Tales of the German Imagination from the Brothers Grimm to Ingeborg Bachmann (Penguin Classics) (21 page)

I thought I must be dreaming, and bit my tongue to wake myself, but I actually was awake. I closed my eyes in order to collect my thoughts. Then I heard curious nasal syllables being uttered nearby and looked up; two Chinamen, unmistakable in their Asiatic features (even if I were to doubt the authenticity of their costume), addressed me in what I imagine must have been the common local greeting. I got up and stepped back two paces. The Chinamen were gone, the landscape was altogether different: trees and forests stretched before me instead of rice fields. I studied the trees and other flora that blossomed around me; those I recognized were of a Southeast Asian species. Intending to approach one tree for a closer look, I took a step forward – and once again, everything had changed. So I continued walking like a recruit in training, proceeding slowly but with a dogged determination. Wondrously changing vistas, flora, fields, mountains, tundra and sandy deserts unfurled themselves before my marvelling gaze. There was no doubt about it: I had seven-league boots on my feet.

I fell to my knees in silent devotion and wept tears of thanks – for all at once my future revealed itself to me. Cast out from human society because of my early trespasses, I had been sent back to nature, the realm I have always cherished; the earth had been given me as a fertile garden to tend, the study of which was henceforth to be the direction and motivating force of my life, a life wholly devoted to science. This was not so much a resolve as a vision. For ever since that moment I have sought faithfully, with a quiet, firm, unceasing zeal to realize and render the original image that came to my inner eye complete in a bright and crystal-clear flash; and henceforth my sense of self-worth will for ever depend ineluctably on my ability to make the rendering true to the original vision.

I pulled myself together, and without a moment’s hesitation took a quick look around, laying instant claim to the field I
would henceforth be harvesting. I stood on the mountain top of Tibet, and the sun that had just risen before my eyes a few hours ago was already sinking into the firmament of the night sky; I strode through Asia from east to west, keeping a step ahead of the sun in its rapid descent, and crossed over into Africa. I looked around eagerly, scanning the entire continent in all directions. As I gaped at the old pyramids and temples of Egypt, I happened to spy in the desert, not far from Thebes with its hundred gates, those caves inhabited in former times by Christian anchorites. All at once I knew that this was to be my home. I selected as my future domicile one of the most remote, albeit spacious and comfortable, caves, a lair inaccessible to jackals, and then I continued on my way. At the Pillars of Hercules I crossed over into Europe, and, after inspecting its southern- and northernmost provinces, I stepped from northern Asia via the North Pole from Greenland into America, wandered through both the northern and southern half of that continent, encountered the onset of winter in the south, turned in my tracks and headed back northward across Cape Horn.

I lingered until day broke in the Far East, and only after a good long rest did I resume my wanderings. I followed the mountain chain with the highest known elevations on earth through both Americas. Slowly and carefully I stepped from peak to peak, sometimes over flaming volcanoes, sometimes over snow-covered domes, often pausing to catch my breath; at last I reached Mount Elias and I leapt across the Bering Strait back into Asia. I followed the west coast of that continent along its many twists and turns and took pains to explore those islands accessible to me. From the Malacca Peninsula my boots carried me across to Sumatra, Java, Bali and Lombok; I attempted repeatedly, at considerable risk, though always unsuccessfully, to ford across to the smaller islands and promontories that speckle the sea in those parts, and thereby to facilitate a north-west passage to Borneo and the other outlying islands of the archipelago. I was obliged to abandon the effort. At the tip of Lombok I finally sat down with my face turned to the south and to the east and I wept, rattling, as it were, the gates of my far-flung prison, for here at last I was forced to acknowledge
my limitations. New Holland, that remarkable place, and the South Sea Islands, whose sunbathed cloak of flora and fauna are so essential to a complete picture of the earth’s life forms, would be for ever off-limits to me; and thus, in essence, all that I could possibly collect and comment upon was doomed to remain a mere fragment of the whole. Oh, dear Adelbert, what are man’s efforts on this earth but vain illusions?

