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In the preface to the new French translation (which appeared in
1838) of this story, Chamisso amuses himself in his own peculiar
way, over the prying curiosity of those who want to know what his
real object was in writing this tale: --"The present story," he
says, "has fallen into the hands of thoughtful people, who, being
accustomed to read only for instruction's sake, have been at a loss
to know what the shadow signifies. On this point several have
formed curious hypotheses; others, who do me the honour to believe
that I am more learned than I really am, have addressed themselves
to me for the solution of their doubts. The questions with which
they have besieged me have made me blush on account of my ignorance.
I have therefore been induced to devote myself to the investigation
of a matter not hitherto the subject of my studies; and I now beg to
submit to the world the result of my learned researches.
"'Concerning Shadows.--A dark body can only be partially illuminated
by a bright one. The dark space which lies in the direction of the
unilluminated part is what we call a SHADOW. Properly speaking,
shadow signifies a bodily space, the form of which depends upon the
form of the illuminating body, and upon their opposite position with
regard to each other. The shadow thrown on a surface, situated
before the shadow-projecting body, is, therefore, nothing else than
the intersection of this surface by the bodily space (in French, le
solide, on which word SOLID the whole force of the humour turns),
which we before designated by the word shadow.'
"The question in this wonderful history of Peter Schlemihl relates
entirely to the last-mentioned quality, SOLIDITY. The science of
finance instructs us sufficiently as to the value of money: the
value of a shadow is less generally acknowledged. My thoughtless
friend was covetous of money, of which he knew the value, and forgot
to think on solid substance. It was his wish that the lesson which
he had paid for so dearly should be turned to our profit; and his
bitter experience calls to us with a loud voice, Think on the solid-
-the substantial!" So far Chamisso.
"Peter Schlemihl" has been translated into almost all the languages
of Europe. Of the Dutch, Spanish, and Russian translations we do
not possess any copies. The French and Italian are as follows:-
Pierre Schlemihl. Paris, chez Ladvocat, 1822.--This was revised by
Chamisso in manuscript, who added a preface to it; but the
translation was afterwards capriciously altered by the same
publisher.
Un Roman du Poete Allemand contemporain, Adelbert de Chamisso;
traduit par N. Martin. Histoire merveilleuse de Pierre Schlemihl.
Dunquerque, 1837.--At the end the translator has added a letter to a
friend, with the Greek motto, "Life is the dream of a shadow." The
translator, while laughing in this letter at the Germans, who, he
says, ought to write three folio volumes of explanatory notes on the
little volume, falls into the error of being very diffuse himself in
the attempt to elucidate his author. His long letter concludes not
inappropriately with these words: "I have just observed, although
certainly rather late, that I have written a letter full of shadows,
and instead of lighting a torch to illuminate the darkness, have, I
fear, only deepened the gloom. Should this be the case, the reader
at any rate will not withhold from me the praise of having preserved
the colours of the original."
Merveilleuse Histoire de Pierre Schlemihl. Enrichie d'une savente
preface, ou les curieux pourront apprendre ce que c'est que l'ombre.
Paris et Nurnberg, 1838. With illustrations.--This translation was
revised by Chamisso.
L'Uomo senz' Ombra. Dono di simpatia al gentil sesso. Milano,
1838. Published as an Annual, with a Calendar, and Engravings.--The
editor is pleased not only to withhold the author's name, but
manages so to word his own preface as to lead his readers to
conclude that he himself is the author of the book.
"Schlemihl" was also brought on the stage, but without giving the
honours of authorship to the true source. This took place at
Vienna, in February, 1819. The announcement ran thus:-
"Pulzlivizli, or the Man without a Shadow: a comic, enchanted
drama, in three acts, adapted from De la Motte Fouque, by Ferdinand
Rosenau." Among the characters were the grey man, and a certain
Albert, probably intended for Schlemihl. Of the contents of the
piece we know nothing.
In England two editions have appeared [previous to the present,--
Tr.]; one of which was reprinted at Boston in 1825. Of the
popularity of "Peter Schlemihl" in Great Britain we have a striking
proof, from a caricature that appeared shortly after the coronation
of William IV. On the celebration of this solemnity, a brother of
the King--the Duke of Cumberland--arrived from the Continent to be
present on the occasion; and as he was well known to be an ardent
Tory, his reception on the part of the people was not of the most
flattering description. As a consequence of this, and owing,
perhaps, to an expression that fell from the Duke, that "popularity
is only a shadow," the caricature made its appearance. In the
foreground of the print is seen a striking likeness of the royal
Duke in the costume of the Order of the Garter. On his right stands
the King, with the crown on his head, and reflecting a goodly shadow
on the wall. Between the King and his brother are some courtiers,
who exclaim, in a tone of commiseration, "Lost, or stolen, a
gentleman's shadow." At the bottom of the print is the following
inscription:-
"PETER SCHLEMIHL AT THE CORONATION.
