Master Flea, E. T. A. Hoffmann [ebook voice reader .TXT] 📗

undertone of his Rose, elevating her, in the fullness of his heart, into a perfect miracle. But what gave him the most delight was that Rose had an inclination for the noble art of bookbinding, and in the few weeks that she had been with him had made uncommon advances in the decorative parts, so that she was already much more dexterous than many an oaf of an apprentice who wasted gold and morocco for years, and set the letters all awry, making them look like so many drunken peasants, staggering out of an alehouse. In the exuberance of his delight, he whispered to Peregrine quite confidentially, “It must out, Mr. Tyss, I can’t help it. Do you know, that it was my Rose who gilded the Ariosto?”

Upon hearing this, Peregrine hastily snatched up the book, as if securing it before he was robbed of it by an enemy. Lemmerhirt took this for a sign that Peregrine wished to go, and begged of him to stay a few minutes longer, and this it was that reminded him at last of the necessity of tearing himself away. He hastily paid his bill and set off home, dragging along the heavy quartos as if they had been some treasure.

On entering his house he was met by the old Alina, who pointed to Swammerdam’s chamber with looks of fear and anxiety. The door was open, and he saw Dörtje Elverdink, sitting in an armchair, quite stiff, with a face drawn up, as if it belonged to a corpse, already laid in the grave. Just so stiff, so corpse-like sat before her Pepusch, Swammerdam, and Leeuwenhoek. The old woman exclaimed, “Is not that a strange, ghastly spectacle? In this manner the three unhappy beings have sat the whole day long, and eat nothing, and drink nothing, and speak nothing, and scarcely fetch their breath.”

Peregrine at first felt a slight degree of terror at this strange spectacle, but as he ascended the stairs, the spectral image was completely swallowed up by the sea of pleasure, in which the delighted Peregrine swam, since his seeing Rose. Wishes, dreams, hopes, were agitating his mind, which he longed to unburden to some friend, but what friend had Peregrine besides the honest Master Flea? And to him he wished to open his whole heart, to tell him all about Rose⁠—all in fact that cannot very well be told. But he might call and coax as long as he pleased⁠—no Master Flea would show himself; he was up and away, at last, in the folds of his neckcloth, where Master Flea had been wont to lodge upon his going abroad. Peregrine found, after a more careful search, a tiny box, whereon was written:

“In this is the microscopic glass. If you look steadfastly into the box with your left eye, the glass will immediately be in its pupil; when you want to be freed from the instrument, you have only to gently squeeze the pupil, holding your eye over the box, and the glass will drop into it. I am busy in your service, and risk no little by it, but for so kind a protector I would hazard anything, as

“Your most devoted servant,

“Master Flea.”

Now here would be an excellent opportunity for a genuine romance-writer to expatiate on the difference between lust and love, and having handled it sufficiently in theory, to illustrate it practically in the person of Mr. Tyss. Much might be said of sensual desires, of the curse of the primal sin, and of the heavenly Promethean spark, which in love inflames that true community of spirit of the two sexes, which forms the actual necessary dualism of nature. Should now the aforesaid Promethean spark⁠—but the reader will perhaps be glad to escape the rest of this dissertation, though he may rest assured there is much in it whereby he might have been edified, had he been so inclined.

It must be evident to all that Peregrine only felt desire for Dörtje Elverdink, but that when he saw Rose Lemmerhirt, the real heavenly love blazed in his bosom. Little thanks, however, would be due to the editor of this most wonderful of all wonderful tales, if⁠—adhering to the stiff, formal pace of renowned romancers⁠—he could not forbear in this place exciting the weariness essentially requisite to a legitimate romance. No; let us go to the point at once: sighs, lamentations, joys, pains, kisses, blisses⁠—are all united in the focus of the moment, when the lovely Rose⁠—with the crimson of maiden modesty upon her cheeks⁠—confesses to the enraptured Peregrine that she loves him; that she cannot express how much, how immeasurably she loves him; that she lives in him only; that he is her only thought, her only joy.

But the crafty demon is wont to thrust his dark claws into the sunniest moments of life⁠—nay, to utterly obscure that sunshine by the shadow of his baleful presence. Thus it happened that evil doubts arose in Peregrine, and his breast was filled with suspicions. A voice seemed to whisper to him, “How! Dörtje Elverdink confessed her love, and yet it was mere selfishness, animated by which she sought to tempt you into breaking your faith and becoming a traitor to your best friend, poor Master Flea! You are rich; they say too that a certain frankness and good nature, by many called weakness, may procure you the doubtful love of men and even of women, and she, who now confesses a passion for you.” He hastily snatched at the fate-fraught box, and was on the point of opening it to place the microscopic glass in the pupil of his eye, and thus reading the thoughts of Rose, but he looked up, and the pure blue of her bright eyes seemed to be reflected on his inmost soul. Rose saw and wondered at his emotion.

He felt as if a sudden flash of lightning had quivered through him, and the feeling of his own unworthiness overwhelmed him.

“How!” said he to himself, “Would