# The Edinburgh Literary Journal/January–June 1831/Number 133/The Red Mantle

Translation of an extract of "Stumme Liebe" from Volksmährchen der Deutschen volume 4 (1786).
THE RED MANTLE.
From the German.
Many years before the beginning of the thirty-years’ war, a young artisan of Bremen, travelling to perfect himself in his trade, entered a little market-town, not far distant from the frontiers of the Netherlands, one evening after a long day’s journey. Every corner of the inn was already taken possession of by a caravan of waggoners: and the landlord, who thought, perhaps, he discovered something of the landlouper in his frank, care-defying countenance, advised him, without much circumlocution, to walk on to the next village. Our weary traveller had nothing for it but to take his bundle on his back again, muttering all the while curses on this hard-hearted publican between his teeth.
All of a sudden the host seemed to be seized with a fit of compassion. “Hark ye, my lad,” he cried, “upon second thoughts, I think I can stow ye away for the night. There is room enough in the castle there, it is not inhabited, and I have the key.” In this offer, which Frank (that was our hero’s name) gladly accepted, there was however more of the show than the substance of kindness. The knavish host had suspected the nature of the stranger’s complimentary expressions, and resolved to revenge himself by the agency of a roistering spirit which haunted the castle.
The residence of which he spoke stood upon an abrupt hill, which overhung the town, straight before the door of the inn, from which it was only separated by the road, and a small trouting stream. On account of its pleasant situation, it was still kept in repair and well furnished, and employed by its owner as a hunting-box. He used it, however, only in the daytime. As soon as the stars showed themselves, he marched out with all his attendants, to avoid the tricks played upon them at night by the ghost,—for by day it was quiet enough.
The sun had gone down, and a dark night set in, when Frank reached the door of the old building under the guidance of mine host, who carried a good supper and a bottle of wine in a basket. He had also brought along with him two candlesticks and a pair of wax tapers; for as no one dared to await the approach of twilight in the castle, all such movables had been discarded as useless. By the way, Frank cast more than one anxious glance at these costly preparations, for he remembered the low state of his finances. “The light in the lantern is enough to show me to bed, and I am too sleepy to be long of finding my way thither. By the time I awake, the sun will be up.”
“I will not conceal from you,” replied the host, “that there is a report of the castle’s being haunted. But never fear, you see we are within call if any thing should happen. The household will be astir this whole blessed night; and, after all, I have lived in the place for thirty years, and never seen any thing. I have heard noises to be sure, but they must have come from the cats and mice in the granary. In case of the worst, however, I have brought these lights, for we know that ghosts always shun them.”
It was no lie that he had never seen a ghost in the castle; for he had taken precious care never to set a foot in it after sunset. Even on this occasion, he kept on the safe side of the door, handing the victuals to his guest, describing the way to the state apartments, and galloping down hill to the eminent hazard of his neck. Frank stepped fearlessly into the deserted abode, firmly convinced that the story of the ghost was mere nonsense. He had been advised by a wise man, when he set out on his journey, never to believe more than one-half of what he heard, and experience had taught him to disbelieve the other.
Following the landlord’s directions, he mounted a spiral staircase, and reached a door which he opened with the key. A long sombre gallery, which echoed again to his sounding steps, brought him to a stately hall, out of which he passed by a side-door into a suite of apartments, furnished with the utmost luxury and elegance. He selected for his bedroom the most cheerful, from the windows of which he looked down upon the inn, and could hear every word that was spoken there. He lighted his wax candles, set himself to supper, and ate with the relish and composure of a nobleman of Otaheite. The big-bellied bottle guaranteed him against thirst. As long as his teeth were busied, he never once thought of the ghost. If at some distant noise timidity would cry “there it comes,” courage instantly answered, “nonsense! it’s the cats and rats battling.” But, during the half hour of digestion, terror whispered three anxious suggestions in his ear, for one answer that courage was able to frame.
He took care to shut and bolt the door before fear had completely mastered him, and sat down upon a seat in the bow-window. He opened the lattice, and, in order to dissipate the thick-coming fancies that were creeping over him, he looked to the skies, examined the physiognomy of the moon, and counted how often the stars were snuffed. The street beneath him was deserted, and, notwithstanding mine host’s story of the nightly bustle in his inn, the door was shut, the lights were extinguished, and every thing was quiet as a churchyard. The night-watch blew his horn, and filled the whole air with his sonorous voice as he announced the hour—so directly under the window, that Frank might have held a conversation with him, for company’s sake, if there had been any chance of the dignitary’s venturing to abide a challenge from so suspicious a locality.
