The Life and Opinions of the Tomcat Murr

by E. T. A. Hoffmann

  Prince Hector flew to the Princess’s side with the haste of the most ardent lover, pressed her hand tenderly to his lips a hundred times, swore that he had lived only in his thoughts of her, that an unfortunate misunderstanding had caused him the torments of Hell, that he could no longer endure separation from her whom he adored, and that now all the bliss of Heaven had opened up before him.

  Hedwiga received the Prince with an easy cheerfulness unlike her usual manner. She replied to his tender nothings as best a bride-to-be may, without giving too much of herself away in advance; indeed, she did not think it beneath her to tease him a little about his hiding place, assuring him that she could think of no prettier or more charming transformation than to see a milliner’s block turn into a prince’s head – for, she said, she had taken the head she saw in the gable window of the pavilion for just such a block. This gave rise to all manner of amiable chaffing of the happy pair, which seemed to please even Prince Irenaeus. He felt quite sure now that Madame Benzon had been in grave error about Kreisler, for in his opinion Princess Hedwiga’s love for this handsomest of men was clear to see. The Princess seemed to be in rare, full bloom both of mind and body, as befits a happy bride.

  With Julia, it was quite the opposite. As soon as she caught sight of the Prince she quivered in the grip of inner dread. Pale as death, she stood there with her eyes lowered to the ground, unable to make any movement, scarcely capable of standing upright.

  After some time Prince Hector turned to Julia, with the words: ‘Fräulein Benzon, if I am not mistaken?’

  ‘A friend of the Princess’s from earliest childhood – they’re like a pair of sisters!’

  As Prince Irenaeus spoke these words, Prince Hector took Julia’s hand and whispered to her very softly, ‘It is you alone I mean!’

  Julia swayed; tears of the bitterest fear trickled from beneath her lashes. She would have fallen to the ground had Princess Hedwiga not swiftly thrust a chair towards her.

  ‘Julia,’ said the Princess quietly, as she leaned over her poor friend, ‘Julia, pull yourself together! Don’t you guess what a hard battle I am fighting?’

  Prince Irenaeus, opening the door, called for eau de Luce.12

  ‘I don’t carry such stuff on me,’ said Master Abraham, coming up, ‘but I have some good ether. Has someone fainted? Ether’s good for a faint too!’

  ‘Then come in,’ replied Prince Irenaeus. ‘Come in at once, Master Abraham, and help Fräulein Julia.’

  As soon as Master Abraham entered the hall, however, the unexpected was to happen. Prince Hector, pale as a ghost, stared at the Master. His hair seemed to stand on end, a cold sweat of fear stood out on his forehead. Stepping forward, his torso bent back, his arms outstretched towards the Master, he might have been compared with Macbeth when Banquo’s dreadful, bloody ghost13 suddenly takes the empty seat at table. The Master calmly produced his little flask and was about to approach Julia.

  At this the Prince seemed to pull himself together and revive. ‘Severino, is it you?’ he cried in hollow tones of the deepest horror.

  ‘It is indeed,’ replied Master Abraham, not deviating in the slightest from his calm demeanour, not so much as changing expression. ‘It is indeed. I’m glad you remember me, Highness; I had the honour of doing you a small service some years ago in Naples.’

  The Master took another step forward, whereupon Prince Hector seized his arm, pulled him aside by main force, and there followed a brief conversation of which no one in the hall understood a word, since it was conducted very fast and in the Neapolitan dialect.

  ‘Severino, how did that man come by the portrait?’

  ‘I gave it to him as a weapon to defend himself against you.’

  ‘Does he know?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Will you keep silent?’

  ‘For the time being, yes!’

  ‘Severino, all the devils of hell are after me! What do you mean, for the time being?’

  ‘As long as you behave yourself and leave Kreisler alone, and that young lady too.’

  At this the Prince let go of the Master and went over to a window.

  Meanwhile, Julia had revived. Looking at Master Abraham with an indescribable expression of heart-rending melancholy, she whispered rather than said, ‘Oh, my dear, kind Master, you can save me! You have power over so much, do you not? Your knowledge may yet turn everything to good!’

