The Serapion Brethren, Vol. II

by E. T. A. Hoffmann

"Hear it," cried Ludwig; "learn it--understand it! Be amazed at it--doubt of it--cry out--shriek--shout! I have got an invitation to the supper and ball to-morrow evening at Countess Walther Puck's! Victorine! Victorine! Sweet, lovely Victorine!"

"And how about sweet, lovely Mignon?" asked Euchar. But Ludwig groaned forth, in the most pathetic tones, "Victorine! My life!" and bolted into his quarters.

The Friends, Ludwig and Euchar. Evil Dream of the Loss, at Piquet, of a Pair of Handsome Legs. Woes of an Enthusiastic Dancer. Comfort, Hope, and Monsieur Cochenille.

It may be expedient to tell the courteous reader a little more concerning this pair of friends, so that he may form, at all events, to some extent, a well-grounded opinion as to each of them.

Both had the title of Baron. Educated together, and having grown up in the most intimate friendship, they could not part even when the lapse of years brought to light most striking dissimilarities in their mental characteristics, which became more and more developed as time went on. In his childhood, Euchar belonged to the class of "good, well-behaved children," so-called, because in "society" they will sit for hours in the same spot, ask no questions, never want anything, and so forth, and then in due course, develop into wooden blockheads. With Euchar the case was different. If when, in his capacity of a "good, well-behaved" boy he chanced to be sitting with bent head and downcast eyes, some one spoke to him, he would start in alarm, stammer, and falter in his speech, often even shed tears, and seem to have been awakened from a deep dream. When alone, he appeared to be a totally different being. If watched without his being aware of it, he would be talking loudly and eagerly, as if with several people about him, and he would "act" whole stories--which he had heard or read--as if they were dramas, so that tables, cupboards, chairs, whatever happened to be in the room with him, had to represent towns, forests, villages, and dramatis personæ. But when he had an opportunity of being alone in the open air, a special ecstasy seemed to inspire him. Then he would jump, dance, and shout through the woods, putting his arms about the trees, throwing himself down into the grass--and so forth. In any sort of game played by boys of his own standing, he was most unwilling to take part, and was consequently looked upon as being "funky," and a creature who had no "pluck," for he would never take his share in anything where there was any chance of risk--such as a big jump, or a difficult piece of climbing. But here, also, it was curious that, when at the end nobody had had the pluck to do the thing, Euchar would wait till they were all gone, and then, when he was by himself, would do with the utmost ease, what they had all only wanted to do. For instance, if the idea was to get up a high, slender tree, and nobody had managed to do it, as soon as all their backs were turned, and Euchar was alone, he would be at the top of it in a few seconds. Seeming outwardly to be cold and apathetic, he really threw himself into everything with all his soul, and a persevering steadfastness such as only belongs to strong characters. And when--as was often the case--that which he felt keenly came to the surface, it did so with such irresistible force, that everyone who had any knowledge of such matters was amazed at the depth of feeling which lay hidden in the boy's nature. Many schoolmasters, and tutors, who had to do with him, could make neither head nor tail of him as a pupil, and there was only one of them--the last--who said the boy was a poet: at which his papa was very much distressed, thinking that the boy had inherited his mother's temperament, and she had always had the most terrible headaches whenever she went to a party or any social function. However, the papa's most intimate friend, a smooth-spoken young chamberlain, assured him that the schoolmaster in question was an ass to say what he did, and utterly mistaken, seeing that the blood in the veins of young Euchar was noble, so that, being by birth an aristocrat, he never could be in any danger of being capable of poetry. And this was very consoling to the old gentleman. How the lad developed with those dispositions may be readily inferred. Nature had imprinted on his face the unmistakable signet with which she stamps her prime favourites. But Mother Nature's favourites are those who have the power of completely realising the illimitable love of their kind mother, and of understanding the depths of her being: and they are only understood by those who are favourites themselves. Consequently Euchar was not understood by the general crowd--was considered unimpressionable, cold, incapable of the due degree of ecstasy on the subject of the newest tragedy at the theatre--and was stigmatized as a prosaic creature. Above all, a whole coterie of ladies of the most refined intellectual development and culture, who might well be credited with the power of insight on this particular subject, could by no means understand how it was possible that that Apollo's brow, those sharply curving, masterful eyebrows, those eyes which darted such a darksome fire, those softly pouting lips, should belong to a mere lifeless image. And yet all this seemed to be the case. For Euchar did not know in the least degree how to say nothing, about nothing, in words which meant nothing, to pretty ladies, and look, whilst so-doing, like a Rinaldo in bonds.

