e with
her and in her; it lies beside her in the coffin, it has been buried
with her." Deeply agitated, I sank down upon a chair, whilst the
Councillor began to sing a gay song in a husky voice; it was truly
horrible to see him hopping about on one foot, and the crape strings
(he still had his hat on) flying about the room and up to the violins
hanging on the walls. Indeed, I could not repress a loud cry that rose
to my lips when, on the Councillor making an abrupt turn, the crape
came all over me; I fancied he wanted to envelop me in it and drag me
down into the horrible dark depths of insanity. Suddenly he stood still
and addressed me in his singing way, "My son! my son! why do you call
out? Have you espied the angel of death? That always precedes the
ceremony." Stepping into the middle of the room, he took the violin-bow
out of his sword-belt and, holding it over his head with both hands,
broke it into a thousand pieces. Then, with a loud laugh, he cried,
"Now you imagine my sentence is pronounced, don't you, my son? but it's
nothing of the kind--not at all! not at all! Now I'm free--free--free--
hurrah! I'm free! Now I shall make no more violins--no more
violins--Hurrah! no more violins!" This he sang to a horrible mirthful
tune, again spinning round on one foot. Perfectly aghast, I was making
the best of my way to the door, when he held me fast, saying quite
calmly, "Stay, my student friend, pray don't think from this outbreak
of grief, which is torturing me as if with the agonies of death, that
I am insane; I only do it because a short time ago I made myself a
dressing-gown in which I wanted to look like Fate or like God!" The
Councillor then went on with a medley of silly and awful rubbish, until
he fell down utterly exhausted; I called up the old housekeeper, and
was very pleased to find myself in the open air again.

I never doubted for a moment that Krespel had become insane; the
Professor, however, asserted the contrary. "There are men," he
remarked, "from whom nature or a special destiny has taken away the
cover behind which the mad folly of the rest of us runs its course
unobserved. They are like thin-skinned insects, which, as we watch the
restless play of their muscles, seem to be misshapen, while
nevertheless everything soon comes back into its proper form again. All
that with us remains thought, passes over with Krespel into action.
That bitter scorn which the spirit that is wrapped up in the doings and