MISTER MYSTERY RESPONDS

The next day, while the others slept, Wieland left the camp on tiptoe and began to walk the wooded perimeter of the castle. Tieck followed him at a safe distance. At a too safe distance since, as they both circled the castle, Wieland eventually caught up with Tieck. Then, Wieland showed him what he had discovered: scattered around the castle there were ingenious mechanisms camouflaged on the ground. If you stepped on one of them, you pulled without noticing a thread that rang a bell inside the castle. It was the strange noise they had heard the night before. And that is why Danaus had rushed out: in order to meet the woman who prowled around the castle and who Wieland suspected was the fairy he had stumbled upon a few days before. Tieck did not understand anything and asked him to put it in writing so that he could analyze it calmly. Already back in the camp, Wieland informed his companions of his discovery. And Mrs. Schopenhauer summoned the Romantics to her outdoor salon in the cast

The next day passes without news worthy of mention. Mrs. Schopenhauer proposes some discussion topics (the maximum age that an ant can reach, the most appropriate size of underpants for a poet, the role played by art in artistic creation …) so that the Romantics are entertained until late afternoon and refrain from playing truant. Even so, Wieland disappears for hours and always comes back with his face covered in pollen and muddy shoes. This man's love for Nature is beginning to be a bit burdensome for the group, and Johanna orders Tieck to watch him and keep him away from the wildflowers. At sunset, everyone prepares to search the preserved wing of the castle again. As on the previous occasion, each one is provided with a candlestick, with the exception of Mrs. Walsolz who, according to her, prefers spiritual enlightenment and that's why she wave an Easter palm about. Led by Friedrich Schlegel, the group enters the darkness that reigns in the gloomy corridors and rooms of th

At twilight, the Romantics are in the ruins of the old castle, in their open-air camp, around a campfire. Some are standing, others sitting or lying on the grass, and Schlegel wanders around them like a planet. You might say they are in an outdoor version of Mrs. Schopenhauer's salon. Wieland has just told them about his fleeting encounter with his liberator, whom he identifies with a fairy. "A fairy?!", Caroline Walsolz exclaims incredulously. "That’s silly! Fairies don't exist! "Of course they do exist!", Adele Schopenhauer jumps, "Don't they, mom?" Johanna agrees with her daughter and explains that fairies, like goblins, sylphs, undines and other similar creatures, are the spirits of Nature, but not everyone has the ability to see them. "Nonsense!", Mrs. Walsolz exclaims, "I have very good eyesight and I have never seen any of those creatures you mention. I bet they are a Brothers Grimm’s invention." “And what a

Mother Nature begins to awaken from the harsh winter while the Romantics advance along a narrow path between high snow-capped mountains. Everywhere you hear the word "sublime" on their lips. Because Romantics feel a sincere love for Nature. With the excuse of having to relieve himself, Wieland gets out of the path and embraces a red spruce passionately. From the path, the others hear him murmuring and panting. And, thinking that Wieland has met someone, they join him at the precise moment when he is proposing to the tree and then stamps his lips against the trunk. When feeling reciprocated, he presses his lips with even more pleasure. He stays that way for a while, like in a rapture. However, upon hearing the sudden laughter of his companions, he tries to detach himself from the trunk. But it's too late: the red spruce has fallen in love with Wieland and nothing will be able to separate them. But this is merely a romantic interpretation. The rough reality is that the poe

"A ghost?!", cries Caroline Walsolz, prey to a mixture of astonishment and terror (5% astonishment, 95% terror, to be precise). Wieland has just informed his friends of what happened last night to Schlegel and himself.   And, just as if they were in Mrs. Schopenhauer's salon, a lively debate begins chaired by the very Mrs. Schopenhauer, who let fly: “Maybe it was Goethe's ghost.” “Nonsense! Goethe would never debase himself to be a ghost!” “However (Adele Schopenhauer declares), at the costume party to celebrate the birthday of Schelling, he disguised himself as a ghost.” “That one was Goethe?! (Schlegel jumps wringing his hands) I thought he was a real ghost! He gave me a fright and I gave him a beating! (And putting his hands together looking at the ceiling, he exclaims:) Forgive me, Master! “That’s ridiculous!”, Tieck sentences. "What nonsense are you all saying!", Bettina Brentano bursts out, "Ghosts don’t exist! They are just an inv

They say that time is a great healer. And it must be true judging by how fast the group of romantic hikers has forgotten the incident occurred just a few hours before. After spending the day sleeping in the camp, they have taken refuge from a night storm in one of the castle’s towers that still stands. Through the arrow slits, they contemplate enraptured that wonderful spectacle of Nature that is an electrical storm accompanied by strong rainfall, wind and fog. Electricity is precisely one of the natural forces with which the Romantics are beginning to flirt. (At the University of Oxford, the poet Percy Bysshe Shelley devotes his free time to electrocuting bats with the hope of turning one of them into a superhero   who he plans to name Batman.) They ignore that, over time, this very force that now lights the night sky, will serve their descendants to illuminate places as dark and gloomy as the semi-ruined castle through which they now wander lighting up their way with candlesticks.