It may be a pleasing recreation to philosophize on the pleasures of solitude in a populous city, full of bustle as a bee-hive, to represent her as the loveliest playmate of man, exaggerate all her most winning features, and sigh for her embrace. But in her native home, in some deep wood, or old deserted castle, where desolate walls and vaults awaken horror, and nothing breathes the breath of life save the melancholy owl—she is by no means the most agreeable companion for the timid night-wanderer, especially if he is in momentary expectation of a visit from a ghost. In such a situation, a conversation with the watchman from the window may have more attractions than the perusal of the most pathetic eulogy of solitude. Had Mr Zimmerman chanced to find himself in our hero’s situation, in Castle Rummelsburg, on the Westphalian frontier, he would have gained excellent hints for a much more interesting treatise on Sociality than that which, in all probability, some tiresome assembly set him to write about Solitude.
Midnight is the name of the hour at which the spiritual world awakes to life and activity, when grosser animal nature lies buried in deep slumber. Frank naturally preferred getting over that anxious period in his sleep; so he shut the window, made once more the round of the apartment, peeped into every nook and corner, snuffed the candles that they might give more light, and stretched himself upon the bed, which felt extremely soft to his weary limbs. He could not, however, fall asleep so soon as he wished. A slight palpitation of the heart, which he attributed to a degree of feverishness caused by the extreme heat of the day, kept him awake for a short time, which he employed in uttering a more earnest prayer than he had said for a long time. This exercise had its usual effect; it was followed by a sweet sleep. An hour ​might have elapsed, when he awoke with a sudden fright—nothing uncommon when the blood is fevered. He heard the clock strike twelve—an event which was immediately announced by the watchman to the whole town. Frank listened for a while, then turned himself warmly in bed, and was about to address himself again to sleep, when he heard, in the distance as it were, the creaking of a door, and immediately thereafter a heavy sound, as if it had been violently banged to. “O mercy, mercy!” thought he, “here comes the ghost. Pooh! it is only the wind.” But the sound came nearer and nearer, like the heavy tread of a man. There was a jingling accompaniment, as from a convict’s chain or a porter’s bunch of keys. It was no passing gust of wind; the blood rushed to his heart till it thumped like a smith’s hammer.
The affair was now past a joke. Had terror allowed the poor terrified devil to recollect his treaty with the innkeeper, he would have rushed to the window and bawled lustily for assistance. As he was, however, too irresolute for such a decided measure, he betook himself to the mattrass—the last refuge of the terrified—on the same principle that the ostrich thrusts its head into some thicket when it can no longer fly before the huntsman. But without, one door after another was opened and shut with a dreadful clatter. At last it came to the sleeping apartment. There was rattling and shaking at the door, many keys were tried; at last the right one was found, but still the bolt held; so a sturdy kick, which resounded in Frank’s ears like a clap of thunder, was applied—away crashed the bolt, and the door flew wide to the wall. A tall thin man, with a black beard, in an antique costume, and with a gloomy expression of countenance, entered. His eyebrows were contracted into an expression of sullen solemnity. He wore a scarlet mantle depending over his left shoulder, and a high peaked hat on his head. He crossed the chamber three times with slow heavy tread, looked at the candles, and snuffed them. He then threw off his mantle, took from his side a barber’s pouch, took out the shaving apparatus, and drew his glittering razor busily along the strap he carried at his girdle.
Frank lay all this while sweating under the mattrass, recommending himself to the Virgin’s protection, and speculating regarding the comparative probability of this manœuvre having reference to his beard or his throat. To his unspeakable consolation, the spectre, having poured water out of a silver flask into a silver basin, whisked up a lather with his skinny hand, placed a chair, and solemnly beckoned the trembling spy upon his actions to come from his hiding-place.
