The Life and Opinions of the Tomcat Murr

by E. T. A. Hoffmann

  Kreisler felt strangely moved by the Abbot’s words; total faith appeared vividly before his powerful and creative mind’s eye as seldom before, and a blessed sense of comfort spread through him.

  All this while he had not taken his eyes off the wonderful painting. It is often some time before we see figures in the dark background of a picture, particularly when, as in this case, there are strong effects of light painted in the foreground or middle ground, and so it was only now that he saw the figure wrapped in a voluminous cloak disappearing through the door, in his hand a dagger upon which one ray of the halo surrounding the Queen of Heaven seemed to fall, so that it glinted only just perceptibly. This was obviously the murderer; as he fled he was looking back, a dreadful expression of fear and horror on his face.

  Kreisler felt as if he had been struck by lightning when he recognized, in the countenance of the murderer, Prince Hector’s features, and now he also thought he had seen the youth waking to life somewhere, although only very fleetingly. A reluctance he himself could not explain kept him from imparting these observations to the Abbot. He did ask, however, whether the Abbot didn’t think it disturbing and inappropriate for the painter to show items of modern dress right in the foreground, although in heavy shadow – and what did he think of the waking youth, who was also dressed in modern clothes?

  It was true that the painting showed a small table with a chair close to it in the foreground, over to one side. There was a Turkish shawl cast over the back of the chair, and an officer’s cap with a plume of feathers lay on the table next to a sword. The young man was wearing a modern shirt collar, an unbuttoned waistcoat, and a dark coat which was also unbuttoned, but whose cut allowed the folds to drape well. The Queen of Heaven was dressed as she is usually shown in pictures by the best of the old masters.

  ‘To my mind,’ replied the Abbot to Kreisler’s question, ‘to my mind the objects in the foreground and the young man’s coat are not at all inappropriate, and I think the painter would have had to be full not of Heaven’s grace but of worldly foolishness and vanity had he deviated from the truth in the slightest of the minor details. He had to show the miracle just as it really happened, remaining faithful to the place, the surroundings, the clothing of the characters, etc., so everyone can see at first glance that the miracle took place in our own times, and the devout monk’s picture becomes a splendid witness to the Church Triumphant in these days of unbelief and depravity.’

  ‘And yet,’ said Kreisler, ‘and yet, as I say, I don’t like that hat, that sword, that shawl, that table and chair, and I wish the painter could have left out those foreground items and cast a robe around his own figure instead of the coat. Now tell me, reverend sir, can you imagine the Holy Family in modern dress: St Joseph in a plush coat, the Saviour in a frock coat, Our Lady in fashionable dress with a Turkish shawl round her shoulders? Wouldn’t you think that an unworthy and indeed shocking profanation of what is most high? And yet the old painters, particularly German artists, portrayed all biblical tales and stories of saints in the costume of their own age, and it may be quite wrong to say those costumes were more suited to pictorial representation than those of the present day, which are indeed foolish and unpicturesque enough, except for certain women’s garments. However, many fashions of the past were inclined to exaggeration, I might say monstrosity: just think of those long crakow shoes with their turned-up toes, those padded breeches, those dagged doublets and sleeves, and so forth. And many of the women’s fashions we see in old pictures were quite intolerable too, deforming face and figure, giving a blooming young girl, pretty as a picture, the look of a sour old matron just because of her dress. Yet no one ever thought those pictures inappropriate.’