Granted that popularity is nothing but a shadow, it is still far
from pleasant to be without that shadow."
BRIEF SKETCH OF CHAMISSO'S LIFE.
Louis Adelbert de Chamisso was born January 27, 1781, at Beaucourt,
in Champagne. At the Revolution, he left France with his parents,
and came to Berlin, where, in 1796, he was appointed page to the
King, and soon after had a commission given him in the army. He
applied himself with much ardour to acquire the German language, and
felt great interest in the study of its literature, particularly its
poetry and philosophy, and was most attracted by those writers whose
character presented the greatest contrast to that of his own
countrymen. By intercourse with the learned, and by the friendships
which he formed, he soon became thoroughly German, which he proved
by his poems, which were distinguished above the crowd of such
compositions by the originality of their style, and peculiar vigour.
From 1804 to 1806 he published the "Almanack of the Muses," in
conjunction with Varnhagen von Ense. At the peace of Tilsit he left
the army, and visited France, when his family obtained back part of
their possessions. At this time he held, for a short period, a
situation as Professor at the school of Napoleonville, but soon
returned to Germany, devoting himself wholly to a literary life, and
in particular to the study of natural history. During his visit to
France, he spent some time with Madame de Stael, whom he also
visited in Switzerland. In 1811 he returned to Berlin; and in 1813
he wrote his "Peter Schlemihl," which marked him out as a man of
distinguished and original genius. It was published in 1814 by his
friend Fouque. When Count Runnjanzow resolved on undertaking a
voyage round the world, he invited Chamisso to accompany him as
naturalist to the expedition--an invitation which he gladly
embraced. The ships left Cronstadt in 1815, and returned in 1818;
and although the discovery of a North-West passage--the great object
of the expedition--was not attained, yet extensive acquisitions were
made in every department of scientific research. Chamisso's share
in the voyage is recorded in the third volume of the account of it
published at Weimar in 1821, and does honour to his spirit of
careful observation and his accuracy. He now again fixed his
residence at Berlin, from whose university he received the degree of
doctor in philosophy. An appointment at the Botanic Garden allowed
him full liberty to follow up his favourite pursuit of natural
history, and bound him by still stronger ties to his second
fatherland. He now wrote an account of the principal plants of the
North of Germany, with views respecting the vegetable kingdom and
the science of botany: this work appeared at Berlin in 1827.
Poetry, however, had still some share of his attention; and he
continued, during the latter years of his life, to maintain his
claims to an honourable place among the poets of Germany. Several
of his ballads and romances rank with the most distinguished of
modern times in this branch of composition. Surrounded by a circle
of attached and admiring friends, Chamisso continued thus entirely
engaged till his death, in 1839, leaving behind him a name and works
which posterity "will not willingly let perish."
FROM THE BARON DE LA MOTTE FOUQUE TO JULIUS EDWARD HITZIG.
[From the first edition.]
We should take care, my dear Edward, not to expose the history of
poor Schlemihl to eyes unfit to look upon it. That would be a bad
experiment. Of such eyes there are plenty; and who is able to
predict what may befal a MANUSCRIPT, which is almost more difficult
to guard than spoken language? Like a person seized with vertigo,
therefore, who, in the paroxysm of his feelings, leaps into the
abyss, I commit the story to the press.
And yet there are better and more serious reasons for the step I
have taken. If I am not wholly deceived, there are in our dear
Germany many hearts both capable and worthy of comprehending poor
Schlemihl, although a smile will arise on the countenance of many
among our honest countrymen at the bitter sport which was death to
him and to the innocent being whom he drew along with him. And you,
Edward, when you have seen the estimable work, and reflected on the
number of unknown and sympathising bosoms who, with ourselves, will
learn to love it,--you will, then, perhaps, feel that some drops of
consolation have been instilled into those wounds inflicted on you,
and on all who love you, by death.
