The Best Tales of Hoffmann

by E. T. A. Hoffmann

  “Scold me well,” said Master Martin, “I deserve it, I know. But when the old gentleman spoke such nonsense, I really could not bring myself to give him any other answer.”

  “Then,” Paumgartner continued, “this silly notion of yours that you won’t give your daughter to anybody but a cooper. Was ever such nonsense heard of? You say your daughter’s destiny shall be left in God’s hands, and yet you go and wrest it out of God’s hands yourself, by deciding that you will choose your son-in-law out of one limited circle. This may be the very destruction of both her and you. Leave off such unchristian, childish folly, Master Martin. Commit the matter to the Almighty. He will place the right decision in your daughter’s heart.”

  “Ah, my dear sir,” said Master Martin quite dejectedly, “I see now, for the first time, how wrong I was not to make a clean breast of the whole business at once. You, of course, suppose that it is merely an overhigh opinion of the cooper’s craft which makes me resolve never to give Rosa to anybody but a master cooper. But that is by no means the case; there is another reason. I can’t let you go away until I have told you all this. You shall not pass a single night, even, with a bad opinion of me in your mind. Sit down again; I beg it as a favour. See, here is still another bottle of my oldest wine; Spangenberg was too much offended to taste it. Sit, and stay but a few minutes longer.”

  Paumgartner was surprised at Master Martin’s confidential insistence, which was not in his usual nature. It seemed as if something lay heavy on his mind which he felt eager to be clear of. When Paumgartner had resumed his seat, and taken some of the wine, Master Martin commenced as follows:

  “You are aware, dear sir, that my beloved wife died soon after Rosa’s birth from the effects of a difficult confinement. My own grandmother was still alive and very old (if one can call it being alive, to be stone deaf, blind, scarcely able to speak, paralyzed in every limb, and completely bedridden). My Rosa had been baptized, and the nurse was sitting with her in the room where my old grandmother lay. I was so sorrowful and (when I looked at the child) so wonderfully happy, and yet so sad—I was so deeply touched that I found it impossible to do any work, and I was standing sunk in my thoughts beside my grandmother’s bed, envying her, and thinking how well for her it was that she had done with earthly pain. And as I was so looking into her pale face, all at once she began to smile in the strangest way; her wrinkled features seemed to smooth out, her pale cheeks took on a colour; she sat up in her bed and stretched her powerless arms, as she had not been able to do for a long time, and as if suddenly inspired by some miraculous power, she called out distinctly in a soft, sweet voice, ‘Rosa! darling Rosa!’ The nurse gave her the child. She took it and dandled it in her arms. But now, my dear sir, picture my amazement, nay, my terror, when the old lady began, in a strong, clear voice, a song, in the hohe fröhliche Lobweis of Herr Hans Bechler, of the Holy Ghost in Strasbourg:

  Little maiden, with cheeks of roses,

  Rosa, hear the decree.

  Never yield thee to dread or doubting,

  Set God fast in thy heart.

  Let not vain longings deride thee.

  He prepares thee a brightsome dwelling,

  Streams, of sweet savour, flowing therein,

  Beauteous angels, singing full sweetly.

  Pious of soul,

  List to the truest of wooing,

  Loveliest promise of love.

  A House, resplendent and gleaming,

  He whom thy heart goeth forth to

  Shall to thy dwelling bring.

  Needless to ask of thy father.

  This is thy destined lord.

  For this House, into thy dwelling

  Bringeth good fortune and bliss.

  Keep thine eyes open, then, maiden;

  Watchful thine ears for the true word to come.

  God’s truest blessing be on thee,

  Walking thy flowery way.

  “And when my old grandmother had sung this song, she put the child gently and carefully down on the bedcover, and laying her withered, trembling hands upon its forehead, whispered words which were wholly unintelligible, though the expression of her face showed that she was praying. Then she sank back with her head on the pillow, and as the nurse lifted the child my old grandmother gave a deep sigh—she was gone.”

