The Best Tales of Hoffmann

by E. T. A. Hoffmann

  The old man divined what I was after—which was not a very difficult thing for him to do. He informed me that my behaviour towards his niece was not such as to please him altogether, and he asked me what was the real purport of my attentions. Then I frankly confessed that I loved Marianna with all my heart, and that the greatest earthly happiness I could conceive was a union with her. At this Capuzzi, after measuring me from top to toe, burst out in a guffaw of contempt, and declared that he never had any idea that such lofty thoughts could haunt the brain of a paltry barber. I was almost boiling with rage; I said he knew very well that I was no paltry barber but rather a good surgeon, and, moreover, in painting, a faithful pupil of the great Annibal Caracci and of the unrivalled Guido Reni. But Capuzzi only replied by a still louder guffaw of laughter, and in his horrible falsetto squeaked, ‘See here, my sweet Signor barber, my excellent Signor surgeon, my honoured Annibal Caracci, my beloved Guido Reni, be off to the devil, and don’t ever show yourself here again, if you don’t want your legs broken.’ And then the knock-kneed old fool laid hold of me with no less an intention than to kick me out of the room, and hurl me down the stairs. But that, you know, was the limit. My anger got the better of me, I seized the old lunatic and threw him so that his legs stuck up in the air; and there I left him screaming, while I ran down the stairs and out of the house door which, I need hardly say, has been closed to me ever since.

  “And that’s how matters stood when you came to Rome and when Heaven inspired Father Boniface with the happy idea of bringing me to you. Then as soon as your clever trick had brought me the success for which I had been vainly striving so long, that is, when I was accepted by the Academy of San Luca, and all Rome was heaping up praise and honour on me lavishly, I went straight to the old man and suddenly presented myself before him in his own room, like a threatening apparition. Such at least he must have thought me, for he grew as pale as a corpse, and retreated behind a great table, trembling in every limb. And in a firm and earnest way I represented to him that it was not now a paltry barber or a surgeon, but a celebrated painter and Academician of San Luca, Antonio Scacciati, to whom he would not, I hoped, refuse the hand of his niece Marianna.

  You should have seen into what a passion the old fool flew. He screamed; he flourished his arms about like one possessed of devils; he yelled that I, a ruffianly murderer, was seeking his life, that I had stolen his Marianna from him since I had portrayed her in my picture, and it was driving him mad, driving him to despair, for all the world, all the world, were fixing their covetous, lustful eyes upon his Marianna, his life, his hope, his all; but I had better take care, he would burn my house over my head, and me and my picture in it. And therewith he kicked up such a din, shouting, ‘Fire! Murder! Thieves! Help!’ that I was completely confused, and thought only of making my way out of the house.

  “The crackbrained old fool is head over ears in love with his niece; he keeps her under lock and key; and as soon as he succeeds in getting a dispensation from the Pope, he will force her to a shameful marriage with himself. All hope for me is lost!” “

  “No, no, not quite,” said Salvator, laughing, “I am of the opinion that things could not be better for you. Marianna loves you, of that you are convinced; and all we have to do is to get her out of the power of that old lunatic, Signor Pasquale Capuzzi. I should like to know what there is to hinder a couple of enterprising fellows like you and me from accomplishing this. Pluck up your courage, Antonio. Instead of wailing, and sighing, and fainting like a lovesick swain, it would be better to set to work to think out some plan for rescuing your Marianna. You wait and see, Antonio, how finely we’ll circumvent the old dotard; the wildest extravagance hardly seems wild enough to me. I’ll set about it at once, and learn what I can about the old man, and about his habits of life. But you must not be seen in this affair, Antonio. Go home quietly, and come back to me early tomorrow morning, then we’ll consider our first plan of attack.”

  Herewith Salvator shook the paint out of his brush, threw on his mantle, and hurried to the Corso, while Antonio betook himself home as Salvator had bidden him—his heart comforted and full of hope again.