To conclude: I have become convinced, by repeated experience, that
a guardian angel watches over books, places them in proper hands,
and if not always, yet often, prevents them from falling into
improper. In any case, he exercises an invisible guardianship over
every work of true genius and genuine feeling, and with unfailing
tact and skill opens or shuts its pages as he sees fit.
To this guardian angel I commit our "Schlemihl." And so, adieu!
FOUQUE.
Neunhausen, May, 1814.
THE STORY WITHOUT AN END
TO MY DAUGHTER
My Dear Child,
The story you love so much in German I dedicate to you in English.
It was in compliance with your earnest wish that other children
might share the delight it has so often afforded you, that I
translated it; so that it is, in some sort, yours of right. Let us
hope that your confident expectations of sympathy in your pleasure
may not be disappointed; or that, if others think the story less
beautiful than you do, they may find compensation in the graceful
designs it has inspired.
You have often regretted that it left off so soon, and would, I
believe, "have been glad to hear more and more, and for ever." The
continuation you have longed for lies in a wide and magnificent
book, which contains more wonderful and glorious things than all our
favourite fairy tales put together. But to read in that book, so as
to discover all its beautiful meanings, you must have pure, clear
eyes, and an humble, loving heart; otherwise you will complain, as
some do, that it is dim and puzzling; or, as others that it is dull
and monotonous.
May you continue to read in it with new curiosity, new delight, and
new profit; and to find it, as long as you live, the untiring "Story
without an End."
Your affectionate mother,
S. A.
CHAPTER I.
There was once a Child who lived in a little hut, and in the hut
there was nothing but a little bed and a looking-glass which hung in
a dark corner. Now the Child cared nothing at all about the
looking-glass; but as soon as the first sunbeam glided softly
through the casement, and kissed his sweet eyelids, and the finch
and the linnet waked him merrily with their morning songs, he arose,
and went out into the green meadow. And he begged flour of the
primrose, and sugar of the violet, and butter of the buttercup; he
shook dewdrops from the cowslip into the cup of a harebell; spread
out a large lime-leaf, set his little breakfast upon it, and feasted
daintily. Sometimes he invited a humming-bee, oftener a gay
butterfly, to partake his feast; but his favourite guest was the
blue dragon-fly. The bee murmured a good deal, in a solemn tone,
about his riches; but the Child thought that if he were a bee, heaps
of treasure would not make him gay and happy; and that it must be
much more delightful and glorious to float about in the free and
fresh breezes of spring, and to hum joyously in the web of the
sunbeams, than, with heavy feet and heavy heart, to stow the silver
wax and the golden honey into cells.
To this the Butterfly assented; and he told how once on a time, he
too had been greedy and sordid; how he had thought of nothing but
eating, and had never once turned his eyes upwards to the blue
heavens. At length, however, a complete change had come over him;
and instead of crawling spiritless about the dirty earth, half
dreaming, he all at once awaked as out of a deep sleep. And now he
would rise into the air;--and it was his greatest joy sometimes to
play with the light, and to reflect the heavens in the bright eyes
of his wings; sometimes to listen to the soft language of the
flowers, and catch their secrets. Such talk delighted the Child,
and his breakfast was the sweeter to him, and the sunshine on leaf
and flower seemed to him more bright and cheering.
But when the Bee had flown off to beg from flower to flower, and the
Butterfly had fluttered away to his playfellows, the Dragon-fly
still remained, poised on a blade of grass. Her slender and
burnished body, more brightly and deeply blue than the deep blue
sky, glistened in the sun beam; and her net-like wings laughed at
the flowers because THEY could not fly, but must stand still and
abide the wind and the rain. The Dragon-fly sipped a little of the
Child's clear dew-drops and blue violet-honey, and then whispered
her winged words. And the Child made an end of his repast, closed
his dark blue eyes, bent down his beautiful head, and listened to
the sweet prattle.
Then the Dragon-fly told much of the merry life in the green wood;
how sometimes she played hide-and-seek with her playfellows under
the broad leaves of the oak and the beech trees; or hunt-the-hare
along the surface of the still waters; sometimes quietly watched the
sunbeams, as they flew busily from moss to flower and from flower to
bush, and shed life and warmth over all. But at night, she said,
the moonbeams glided softly around the wood, and dropped dew into
the mouths of all the thirsty plants; and when the dawn pelted the
slumberers with the soft roses of heaven, some of the half-drunken
flowers looked up and smiled; but most of them could not so much as
raise their heads for a long, long time.
