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From Hades Pictures
The Vampyr
From the Hades pictures: the spectre that rises at midnight from the Baron’s vault.
Kleksographien, Stuttgart, 1890. Getty Research Institute, by way of the Internet Archive.
This spectre is dreadful! At midnight it rises From the Herr Baron’s vault. Then, when it sees a peasant, It plunges on him out of the air, Fastens on his heart and draws All the blood out of him, nearly. This spectre is called “Vampyr.” Whether that was once the Baron I will not and cannot believe; That would be far too bad, in truth! If you ask, the peasant says softly: “‘Twas the Herr Baron’s old Rent collector and steward.”
From the Hades pictures: the poet finds himself in the ink.
Kleksographien, Stuttgart, 1890. Getty Research Institute, by way of the Internet Archive.
My picture too came out of the black inkwell. When I saw it, I went pale as a corpse. Out of the head come black vapours, The bad arts of medicine and poetry, The vapour of my whole vain life, Shame that I am unworthy of so much favour. Look at the old body, which is a skeleton, While I still sip at the tree of life; At the feet, look, the heaviness of earth; O! if only that could still be stripped off! I cannot do it, and its power Draws me down into the night of Hades.
From the Hell pictures: what comes crawling up when the pen goes down to the dregs.
Kleksographien, Stuttgart, 1890. Getty Research Institute, by way of the Internet Archive.
When I sat again with my pen Before the inkwell, And had dipped it deep Into the ink, down to the dregs, Something came crawling up Like the tail of a cat. I grew ever more afraid, For the thing grew ever longer, Far too long for a mouse, And the Devil crawled out. First he made three bows, Looping rings with his tail, And told me wonders Of himself, to shine before me: That he had once been In the court chancery of Naples. “Now I am (you will notice),” He says, “in another place, (To each according to his works), A little bit in hell. Once I was great and rich; Now, to say it short and straight, I am, it is true, a poor wretch, But a busy journeyman And grinder of the printer’s ink For Satan’s court printer; I wanted to tell you quickly That for black bodies of hell Your ink is too pale; I will, to freshen it black, Mix it with printer’s ink.” “Away!” I cried, quite pale with rage, “Do you think I don’t notice that You are only the devil from before In a changed figure, Who went out by the chimney? If I let myself be carried away by rage, I would hurl the inkwell Like Luther at your goat’s head. But enough for you is this!” Then I made the sign of the cross, Which devils cannot bear; Then quickly he grew thinner still, Thinner than a spider’s calves, And as a black, hairy thread He went out through the keyhole.
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