  III

  Next morning Salvator, having in the meantime inquired into Capuzzi’s habits of life, very greatly surprised Antonio by a description of them, even down to the minutest details.

  “Poor Marianna,” said Salvator, “leads a sad life of it with the crazy old fellow. There he sits sighing and ogling the whole day long, and what is worse still, in order to soften her heart towards him, he sings her all sorts of love ditties that he has composed or intends to compose. At the same time he is so damnably jealous that he will not even permit the poor young girl to have the usual female attendance, for fear of intrigues and amours, which a maid might be induced to engage in. Instead, a hideous little monster with hollow eyes and pale flabby cheeks appears every morning and evening to perform for sweet Marianna the services of a tiring-maid. And this little apparition is nobody else but that dwarf Pitichinaccio, who has to wear women’s clothing. Capuzzi, whenever he leaves, carefully locks and bolts every door; besides which there is always a confounded fellow keeping watch below, who was formerly a bravo, and then a gendarme, and now lives under Capuzzi’s rooms. It seems, therefore, almost impossible to enter his house; nevertheless I promise you, Antonio, that this very night you shall be in Capuzzi’s own room and shall see your Marianna, though this time it will only be in Capuzzi’s presence.”

  “What do you say?” cried Antonio, quite excited; “what do you say? We shall manage it tonight? I thought it was impossible.”

  “There, there,” continued Salvator, “keep still, Antonio, and let us quietly consider how we may safely carry out the plan I have conceived. But in the first place I must tell you that I have already scraped an acquaintance with Signor Pasquale Capuzzi without knowing it. That wretched spinet, which stands in the corner there, belongs to him, and he wants me to pay him the preposterous sum of ten ducats for it. When I was convalescent I longed for some music, which always comforts me and does me a deal of good, so I begged my landlady to get me some such instrument as that. Signora Caterina learned that there was an old man living in the Via Ripetta who had a fine spinet to sell. I got the instrument brought here. I did not trouble myself either about the price or about the owner. It was only yesterday evening that I learned quite by chance that the gentleman who intended to cheat me with this rickety old thing was Signor Pasquale Capuzzi. Signora Caterina had enlisted the services of an acquaintance living in the same house, and indeed on the same floor as Capuzzi—and now you can easily guess whence I have got all my news.”

  “Yes,” replied Antonio, “then the way to get in is found; your landlady—”

  “I know very well, Antonio,” said Salvator, cutting him short, “I know what you’re going to say. You think you can find a way to your Marianna through Signora Caterina. But you’ll find that we can’t do anything of that sort; she is far too talkative; she can’t keep the least secret, and so we can’t for a single moment think of employing her in this business. Now listen to me quietly. Every evening when it’s dark, Signor Pasquale, although it’s very hard work for him owing to his knock-knees, carries his little friend the eunuch home in his arms, as soon as he has finished his duties as maid. Nothing in the world could induce the timid Pitichinaccio to set foot on the pavement at that time of night. So that when—”

  At this moment somebody knocked at Salvator’s door, and to the consternation of both, Signor Pasquale stepped in in all the splendour of his gala attire. On catching sight of Scacciati he stood stock still as if paralyzed, and then, opening his eyes wide, he gasped for air as though he had some difficulty in breathing. But Salvator hastily ran to meet him, and took him by both hands, saying, “My dear Signor Pasquale, your presence in my humble dwelling is, I feel, a very great honour. May I presume that it is your love for art which brings you to me? You wish to see the newest things I have done, perhaps to give me a commis
sion for some work. In what, my dear Signor Pasquale, can I serve you?”

  “I have a word or two to say to you, my dear Signor Salvator,” stammered Capuzzi painfully, “but—alone—when you are alone. With your leave I will withdraw and come again at a more seasonable time.”