  “A wonderful story,” said Paumgartner. “Still I don’t see how this prophetic song of your old grandmother has any connection with your obstinate determination to give Rosa to nobody but a master cooper.”

  “What can be clearer,” said Master Martin, “than that the old lady, specially enlightened by the Lord during the last moments of her life, declared in prophecy how matters are to go with Rosa, if she is to be happy and fortunate? The wooer who is to bring wealth, luck and happiness into her dwelling with a beautiful house; who can that be but a clever cooper, who shall finish his masterpiece, the beautiful house of his building, in my workshop? In what other house do streams of sweet savour flow up and down but in a wine-cask? And when the wine is working it rustles, and hums, and splashes; and that is the singing of the angels as they float on the tiny ripples. Ay, ay! no other bridegroom did the old grandmother mean but the master cooper. And that it shall be! ”

  “Good Master Martin,” said Paumgartner, “you interpret the old lady’s words after your own manner; I cannot agree with your interpretation, and I still maintain that you ought to leave the whole matter in the hands of God, and in your daughter’s heart; for the true meaning and the proper deciding of it most certainly lie hidden there.”

  “And I, as far as I am concerned,” said Master Martin impatiently, “stick to my own opinion, that my son-in-law shall be none but a clever cooper. This I hold to, for once and for all.”

  Paumgartner was almost beginning to lose his temper over Martin’s obstinacy. But he controlled himself, and rose from his chair, saying, “It is getting late, Master Martin; I think we have had as much wine and as much conversation as are good for us.”

  As they stepped into the hall, there appeared a young woman with five boys, of whom the eldest might have been scarcely eight, and the youngest scarcely half a year old. The woman was weeping and sobbing. Rosa hastened to meet Martin and Paumgartner, crying, “Ah! Heavens! Valentine has just died. Here are his wife and children.” “What? Valentine dead?” cried Master Martin, much shocked. “Oh, because of that accident, that accident! My dear sir, Valentine was the best of all my workmen; a hard-working, good, honest fellow. A short time ago he hurt himself dangerously with an adze, during the building of a big cask. His wound got worse and worse; he fell into a violent fever, and now he has had to die in the prime of his years.” Master Martin went up to the disconsolate woman, who was bathed in tears, lamenting that she must perish in misery and distress.

  “What do you think of me?” asked Master Martin. “Your husband came by his death at my service, and do you suppose I am going to abandon you in your need? God forbid! You all belong to my house henceforth. Tomorrow, or when you choose, we will bury your husband, poor fellow, and then you and your boys go to my farm before the Gate of Our Lady, where my great workshop is, and be there with my men. You can look after the housekeeping; I will bring up those fine young boys of yours as though they were my own. More than that, your old father shall come and live here too. He was a grand journeyman cooper while he had strength in his arms for the work. If he can’t wield the mallet nowadays, or the notching-tool, or the hooping-iron, or take his stroke at the grooving-bench, why he can manage to turn out hoops with the rounding-knife. Whether or not, into my house he comes with the rest of you.”

  Had not Master Martin held the woman up, she would have fallen at his feet overwhelmed with emotion. The older boys hung upon his doublet, and the two youngest, whom Rosa had taken in her arms, held out their little hands to him as if they understood what he said.

  Said old Paumgartner, smiling, with tears in his eyes, “One can’t be vexed with you, Master Martin,” and he betook himself to his dw
elling.

  V

  The evening was falling as a young journeyman, very handsome and distinguished-looking, Friedrich by name, was lying on a little grassy hillock, shaded by leafy trees. The sun had set, and a rosy glow flooded the horizon. The famous imperial town of Nuremberg could be distinctly seen in the distance, broadening out in the valley, its proud towers stretching up into the evening red which shone brightly on their pinnacles. The young artisan had his arm propped upon his bundle, or travelling knapsack, and was gazing down into the valley with longing eyes. He plucked a flower or two from the grass, and cast them into the air towards the sunset sky; then once more he gazed mournfully before him, and the hot tears came to his eyes. At length he lifted his head, stretched out his arms, as if he were embracing some beloved form, and sang the following song, in a clear, very pleasant voice:

  Again, again I see thee, my own beloved home,

  My faithful heart has never lost

  The faintest trace of thee.

