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CHAPTER XIII.

Next  morning  Wilhelm  started  up  with  an  unpleasant  feeling,  and  found

himself  alone.  His  head  was  still  dim  with  the  tumult,  which  he  had  not  yet

entirely slept off; and the recollection of his nightly visitant disquieted his mind.

His first suspicion lighted on Philina; but, on second thoughts, he conceived that

it  could  not  have  been  she.  He  sprang  out  of  bed:  and,  while  putting  on  his

clothes, he noticed that the door, which commonly he used to bolt, was now ajar;

though  whether  he  had  shut  it  on  the  previous  night,  or  not,  he  could  not

recollect.

But what surprised him most was the Spirit’s veil, which he found lying on his

bed.  Having  brought  it  up  with  him,  he  had  most  probably  thrown  it  there

himself. It was a gray gauze: on the hem of it he noticed an inscription broidered

in  dark  letters.  He  unfolded  it,  and  read  the  words,  “For  the  first  and  the  last

time! Flee, Youth! Flee!” He was struck with it, and knew not what to think or

say.

At  this  moment  Mignon  entered  with  his  breakfast.  The  aspect  of  the  child

astonished  Wilhelm,  we  may  almost  say  frightened  him.  She  appeared  to  have

grown taller over night: she entered with a stately, noble air, and looked him in

the  face  so  earnestly,  that  he  could  not  endure  her  glances.  She  did  not  touch

him, as at other times, when, for morning salutation, she would press his hand,

or  kiss  his  cheek,  his  lips,  his  arm,  or  shoulder;  but,  having  put  his  things  in

order, she retired in silence.

The appointed time of a first rehearsal now arrived: our friends assembled, all

of them entirely out of tune from yesternight’s debauch. Wilhelm roused himself

as much as possible, that he might not at the very outset violate the principles he

had preached so lately with such emphasis. His practice in the matter helped him

through; for practice and habit must, in every art, fill up the voids which genius

and temper in their fluctuations will so often leave.

But, in the present case, our friends had especial reason to admit the truth of

the remark, that no one should begin with a festivity any situation that is meant

to last, particularly that is meant to be a trade, a mode of living. Festivities are fit

for  what  is  happily  concluded:  at  the  commencement,  they  but  waste  the  force

and zeal which should inspire us in the struggle, and support us through a long-

continued  labor.  Of  all  festivities,  the  marriage  festival  appears  the  most

unsuitable: calmness, humility, and silent hope befit no ceremony more than this.

So  passed  the  day,  which  to  Wilhelm  seemed  the  most  insipid  he  had  ever

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spent.  Instead  of  their  accustomed  conversation  in  the  evening,  the  company

began  to  yawn:  the  interest  of  Hamlet  was  exhausted;  they  rather  felt  it

disagreeable than otherwise that the play was to be repeated next night. Wilhelm

showed  the  veil  which  the  royal  Dane  had  left:  it  was  to  be  inferred  from  this,

that he would not come again. Serlo was of that opinion; he appeared to be deep

in the secrets of the Ghost: but, on the other hand, the inscription, “Flee, youth!

Flee!” seemed inconsistent with the rest. How could Serlo be in league with any

one whose aim it was to take away the finest actor of his troop?

It had now become a matter of necessity to confer on Boisterous the Ghost’s

part,  and  on  the  Pedant  that  of  the  King.  Both  declared  that  they  had  studied

these sufficiently: nor was it wonderful; for in such a number of rehearsals, and

so  copious  a  treatment  of  the  subject,  all  of  them  had  grown  familiar  with  it:

each  could  have  exchanged  his  part  with  any  other.  Yet  they  rehearsed  a  little

here  and  there,  and  prepared  the  new  adventurers,  as  fully  as  the  hurry  would

admit.  When  the  company  was  breaking  up  at  a  pretty  late  hour,  Philina  softly

whispered Wilhelm as she passed, “I must have my slippers back: thou wilt not

bolt  the  door?”  These  words  excited  some  perplexity  in  Wilhelm,  when  he

reached his chamber; they strengthened the suspicion that Philina was the secret

visitant:  and  we  ourselves  are  forced  to  coincide  with  this  idea;  particularly  as

the  causes,  which  awakened  in  our  friend  another  and  a  stranger  supposition,

cannot  be  disclosed.  He  kept  walking  up  and  down  his  chamber  in  no  quiet

frame: his door was actually not yet bolted.