It was as impossible to remonstrate against this hint, as for an exiled vizier to resist the angel of death, which the sultan sends after him in the shape of a bowstring. In such extreme cases, the most rational line of conduct is of course to yield to necessity, smile at the disagreeable joke, and acquiesce in the operation of strangling. Frank honoured the draft upon his obedience, threw away the mattrass, sprung from the bed, and took his place upon the chair. Wonderful as this sudden transition from terror to resolution may appear, the editor of the Psychological Journal will no doubt be able to explain it in the turning of a straw.
The spectral barber tied a cloth round the neck of his trembling customer, seized comb and scissars, and clipped away at his hair and beard. He then soaped in the most scientific manner, first his chin, then his eyebrows, and finally the whole head, after which he shaved him from the crown to the throat, as bare as a skull. Having finished the job, he washed the head, dried it carefully, made his bow, tied up his apparatus, wrapped himself up in his cloak, and prepared to depart. Frank was not a little annoyed at the loss of his flowing locks, nevertheless he breathed more freely, for he felt as if the incubus had done all he was permitted to do.
It was so, indeed. Redmantle retired, dumb as he had approached—a most perfect contrast to his professional brethren of our day. He had not, however, advanced three steps towards the door, when he stopped, looked round with a woful gesture at him he had shaved so well, and stroaked his long black beard. He repeated the pantomime when he had reached the door. It now struck Frank that the poor ghost wished a favour at his hands, and a rapid association of ideas suggested that it might wish to be paid in kind.
As the ghost, notwithstanding his woe-begone expression of countenance, appeared more inclined for a jest than any thing serious, all fear had now left its victim. He resolved to obey the suggestion of his fancy, and beckoned to the spectre to assume the seat from which he had just arisen. It obeyed instantly, threw off its red mantle, placed the shaving apparatus on the table, and seated itself in the attitude of a man who wishes to get quit of his beard. Frank followed exactly the routine which had been observed in his case, clipped the beard and hair, lathered the whole head, his ghostship sitting the whole time as steady as a barber’s block. The awkward wight was but a bad hand at the razor, (he never before had touched one,) so he shaved the beard against the hair, whereby the ghost made as strange grimaces as the ape of Erasmus, when he emulated his master in the self-infliction of the same delicate operation. The inexperienced blunderer began to feel strange, and thought of the proverb, “let the shoemaker stick to his last.” He put, however, a good countenance on the matter, and shaved the spectre as bald as himself.
Up to this moment, the business had been conducted on the footing of a pantomime. “Stranger,” said the unearthly being, with a graceful and cordial bow, “accept my best thanks for the service you have done me. Through your means am I at last freed from the long imprisonment within this withered and marrowless frame, to which my soul has been doomed on account of my misdeeds.
“Know that these walls were once inhabited by a reckless lord, who gratified his whims alike at the expense of clergy and laity. Count Hartmann was his name; he was no man’s friend, acknowledged no law, no master, and was unrestrained in his humours even by the sacred laws of hospitality. He allowed no stranger, who sought the shelter of his roof, no beggar who came for charity, to depart, without playing them some ill-natured trick. I was his barber, and the creature of his moods. It was my custom to inveigle every pious pilgrim who passed into the castle, and when he expected princely treatment, to shave him bald, and turn him with mockery from the door. Then Count Hartmann would look from his window, and see with delight how the viper’s brood of village boys mocked the abused saints, calling them bald-head. Then the old practical joker laughed till his huge belly shook again, and his eyes swam in tears.
“One day there came a holy man from far away countries: he carried a heavy cross on his shoulder, and had, out of devotion, pierced his feet and hands with nails; his hair was trimmed so as to resemble the crown of thorns. He begged, in passing, for some water to his feet, and a bit of bread. I led him in, and, profane wretch that I was! shaved away his sacred circlet of hair. Then the pious pilgrim spoke a heavy curse over me. ‘Know, evil doer, that after death, heaven and hell, and purgatory itself, shall alike be shut against thy soul. It shall haunt these walls, teasing every one as in life was thy pleasure, until some wanderer, more bold than his fellows, shall dare, undesired, to retaliate.’