  The Master felt he saw the most wonderful connection between Julia’s words and his recent conversation, as if she had understood it all in the exalted perception of a dream, and knew the whole secret!

  ‘You are a devout angel,’ said the Master softly into Julia’s ear, ‘and so the dark, infernal spirit of sin has no power over you. Put all your trust in me; fear nothing, arm yourself with all spiritual power – and think of our Johannes.’

  ‘Oh,’ cried Julia painfully, ‘oh, Johannes! He will come back, won’t he, Master? I shall see him again!’

  ‘Certainly,’ replied the Master, putting a finger to his lips. Julia understood.

  Prince Hector was taking pains to seem at ease; he explained that the man known here, so he understood, as Master Abraham had witnessed a very tragic event several years ago in Naples, an event in which he, the Prince himself, as he must confess, had been involved. This was not the time to tell that story, but he would do so at a future date.

  The storm within him was too violent for its turmoil not to show on the surface, and so the Prince’s distraught countenance, from which every drop of blood seemed to have drained, suited very ill with the nonchalant conversation in which he now forced himself to engage merely to get over this difficult moment. The Princess succeeded in overcoming the tension of the situation better than Prince Hector. With that irony which turns even suspicion and bitterness to the subtlest mockery, Hedwiga chaffingly entangled the Prince in the labyrinth of his own thoughts. Clever man of the world as he was, and moreover armed with all the weapons of a wickedness that destroys every truthful form life takes, he could not withstand her strange state of mind. The more vivaciously Hedwiga spoke, the more fiery and electrifying the lightning of her witty irony as it struck home, the more confused and anxious did the Prince seem to feel, until at last that feeling became unendurable and he hastily took his leave.

  Prince Irenaeus felt as he always did when offence of this kind was offered: he couldn’t understand any of it. He confined himself to a few fragments of French, meaning nothing in particular, which he flung at Prince Hector and which the latter returned in kind.

  Prince Hector was already out of the door when Hedwiga suddenly, her whole mood changing, looked down at the floor and cried aloud, in a strange tone that went to the heart: ‘I see the murderer’s bloody track!’ Then she seemed to wake from a dream, pressed Julia stormily to her breast, and whispered, ‘Child, poor child, don’t let yourself be beguiled!’

  ‘Secrets,’ said Prince Irenaeus crossly, ‘secrets, fancies, follies, romantic tricks! Ma foi, I scarcely know my own court! Master Abraham, you mend my clocks when they go wrong; I wish you could find out what damage has been done to the clockwork here, because it never faltered before. And what’s all this about someone called Severino?’

  ‘I showed my optical and mechanical devices under that name in Naples,’ replied the Master.

  ‘Oh – oh, indeed,’ said Prince Irenaeus, staring at the Master as if a question were hovering on his lips, but then he swiftly turned and left the room in silence.

  They had all thought that Madame Benzon was with Princess Maria, but she was not; she had gone to her own lodgings.

  Julia longed for fresh air; the Master led her into the park, and strolling along the avenues where the leaves were falling, they spoke of Kreisler and his visit to the Abbey. They came to the fisherman’s cottage. Julia went inside to rest; Kreisler’s letter lay on the table. The Master thought there was nothing in it that Julia need fear to learn.

  As she read the letter, her cheeks flushed a ros
ier red, and soft fire, reflecting a happier frame of mind, shone from her eyes.

  ‘You see,’ said the Master kindly, ‘you see, dear child, how the good spirit of my Johannes speaks words of comfort to you, even from afar? What have you to fear from threatening designs if constancy, love and courage protect you from the wicked who lie in wait?’

  ‘Merciful Heaven,’ cried Julia, casting up her eyes, ‘only protect me from myself!’ She trembled, as if in sudden terror at the words she had involuntarily uttered, sank into the armchair, half-fainting, and covered her burning face with both hands.

  ‘I don’t understand you, my dear girl,’ said the Master. ‘Perhaps you don’t understand yourself, so look closely into your own mind, and hide nothing from yourself out of weak self-indulgence.’

  The Master left Julia to the mood of profound reflection into which she had sunk, folded his arms, and looked up at the mysterious glass ball. His breast swelled with longing and a wonderful sense of premonition.