On  a  sudden  Mignon  rushed  into  the  room,  laid  hold  of  him,  and  cried,

“Master! save the house! It is on fire!” Wilhelm sprang through the door, and a

strong smoke came rushing down upon him from the upper story. On the street

he  heard  the  cry  of  fire;  and  the  harper,  with  his  instrument  in  his  hand,  came

down-stairs  breathless  through  the  smoke.  Aurelia  hurried  out  of  her  chamber,

and threw little Felix into Wilhelm’s arms.

“Save the child!” cried she, “and we will mind the rest.”

Wilhelm  did  not  look  upon  the  danger  as  so  great:  his  first  thought  was,  to

penetrate to the source of the fire, and try to stifle it before it reached a head. He

gave Felix to the harper; commanding him to hasten down the stone stairs, which

led across a little garden-vault out into the garden, and to wait with the children

in  the  open  air.  Mignon  took  a  light  to  show  the  way.  He  begged  Aurelia  to

secure her things there also. He himself pierced upwards through the smoke, but

it  was  in  vain  that  he  exposed  himself  to  such  danger.  The  flame  appeared  to

issue  from  a  neighboring  house;  it  had  already  caught  the  wooden  floor  and

staircase: some others, who had hastened to his help, were suffering like himself

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from fire and vapor. Yet he kept inciting them; he called for water; he conjured

them to dispute every inch with the flame, and promised to abide by them to the

last.  At  this  instant,  Mignon  came  springing  up,  and  cried.  “Master!  save  thy

Felix!  The  old  man  is  mad!  He  is  killing  him.”  Scarcely  knowing  what  he  did,

Wilhelm darted down stairs; and Mignon followed close behind him.

On  the  last  steps,  which  led  into  the  garden-vault,  he  paused  with  horror.

Some heaps of fire-wood branches, and large masses of straw, which had been

stowed  in  the  place,  were  burning  with  a  clear  flame;  Felix  was  lying  on  the

ground,  and  screaming;  the  harper  stood  aside,  holding  down  his  head,  and

leaned against the wall. “Unhappy creature! what is this?” said Wilhelm. The old

man  spoke  not;  Mignon  lifted  Felix,  and  carried  him  with  difficulty  to  the

garden; while Wilhelm strove to pull the fire asunder and extinguish it, but only

by  his  efforts  made  the  flame  more  violent.  At  last  he,  too,  was  forced  to  flee

into the  garden,  with  his  hair  and his  eyelashes  burned;  tearing  the  harper  with

him through the conflagration, who, with singed beard, unwillingly accompanied

him.

Wilhelm  hastened  instantly  to  seek  the  children.  He  found  them  on  the

threshold of a summer-house at some distance: Mignon was trying every effort

to  pacify  her  comrade.  Wilhelm  took  him  on  his  knee:  he  questioned  him,  felt

him, but could obtain no satisfactory account from either him or Mignon.

Meanwhile,  the  fire  had  fiercely  seized  on  several  houses:  it  was  now

enlightening all the neighborhood. Wilhelm looked at the child in the red glare

of the flames: he could find no wound, no blood, no hurt of any kind. He groped

over  all  the  little  creature’s  body,  but  the  boy  gave  no  sign  of  pain:  on  the

contrary, he by degrees grew calm, and began to wonder at the blazing houses,

and  express  his  pleasure  at  the  spectacle  of  beams  and  rafters  burning  all  in

order, like a grand illumination, so beautifully there.

Wilhelm thought not of the clothes or goods he might have lost: he felt deeply

how inestimable to him was this pair of human beings, who had just escaped so

great a danger. He pressed little Felix to his heart with a new emotion: Mignon,

too, he was about to clasp with joyful tenderness; but she softly avoided this: she

took him by the hand, and held it fast.

