The Best Tales of Hoffmann

by E. T. A. Hoffmann

  She leaped back full of fury, shrieking, “Bestia tedesca!”, 3 snatched the violin from his hands, and dashed it on the marble table into a thousand pieces. Krespel stood like a statue before her; but then, as if awakening out of a dream, he seized her with the strength of a giant and threw her out of the window of her own house and, without troubling himself about anything more, fled back to Venice —to Germany.

  It was not, however, until some time had elapsed that he had a clear recollection of what he had done; although he knew that the window was scarcely five feet from the ground, and although he was fully cognizant of the necessity, under the above-mentioned circumstances, of throwing the Signora out of the window, he still felt troubled by a sense of painful uneasiness, the more so since she had imparted to him in no ambiguous terms an interesting secret as to her condition.

  He did not dare to make inquiries; and he was surprised about eight months afterwards at receiving a tender letter from his beloved wife, in which she made not the slightest allusion to what had taken place in her country house, only adding to the intelligence that she had been safely delivered of a sweet little daughter the heartfelt prayer that her dear husband and now a happy father would come at once to Venice.

  That, however, Krespel did not do; instead he appealed to a close friend for a more circumstantial account of the details, and learned that the Signora had alighted upon the soft grass as lightly as a bird, and that the sole consequences of the fall or shock had been mental. That is to say, after Krespel’s heroic deed she had become completely altered; she never showed a trace of caprice, of her former freaks, or of her teasing habits; and the composer who wrote for the next carnival was the happiest fellow under the sun, since the Signora was willing to sing his music without the scores and hundreds of changes which she at other times had insisted upon. “To be sure,” added his friend, “there was every reason for preserving the secret of Angela’s cure, else every day would see lady singers flying through windows.”

  The Councillor was excited at this news; he engaged horses; he took his seat in the carriage. “Stop!” he cried suddenly. “Why, there’s not a shadow of doubt,” he murmured to himself, “that as soon as Angela sets eyes upon me again, the evil spirit will recover his power and once more take possession of her. And since I have already thrown her out of the window, what could I do if a similar case were to occur again? What would there be left for me to do?” He got out of the carriage, and wrote an affectionate letter to his wife, making graceful allusion to her tenderness in especially dwelling upon the fact that his tiny daughter had like him a little mole behind the ear, and—remained in Germany.

  Fanciful map prepared by Hoffmann to indicate the location of his Berlin residence. It illustrates landmarks, Hoffmann’s friends, and characters from his stories.

  Now an active correspondence began between them. Assurances of unchanged affection—invitations—laments over the absence of the beloved one—thwarted wishes—hopes, etc.—flew backwards and forwards from Venice to H——, from H——to Venice. At length Angela came to Germany, and, as is well known, sang with brilliant success as prima donna at the great theatre in F——. Despite the fact that she was no longer young, she won all hearts by the irresistible charm of her wonderfully splendid singing. At that time she had not lost her voice in the least degree.

  Meanwhile, Antonia had been growing up; and her mother never tired of writing to tell her father that a singer of the first rank was developing in her. Krespel’s friends in F——also confirmed this intelligence, and urged him to come to F——to see and admire this uncommon sight of two such glorious singers. They had not the slightest suspicion of the close relations in which Krespel stood to the pair. He would willingly have seen with his own eyes the daughter who occupied so large a place in his heart, and who moreover often appeared to him in his dreams; but as soon as he thought about his wife he felt very uncomfortable, and so he remained at home among his broken violins.

  There was a certain promising young composer, B——of F——, who was found to have suddenly disappeared, nobody knew where. This young man fell so deeply in love with Antonia that, as she returned his love, he earnestly besought her mother to consent to an immediate union, sanctified as it would further be by art. Angela had nothing to urge against his suit; and the Councillor the more readily gave his consent since the young composer’s productions had found favour before his rigorous critical judgment.

