The Life and Opinions of the Tomcat Murr

by E. T. A. Hoffmann

  ‘Now my banker, Signor Alessandro Sperzi, resided in the Largo delle Piane, and I myself don’t know how the idea of visiting the man occurred to me at this moment. He believed I had come on business, and began discussing my affairs at length. However, my whole head was full of the lady; I thought of nothing else, heard nothing else, and so instead of answering Signor Sperzi, I told him about the delightful adventure I had just had. Signor Sperzi was able to tell me more about my beauty than I could have expected: he it was who received a considerable allowance for that same young lady twice a year, from a banking house in Augsburg. She was called Angela Benzoni, and the old lady went by the name of Frau Magdala Sigrun. For his part, Signor Sperzi had to send the Augsburg banking house detailed reports on the girl’s entire life, and as the supervision of her upbringing had previously been his business, and he now managed her household, he could to some extent be considered her guardian. The banker supposed the girl was the offspring of a forbidden union between persons of the highest rank.

  ‘I expressed my surprise to Signor Sperzi that such a jewel should be entrusted to so dubious a character as the old lady, a woman who went about the streets in dirty, ragged gypsy clothing, and perhaps even meant to play the bawd. The banker assured me, however, that there could be no more faithful, conscientious companion than this old woman, who had come here with the girl when the child was only two. The fact that she sometimes disguised herself as a gypsy was a strange fancy, easy to understand in this land of the freedom of masquerade.

  ‘I should, I must, be brief! The old woman soon sought me out in her gypsy costume, and herself took me to Angela, who confessed her love to me, blushing rosy red in pure, virginal bashfulness. Sinful man that I was, I had still believed that the old woman was wickedly fostering sin, but soon I discovered my mistake. Angela was pure and chaste as snow, and where I had thought to luxuriate in sinful pleasure, I learned to believe in a virtue which, however, I must now regard as an infernal illusion of the Devil. As my passion rose higher and higher, I became more and more inclined to listen to the old woman, who kept whispering in my ear that I should marry Angela. Although it would have to be done in secret at this time, she said, yet the day would come when I would publicly place the princely diadem on my wife’s brow. Angela’s birth, she added, was equal to mine.

  ‘We were married in a chapel of the Church of San Filippo. I thought I had found Heaven. I withdrew from all other connections, gave up my commission in the army, and no longer frequented those circles where I used to indulge wickedly in all pleasures. It was this change in my way of life that gave me away. The dancer I had discarded found out where I went every evening, and told my brother the secret of my love, guessing that the seed of her vengeance might grow from that action. My brother followed me, and surprised me in Angela’s arms. With a jocular excuse, Hector apologized for his intrusion, and took me to task for my selfishness in failing to trust him even as I would trust an honest friend. Yet I saw only too clearly how much affected he was by Angela’s great beauty. The spark had caught; the flame of the most violent passion was fanned within him. He often came to call, although only when he knew he would find me there. I thought I saw Hector’s crazy love returned, and all the furies of jealousy rent my breast. I now fell victim to the torments of Hell! One day, upon entering Angela’s chamber, I thought I heard Hector’s voice in the next room. Murder in my heart, I stood rooted to the spot. Then Hector came suddenly bursting out of the room, his face burning red, his eyes rolling wildly like a madman’s. “Damn you, you shall not stand in my way any more!” he cried, foaming with rage, and thrust the dagger he had swiftly drawn into my breast right up to the hilt. The surgeon who was called said that the blow had gone through my heart. Our Blessed Lady deigned to work a miracle and give me back my life.’

  The monk spoke these last words in a quiet, trembling voice, and then seemed lost in sad thought.

  ‘And what,’ asked Kreisler, ‘what became of Angela?’

  ‘When the murderer,’ replied the monk, in a hollow, ghost-like voice, ‘when the murderer tried to enjoy the fruits of his dreadful deed, his beloved was seized by deathly convulsions, and she died in his arms. Poison –’

  Having uttered that word, the monk fell on his face, breathing with difficulty, like a dying man. Kreisler roused the Abbey by pulling the bell. Monks came hurrying up and carried the unconscious Cyprian to the infirmary.