  ‘Well,’ replied the Abbot, ‘I can show you in a few words the difference between the devout past and this more corrupt time, my dear Johannes. In those days, you see, the holy stories so permeated the life of mankind, I might say were so much a part of life itself, that all believed miracles had happened before their eyes, and the Eternal Power might work more at any time. To the devout painter, therefore, the holy story to which he put his mind was happening in the present; he saw grace abounding among the people around him in daily life, and depicted it on his panel as vividly as he saw it. Today those stories seem very far distant, standing by themselves and not a part of the present, laboriously asserting their claim to a dim kind of life only in the memory, and the artist struggles in vain for a lively idea of them, for though he may not like to admit it to himself, his inner sense has been dulled by the things of this world. By the same token, however, it would be equally silly and ridiculous to reproach the old masters with ignorance of costume, taking that as their reason for depicting only the dress of their own times in their paintings, as when our young painters today take pains to show the most extravagant and tasteless of mediaeval costumes in their own paintings of holy subjects, thus showing that they were not taking what they meant to depict straight from life, but contenting themselves with a reflection of it as shown in an old master’s painting. That is the reason, my dear Johannes – since the present is too secular not to form an ugly contrast with those pious legends, and no one now can depict miracles as if they happened among us – that is the reason, however, why showing such legends in modern costume seems to us a tasteless distortion, and even impious. Yet if the Eternal Power really worked a miracle before all our eyes, it would be quite inappropriate to change from the costume of our time, in the same way as young painters looking for a point of reference must be careful to observe the costume of previous periods correctly in the old details, so far as they can be discovered. The painter of this picture, I repeat, was right to set it in the present, and those objects which you don’t like, my dear Johannes, fill me with devout and holy awe: I feel as if I myself were entering the small room of that house in Naples where the miracle of the young man’s conversion took place only a few years ago.’

  The Abbot’s words set off reflections of many kinds in Kreisler’s mind: he had to allow that the Abbot was right on a number of points, but thought that in discussing the superior piety of the past and the depravity of the present he spoke too much in the character of the monk requiring and actually seeing signs, wonders and ecstasies, wonders not necessary for the practice of true Christian virtue by a devout, innocent mind remote from the feverish ecstasy of an intoxicating cult. Such virtue, he reflected, had by no means vanished from the earth, and if it ever did then the Eternal Power, having abandoned us and granted the Devil a free hand, would not be attempting to bring us back to the straight and narrow path by means of any miracle.

  However, Kreisler kept these thoughts to himself as he continued looking at the picture in silence. On even closer examination, the features of the murderer stood out more and more clearly from the background, and Kreisler was convinced that the living original of the figure could only be Prince Hector.

  ‘It appears to me,’ began Kreisler, ‘it appears to me, reverend sir, that in the background there I see a bold marksman on the track of that noblest of animals, man, hunting him down in many ways. This time, I see, he struck home with a fine, well-sharpened blade, but as for his gun, there’s certainly something the matter with that, for he missed his shot not long ago when he was chasing a bold stag. I’d very much like to hear this determined huntsman’s curriculum vitae, or merely a brief extract from it; it might show me where I really stand, and whether I would not be well advised to turn to the Holy Virgin directly for the letter of safe conduct I may need.’

  ‘Let time pass,’ said the Abbot, ‘only let time pass, Kapellmeister! I would be surprised if much that is now hidden in dark obscurity were not soon made plain to you. And much may chime happily with your own wishes, which I have only now understood. It seems strange – I can say this much to you – it seems strange enough that they are quite wrong about you at Sieghartshof. Master Abraham is perhaps the only one who sees into your heart.’

  ‘Master Abraham?’ cried Kreisle
r. ‘Do you know the old man, your Reverence?’

  ‘You forget,’ replied the Abbot smiling, ‘you forget that our fine organ owes its impressive new structure to Master Abraham’s skill! But more of this in the future! Wait patiently now and see what happens next.’

  Kreisler took his leave of the Abbot; he wanted to go down into the grounds to think over a number of ideas that were passing through his mind, but as soon as he had climbed down the steps he heard a voice behind him calling, ‘Domine, domine Kapellmeister, paucis te volo!’80

  It was Father Hilarius, who told Kreisler he had been waiting with the utmost impatience for the end of his long conference with the Abbot. He had just done his office as cellarer, he said, had drawn off the best Franconian wine they had had in the cellar for years, and it was imperative that Kreisler drain a goblet of it at once for his breakfast, to appreciate the excellence of the noble vintage and convince himself that it was a wine absolutely made for a fine composer and true music-maker, being fiery and fortifying to mind and heart.