“Ecstasy” is a word that would be an understatement to define the emotion that took hold of the group of romantic travelers when they saw the half-ruined castle, with its turrets swirled around by the scrub and overflown by the squawking crows. And “bewilderment” would be another understatement to express the state of transient sensory loss that overwhelmed Johann Wolfgang von Goethe when a centuries-old stone was detached from the high wall and hit on his head. Squinting and staggering like a drunkard and with his tongue hanging out, he was quickly driven by his companions to the nearby river in order to clear his mind in the cold water. "Babbling" would also be putting it mildly to define the sound of the water that flowed fast downstream and in whose current accidentally Goethe fell into before the horrified look of his companions, some of whom ran along the bank following the course of the river that dragged with it the literary glory of Germany as if it were an autumnal

The next session in the salon of Mrs. Schopenhauer, it was most turbulent. Everyone was shocked because of the latest events and nerves were like cat meat. It must be said that, after being freed from his captivity, Lord Byron had returned to England by swimming across the English Channel. Although he did not feel the slightest attraction to the alien princess, it hurt his pride that she would have preferred to throw herself into the arms of an eccentric inventor rather than keep trying to convince him to elope with her to another planet. While his body swam fighting against the marine currents, his mind was all the time occupied in the composition of “Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage”, the work that would launch him to fame and that, if read between the lines, is obviously based on his traumatic experience in Weimar with the princess alien (to whom the poem is dedicated under the false name of “Ianthe”, violet flower in Ancient Greek). Also Arthur Schopenhauer left as soon as he recovered f

It's getting dark. Karl Humboldt, the Weimar eccentric inventor, enters Mrs. Walsolz's inn and takes a seat on one of the wooden tables, next to the fireplace. He seems to be in a melancholic mood. Mrs. Walsolz notices it, sits with him and asks the reason for his sadness. Humboldt talks to her about his wretched love. He had fallen in love with a foreign woman... and now he has lost track of her. He fears that she has returned to her country. Then, Humboldt beckons to the waiter and orders a beer jar. The waiter throws the jar from the counter and hits Humboldt's head. Mrs. Walsolz reprimands him: "Viktor, how many times do I have to tell you that tables are not served that way?!"  Humboldt is stunned by the blow and, in a state of semi-consciousness, murmurs the name of his beloved. When she hears it, she gets astonished: -What did you say? -Prtzil… Prtzil… My mustached Prtzil… Mrs. Walsolz gets up suddenly: “Viktor, tell Miss Prtzil to come up! Hurry!” Soon

Lord Byron wanders arrogantly through the vaulted cellar while the mustached alien princess (we already know that “she” is also “he”, but we'll call her/him “she” to simplify) exhausts the arguments to try to convince him to accompany her to her planet and marry her there. Then, one of her mustached subjects bursts in to warn her that the owner of the house has just arrived. The princess waves a fist to Byron (who in turn give her the finger) and she hurries up the stairs that lead to the inn run by Caroline Walsolz, where the group of mustached aliens are staying. In the inn's hall, Mrs. Walsolz takes off her bonnet while ranting about the meeting she just attended in Mrs. Schopenhauer's salon: "I never heard so many nonsense together!" At this moment the alien princess enters the hall: "What do you mean, Mrs. Walsolz?". "Ah, Prtzil, one afternoon you should accompany me to Mrs. Schopenhauer's salon. Just so you can see how boring it is. And t

New weekly meeting in the “salon" of Johanna Schopenhauer, the hostess or “salonnière”. Goethe, Tieck, Wieland, Adele Schopenhauer, Caroline Walsolz, Dorothea and Friedrich Schlegel and Novalis are the guests on this occasion. Arthur Schopenhauer is also present this once, exhibiting a face like a rainy day, seated in an armchair with the crutches next to him. As is customary at this time of year, all are gathered around the fireplace. Wieland is the first to take the floor: “ There is one thing really troubling to me. And not only to me but to Tieck also, and maybe to all of you”. “What is it?” the hostess asks. But they are interrupted by the peevish Arthur Schopenhauer: "It doesn't trouble to me in the least. What's more, I give a hoot". Automatically his mother rebukes him: “ Arthur, watch your language! Besides, you don’t even know what the thing that worries Wieland is." “ Whatever it is, I care a damn. Everything is pure illusion. Nothing