  Krespel was expecting to hear of the consummation of the marriage, when he received instead a black-sealed envelope addressed in a strange hand. Doctor R——conveyed to the Councillor the sad intelligence that Angela had fallen seriously ill in consequence of a cold caught at the theatre, and that during the night immediately preceding what was to have been Antonia’s wedding day, she had died. To him, the Doctor, Angela had disclosed the fact that she was Krespel’s wife, and that Antonia was his daughter; he, Krespel, had better hasten therefore to take charge of the orphan. Notwithstanding that the Councillor was a good deal upset by this news of Angela’s death, he soon began to feel that an antipathetic, disturbing influence had departed from his life, and that now for the first time he could begin to breathe freely.

  The very same day he set out for F——. You could not credit how heart-rending was the Councillor’s description of the moment when he first saw Antonia. Even in the fantastic oddities of his expression there was such a marvellous power of description that I am unable to give even so much as a faint indication of it. Antonia inherited all her mother’s amiability and all her mother’s charms, but not the repellent reverse of the medal. There was no chronic moral ulcer, which might break out from time to time. Antonia’s betrothed put in an appearance, while Antonia herself, fathoming with happy instinct the deeper-lying character of her wonderful father, sang one of old Padre Martini’s motets, which, she knew, Krespel in the heyday of his courtship had never grown tired of hearing her mother sing.

  The tears ran in streams down Krespel’s cheeks; even Angela he had never heard sing like that. Antonia’s voice was of a very remarkable and altogether peculiar timbre; at one time it was like the sighing of an æolian harp, at another like the warbled gush of the nightingale. It seemed as if there was not room for such notes in the human breast. Antonia, blushing with joy and happiness, sang on and on—all her most beautiful songs, B——playing the piano as only enthusiasm that is intoxicated with delight can play. Krespel was at first transported with rapture, then he grew thoughtful—still—absorbed in reflection. At length he leaped to his feet, pressed Antonia to his heart, and begged her in a low husky voice, “Sing no more if you love me—my heart is bursting—I fear—I fear —don’t sing again.”

  “No!” remarked the Councillor next day to Doctor R——, “when, as she sang, her blushes gathered into two dark red spots on her pale cheeks, I knew it had nothing to do with your nonsensical family likenesses, I knew it was what I dreaded.”

  The Doctor, whose countenance had shown signs of deep distress from the very beginning of the conversation, replied, “Whether it arises from a too early taxing of her powers of song, or whether the fault is Nature’s—enough, Antonia labours under an organic failure in the chest, while it is from it too that her voice derives its wonderful power and its singular timbre, which I might almost say transcend the limits of human capabilities of song. But it bears the announcement of her early death; for, if she continues to sing, I wouldn’t give her at the most more than six months longer to live.”

  Krespel’s heart was lacerated as if by the stabs of hundreds of stinging knives. It was as though his life had been for the first time overshadowed by a beautiful tree full of the most magnificent blossoms, and now it was to be sawed to pieces at the roots, so that it could not grow green and blossom any more. His resolution was taken. He told Antonia everything; he put the alternatives before her—whether she would follow her fiancé and yield to his and the world’s seductions, but with the certainty of dying early, or whether she w
ould spread round her father in his old days that joy and peace which had hitherto been unknown to him, and so secure a long life.

  She threw herself into his arms sobbing, and he, knowing the heart-rending trial that was before her, did not press for a more explicit declaration. He talked the matter over with her fiance; but, although the latter swore that no note should ever cross Antonia’s lips, the Councillor was only too well aware that even B——could not resist the temptation of hearing her sing, at any rate, arias of his own composition. And the world, the musical public, even though acquainted with the nature of the singer’s affliction, would certainly not relinquish its claims to hear her, for in cases where pleasure is concerned people of this class are very selfish and cruel.

  The Councillor disappeared from F——along with Antonia, and came to H——. B——was in despair when he learned that they had gone. He set out on their track, overtook them, and arrived at H——at the same time that they did. “Let me see him only once, and then die!” entreated Antonia. “Die! die!” cried Krespel, wild with anger, an icy shudder running through him. His daughter, the only creature in the wide world who had awakened in him the springs of unknown joy, who alone had reconciled him to life, tore herself away from his heart, and he—he suffered the terrible trial to take place.