  Next day, Kreisler found the Abbot in a peculiarly cheerful mood. ‘Well, well,’ he cried as Kreisler came in, ‘well, my dear Johannes, you don’t believe in modern miracles, but yesterday you yourself, in the church, worked the most wonderful miracle of all. Tell me, what did you do to our proud saint who lies there like a remorseful, repentant sinner, and in childlike, mortal terror has begged us all to forgive him for wishing to raise himself above us? Did you perhaps hear his confession, although it was yours he demanded?’

  Kreisler saw no reason to withhold any of what had passed between him and the monk Cyprian. He therefore told the whole story in detail, from his outspoken sermon to the arrogant monk when he spoke slightingly of the holy art of music, to the terrible state into which Cyprian had fallen after uttering the word ‘Poison!’. Kreisler then explained that while the sight of the picture had horrified Prince Hector, he still did not know why it had the same effect on the monk, and said he was also entirely in the dark about Master Abraham’s involvement in these terrible events.

  ‘The fact is,’ said the Abbot with a gracious smile, ‘the fact is, my dear son Johannes, we face one another now in circumstances very different from those of only a few hours ago. A constant mind, a firm resolve, but most of all a deep, true feeling that lies in the breast like a wonderfully prophetic perception, if united together will do more than the keenest understanding, the most experienced judgemental eye. You have proved as much, my dear Johannes, in showing that even though you were not told everything concerning the effect of the weapon put into your hands, you could make such skilful use of it at the right time that you instantly struck down an enemy who might not, perhaps, have been driven so easily from the field by the best-laid plans. Without knowing it you have done me, the Abbey, and perhaps the Church itself a service the beneficial consequences of which cannot be overlooked. I will, I must, be entirely honest with you now; I turn my back on those who tried to slander you to me; you may count on me, Johannes! Let me help you to find the fulfilment of your heart’s dearest wish. Your Cecilia,23 you know what fair creature I mean – but let us say nothing about that now! What you still wish to know about that terrible incident in Naples can be told in a few words. First, our good Brother Cyprian was pleased to omit one little circumstance from his narrative. Angela died of poison he had given her in the dreadful madness of jealousy. Master Abraham was in Naples at the time, going under the name of Severino. He thought he might find traces of his lost Chiara, and indeed he did, for that old gypsy woman called Magdala Sigrun, of whom you already know, crossed his path. The old woman turned to the Master when the worst had happened, and before she left Naples she gave him that portrait, but you still do not know all its secrets. Press the steel knob on the rim, and out springs Antonio’s likeness,24 which serves only as the lid of a container; not only will you then see the portrait of Angela, but a couple of little pieces of paper will fall into your hands too. They are of the utmost importance, since they are proof of the double murder. Now you see why your talisman has so powerful an effect. Master Abraham, it seems, has been involved with the two brothers in many other ways, but he will be able to tell you about that better than I can. So now, Johannes, let us go and find out how our sick Brother Cyprian is!’

  ‘And the miracle?’ asked Kreisler, glancing at that place on the wall above the little altar where he himself had helped the Abbot to hang the picture which the gentle reader will remember. He was not a little surprised to see Leonardo da Vinci’s Holy Family back in its old place instead. ‘And the miracle?’ repeated Kreisler.

&
nbsp; ‘You mean the handsome picture which previously hung here?’ replied the Abbot, with an odd look. ‘I have had it hung in the infirmary now. Perhaps the sight of it will strengthen poor Brother Cyprian; perhaps Our Blessed Lady will help him a second time.’