  Kreisler well knew it would be impossible to try escaping the enthusiastic Father Hilarius, and in his present mood, indeed, he was happy to enjoy a glass of good wine. He therefore followed the merry cellarer, who led him to his cell, where he already had a bottle of the noble wine standing on a little table covered with a clean cloth, together with freshly baked white bread, salt and caraway seeds.

  ‘Ergo bibamus!’ cried Father Hilarius, filling the delicate green rummers and clinking glasses cheerfully with Kreisler. ‘Now then,’ he began, when they had emptied their goblets, ‘isn’t it a fact, Kapellmeister, that our reverend Abbot would like to harry you into putting on monastic robes? Don’t do it, Kreisler! I feel comfortable in my habit and wouldn’t shed it at any price, but distinguendum est inter et inter! A good glass of wine and good singing in church mean all the world to me, but you – now you are meant for very different things. Life still smiles on you in other ways, lights not at all like altar candles still shine on you! Well, Kreisler, to put it briefly – your good health! – long live your girl, and when you marry I’ll get the Abbot to send you, by my own hand, the best wine to be found in our extensive cellar, and never mind his vexation!’

  Kreisler felt moved in an uncomfortable way by these remarks of Hilarius, as it hurts us to see something tender and pure as snow seized by clumsy, awkward hands.

  ‘What a great deal you know and hear within your four walls,’ said Kreisler, withdrawing his glass.

  ‘Domine,’ cried Father Hilarius, ‘Domine Kreislere, don’t take it ill, video mysterium, but I’ll hold my tongue. Don’t you wish to – well, let’s break our fast in camera et faciemus bonum cherubim81 – and bibamus that the Lord may maintain our peace and comfort here in the Abbey as before.’

  ‘Is it in danger now, then?’ asked Kreisler, intently.

  ‘Domine,’ said Father Hilarius quietly, moving confidentially closer to Kreisler, ‘Domine dilectissime!82 You’ve been with us long enough to know in what harmony we live, how the most varied inclinations of the brothers are united in a certain cheerfulness favoured by everything: by our surroundings, the mild nature of our monastic discipline, our whole way of life. That may be coming to an end. You must know, Kreisler, that Father Cyprian, whom we have long been awaiting, has just arrived, with the most fervent recommendations from Rome to the Abbot. He is still a young man, but there isn’t a trace of cheerfulness to be found on that austere and rigid countenance; rather, inexorable severity lies in those dark, lifeless features, a severity speaking of asceticism exaggerated to the highest degree of self-mortification. His whole nature conveys a certain hostile contempt for all around him, a contempt which may owe its origin to a real sense of spiritual superiority to us all. He has already inquired briefly about discipline here, and seemed to take great exception to our way of life. Be careful, Kreisler; this newcomer will turn our whole way of life upside down, a way of life which has been so good for us! Be careful, nunc probo!83 Those of a stern cast of mind will readily join him, and soon a party will form against the Abbot, who may not be able to prevent its triumphing, because it seems to me a certain thing that Father Cyprian is an emissary of his Holiness the Pope, to whose will the Abbot must bow. Kreisler, what will become of our music, of your pleasing presence with us here? I mentioned our well-furnished choir and our ability to give fine performances of the works of the greatest masters, at which the dark ascetic pulled a terrible face and said music of such a kind was for the secular world, not for the Church, from which Pope Marcellus the Second84 had rightly wished to ban it entirely. Per diem, if the choir is to go, and perhaps the wine cellar will be closed to me too – but for the moment, bibamus! Let us not mourn before the event, ergo – glug-glug!’