“I fell sick immediately, the marrow dried in my bones, and I withered away to the shadow you see. In vain did I wait for relief; for know, when the bond between life and the soul has been snapped, it longs, with a lover’s longing, for the place of rest; and this intense passion turns its years to eternities. To my own torture ​was I now obliged to carry on the joke, which during my life was a source of pleasure to me. Alas! my mischievous pranks soon drove every human being from the house. At long intervals only some stray pilgrim would pass the night here. I served them all exactly as I have done you, but none of them dared return the compliment, and free me from my slavery. The castle is now freed from my nightly pranks,—what a sleep I shall have! Again receive my thanks, young stranger. Were I the guardian of concealed treasures, I would freely yield them all to thee, but I was in my life nothing more than a poor barber. But listen to my prayer, and when you return to your home, get a couple of masses read for my soul’s sake.”
With these words he disappeared, having fully vindicated by his talkativeness his claim to the title of ci-devant barber to the noble master of Castle Rummelsburg. His liberator remained full of wonder at the strange adventure. He tried to persuade himself it was all a dream, but his bald pate was too decisive an argument to be called in question. Having made up his mind on this weighty matter, he crept back to bed, and, fatigued by his terror yet more than by his journey, slept like a top till next mid-day.
The treacherous landlord was stirring with the dawn, that he might not miss his opportunity of laughing in his sleeve at the stranger, under the pretence of condoling with him. By the time mid-day had arrived, he began to feel anxious: the ghost might have strangled the poor youth, or frightened him to death, and Boniface had never dreamt of stretching his revenge so far. He assembled the posse comitatus of his household, marched up to the castle, and made straight for the chamber, in the window of which he had observed the stranger’s light burning. He found a strange, old-fashioned key in the lock, but the door was barred within; this Frank had taken care to do immediately after the ghost’s departure. Mine host drummed on the door with a hubbub of feet, hands, head, and shoulders, that might have awakened the seven sleepers. Frank’s first idea, which crossed him as he rubbed his eyes, was, that the barber had returned. As soon, however, as he heard the landlord’s whimpering entreaty, that his guest would condescend to give a sign that he was alive, he collected himself, and opened the door.
The landlord clasped his hands above his head, with an affectation of astonishment. “By the whole regiment of saints! Redmantle” (the spectre was known among the inhabitants by this name) “has been here, and made a bald pate of you. I see now that the old story is no fable. Now, tell me, how did he look? what said he? and what has he done?” Frank, who saw through the speaker, replied: “The ghost resembled a man in a red mantle; what he has done you see; and what he said, that I remember well. ‘Stranger,’ said he to me, ‘trust no knavish landlord—the rascal down the way knew right well what was awaiting you. Farewell, I am quitting these quarters, for my time is out. I am now to change my character for that of a noiseless mischief-maker, and as for the landlord, I will tease him incessantly, nip his nose, pull his hair, sit on his breast like a nightmare, if he do not, in return for his treatment of you, allow free roof bield, and the run of his larder, until brown ringlets again twine themselves round your temples’”
The host trembled at these words, made the sign of the cross in double quick time, and swore by the Virgin, to say nothing of a round dozen of saints whom he threw into the bargain, that he would board and feed our adventurer for nothing, so long as he chose to remain. He would have conducted him immediately to the inn, but Frank preferred the baronial apartments. A dare-devil from the town ventured to keep him company over night, and escaped the shaving which, in former days, would have been his reward. The owner of the castle, rejoiced to find it once more inhabitable, gave directions that the stranger should be well cared for.
When the grapes began to colour, and the apples to blush, Frank’s brown locks were again in a condition to be seen. He packed up his knapsack, and prepared for his departure. When he took leave of the landlord, that worthy led from the stable a stout roadster, duly caparisoned, which the lord of the manor presented to him, out of gratitude that he had driven the devil from his house. The gift was accompanied by a good fat purse, and, by their united aid, our hero in a short time reached his native town in good condition.
* ↑ Sir Walter Scott, in the preface to the volume of his poems containing “The Doom of Devorgoil,” has these words:—“The story of the ghostly Barber is told in many countries; but the best narrative founded on the passage, is the tale called ‘Stumme Liebe,’ among the legends of Musæus.” The episode in that beautiful tale to which Sir Walter refers, is now presented to the English reader—we believe for the first time.
* ↑ The meteors called shooting stars are, in the popular mythology of some districts of Germany, believed to be the snuff of the bright candles of the firmament, thrown away instead of being put into a pair of snuffers.
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