Matters were quite different with Ludwig. He belonged to the race of those wild, uncontrollable boys of whom people are in the habit of predicting that the world will not be wide enough for them. It was he who always invented the maddest and most adventurous features of all games. It was naturally to be expected that he would be the one of all others to "come to grief" on those occasions: but he was always the one who came out of them safe and sound, because he had the knack of keeping himself in a safe spot during the carrying out of the adventure--if he did not manage to slip out of it altogether. He took up every subject rapidly, with the utmost enthusiasm--and dropped it again as quickly. So that he learned a great many things, but did not learn much. When he came to young man's estate, he wrote very pretty verses, played passably on several instruments, drew very nice pictures, spoke with a certain degree of correctness and fluency several languages, and was, consequently, a paragon of up-bringing. He could get into the most surprising ecstasies about everything, and give utterance to the same in the most magniloquent words. But it was with him as with the drum--which gives forth a sound which is loud in proportion to its emptiness. The impression made upon him by everything grand, beautiful, sublime, resembled the outside tickling which excites the skin without affecting the inner fibres. Ludwig belonged to that class of people who say, "I want to do" so-and-so; but who never get beyond this principle of "wanting to do" into action. But, as in this world, those who announce, with the proper amount of loudness and emphasis, what they "intend," or are "going" to do, are held in far greater consideration than those who quietly go and "do" the things in question, it of course happened that Ludwig was considered "capable" of performing the grandest deeds, and was admired accordingly, people not troubling themselves to ascertain whether he had "done" the deeds which he had talked about so loudly. There were, it must be said, people who "saw through" Ludwig, and, starting from what he said, took some pains to find out what he had done, or if he had done anything at all. And this grieved him all the more that, in solitary hours, he was sometimes obliged to admit to himself that this everlasting "meaning" and "intending" to do things, without ever doing them, was, in reality, a miserable sort of business. Then he came upon a book--forgotten and out of date--in which was set forth that mechanical theory of the mutual interdependence of things. He eagerly adopted this theory, which justified and accounted for his doings, or rather his "intentions" of doing, in his own eyes, and in those of others. According with this theory, if he did not carry out anything which he had intended to do--what he had said he was going to do--it was not he who was to blame: its not happening was simply a part of the mutual interdependence of things.

The courteous reader will, at all events, see the great convenience of this theory.

Moreover, as Ludwig was a very good-looking young fellow, with blooming red cheeks, he would, by virtue of his qualities, have been the idol of all elegant circles, had not his short-sight led to his committing numerous "quid-pro-quos," which had often most annoying consequences. However, he consoled himself with the thought of the "impression," which was indescribable, which he believed himself to make upon all female hearts: and, besides, there was a good deal in the habit he had, just because he was so short-sighted, of placing himself in a closer proximity to ladies with whom he was conversing, than might have been considered altogether convenable, a species of innocent pushingness, belonging to the "genial" character, so as to be sure not to make any mistakes with reference to the person he was addressing; a matter which had more than once been productive of annoyance.

The morning after the ball at Count Walther Puck's, Euchar received a note from Ludwig, running as follows:

"Dearest and most beloved friend,--I am utterly miserable. I am stricken by destiny. It is all over with me! I am dashed down from the flowery summit of the fairest hope into the blackest and most fathomless abyss of the deepest despair. That which was to have been the source of my indescribable bliss constitutes my misery. Come to me as speedily as you can, and give me some comfort, if such a thing be possible."