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“There is something terrible in the history of Berthold,” said I to the professor. “Although so much is not plainly expressed, I believe that he was the reckless murderer of his innocent wife and child.”

“He is a mad fool,” replied the professor, “to whom I do not give credit for enough courage to perform such an act. On this point he never speaks plainly; and the question is, whether it be not a mere fancy that he took any part in the death of his wife and child. He now returns to painting marble; and this very night he will finish the altar. This puts him in a good-humour, and you may learn something about this critical affair from his own mouth.”

I must confess that the thought of passing midnight in the church alone with Berthold made me shudder a little, now I had read his history. I thought that there might be a little of the devil in him in spite of his good-humour and frank deportment; and I chose rather to be in his company that very noon in the clear sunlight.

I found him upon the scaffold, reserved and in an ill-humour, painting the veins of marble. Climbing up to him, I reached him the pots, while he stared at me with amazement. “I am your helpmate,” said I softly, and this drew a smile from him. Now I began to talk of his life, so as to let him know that I was acquainted with all; and he seemed to believe that he himself had, on that night, communicated every thing. Very, very gently I came to the frightful catastrophe, and then said suddenly–“Did you actually, in your unholy madness, murder your wife and child?”

At this he let the paint-pot and the pencil fall; and, staring at me with a hideous countenance, as he raised both his hands, cried out, “No, these hands are unstained by the blood of my wife–of my son! Another such word and I will dash myself down from the scaffolding with you, so that both our heads shall be shattered on the stone floor of the church.”

At this moment I felt my situation rather odd, and deemed it advisable to change the subject. “Look here, dear Berthold,” said I, as quietly and coolly as possible; “see how that ugly dark yellow is running on the wall.”

He turned his eyes to the spot, and while he painted out the yellow, I slipped gently down the scaffold, left the church, and went to the professor, to have a hearty laugh at my well-chastised presumption.

My vehicle was repaired, and I left G—-, after Professor Aloysius Walter had solemnly promised that in case any thing happened to Berthold, he would communicate it in writing immediately.

About half a year elapsed, when I actually received a letter from the professor. He expressed himself in very prolix terms of praise about our meeting at G—-, and wrote as follows about Berthold:–“Soon after your departure affairs took a singular turn with our whimsical painter. He became suddenly quite cheerful, and finished, in the most splendid style, the great altar-piece, which is now the wonder of every body. He then vanished; and, as he took nothing with him, and a few days afterwards we found a hat and stick lying near the O—- stream, we are all of opinion that he met a voluntary death.”

J. O.

[1] These “Fantasie-Stuecke” are a collection of tales, etc., by Hoffmann, and purport to be leaves from the journal of a travelling enthusiast. J. O.