Often in the dead of winter of the Southern Hemisphere I have tried to push westward across the South Pole and tackle those two hundred paces separating Cape Horn from Van Diemen’s Land and New Holland, with no care for how I might return, daring the ice cap to close in upon me like a coffin lid, stepping with wild abandon from iceberg to iceberg, oblivious to the gaping jaws of the frozen deep. And all for naught; New Holland still eludes me. Each time I returned to Lombok and sat down on its tip, and wept again with my face turned to the south and to the east, rattling the gates of my prison.

I finally lifted myself up by my bootstraps, as it were, and strode with a heavy heart back into the interior of Asia. I traversed it then, ever following the dawn breaking in the west, and that same night arrived in Thebes at the entrance to the cave I’d selected just the afternoon of the day before.

As soon as I was somewhat rested and day broke over Europe, I made it my first order of business to go about acquiring the necessities of life. First, I needed a pair of brake-shoes; for I had learnt just how uncomfortable it could be to have no means of curtailing my step (other than to remove my boots) if, say, I wanted to take a closer look at some nearby object. A pair of bedroom slippers pulled on over the boots fitted the bill, just as I hoped they would, and later I took to carrying two pairs with me, for I was often obliged to kick off the ones I had on without time enough to retrieve them whenever, in the course of my botanical exploits, lions, humans or hyenas took me by surprise. My fine timepiece served me well as an excellent chronometer on these short jaunts. In addition, I needed a sextant, a few geometric instruments and books.

In order to procure the latter, I paid several uneasy visits to Paris and London, where I was shrouded by a fortuitous fog.
Once the meagre remains of my magical money had been spent, I offered payment in the form of easy-to-find specimens of African ivory, whereby I was naturally obliged to pick out the smaller portable teeth. Soon I had furnished and equipped myself with all that I needed, and I immediately commenced my new life as an independent naturalist.

I criss-crossed the globe, now gauging its altitudes, now measuring the temperature of its springs and of the air above, now observing fauna, now examining flora; I rushed from the Equator to the North Pole, from one region to another, comparing my impressions and experiences. The eggs of the African ostrich or the northern seabird as well as fruits, particularly those of the tropical palm tree and bananas, served as my common fare. As a surrogate for happiness I had nicotine, and in place of human compassion and companionship I had the love of a faithful poodle who watched over my cave in the Theban Hills, and, when I returned home laden with new treasures, leapt at me for joy and consoled me with the human sense that I was not alone on this earth. But one more adventure was still to bring me back among humankind.

Once, when I lingered on shore of the frozen north, having braked my boots to collect lichen and algae, a polar bear suddenly stepped out from behind a boulder and caught me unawares. I intended, after tossing away my slippers, to step over to a nearby island to which a naked rock jutting up out of the ocean offered access. With one foot I landed firmly on the rock, and went tumbling on its far side into the sea, for unbeknownst to me the slipper had remained attached to my other boot.

The icy chill engulfed me and, struggling to stay afloat, I barely managed to save my life; as soon as I reached dry land, I ran as quickly as I could towards the Libyan desert to dry off in the sun. But, once exposed to the full force of its powerful rays, I was burnt so badly on top of my head that I hurried back northward in an acutely feverish state. I sought by means
of vigorous exercise to improve my condition, and ran with a quick and shaky step from west to east and back again from east to west. Thus I stumbled from broad daylight into darkest night, from summer swelter into the icy dead of winter.

I have no idea how long I kept scurrying about in this fashion across the surface of the globe. A burning fever ran like lava in my veins; terrified, I felt myself fast losing consciousness. To add to my troubles, in the course of such careless globe-trotting I happened to stamp on someone’s foot. I must have hurt him badly, for I received a mighty shove and I collapsed in a swoon.

When I came to again, I found myself comfortably ensconced in a fine bed that stood among other beds in a spacious and stately hall. Someone was seated at my feet; people wandered through the hall from one bed to the next. They came to my bed and discussed my case. They referred to me, however, as Number 12, even though I discovered on the wall at my feet a black marble tablet on which, clearly inscribed in gold letters – it was no illusion, I could read it clearly – there was my name

spelt correctly. On the tablet beneath my name there were another two rows of letters, but I was far too weak to make any sense of them, and I shut my eyes again. I heard a voice reading aloud from a document concerning said Peter Schlemiel, but was unable to follow the words; I noticed a kindly-looking gentleman and a very beautiful lady in black approach my bed. The faces were not altogether strange to me, and yet I could not place them.

