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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
In "Peter Schlemihl," Adelbert von Chamisso presents a captivating narrative that explores themes of identity, materialism, and the essence of the human soul. The story follows the titular character, Peter, who, after selling his shadow to the Devil in a desperate quest for wealth, embarks on a profound journey of self-discovery. Chamisso employs a rich, imaginative prose that blends fairy tale elements with existential inquiry, situated within a Romantic literary context that interrogates the nature of existence and the struggle between the individual and societal norms. The allegorical nature of the tale invites readers to ponder the implications of their desires and the cost of personal sacrifice. Born in 1781 in France and later relocating to Germany, Chamisso's diverse upbringing and experiences in the wake of the Napoleonic Wars informed his perspective on human nature and society. An accomplished poet and botanist, his scientific sensibilities are interwoven with literary finesse, culminating in a work that reflects both philosophical depth and a whimsical narrative style. Chamisso's own reflections on alienation resonate through Peter'Äôs character, as he grapples with his newfound existential plight. "Peter Schlemihl" is a must-read for those fascinated by the intersections of philosophy and fairy tale, offering profound insights on the human condition. Its timeless themes remain relevant today, making it an essential addition to both literary and philosophical discussions. Readers will find themselves enchanted by Chamisso's masterful storytelling, which continues to inspire contemplation and introspection.
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Peter Schlemihl
Table of Contents
CHAPTER I.
At last, after a fortunate, but to me most tedious passage, we reached our destined haven. As soon as the boat had landed me on the shore, I loaded myself with my little possessions, and forcing my way through the swarming crowd, entered the first and meanest house distinguished by a sign-board. I ordered a chamber; the waiter measured me with a glance, and sent me up to the garret.
I ordered fresh water, and inquired for the abode of Mr. Thomas Jones. “Near the North gate, the first country house on the right-hand side; a large new house of red and white marble, supported by many pillars.” Well; it was yet early; I opened my bundle, laid out my newly-turned black coat, clad myself in my sprucest garments, put my letter of introduction into my pocket, and bent my way to the man, who, I modestly hoped, was destined to befriend me.
After I had gone through the long North-street, and reached the gate, I saw the columns glimmering through the green trees. “It is here, then,” I thought. I wiped the dust from my feet with my pocket-handkerchief, arranged my cravat, and rung the bell. The door flew open, the servants narrowly examined me in the hall, but the porter at last announced me, and I had the honour to be summoned into the park, where Mr. Jones was walking with a small company. I knew him instantly by his portly self-complacency. He received me tolerably well—as a rich man is wont to receive a poor dependent devil; looked towards me, but without turning from the rest of the company, and took from me the letter I held in my hand. “Aye, aye! from my brother; I have not heard from him a long time. Is he well? There”—he continued, addressing the company without waiting for an answer, and pointed with the letter to a hill, “There I have ordered a new building to be erected.” He broke the seal, but not the conversation, of which wealth became the subject. “He who is not the master of at least a million,” he interposed, “forgive the expression, is a ragamuffin.”—“That is true, indeed,” exclaimed I, with full, overflowing feeling. He must have been pleased with the expression of my concurrence, for he smiled on me and said, “Remain here, young friend: I shall perhaps have time to tell you, by and by, what I think of it.” He pointed to the letter, put it into his pocket, and turned again to the company. He then offered his arm to a young lady; other gentlemen were busied with other fair ones; every one found some one to whom he attached himself, and they walked towards the rose-encircled hill.
I lingered idly behind, for not a soul deemed me worthy of notice. The company was extremely cheerful, jocular, and witty; they spoke seriously of trifles, and triflingly of serious matters; and I observed they unconcernedly directed their satires against the persons and the circumstances of absent friends. I was too great a stranger to understand much of these discussions; too much distressed and self-retired to enter into the full merit of these enigmas.