  Rise on my sight, oh roseate sheen;

  Fain would I see nought else but roses.

  Love’s own blossoms, glow on my heart,

  Gladden my bosom, cheer my soul.

  Ah, swelling heart, and must thou break?

  Beat firm through pain and sweetest joy.

  And thou, thou golden evening sky,

  Be thou to me a faithful herald;

  Bear down to her my sighs and tears

  And tell her, should I die, my heart

  Dissolved in love unchanging.

  When Friedrich had finished this song, he took some wax from his bundle, warmed it in his breast, and began to model a beautiful rose, with its hundreds of delicate petals, in the most skillful and artistic manner. As he worked at it, he kept singing detached phrases of his song; and, thus absorbed, he did not notice a handsome young man who had been standing behind him for a considerable time, eagerly watching as he worked.

  “My friend,” said this young fellow, “that is an exquisite piece of work you are doing.”

  Friedrich looked round, startled. But when he saw the stranger’s kindly dark eyes, he felt as if he had known him long. So he answered, with a smile, “Ah, my dear sir, how can you care to look at this trifle, which is only to pass a little time on my journey?”

  The stranger answered, “If you call that flower, so accurately studied and copied from nature, and so tenderly executed, a ‘trifle,’ a plaything, you must be a remarkably finished and accomplished artist in that line. You delight me in a double sense. First, your song, which you sang so charmingly (in the Zarte Buchstabenweis of Martin Haescher), went to my heart; and now I have to admire your masterly skill in modelling. Where are you bound today?”

  “The goal of my journey,” answered Friedrich, “lies there before our eyes. I am bound for my home there, the renowned imperial town of Nuremberg. Since the sun is far beneath the horizon, I shall pass the night down in the village there; but I shall push on as early as I can in the morning, and be in Nuremberg by noon.”

  “Ah, how well that falls in,” cried the other; “I am bound for Nuremberg, too. I shall pass the night along with you in the village, and we can go on together in the morning. So let us talk together a little while.”

  The young man, whose name was Reinhold, threw himself down on the grass beside Friedrich, and went on as follows:

  “If I am not mistaken, you are a splendid foundryman. I see that by your style of moulding. Or do you work in gold and silver?”

  Friedrich looked sadly down, and began, quite dejectedly:

  “Ah, my dear sir, you take me for something much higher and better than I really am. I must tell you candidly that I learned the craft of a cooper, and I wish to go and work with a well-known master of that craft in Nuremberg. You will despise me because I do not model and cast glorious images, figures, and groups, but just make casks and barrels.”

  “This is delightful,” cried Reinhold, laughing aloud. “The idea of my despising you for being a cooper, when I am nothing else myself!”

  Friedrich looked at him fixedly; he did not know what to think. Reinhold’s dress was like anything rather than that of a journeyman cooper on his travels. The doublet of fine black cloth trimmed with velvet, the delicate lace cravat, short sword, beret, with long drooping feather, seemed more appropriate to a well-to-do merchant; and yet there was a certain strange something in his face and whole bearing which excluded the idea of a merchant. Reinhold saw Friedrich’s doubts; he opened his knapsack, and brought out his cooper’s leather apron and case of tools, crying, “Look there, friend; have you any doubt now as to my being your comrade? I daresay my clothes may strike you a little; but I come from Strassburg, where the coopers dress like gentry. Certainly, like yourself, I once had ideas of something different; but now I think the cooper’s craft the finest in the world, and I have based many of my fairest life hopes on it. Is not this your case, too, comrade? But it almost seems to me as if some dark cloud-shadow had come over the happiness of your life, preventing you from looking around you with any gladness. Your song was all love-longing and sorrow; but there were tones in it which seemed to come out of my own breast, and I feel as though I knew everything which is imprisoned within you. That is all the more reason why you should tell me all about it. As we are going to be intimate friends and companions in Nuremberg, confide in me.” Reinhold put an arm about Friedrich, and looked him kindly in the eyes.

