Page:Hoffmann's Strange Stories - Hoffman - 1855.djvu/99



That evening, the brothers of the joyous Serapion Club had met early at Theodore's house. The winter wind whistled in long gusts, that whipped with snow the glasses, shaken in their leaden sashes; but a large grate shone under the cloak of the old chimney-piece; its warm light caressed with a thousand capricious reflections the brown-tinted benches which contrasted by their aged look, with the mad gaiety of the inhabitants of the room. Soon pipes begin to smoke, seats are taken, in accustomed order around a stand on which flames a flowing bowl of friendly punch. The assembly is complete; no one is missing at the call of the chairman; the Bohemian cup is filled and is circulated; the talk becomes general; the time passes, but the punch and the stories are renewed; the imaginations become gradually exalted, eccentricity reaches its utmost limit.—"Now, then, dear Theodore," suddenly exclaimed one of the joyous livers, "the conversation will end if you refuse to gratify us with one of those stories that make you go to sleep standing, that you relate so well; but we must have something strange and moving, fantastic and anti-narcotic."

"Let us drink," said Theodore; "I have just what you want. I will, if you please, tell you a very droll anecdote of the life of the counsellor Krespel. This worthy personage, who existed in flesh and blood, was indeed the most singular man