Such stories did the Dragon-fly tell; and as the Child sat
motionless with his eyes shut, and his head rested on his little
hand, she thought he had fallen asleep; so she poised her double
wings and flew into the rustling wood.
CHAPTER II.
But the Child was only sunk into a dream of delight, and was wishing
HE were a sunbeam or a moonbeam; and he would have been glad to hear
more and more, and for ever. But at last, as all was still, he
opened his eyes and looked around for his dear guest; but she was
flown far away; so he could not bear to sit there any longer alone,
and he rose and went to the gurgling brook. It gushed and rolled so
merrily, and tumbled so wildly along as it hurried to throw itself
head over heels into the river, just as if the great massy rock out
of which it sprang were close behind it, and could only be escaped
by a break-neck leap.
Then the Child began to talk to the little waves, and asked them
whence they came. They would not stay to give him an answer, but
danced away, one over another; till at last, that the sweet Child
might not be grieved, a drop of water stopped behind a piece of
rock. From her the Child heard strange histories, but he could not
understand them all, for she told him about her former life, and
about the depths of the mountain.
"A long while ago," said the Drop of Water, "I lived with my
countless sisters in the great ocean, in peace and unity. We had
all sorts of pastimes; sometimes we mounted up high into the air,
and peeped at the stars; then we sank plump down deep below, and
looked how the coral builders work till they are tired, that they
may reach the light of day at last. But I was conceited, and
thought myself much better than my sisters. And so one day, when
the sun rose out of the sea, I clung fast to one of his hot beams,
and thought that now I should reach the stars, and become one of
them. But I had not ascended far, when the sunbeam shook me off,
and in spite of all I could say or do, let me fall into a dark
cloud. And soon a flash of fire darted through the cloud, and now I
thought I must surely die; but the whole cloud laid itself down
softly upon the top of a mountain, and so I escaped with my fright,
and a black eye. Now I thought I should remain hidden, when all on
a sudden I slipped over a round pebble, fell from one stone to
another, down into the depths of the mountain, till at last it was
pitch dark, and I could neither see nor hear anything. Then I
found, indeed, that 'pride goeth before a fall,' resigned myself to
my fate, and, as I had already laid aside all my unhappy pride in
the cloud, my portion was now the salt of humility; and after
undergoing many purifications from the hidden virtues of metals and
minerals, I was at length permitted to come up once more into the
free cheerful air; and now will I run back to my sisters, and there
wait patiently till I am called to something better."
But hardly had she done when the root of a forget-me-not caught the
drop of water by her hair and sucked her in, that she might become a
floweret, and twinkle brightly as a blue star on the green firmament
of earth.
CHAPTER III.
The Child did not very well know what to think of all this: he went
thoughtfully home and laid himself on his little bed; and all night
long he was wandering about on the ocean, and among the stars, and
over the dark mountain. But the moon loved to look on the
slumbering Child as he lay with his little head softly pillowed on
his right arm. She lingered a long time before his little window,
and went slowly away to lighten the dark chamber of some sick
person.
As the moon's soft light lay on the Child's eyelids, he fancied he
sat in a golden boat, on a great, great water; countless stars swam
glittering on the dark mirror. He stretched out his hand to catch
the nearest star, but it had vanished, and the water sprayed up
against him. Then he saw clearly that these were not the real
stars; he looked up to heaven, and wished he could fly thither.
But in the meantime the moon had wandered on her way; and now the
Child was led in his dream into the clouds, and he thought he was
sitting on a white sheep, and he saw many lambs grazing around him.
He tried to catch a little lamb to play with, but it was all mist
and vapour; and the Child was sorrowful, and wished himself down
again in his own meadow, where his own lamb was sporting gaily
about.
Meanwhile the moon was gone to sleep behind the mountains, and all
around was dark. Then the Child dreamt that he fell down into the
dark, gloomy caverns of the mountain, and at that he was so
frightened, that he suddenly awoke, just as morning opened her clear
eye over the nearest hill.
CHAPTER IV.