  “The more I look at you,” Friedrich said, “the more I am drawn to you. I distinctly hear a voice within me which tells me you are my true friend. So I must tell you everything. Not that a poor fellow such as I has anything really important to confide to you, but merely because the breast of a true friend has room for a man’s sorrows; and, from the first moment of our acquaintance, I felt that you are the truest friend I possess. I am a cooper now, and I may say I know my craft well. But all my devotion was given to another—perhaps a better—art. From my childhood my desire was to be a silversmith, a great master in the art of casting and working in silver, like Peter Fischer, or the Italian Benvenuto Cellini. I worked at this with fervent zeal under Master Johannes Holzschuer, the famous silversmith in my native town, who, although he did not himself cast images of the kind I refer to, was able to give me instruction. To Herr Holzschuer’s house Herr Tobias Martin, the master cooper, occasionally came with his daughter, the beautiful charming Rosa. I fell in love with her, without quite being aware of it myself. I left home and went to Augsburg to learn image casting properly, and it was not till then that the love flames blazed up in my heart. I saw and heard only Rosa. I loathed every effort, every endeavour that did not lead to her; so I started off on the only path which did lead to her. Master Martin will give his daughter to no man except the cooper who, in his house, shall make the most perfect masterpiece which a cooper can produce, and whom at the same time his daughter shall look upon favourably into the bargain. I cast my own art to one side, I learned the cooper’s craft, and I am going to Nuremberg to work in Master Martin’s workshop. That is my object and intention. But now that my home lies before me and Rosa’s image glows vividly before my eyes, I could faint for hesitation, anxiety, dread. I see now how foolishly I have acted. Can I tell whether Rosa loves me, or ever will love me? ”

  Reinhold had listened with even closer attention. He now rested his head on his arm, and, placing his hand over his eyes, asked, in a hollow, gloomy voice:

  “ Has Rosa ever given you any sign that she cares for you? ”

  “Ah,” said Friedrich, “when I left Nuremberg, Rosa was more a child than a woman. She certainly did not dislike me. She used to smile at me when I never wearied of gathering flowers and making wreaths in Herr Holzschuer’s garden. But—”

  “Well, there is some hope in that case,” Reinhold cried out suddenly, so violently, and in such an unpleasant, yelling tone, that Friedrich felt almost frightened. Reinhold started to his feet, the sword at his side rattled, and as he stood drawn up to his full height,
the evening shadows fell on his pale face, and distorted his gentle features in such an unpleasant way that Friedrich cried, in real anxiety:

  “What has come over you so suddenly?”

  As he spoke he stepped backward, knocking against Reinhold’s bundle with his foot. A sound of strings rang forth, and Reinhold cried angrily:

  “Don’t smash my lute, you villain!”

  He took the instrument from his bundle and struck its strings stormily, as if he would tear them in pieces. But soon his touch upon them grew soft and tuneful.

  “Let us go on down to the village, brother!” he said in the same gentle tone as before. “ I have here a fine remedy against the evil spirits which stand in our way, and may oppose me particularly.”

  “Why should evil spirits stand in our way, brother?” asked Friedrich. “Your playing is beautiful. Please go on with it.”

  The golden stars had come forth in the dark azure of the heavens; the night wind was breathing in soft whispers over the perfumed meadows; the streams were murmuring more loudly; the dark trees of the forest were rustling all around in the distance. Reinhold and Friedrich went down into the valley, playing and singing; and clear and bright as on shining pinions, their songs of love and longing floated on the breeze.