  Once in his own room, Kreisler found a letter from Master Abraham which ran as follows:

  My dear Johannes,

  Up, up and away! Leave the Abbey and make all the haste you can! The Devil has set a fine chase afoot here for his own amusement! More by word of mouth; I find writing most vexatious, for everything sticks in my throat and threatens to choke me. Not a word now of myself, or the star of hope that has risen upon me: only this much, in haste. You will find no Madame Benzon here any longer; she is Countess von Eschenau instead. The licence from Vienna has arrived, and the future marriage of Julia to the worthy Prince Ignatius is as good as announced. Prince Irenaeus is occupied with the idea of the new throne on which he will sit as sovereign, and which Madame Benzon, or rather the Countess von Eschenau, has promised him. Meanwhile, Prince Hector has been playing hide-and-seek until he was really obliged to return to the army. He will soon be back, and then there is to be a double wedding. It will be a very merry occasion. The trumpeters are already gargling, the fiddlers rubbing resin on their bows, the lamplighters of Sieghartsweiler are getting the torches ready – but Princess Maria’s name-day comes very soon, and I have great plans afoot, but you must be here. Pray come at once, when you have read this. Come as fast as you can. I will see you soon. And by the way, beware of those clerical gentlemen – but I am very fond of the Abbot. Adieu!

  So short and so full of matter was this little note from the old Master that –

  EDITOR’S POSTSCRIPT

  At the end of this second volume, the editor is obliged to impart some very sad news to his gentle readers. That clever, well-educated, philosophical, poetical tomcat Murr was snatched away by bitter Death in the midst of a fine career. He died in the night between the twenty-ninth and the thirtieth of November, after a short but severe illness, with the calm and composure of a wise man. Yet again we see that a genius maturing early can never prosper long: either he declines, in anticlimax, to become a mediocrity without character and intellect, and merges with the masses, or he does not live to a great age. Poor Murr! the death of your friend Muzius was the harbinger of your own, and if I were to make your funeral oration it would come from my heart and be very different from that delivered by the unfeeling Hinzmann, for I loved you, I loved you more than many a – well then, sleep well, and peace be to your ashes!

  It is a pity that the late Murr had not completed his Life and Opinions, which must therefore remain fragmentary. However, the posthumous papers of the departed tomcat contain many reflections and comments which he seems to have recorded during his residence with Kapellmeister Kreisler, and a good part of the book containing the biography of Kreisler, but torn up by the tomcat, was still left too.

  The editor therefore thinks it not inappropriate if, in a third volume to be published at the time of the Easter Fair, he imparts what remains of Kreisler’s biography to his gentle readers, now and then, at suitable places, inserting those parts of the cat’s comments and reflections which seem worth further communication.

  NOTES

  INTRODUCTION

  1. As Howard Gaskill pointed out in his thoughtful review of the first edition of this translation, George Eliot is also among the nineteenth-century novelists who cite the Tomcat. Strange as this may seem, it is possible that Hoffmann’s novel helped to inspire Middlemarch, by encouraging her to combine two different stories into a single, complex work.

  VOLUME ONE

  EDITOR’S FOREWORD

  1. Herr Dümmler: Hoffmann’s own publisher of that time, Ferdinand Dümmler.

  2. Night Pieces: Nachtstücke, a collection of stories by Hoffmann in two volumes, published in 1816–17. In the original German, the verbal confusion in the typesetting of which Hoffmann humorously complains hinges on the words Boskett, ‘grove or glade’, and Kaskett, ‘helmet’.

  3. Das Fräulein von Scuderi: A novella, Mademoiselle de Scudery, by Hoffmann, first published by Gleditsch in the Taschenbuch zum geselligen Vergnügen in 1819, published again in 1820 in volume 3 of Hoffmann’s four-volume collection of stories entitled Die Serapionsbrüder. In the original German, the verbal confusion is between the words Robe, ‘robe or gown’, and Farbe, ‘colour’.

  4. His likeness is very well caught on the cover of this book: The original German edition bore a picture of Hoffmann’s cat Murr on the cover. In May 1820 Hoffmann wrote to his friend Dr Friedrich Speyer: ‘A real cat whom I have brought up, a tomcat of great beauty (his likeness is very well caught on the cover of this book) and of even greater intellect, was the occasion of the droll jest which weaves its way through this really very serious work.’ The real Murr died, as Hoffmann tells his readers at the end of Volume Two of the novel, in late November 1821. Hoffmann sent an obituary notice to his friends, as if announcing the death of a human being. It ran: ‘On the night of the 29th to 30th November this year, after a short but severe illness, my beloved ward the tomcat Murr departed this life for a better world, dead in the fourth year of his promising career. Those who knew the deceased youth, who saw him tread the path of virtue and justice, will judge of my pain and honour it by silence.’