The Child started up, and, to recover himself from his fright, went
into the little flower-garden behind his cottage, where the beds
were surrounded by ancient palm-trees, and where he knew that all
the flowers would nod kindly at him. But, behold, the Tulip turned
up her nose, and the Ranunculus held her head as stiffly as
possible, that she might not bow good-morrow to him. The Rose, with
her fair round cheeks, smiled and greeted the Child lovingly; so he
went up to her and kissed her fragrant mouth. And then the Rose
tenderly complained that he so seldom came into the garden, and that
she gave out her bloom and her fragrance the live-long day in vain;
for the other flowers could not see her, because they were too low,
or did not care to look at her, because they themselves were so rich
in bloom and fragrance. But she was most delighted when she glowed
in the blooming head of a child, and could pour out all her heart's
secrets to him in sweet odours. Among other things, the Rose
whispered in his ear that she was the fulness of beauty.
And in truth the Child, while looking at her beauty, seemed to have
quite forgotten to go on; till the Blue Larkspur called to him, and
asked whether he cared nothing more about his faithful friend; she
said that she was unchanged, and that even in death she should look
upon him with eyes of unfading blue.
The Child thanked her for her true-heartedness, and passed on to the
Hyacinth, who stood near the puffy, full-cheeked, gaudy Tulips.
Even from a distance the Hyacinth sent forth kisses to him, for she
knew not how to express her love. Although she was not remarkable
for her beauty, yet the Child felt himself wondrously attracted by
her, for he thought no flower loved him so well. But the Hyacinth
poured out her full heart and wept bitterly, because she stood so
lonely; the Tulips indeed were her countrymen, but they were so cold
and unfeeling that she was ashamed of them. The Child encouraged
her, and told her he did not think things were so bad as she
fancied. The Tulips spoke their love in bright looks, while she
uttered hers in fragrant words; that these, indeed, were lovelier
and more intelligible, but that the others were not to be despised.
Then the Hyacinth was comforted, and said she would be content; and
the Child went on to the powdered Auricula, who, in her bashfulness,
looked kindly up to him, and would gladly have given him more than
kind looks, had she had more to give. But the Child was satisfied
with her modest greeting; he felt that he was poor too, and he saw
the deep, thoughtful colours that lay beneath her golden dust. But
the humble flower, of her own accord, sent him to her neighbour, the
Lily, whom she willingly acknowledged as her queen. And when the
Child came to the Lily, the slender flower waved to and fro and
bowed her pale head with gentle pride and stately modesty, and sent
forth a fragrant greeting to him. The Child knew not what had come
to him: it reached his inmost heart, so that his eyes filled with
soft tears. Then he marked how the lily gazed with a clear and
steadfast eye upon the sun, and how the sun looked down again into
her pure chalice, and how, amid this interchange of looks, the three
golden threads united in the centre. And the Child heard how one
scarlet Lady-bird at the bottom of the cup said to another, "Knowest
thou not that we dwell in the flower of heaven?" and the other
replied, "Yes; and now will the mystery be fulfilled." And as the
Child saw and heard all this, the dim image of his unknown parents,
as it were veiled in a holy light, floated before his eyes: he
strove to grasp it, but the light was gone, and the Child slipped,
and would have fallen, had not the branch of a currant bush caught
and held him; and he took some of the bright berries for his
morning's meal, and went back to his hut and stripped the little
branches.
CHAPTER V.
But in the hut he stayed not long, all was so gloomy, close, and
silent within, and abroad everything seemed to smile, and to exult
in the clear and unbounded space. Therefore the Child went out into
the green wood, of which the Dragon-fly had told him such pleasant
stories. But he found everything far more beautiful and lovely even
than she had described it; for all about, wherever he went, the
tender moss pressed his little feet, and the delicate grass embraced
his knees, and the flowers kissed his hands, and even the branches
stroked his cheeks with a kind and refreshing touch, and the high
trees threw their fragrant shade around him.
There was no end to his delight. The little birds warbled and sang,
and fluttered and hopped about, and the delicate wood-flowers gave
out their beauty and their odours; and every sweet sound took a
sweet odour by the hand, and thus walked through the open door of
the Child's heart, and held a joyous nuptial dance therein. But the
Nightingale and the Lily of the Valley led the dance; for the
Nightingale sang of nought but love, and the Lily breathed of nought
but innocence, and he was the bridegroom and she was the bride. And
the Nightingale was never weary of repeating the same thing a
hundred times over, for the spring of love which gushed from his
heart was ever new--and the Lily bowed her head bashfully, that no
one might see her glowing heart. And yet the one lived so solely
and entirely in the other, that no one could see whether the notes
of the Nightingale were floating lilies, or the lilies visible
notes, falling like dewdrops from the Nightingale's throat.
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