus.

Glowing hyacinths, tulips, and roses lift their beautiful heads, and their perfumes call in delightful tones to the happy man: ‘Walk among us, beloved, who understands us—our fragrance is the yearning of love—we love you and are yours for evermore!’

The golden rays burn in glowing tones: ‘We are fire which love has lit. Fragrance is yearning, but fire is passion, and do we not dwell within your breast? We are yours!

The dark bushes, the lofty trees rustle and murmur: ‘Come to us! Happy one! Beloved! Fire is passion, but our cool shade is hope! We will enfold your head with our loving sighs, for you understand us, because love dwells within your breast.’

The springs and streams gush and plash: ‘Beloved, do not walk past so quickly, gaze into our crystal—your image dwells in us, and we preserve it with love, for you have understood us!

Bright-hued birds twitter and sing in an exultant chorus: ‘Listen to us, listen to us, we are the joy, the bliss, the rapture of love!’

But Anselmus casts a yearning look at the magnificent temple rising in the distance. The finely wrought columns seem to be trees, and the capitals and mouldings to be acanthus leaves, whose wondrous wreaths form a magnificent ornament. Anselmus walks towards the temple, gazing with deep bliss at the coloured marble, the wonderful moss-covered steps. ‘No,’ he cries, as though in supreme rapture, ‘she is no longer distant!’

Thereupon Serpentina, in all her beauty and grace, emerges from the temple, carrying the golden pot, from which a magnificent lily has sprung. The unspeakable bliss of infinite yearning glows in her lovely eyes, and as she looks at Anselmus she says: ‘My beloved, the lily has opened its petals; our utmost hopes are fulfilled. Can there be a happiness that resembles ours?’

Anselmus embraces her with the ardour of intense passion, the lily burns above his head in flaming rays of light. And the trees and bushes stir more audibly, and the springs and the birds exult in clearer and more joyful tones; all manner of colourful insects dance in the eddying breezes; in the air, in the water, on the earth, a glad, joyous, jubilant tumult celebrates the feast of love! Flashes of lightning dart through the bushes, diamonds peep from the earth like sparkling eyes, lofty fountains gush forth, strange perfumes waft by like whirring wings: these are the elemental spirits, paying homage to the lily and proclaiming Anselmus ’s happiness.

Anselmus raises his head, as though transfigured by radiant light. Is it his gaze, his words, his song? It rings out clearly: ‘Serpentina! Faith in you, love for you has disclosed to me the innermost being of nature! You brought me the lily which sprang from the gold, from the primal force of the earth, even before Phosphorus awakened thought. The lily is the knowledge of the holy harmony of all living things, and in this knowledge I shall live in the utmost happiness for evermore. Yes, I am a supremely happy man who has been granted supreme knowledge—I cannot do other than love you eternally, Serpentina! The golden rays of the lily will never fade, for as faith and love are eternal, so is knowledge.’

* * * * *

For the vision in which I had seen Anselmus in bodily form on his estate in Atlantis I was indebted to the arts of the salamander. It was splendid, too, that when the scene had dissolved into mist, I found it clearly and legibly described in my own handwriting on the paper that was lying on the purple table. Now, however, I felt pierced and lacerated by sudden anguish.

‘Happy Anselmus, who has cast off the burden of daily life! Your love for Serpentina made you spread your wings and move them vigorously, and now you are living in joy and bliss on your estate in Atlantis! But as for poor me, in a few minutes I shall have left this fine room, which is far from being an estate in Atlantis, to return to my garret; the petty cares of my poverty-stricken life will absorb my thoughts, and my gaze is obscured by a thousand ills as though by thick mist, so that I doubt if I shall ever behold the lily.’

At that moment Archivist Lindhorst tapped me gently on the shoulder and said: ‘Hush, my worthy friend! Don’t complain like that! Weren’t you in Atlantis yourself a moment ago, and haven’t you at least got a pretty farm there, as the poetic property of your mind? Indeed, is Anselmus’s happiness anything other than life in poetry, where the holy harmony of all things is revealed as the deepest secret of nature?