In a little while I regained consciousness. I was identified as Number 12, and because of his long beard, Number 12 was taken for a Jew, though he was not treated any the worse for it. The fact that he had no shadow appeared to have gone unnoticed. My boots, I was assured, along with everything else found on my person when they brought me here, were kept under lock and key and would be returned to me as soon as I was well enough to leave. The place where I lay sick was called
the SCHLEMILIUM; the text concerning Peter Schlemiel read aloud daily was an exhortation to pray for his welfare as the founder and benefactor of this charitable institution. The kindly gentleman was none other than Bendel, the lovely lady was Mina.

I lay there convalescing incognito, and learnt more interesting facts: the locale was Bendel’s native town; here, with what was left of my accursed gold, he had founded and taken over the direction of this hospital in my memory, where poor unfortunates hallowed my name. Mina was a widow; criminal proceedings had cost Mr Rascal his life, and her the remains of her fortune. Her parents were deceased. She lived here as a God-fearing widow practising daily acts of charity.

On one occasion I happened to overhear the following conversation between her and Mr Bendel at the bedside of Number 12: ‘But why, kind lady, must you continuously expose yourself to the evil humours of this place? Has fate been so hard on you that you wish to die?’

‘Not at all, Mr Bendel, ever since I dreamt that long-drawn-out dream of mine to the end and reawakened to myself, I’ve been quite well; since then I no longer wish for and no longer fear death. I now think pleasantly of the past and the future. Is it not also with the same quiet inner contentment that you now serve your old master and friend in such a blessed manner?’

‘Yes, indeed, thank God, kind lady. We’ve been through strange and wondrous things; unwittingly we sipped our fill of joy and bitter woe from the cup of life. And now that it’s empty, one might well be tempted to believe that all that was only a test, and that, fortified with the wisdom of experience, we stand before the real beginning. This is the real beginning, and though we do not wish the return of past delusions, we are nevertheless happy to have lived it as it was. And at this moment I also feel confident that, wherever he is, our old friend must be doing better than before.’

‘I feel it too,’ replied the lovely widow, and they walked on past my bed.

This conversation made a profound impression on me; yet I fell into a deep quandary over whether to reveal my true identity
or depart unrecognized. Finally I made my decision. Requesting pencil and paper, I jotted down the following words: ‘Your old friend is indeed doing better than before, and if his life now be taken up with works of atonement, it is the atonement of a man reconciled with life.’

Hereupon, having regained my strength and feeling much better, I asked to be allowed to get dressed. They fetched the key to the little cabinet beside my bed. In it I found all my possessions. I put on my clothes, and over my old black
kurtka
I slung the botanical pouch (in which, to my great jubilation, I found again all the flora I had gathered in the Northern Hemisphere), slipped into my boots, laid the note I’d written on my bed and, as soon as the door was open, was already well on my way to Thebes.

Once I set foot again on the coast of Syria and returned along the same path that had last led me from home, I spotted my poor Figaro come bounding at me. That formidable dog appears to have attempted to follow the trail of his master, who left him languishing at home for such a long while. I stood still and called to him. He leapt upon me, barking with a thousand stirring exclamations of his innocent, unfettered joy. I took him in my arms, for the poor beast was naturally unable to keep up with my boots, and brought him back home with me.

There I found everything as I had left it, and little by little, as my strength returned, I went back to my former pursuits and resumed my old life; except that for an entire year I avoided exposing myself to the bitter effects of the polar chill.

And this, my dear Chamisso, is how I still live today. My boots do not wear thin at the soles, as that very learned work by the famous Tieckius,
De rebus gestis Pollicilli
, once gave me to fear they would. The durability of my fine footwear remains unimpeded; only my own strength is fading; and yet I may console myself with the fact that I have not used them idly but have employed them consistently for the pursuit of knowledge and progress. I have, in so far as my boots permitted, gained a deeper knowledge and learnt more than any man before me of the earth, its formation, its precipices, its atmospheres in their constant flux, the manifestations of its magnetic force and its
life forms, particularly the flora. I have recorded the conditions I observed as accurately as I could in as clear a fashion as possible in many works, and noted down my conclusions and views in a few cursory papers.