  ‘I must question you now,’ said he, ‘I must consult you now – you dear and lovely secret of my life! Do not be silent, let your voice be heard! You know I was never an ordinary man, though many thought me so, for all the love that is the eternal world spirit itself burned in me, and a spark glowed in my breast that you breathed into bright, cheerful flame! Never believe, Chiara, that this heart has turned to ice because it has grown older, and cannot beat as fast as when I took you from the inhuman Severino;never believe me less worthy of you now than when you yourself sought me out. Yes, let your voice be heard, and I will pursue that sound with a young man’s speed until I have found you, and then we will live together again and work high magic in enchanted company, that magic which all human beings, even the worst, must recognize even though they may not believe in it. And if you are no longer bodily here on earth, if your voice speaks to me from the spirit world, then I will be content, I will even be better than I was before. But no, no! What were those comforting words you spoke to me?

  ‘Pallid death cannot devour

  Those whose loving hearts are true.

  He now sees the sunset hour

  Who despaired in morn’s fresh dew.’

  ‘Master,’ cried Julia, who had risen from her chair, listening to the old man in profound surprise, ‘Master, to whom are you talking? What are you doing? You spoke the name Severino. Dear Heaven! didn’t Prince Hector address you yourself by that name when he had recovered from his surprise? What dreadful mystery lies hidden here?’

  At these words from Julia the old man immediately came out of his exalted state, and his face assumed, as it had not done for some time, that strange, almost exaggerated grin that was curiously at odds with his usual kindly nature, giving his whole appearance the look of a rather weird caricature.

  ‘My dear young lady,’ said he in the shrill tone commonly used by purveyors of wonderful secret devices crying up their wares, ‘my dear young lady, just be patient for a little, and I’ll soon have the honour of showing you some very wonderful things here in this fisherman’s cottage. Do you see these dancing manikins, this little Turk who knows the age of everyone in the company, these automatons, these freaks, these distorted images, these optical mirrors – all of them pretty magic toys, but I still lack the best, and that’s my Invisible Girl. Note this: she’s already sitting up there in the glass ball. But she won’t speak yet, she’s still tired after her long journey, for she has come straight from far-away India. Yes, pretty lady, my Invisible Girl will be here in a few days’ time, and then we’ll ask her about Prince Hector, and Severino, and other matters of the past and the future! But let’s just have a little simple amusement now.’

  So saying, the Master went running about the room with the speed and liveliness of a young man, wound up the machinery and arranged the magic mirrors. In every corner, devices came to life: automatons strutted about, turning their heads, and an artificial cockerel beat his wings and crowed, while screeching parrots flew circling around them, and Julia herself and the Master seemed both outside and inside the room. Well accustomed as she was to such tricks, Julia felt some horror at the Master’s strange mood. ‘Master,’ she said, anxiously, ‘Master, what has happened to you?’

  ‘My child,’ said the Master, in his grave manner, ‘my child, something beautiful and wonderful, but it is not good for you to learn of it. However, let these devices here, alive yet dead, go through their tricks while I tell you all that it is necessary and useful for you to know about on certain subjects. My dear Julia, you own mother has closed her maternal heart to you, but I will open it so that you may look in, see the danger in which you stand, and draw back from her. First, then, and without more ado, know that your mother has set her heart on nothing less than that your marriage to –

  M. cont. – prefer not to do so. Young tomcat, be modest like me, and don’t be ready with your verses on every occasion if plain honest prose will do to spin out your ideas. Verses in a book of prose should serve the same function as bacon in sausage: that is, they should be scattered about in little bits here and there, lending the entire mixture a greasier gleam, a more deliciously sweet flavour. I don’t fear that my poetic colleagues will think this simile too low and vulgar, since it is taken from our favourite food, and indeed a good verse can sometimes be as serviceable in a merely tolerable novel as a piece of fat bacon in a lean sausage. I tell you this as a tomcat of aesthetic education and experience.