Sunset, the expected time for the duel, is approaching. Tieck is alone in the snowy meadow where the duel must take place. But he doesn’t stop for an instant: he is practicing the hot-water bottle fighting. Then he sees Wieland climbing the meadow. -Hey, I thought you would not come. The sun is about to set! You do not want to fight a duel in the dark, I imagine. So hurry up and take out your hot-water bottle before the water cools. -There is no hot-water bottle. -What? -My wife caught me taking it surreptitiously and kicked up a stink in the street. She wanted to know what I was going to do with the hot-water bottle.  And since I could not tell her, she imagined who knows what. He accused me of pervert and threatened to ask for a divorce. -The divorce? For a simple hot-water bottle? I hope you never dare to be unfaithful to her! -I tried to borrow one, but everyone seems to have affection for their hot-water bottle. In addition, in this cold, people need them to heat their beds

Johanna Schopenhauer is reading the palm of a woman from the petty bourgeoisie of Weimar. -You don’t have to worry about your husband, Ingrid. He will be fine. As long as you stop supplying small doses of cyanide with his meals. - He likes very spicy foods. -The cyanide is not any spice, Ingrid. It’s a powerful poison. -Don’t tell me! I thought it was like ginger or nutmeg! Then Mrs. Tieck bursts into the room; she is very nervous. The petty bourgeoisie says goodbye to Johanna, who focuses her attention on Mrs. Tieck. -Mrs. Tieck! What happens? You look so nervous… -There's not a moment to lose, Johanna. Tieck and Wieland are going to fight duel this evening! - What makes you think that?   -He asked me to heat water! - And that makes you suspect? -It's just that every time he is going to duel, he asks me the same thing. Johanna gets up quickly. -Then, we’d better hurry up. Where will the duel take place? -I don’t know. I was confident that you could

Wieland and Tieck stroll in the morning sun on a snowy meadow outside Weimar chatting amiably. -It's been published in Italy the last Shelley book. A masterpiece. -Yes, I've already ordered it from my bookseller. -I can lend it to you. He is a sublime poet. He has nothing to envy to Byron. -That’s true. By the way, I have not heard from Byron in a while. Is he still in Weimar or has he returned to England? -It's funny, everyone asks about him. But he wouldn’t have left without saying goodbye… -Why not? We Romantics detest formalities. -I don’t. On the contrary: I think that Romanticism is not at odds with good education. - Are you calling me rude? -My gosh, Wieland, don’t be so sensitive! - Are you calling me fussy? Suddenly, Tieck gets irritated: -I'm calling you asshole! What’s the matter? -What’s the matter?! You’ll see what the matter is… Wieland tries to take off a glove but does not succeed. -These damn gloves! Why are they all so tig

The twilight spreads its cloak over the city of Weimar while Lord Byron follows a woman down its streets. He has been following her for a long time from the outskirts, where she has caught his attention because of her halo of mystery. She is a tall, thin woman in a cloak with a hood that does not allow him to see her face. It’s precisely this circumstance (the fact that the woman hides her face) what excites his curiosity. However, the slender lady possesses such graceful legs that it's hard for Byron to follow in her footsteps. After a prolonged zigzag through the alleys of the medieval core, the mysterious lady crosses the threshold of a door. Without hesitation, Byron goes after her. Thus, he arrives at a room whose only furniture consisted of a wardrobe with strange carved symbols that reminded Byron of the Egyptian hieroglyphs and also the writing of his grandmother, a writing he has never been able to decipher (circumstance that, at the time of reading her will, cost him the

The salon of Mrs. Schopenhauer hosted, in the session of the third week of February 1809, the following participants: Adele, the hostess' daughter, Goethe, Friedrich Schlegel and his wife Dorothea, Bettina Brentano, Wieland, Achim bon Arnim and the brilliant composer Ludwig van Beethoven, incarnation of musical Romanticism, who at that time had found a temporary relief to his deafness thanks to an acoustic trumpet. In the hearth of the fireplace a large fire heats the room. Everyone is sitting around this source of heat, which also constitutes the only lighting of the living room. The first part of the soiree is musical in nature. Beethoven accompanies Bettina Brentano on the piano. Bettina intones lieder centered on themes of romantic love. After an hour of uninterrupted concert, Beethoven stop playing the piano and join the other guests after receiving a warm ovation. However, Bettina is so absorbed in the lieder's emotion that she continues as if nothing had happened.

The publisher Manfred Hanssen from Jena went to visit Friedrich Schlegel at his home in Weimar, where the writer lived in the company of his wife Dorothea. Mr. Hanssen was in a hurry to publish his star writer’s last novel. At the sound of the chime of the door, Schlegel hurried to dry his hands and leave the dishes he was washing in a basin. As he rushed to open, he tore off his apron and tossed it into a corner. -Mr. Hanssen, what a joy to see you! And at the same time, what a nasty surprise! So what brings you around here? -Your latest novel, Schlegel. I can‘t wait anymore, I need it now. -Excuse me a moment. Schlegel hurries into the house and shouts: -Dorothea, darling, finish quickly what you're doing! My publisher is here in person! Hurry and come to say hello. -Poor wives, they are always so busy. As the English say: they are “The Angels in the House”… Well, as I was just telling, my creditors press me and, as you well know, you are the main asset of my publishing hou