We reached the rose-grove. The lovely Fanny, the queen, as it seemed, of the day, was capricious enough to wish to gather for herself a blooming branch; a thorn pricked her, and a stream, as bright as if from damask roses, flowed over her delicate hand. This accident put the whole company in motion. English court-plaister was instantly inquired after. A silent, meagre, pale, tall, elderly man, who stood next to me, and whom I had not before observed, instantly put his hand into the close-fitting breast-pocket of his old-fashioned, grey taffetan coat, took out a small pocket-book, opened it, and with a lowly bow gave the lady what she had wished for; she took it without any attention to the giver, and without a word of thanks. The wound was bound up, and they ascended the hill, from whose brow they admired the wide prospect over the park’s green labyrinth, extending even to the immeasurable ocean.
It was indeed a grand and noble sight. A light speck appeared on the horizon between the dark waters and the azure heaven. “A telescope, here!” cried the merchant; and before any one from the crowds of servants appeared to answer his call, the grey man, as if he had been applied to, had already put his hand into his coat-pocket: he had taken from it a beautiful Dollond, and handed it over to Mr. Jones; who, as soon as he had raised it to his eye, informed the company that it was the ship which had sailed yesterday, driven back by contrary winds. The telescope passed from hand to hand, but never again reached that of its owner. I, however, looked on the old man with astonishment, not conceiving how the large machine had come out of the tiny pocket. Nobody else seemed surprised, and they appeared to care no more about the grey man than about me.
Refreshments were produced; the rarest fruits of every climate, served in the richest dishes. Mr. Jones did the honours with easy, dignified politeness, and for the second time directed a word to me: “Eat then, you did not get this on your voyage.” I bowed, but he did not observe me: he was talking to somebody else.
They would willingly have remained longer on the sod of the sloping hill, and have stretched themselves over the outspread turf, had they not feared its dampness. “Now it would be enchanting,” said somebody of the company, “if we had Turkey carpets to spread here.” The wish was hardly expressed ere the man in the grey coat had put his hand into his pocket, and with modest, even humble demeanour, began to draw out a rich embroidered Turkey carpet. It was received by the attendants as a matter of course, and laid down on the appointed spot. Without further ceremony the company took their stand upon it. I looked with new surprise on the man, the pocket, and the carpet, which was about twenty paces long, and ten broad. I rubbed my eyes, not knowing what to think, and especially as nobody else seemed moved by what had passed.
I longed to learn something about the man, and to inquire who he was; but I knew not to whom to apply, for I really was more afraid of the gentlemen-servants than of the gentlemen served. I mustered up my spirits at last, and addressed myself to a young man who seemed less pretending than the rest, and who had oftener been left to himself. I gently asked him, who that courteous gentleman was in grey clothes.—“Who? he that looks like an end of thread blown away from a tailor’s needle?”—“Yes, he that stands alone.”—“I do not know him,” he answered; and, determined, as it seemed, to break off the discussion with me, turned away, and entered on a trifling conversation with somebody else.
The sun now began to shine more intensely, and to annoy the ladies. The lovely Fanny carelessly addressed the grey man, whom, as far as I know, nobody had addressed before, with the frivolous question: “had he a marquee?” He answered with a low reverence, as if feeling an undeserved honour had been done him; his hand was already in his pocket, from which I perceived canvas, bars, ropes, iron-work—everything, in a word, belonging to the most sumptuous tent, issuing forth. The young men helped to erect it; it covered the whole extent of the carpet, and no one appeared to consider all this as at all extraordinary.
If my mind was confused, nay terrified, with these proceedings, how was I overpowered when the next-breathed wish brought from his pocket three riding horses. I tell you, three great and noble steeds, with saddles and appurtenances! Imagine for a moment, I pray you, three saddled horses from the same pocket which had before produced a pocket-book, a telescope, an ornamented carpet twenty paces long and ten broad, a pleasure-tent of the same size, with bars and iron-work! If I did not solemnly assure you that I had seen it, with my own eyes, you would certainly doubt the narrative.
Though there was so much of embarrassment and humility in the man, and he excited so little attention, yet his appearance to me had in it something so appalling, that I was not able to turn away my eyes from him. At last I could bear it no longer.
I determined to steal away from the company; and this was easy for one who had acted a part so little conspicuous. I wished to hasten back to the city, and to return in pursuit of my fortune the following morning to Mr. J., and if I could muster up courage enough, to inquire something about the extraordinary grey man. Oh, had I been thus privileged to escape!