  Unworthy and indeed rather pitiful as Ponto’s entire conduct, way of life and manner of remaining in his master’s favour might strike me in the light of my previous philosophical and moral principles, yet I was greatly taken by his unaffected manners, his elegance, and his charming ease in social intercourse. I endeavoured with all my might to persuade myself that my scholarly education, the gravity of all I said and did, set me far above the ignorant Ponto, who had merely snapped up a few scraps of learning here and there. However, a certain feeling which would not be suppressed told me plainly that Ponto would outshine me anywhere; I felt obliged to recognize the existence of a more distinguished rank of persons, and count Ponto the poodle among them.

  A brilliant mind like mine will always have its singular and characteristic ideas on any occasion, at every experience life brings, and so I myself, meditating on my own cast of mind and my whole relationship with Ponto, fell into all manner of very pretty reflections which are well worth further communication. How is it, said I to myself, thoughtfully putting a paw to my brow, how is it that great poets and philosophers, although brilliant and sophisticated in other respects, prove so awkward in the social intercourse of the so-called polite world? They are for ever found where they ought not to be just then, they speak just when they ought to be silent, and conversely they remain silent just when they should be saying something; they offend against the form society has taken, always swimming against the current, and so injure themselves and others; in short, they resemble one who thrusts himself out of the gateway alone just as a whole procession of brisk walkers is strolling out in unison, and who, impetuously following his own path, breaks up the entire procession. This, as I know, is put down to a lack of social refinement which cannot be acquired at the scholar’s desk, but I think such refinement is easily enough acquired, and there must be some other reason for their inveterate awkwardness.

  A great poet or philosopher would not be great if he were not aware of his intellectual superiority; but similarly he could not have those deep feelings peculiar to every brilliant man without seeing that his superiority cannot be acknowledged, because it upsets the balance that so-called polite society is always chiefly concerned to maintain. Every voice must join in the perfect accord of the whole, but the poet’s strikes a dissonant note, and although it may be a very good note in other circumstances, yet it is the wrong one at that moment, because it is not in tune with the whole. The right note, however, like good taste, consists in desisting from all that is unseemly. I also think that the irritation arising from the contradi
ction between feelings of superiority and an unseemly outward appearance hinders the poet or philosopher who is inexperienced in the world of society from seeing the whole and rising above it. He should not value his own intellectual superiority too highly at that moment, and if he refrains from doing so he will not set too high a value, either, on the so-called refinement of high society, which amounts only to an attempt to smooth away all corners and sharp edges, reducing all physiognomies to a single one, which then ceases to be one for that very reason. Then, impartial and free of vexation, he will easily understand the true nature of that refinement and the poor premises upon which it rests, and this understanding will make him at ease in the curious world which considers such refinement essential.

  It is the same with artists, in their own way: like poets and writers, they are sometimes invited into the society of a person of rank, so that such a person can claim to be a kind of patron in the old style. Alas, these artists usually smell of the shop a little, and consequently they are either humble to the point of crawling, or brusque to the point of loutishness.

  [Editor’s note: Murr, I am sorry to see you decking yourself out in borrowed plumes so often. I have good reason to fear that it will lower you considerably in the esteem of our gentle readers. Don’t all these reflections you’re so proud of come straight from the mouth of Kapellmeister Johannes Kreisler? And anyway, how could you acquire sufficient experience of life to see so deeply into the mind of a human writer, the most wonderful thing on earth?]

  But why, I further reflected, should not a brilliant tomcat, if he is also poet, writer or artist, why should he not succeed in raising himself to such an understanding of the refinement of high society in all its significance, and in moving there himself with all the beauty and charm of his outward appearance? Has Nature granted the advantages of this refinement to the dog family alone? Though we cats may differ a little from that proud family in our dress, way of life, manners and customs, yet we too are flesh and blood, body and mind, and in the final resort dogs can lead their lives only as we do. Dogs too must eat, drink, sleep, etc., and when they are beaten it hurts them. In short, I decided to take instruction from my elegant young friend Ponto the poodle, and entirely at one with myself I went back to my master’s room. A glance in the mirror assured me that my serious purpose of striving for higher refinement was already, in itself, having a beneficial effect on my outer bearing. I looked at myself with the greatest contentment. Can there be any more comfortable condition than to be wholly satisfied with oneself? I purred!