  AUTHOR’S PREFACE

  1. Étudiant en belles lettres: Student of literature.

  FOREWORD (SUPPRESSED BY AUTHOR)

  1. Homme de lettres très renommé: Very famous man of letters.

  PART I: SENSATIONS OF EXISTENCE

  1. ‘O thou sweet habit of existence!’ cries that Dutch hero in the tragedy: Count Egmont in Goethe’s tragedy Egmont, Act 5. reflecting in prison on his approaching execution.

  2. ‘How mighty is my love for thee, O Fatherland!’: The German line in the original, Gewaltig ist die Liebe zu dir o Vaterland!, is a slight misquotation of the line Allmächtig ist die Liebe zu dir, o Vaterland!, from a Singspiel of 1798 entitled Die Geisterinsel (‘The Isle of Spirits’), adapted from Shakespeare’s The Tempest by F. W. Gotter, with music by Johann Fredich Reichardt and others.

  3. don’t you recollect the great wind… the strangest of all adventures: Hoffmann takes the tale of the notary who lost his hat on the Pont Neuf (not quite accurately, and elaborating on it) from the passage entitled ‘The Fragment’ in A Sentimental Journey through France and Italy, by Laurence Sterne (1713–68), first published in 1768. Sterne’s narrator finds the fragmentary tale written ‘in the old French of Rabelais’s time’ on a sheet of waste paper wrapping a pat of butter. Sterne himself was one of Hoffmann’s favourite authors.

  4. Atalanta: In Greek myth, a huntress who vowed never to marry any man unless he could outstrip her in a race. She was finally defeated by Hippomenes, who dropped three golden apples as they ran. Atalanta could not resist stopping to pick them up, and so lost the race.

  5. the Fêtes de Versailles: Louis XIV of France had held magnificent festivities lasting a week at Versailles in 1664. Plays including a work by Molière were performed, and the texts of the entertainments were published first under the title of Les Plaisirs de l’isle enchantée, then as Les Festes de Versailles.

  6. stoical Scaevola: According to a Roman legend Gaius Mucius Scaevola was taken prisoner by the Etruscans besieging Rome, and put his right hand into the fire to show his captors he did not fear death. The Etruscan king Lars Porsenna, impressed by his courage, released him, and the Romans gave him the nickname of Scaevola, ‘left-handed’.

  7. Laocoön countenances: In classical legend the Trojan prince Laocoön, a priest of Apollo, warned the Trojans not to trust the gift of a wooden horse from the Greeks, and was then strangled together with his sons in the coils of two sea-serpents. A famous statuary group carved in Rhodes in about 25 BC shows the three human figures with distorted faces and the serpents twining round them.

  8. ‘Give me some light!’: The line ‘Give me some li
ght. Away!’ is spoken by King Claudius in Shakespeare’s Hamlet (III.ii) as he rises from watching the players perform, and is echoed by Polonius in the next line with the words ‘Lights, lights, lights’.

  9. the hobgoblin Puck: The mischievous spirit in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

  10. Mi lagnerò tacendo della mia sorte amara: ‘I will lament my bitter fate in silence.’ The opening words of an aria by Hoffmann himself, as recorded in his diary for 3 July 1812. The aria is now lost.

  11. my Ariel… as Shakespeare’s Prospero praises his: In The Tempest (V.i).

  12. Ave maris stella: The traditional hymn to the Virgin Mary, who is addressed as ‘star of the sea’. The specific reference is to Hoffmann’s four-part setting, of 27 June 1808.

  13. girandole: A firework consisting of a revolving wheel with rockets fixed to it.

  14. the weather harp: A gigantic version of an Aeolian harp, a stringed instrument producing sound by currents of air touching the strings, and cf. Hoffmann’s description of this gigantic version of an Aeolian harp in his own footnote (Part II, p. 125).

  15. ‘You sentimental Just!’: The character of a rough-mannered but good-hearted soldier, batman to Major von Tellheim, the hero of Lessing’s play Minna von Barnhelm, which was first performed in 1767.