“Master,”  said  she  (till  the  present  evening  she  had  hardly  ever  named  him

master; at first she used to name him sir, and afterwards to call him father), —

“Master! we have escaped an awful danger: thy Felix was on the point of death.”

By  many  inquiries,  Wilhelm  learned  from  her  at  last,  that,  when  they  came

into the vault, the harper tore the light from her hand, and set on fire the straw.

That he then put Felix down, laid his hands with strange gestures on the head of

the  child,  and  drew  a  knife  as  if  he  meant  to  sacrifice  him.  That  she  sprang

---

forward,  and  snatched  it  from  him;  that  she  screamed;  and  some  one  from  the

house, who was carrying something down into the garden, came to her help, but

must have gone away again in the confusion, and left the old man and the child

alone.

Two or even three houses were now flaming in a general blaze. Owing to the

conflagration in the vault, no person had been able to take shelter in the garden.

Wilhelm  was  distressed  about  his  friends,  and  in  a  less  degree  about  his

property.  Not  venturing  to  quit  the  children,  he  was  forced  to  sit,  and  see  the

mischief spreading more and more.

In  this  anxious  state  he  passed  some  hours.  Felix  had  fallen  asleep  on  his

bosom: Mignon was lying at his side, and holding fast his hand. The efforts of

the  people  finally  subdued  the  fire.  The  burned  houses  sank,  with  successive

crashes,  into  heaps;  the  morning  was  advancing;  the  children  awoke,  and

complained of bitter cold; even Wilhelm, in his light dress, could scarcely brook

the  chillness  of  the  falling  dew.  He  took  the  young  ones  to  the  rubbish  of  the

prostrate  building,  where,  among  the  ashes  and  the  embers,  they  found  a  very

grateful warmth.

The  opening  day  collected,  by  degrees,  the  various  individuals  of  the  party.

All  of  them  had  got  away  unhurt:  no  one  had  lost  much.  Wilhelm’s  trunk  was

saved among the rest.

Towards  ten  o’clock  Serlo  called  them  to  rehearse  their  “Hamlet,”  at  least

some  scenes,  in  which  fresh  players  were  to  act.  He  had  some  debates  to

manage, on this point, with the municipal authorities. The clergy required, that,

after  such  a  visitation  of  Providence,  the  playhouse  should  be  shut  for  some

time;  and  Serlo,  on  the  other  hand,  maintained,  that  both  for  the  purpose  of

repairing  the  damage  he  had  suffered,  and  of  exhilarating  the  depressed  and

terrified spirits of the people, nothing could be more in place than the exhibition

of  some  interesting  play.  His  opinion  in  the  end  prevailed,  and  the  house  was

full. The actors played with singular fire, with more of a passionate freedom than

at first. The feelings of the audience had been heightened by the horrors of the

previous  night,  and  their  appetite  for  entertainment  had  been  sharpened  by  the

tedium  of  a  wasted  and  dissipated  day:  every  one  had  more  than  usual

susceptibility  for  what  was  strange  and  moving.  Most  of  them  were  new

spectators, invited  by  the  fame  of  the  play:  they  could  not  compare  the  present

with  the  preceding  evening.  Boisterous  played  altogether  in  the  style  of  the

unknown  Ghost:  the  Pedant,  too,  had  accurately  seized  the  manner  of  his

predecessor; nor was his own woful aspect without its use to him; for it seemed

as  if,  in  spite  of  his  purple  cloak  and  his  ermine  collar,  Hamlet  were  fully

justified in calling him a “king of shreds and patches.”

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Few have ever reached the throne by a path more singular than his had been.

But  although  the  rest,  and  especially  Philina,  made  sport  of  his  preferment,  he

himself  signified  that  the  count,  a  consummate  judge,  had  at  the  first  glance

predicted this and much more of him. Philina, on the other hand, recommended

lowliness of mind to him; saying, she would now and then powder the sleeves of

his coat, that he might remember that unhappy night in the castle, and wear his

crown with meekness.

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