Translations from the German (Vol 3 of 3): Tales by Musæus, Tieck, RichterCarlyle, Thomas
General
Translations from the German (Vol 3 of 3): Tales by Musæus, Tieck, Richter
Carlyle, Thomas
German fiction -- Translations into English
As to the Dwarf himself, I had no objection to his travelling with me
whithersoever he pleased; but he thought to raise a particular
delectation in our minds, by promising that his Pollux and Brother in
Trade, an extraordinary Giant, who was also making for the Fair to
exhibit himself, would by midnight, with his elephantine pace,
infallibly overtake the coach, and plant himself among us, or behind on
the outside. Both these noodles, it appeared, are in the habit of going
in company to fairs, as reciprocal exaggerators of opposite magnitudes:
the Dwarf is the convex magnifying-glass of the Giant, the Giant the
concave diminishing-glass of the Dwarf. Nobody expressed much joy at the
prospective arrival of this Anti-dwarf, except my brother-in-law, who
(if I may venture on a play of words) seems made, like a clock, solely
for the purpose of _striking_, and once actually said to me: "That if in
the Upper world he could not get a soul to curry and towzle by a time,
he would rather go to the Under, where most probably there would be
plenty of cuffing and to spare." The Ratcatcher, besides the
circumstance that no man can prepossess us much in his favour, who lives
solely by poisoning, like this Destroying Angel of rats, this
mouse-Atropos; and also, which is still worse, that such a fellow bids
fair to become an increaser of the vermin kingdom, the moment he may
cease to be a lessener of it; besides all this, I say, the present
Ratcatcher had many baneful features about him: first, his stabbing
look, piercing you like a stiletto; then the lean sharp bony visage,
conjoined with his enumeration of his considerable stock of poisons;
then (for I hated him more and more) his sly stillness, his sly smile,
as if in some corner he noticed a mouse, as he would notice a man! To
me, I declare, though usually I take not the slightest exception against
people's looks, it seemed at last as if his throat were a Dog-grotto, a
_Grotta del cane_, his cheek-bones cliffs and breakers, his hot breath
the wind of a calcining furnace, and his black hairy breast a kiln for
parching and roasting.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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