  B——sat down at the piano; Antonia sang; Krespel fiddled away merrily, until the two red spots showed themselves on Antonia’s cheeks. Then he bade her stop; and as B——was taking leave of his betrothed, she suddenly fell to the floor with a loud scream.

  “I thought,” continued Krespel in his narration, “I thought that she was, as I had anticipated, really dead; but as I had prepared myself for the worst, my calmness did not leave me, nor my self-command desert me. I grasped B——, who stood like a silly sheep in his dismay, by the shoulders, and said (here the Councillor fell into his singing tone), ‘Now that you, my estimable pianoforte player, have, as you wished and desired, really murdered your fiancée, you may quietly take your departure; at least have the goodness to make yourself scarce before I run my bright hanger through your heart. My daughter, who, as you see, is rather pale, could very well do with some colour from your precious blood. Make haste and run, for I might also hurl a nimble knife or two after you.’ I must, I suppose, have looked rather formidable as I uttered these words, for, with a cry of the greatest terror, B——tore himself loose from my grasp, rushed out of the room, and down the steps.” Directly after B——was gone, when the Councillor tried to lift up his daughter, who lay unconscious on the floor, she opened her eyes with a deep sigh, but soon closed them again as if about to die.

  Then Krespel’s grief found vent aloud, and would not be comforted. The Doctor, whom the old housekeeper had called in, pronounced Antonia’s case a somewhat serious but by no means dangerous attack; and she did indeed recover more quickly than her father had dared to hope. She now clung to him with the most confiding childlike affection; she entered into his favourite hobbies—into his mad schemes and whims. She helped him take old violins to pieces and glue new ones together. “I won’t sing again any more, but will live for you,” she often said, sweetly smiling upon him, after she had been asked to sing and had refused. Such appeals, however, the Councillor was anxious to spare her as much as possible; for this reason it was that he was unwilling to take her into society, and solicitously shunned all music. He well understood how painful it must be for her to forgo altogether the exercise of that art which she had brought to such a pitch of perfection.

  When the Councillor bought the wonderful violin that he had buried with Antonia, and was about to take it to pieces, she met him with great sadness in her face and softly breathed the petition, “What! this as well?” By some power, which he could not explain, he felt impelled to leave this particular instrument unbroken, and to play upon it.

  Scarcely had he drawn the first few notes from it than Antonia cried aloud with joy, “Why, that’s me!—now I shall sing again.” And, in truth, there was something remarkably striking about the clear, silvery, bell-like tones of the violin; they seemed to have been engendered in the human soul. Krespel’s heart was deeply moved; he played, too, better than ever. As he ran up and down the scale, playing bold passages with consummate power and expression, she clapped her hands together and cried with delight, “I did that well! I did that well!”

  From this time onwards her life was filled with peace and cheerfulness. She often said to the Councillor, “I should like to sing something, father.” Then Krespel would take his violin down from the wall and play her most beautiful songs, and her heart was right glad and happy.

  Shortly before my arrival in H——, the Councillor fancied one night that he heard somebody playing the piano in the adjoining room, and he soon made out distinctly that B——was flourishing on the instrument in his usual style. He wished to get up, but felt himself held down as if by a dead weight, and lying as if fettered in iron bonds; he was utterly unable to move an inch. Then Antonia’s voice was heard singing low and soft; soon, however, it began to rise and rise in volume until it became an ear-splitting fortissimo; and at length she passed over into a powerfully impressive song which B——had once composed for her in the devotional style of the old masters.

  Krespel described his condition as being incomprehensible, for terrible anguish was mingled with a delight he had never experienced before. All at once he was surrounded by a dazzling brightness, in which he beheld B——and Antonia locked in a close embrace, and gazing at each other in a rapture of ecstasy. The music of the song and of the pianoforte accompanying it went on without any visible signs that Antonia was singing or that B——touched the instrument.

