CHAPTER IV.
The play came to an end amid great applause. The quaintness of the composition, the easy flow of the words, and that mixture of gaiety and melancholy which is always effective, excited such enthusiasm among the spectators that the clapping would have no end, and the little puppet who recited the epilogue was obliged to come forward again and again to return thanks in the name of the poet.
Felix, especially, found much to admire in the little comedy, that had apparently lost the charm of novelty for the others; especially the extraordinary life-likeness of the little figures, scarcely two spans high, which were carved, painted, and dressed in the most careful manner, each in accordance with his character; the astonishing dexterity with which they moved upon the stage, and, finally, and above all else, the masterly art of the delivery.
The voices changed so rapidly and distinctly, the keynote to each rôle was so happily struck, and in the long speeches of the devil the speaker developed so brilliant a power that there was probably not one person among the audience who could repress a feeling of creeping horror, such as one has when ghost stories are told in the dark.
When the rows had broken up again, and everybody was standing about talking and laughing noisily, Felix took occasion to express to Schnetz his amazement that a person of such great rhetorical talent should have turned his back forever upon his art, and have settled down at a clerk's desk.
"He will have all or nothing!" remarked the lieutenant. "Since he lost one of his eyes, and deluded himself into the belief that with a glass eye he would not be fit for the stage, he is far too proud to step down from the high horse of the tragedian to the donkey of the public reader. Every one knows whether he is acting to his own disadvantage when he plays the malcontent. It is true, though, some one really ought to prevail upon him to become the manager of a puppet-theatre. And then, besides, it would offer a good employment for Rosenbusch, who makes his puppets for him, and lends him a helping hand at the exhibition. Although, to be sure, anything of that sort only affords pleasure to a person of his stamp so long as it is an art which earns him no bread. He has been puttering away over this farce for three weeks at least, and letting everything else slide in consequence of it. If it were exhibited for an entrance fee, he would soon be tired of it."
Elfinger now entered again, and was obliged to submit to the applause showered upon him in his proper person, and to acknowledge the toasts drunk in his honor. He modestly refused, however, to accept the applause, since the thanks of the audience belonged more properly to the author, who was not himself, but a poet known to them all, who cherished a wish to be admitted to Paradise. It was merely with this end in view that he had written the text for the puppets, in the hope of introducing himself in this way to the society, and of winning their good opinion.
His admission was immediately agreed upon by acclamation, without the usual formalities. Kohle begged the loan of the manuscript, as he wished to illustrate it in a series of sketches. Rossel began, after his usual fashion, to make criticisms upon different parts, censuring especially the imitation of Immermann's "Merlin." Elfinger defended the poem, and the dispute had begun to run in danger of becoming heated, when the door was thrown open and Rosenbusch rushed in in a state of great excitement.
"Treachery!" he cried; "black, villainous treachery! Hell sends forth its spies to ferret out the secrets of Paradise! The veil of night is no longer sacred; profane curiosity is plucking at the curtain of our mysteries--and, by-the-way, give me something to drink!"
All pressed around the breathless speaker, who had thrown himself into a chair, refusing, however, in spite of the confusion of questions and suggestions that went on about him, to give any explanation whatever until he had moistened his thirsty throat. Not until he had done this to the most liberal extent did he begin to relate his adventure.
After his assistance behind the scenes was no longer needed, he had swung himself out of one of the windows of the central hall into the cool garden, in order to refresh himself a little in the night air. So he strolled comfortably up and down under the trees, studying the clouds and occasionally playing a few snatches on his flute, until he at last experienced a most remarkable thirst. As he was slowly walking around the house, with the intention of rejoining the company by way of the back-door, he suddenly beheld two suspicious-looking figures, women, in long dark cloaks and with hoods or veils over their heads, who stood at one of the windows intently peering in through a crack in the shutters. He tried to surprise them, and catch them in flagrante delicto. But, stealthily as he crept upon them, the crunching of the gravel had betrayed him. They both immediately rushed away from the window and fled in the direction of the gate, he after them like lightning, all the more eagerly because he saw a carriage waiting outside in the street. And sure enough, he succeeded in catching one of them by the sleeve, just as she reached the lattice-gate--the stouter one, who carried something under her cloak which hindered her in running. The prisoner besought him, in a frightened but evidently disguised voice, to let her go--she had done no harm, a mere chance, and other excuses of a like sort. He, on his part, excited by anger and indignation, and not a little by curiosity, would not let go, but insisted upon learning their names; the cloak, that he held firmly, had already begun to rip in a suspicious way, as if it were on the point of tearing and remaining alone in his hands, like the affair of Joseph reversed, when the other woman, who had in the mean while reached the carriage, turned round again and said, in a deep voice:
"Don't be afraid, my dear, the gentleman is much too chivalrous to make an attack on two unprotected ladies. Venez, ma chère!"
"These words," he continued, springing up, "made--I confess it to my shame--so strong an impression upon me that I, ass that I was, let go of the cloak and the woman for the purpose of taking off my hat and making a very polite bow to the second of the wretches. They were both, however, too much frightened to laugh at my devilish absurdity, and spoke not another word, but slipped away from me into the carriage, and drove off the devil knows where."
"And I stood there and could have knocked my brains out; for it occurred to me in a second what a wonderful figure I must have cut in the affair. But the best is still to come. What did the woman have under her cloak? In struggling with her I had several times struck against it, and noticed that it must be something four-cornered, something like a picture-frame. And suddenly, as I was very sulkily sneaking back again toward the house, it occurred to me, 'what if it were the Bride of Corinth! Now, supposing I go and see what really became of it.' I knew perfectly well out of which window Stephanopulos had sent it flying. So I searched and searched--but, grope about as I would, no trace of it could be discovered, and inasmuch as the ground all around the place is still full of little puddles, and the flame must undoubtedly have been immediately extinguished, you may bet ten to one that these spying night-rovers saw it burning--perhaps indeed were first led by it to slink into the garden; and that now they have borne away their booty to a place of safety."
A great tumult followed upon this communication. Some of the youngest, excited by wine, wanted to rush out on the track of the flying women, in order that they might recover the stolen property. The wildest proposals were heard as to how they should take revenge for this outrage, and how they should prevent such a desecration of their mystic rites in the future. All these noisy ones were silenced when Jansen suddenly took up the matter, and admonished them to listen