  Kreisler said he thought matters might yet turn out well respecting the new arrival, who perhaps appeared stricter than he really was, and for his part he couldn’t believe that the Abbot, who had always displayed such a firm character, would give way so easily to the will of a monastic stranger, especially since he himself had many important and successful friends in Rome.

  Just then the bells were rung, a signal that the solemn admission of Brother Cyprian the newcomer into the Order of St Benedict was to proceed.

  Kreisler and Father Hilarius, who speedily swallowed the dregs of his goblet with a half-fearful ‘Bibendum quid!’, set off on their way to church. From the windows of the corridor along which they passed, they could see into the Abbot’s apartments. ‘Look, look!’ cried Father Hilarius, drawing Kreisler into a window niche. Kreisler glanced across and saw a monk in the Abbot’s own room. The Abbot was speaking to him very earnestly, while his own face flushed dark red. At last the Abbot knelt before the monk, who gave him the blessing.

  ‘Am I not right,’ said Hilarius quietly, ‘am I not right to seek and find something odd and unusual in this stranger monk who has suddenly descended upon our Abbey?’

  ‘To be sure,’ replied Kreisler, ‘there is something out of the ordinary about this Cyprian, and I should be surprised if certain connections were not soon revealed.’

  Father Hilarius went to join the other monks, to walk in solemn procession with them into the church, preceded by the cross, the lay brothers with lighted candles and banners walking beside them.

  When the Abbot and the strange monk passed close to Kreisler, he saw at first glance that Brother Cyprian was the youth awakened from death to life by Our Lady in the picture. Suddenly an idea came into his mind. He ran up to his room and found the little portrait Master Abraham had given him. No doubt about it! he was looking at the same young man, only younger, more animated, and in officer’s uniform. When he –

  PART IV

  BENEFICIAL CONSEQUENCES OF A SUPERIOR EDUCATION

  My Months of Greater Maturity

  M. cont. Hinzmann’s moving sermon, the wake, the lovely Mina, my reunion with Kitty, the ball – all this had excited a conflict of the most diverse emotions in my breast, so that, in the common phrase, I really did not know what to do with myself, and in a certain desolate anxiety of mind wished myself buried down in the cellar like my friend Muzius. This was very bad, to be sure, and I don’t know what would have become of me but for the true, elevated spirit of poetry dwelling within me, which immediately supplied me with many verses I did not omit to write down. The divine nature of poetry reveals itself primarily in the fact that making verses, although the rhyme may cost many a drop of sweat from time to time, produces a wonderful inner satisfaction which subdues all earthly sorrows, and they say has even conquered hunger and toothache on many occasions. That man whom death has robbed of father, mother or wife (indeed who has suffered any bereavement), good reason as he may have to be quite beside himself, yet is said never to have lacked for comfort in contemplating the wonderful dirge with which he expected to be inspired, and even to have married again simply so as not to abandon all hope of another tragic inspiration of the same kind.1

  Here are the verses describi
ng, with poetic force and verisimilitude, my condition and how I passed from sorrow to joy:

  Who wanders far from light of day,

  Haunting the cellar down below?

  Who cries to me, ‘No more delay!’

  Whose voice bewails a bitter woe?

  My truest friend lies buried there,

  His restless spirit riv’n by strife.

  ’Tis I must solace him: I swear

  That I will give his ghost new life!

  Yet no! There is no fleeting shade

  Can utter notes of such sweet power!

  A husband dear, a lost comrade

  They mourn who will return no more.

  Rinaldo2 would once more be drawn

  Into love’s bonds, obey its laws.

  But what is this I see? Proud scorn!

  I feel the touch of sharpened claws!

  ’Tis she – my wife! where may I fly?

  Ah, what emotion stirs my breast!

  The loveliest creature I espy

  In blooming youth and beauty drest!

  It seems a light shines from aloft!

  She leaps and plays with pretty art.

  Sweet perfumes through the cellar waft.

  My breast is light – heavy my heart.