  Then the Councillor fell into a sort of dead faint, while the images vanished. On awakening he still felt the terrible anguish of his dream. He rushed into Antonia’s room. She lay on the sofa, her hands devoutly folded, and looking as if asleep and dreaming of the joys and raptures of heaven. But she was—dead.

  TOBIAS MARTIN, MASTER COOPER, AND HIS MEN

  I

  On the first of May of the year one thousand five hundred and eighty, the Honourable Guild of Coopers in the free imperial town of Nuremberg held its solemn annual meeting, according to use and wont. A short time previously one of its “Vorsteher,” or “Candlemasters” as they were called, had been carried to his grave; so that it was necessary to appoint his successor. The choice fell upon Master Martin and in truth no one could equal him in strong and elegant building of vats; nor did anyone understand as he did the keeping of wine in cellar; for which reason he had the grandest lords and gentry for his customers, and lived in the utmost comfort; nay, in absolute wealth, so that the worthy town councillor, Jacobus Paumgartner (who was presiding at the meeting), said at the Guild meeting, “You have done right well, my worthy friends, to choose Master Martin for your presidency, which could not be in better hands. Master Martin is highly esteemed by all who have the pleasure of his acquaintance for his great ability, and his profound experience in the art of storing and caring for the noble wine. His ceaseless, honest industry, his life of piety, in spite of the wealth which he has amassed, are an example to you all.

  “And, a thousand times welcome as our president, Master Martin.”

  Thus saying, Paumgartner rose from his chair, and stepped forward a pace or two with extended arms, expecting that Master Martin would advance towards him in reciprocation. Upon which Master Martin pressed his arms on the elbows of his chair, and raised himself slowly and heavily, as his well-nourished “corporation” caused him to do; after which, with equal deliberateness he walked into Paumgartner’s hearty embrace, which he scarcely returned.

  “Well, Master Martin,” said Paumgartner, a little annoyed, “is there anything not quite to your liking in having been elected Candlemaster ? ”

  Master Martin, as was his habit, threw his head well back, fingered his paunch with both hands, and looked around the assemblage with his eyes opened very wide, and his nether lip pro
truded; then, turning to Paumgartner, he said: “My dear and worthy sir! Why should it not be to my liking that I receive what is my just due? Who despises the reward of his hard work? Who sends from his door a bad debtor who comes at last to pay the money he has owed so long? My good sirs,”—here he turned to the masters—“it has struck you at last, has it, that I—I have to be president of our Honourable Guild? What are the qualifications you expect in your president? Ought he to be the best hand at his work?—Go and look at my two-fudder vat, hooped without firing, my fine masterpiece there, and then come and tell me if one of you can boast of a piece of work its equal in strength and beauty. Should your president be a man of money and property?—Call at my house, and I will open my chests and my coffers, and you shall gladden your eyes with the sight of the glittering gold and silver. Should he be honoured and esteemed by high and low, great and small?—Ask our honourable gentlemen of the Council; ask princes and lords all round our good town of Nuremberg; ask the Right Rev. Bishop of Bamberg; ask them all what they think of Master Martin—and I don’t think you will hear much to his disadvantage.”

  With which Master Martin patted his fat corporation with much complacent contentment, twinkled his half-closed eyes, and as all were silent and only a half-suppressed throat-clearing, of a somewhat dubious character, audible here and there, he continued as follows:

  “However, I perceive—in fact I am well aware—that I ought now to return thanks, to the best of my ability, that it has pleased the Lord at last to enlighten your minds to make this election. Well! When I am paid for my work, or when my debtor returns me the sum he borrowed, I always write at the bottom of the receipt, ‘With thanks. Tobias Martin, master cooper in this town’; so I return you all my hearty thanks that you have paid off an old debt by electing me your Candlemaster. For the rest, I promise that I will perform the duties of my office with all truth and faithfulness; that I shall ever be ready to stand by the Guild, or any of its members, in word and deed in time of need, to the utmost of my power. It will be my heart’s earnest desire to maintain our Honourable Company in all the honour and dignity which it possesses at present.