  “By no means,” said Salvator, holding the old gentleman fast, “by no means, my dear sir. You need not stir a step; you could not have come at a more seasonable time, for, since you are a great admirer of the noble art of painting, and the patron of all good painters, I am sure you will be greatly pleased for me to introduce to you Antonio Scacciati here, the first painter of our time, whose glorious work—the wonderful ‘Magdalene at the Saviour’s Feet’—has excited the most enthusiastic admiration throughout all Rome. You too, I need hardly say, have also formed a high opinion of the work, and must be very anxious to know the great artist himself.”

  The old man was seized with a violent trembling; he shook as if he had a shivering fit of the ague, and shot fiery wrathful looks at poor Antonio. He however approached the old gentleman, and, bowing with polished courtesy, assured him that he esteemed himself happy at meeting in such an unexpected way with Signor Pasquale Capuzzi, whose great learning in music as well as in painting was a theme for wonder not only in Rome but throughout all Italy, and he concluded by requesting the honour of his patronage.

  This behaviour of Antonio, in pretending to meet the old gentleman for the first time in his life, and in addressing him in such flattering phrases, soon brought him around again. He forced his features into a simpering smile, and, as Salvator now let his hands loose, gave his mustache an elegant upward curl, at the same time stammering out a few unintelligible words. Then, turning to Salvator, he requested payment of the ten ducats for the spinet he had sold him.

  “Oh! that trifling little matter we can settle afterwards, my good sir,” was Salvator’s answer. “First have the goodness to look at this sketch of a picture which I have drawn, and drink a glass of Syracuse while you do so.” Salvator meanwhile placed his sketch on the easel and moved up a chair for the old gentleman, and then, when he had taken his seat, he presented him with a large and handsome wine-cup full of good Syracuse—the little pearl-like bubbles rising gaily to the top.

  Signor Pasquale was very fond of a glass of good wine—when he did not have to pay for it; and now he ought to have been in an especially happy frame of mind, for, besides nourishing his heart with the hope of getting ten ducats for a rotten, worn-out spinet, he was sitting before a splendid, boldly designed picture, the rare beauty of which he was quite capable of estimating at its full worth. And that he was in this happy frame of mind he evidenced in divers ways; he simpered ingratiatingly; he half closed his little eyes; he assiduously stroked his chin and mustache; and lisped time after time, “Splendid! delicious!” but they did not know to which he was referring, the picture or the wine.

  When he had thus worked himself into a quiet cheerful humour, Salvator suddenly began—“They tell me, my dear sir, that you have a most beautiful and amiable niece, named Marianna—is it so? All the young men of the city are so smitten with love that they do nothing but run up and down the Via Ripetta stupidly, almost dislocating their necks in their efforts to look up at your balcony for a sight of your sweet Marianna, to snatch a single glance from her heavenly eyes.”

  Suddenly all the charming simpers, all the good humour which had been called up into the old gentleman’s face by the good wine, were gone. Looking gloomily before him, he said sharply, “Ah! that’s an instance of the corruption of our abandoned young men. They fix their infernal eyes, the shameful seducers, upon mere children. For I tell you, my good sir, that my niece Marianna is a child, still a child, only just outgrown her nurse’s care.”

  Salvator turned the conversation upon something else; the old gentleman recovered himself. But just as he, his face again radiant with sunshine, was on the point of putting the full wine-cup to his lips, Salvator began anew. “But tell me, my dear sir, if it is indeed true that your niece, with her sixteen summers, really has beautiful auburn hair, and eyes full of heaven’s own loveliness and joy, like Antonio’s ‘Magdalene?’ It is generally maintained that she has.”

  “I don’t know,” replied the old gentleman, still more sharply than before, “I don’t know. But let us leave my niece in peace; rather let us exchange a few instructive words on the noble subject of art, as your fine picture here invites me to do.”

  Every time that Capuzzi raised the wine-cup to his lips to take a good draught, Salvator began to talk again about the beautiful Marianna, so that at last the old gentleman leaped from his chair in a perfect passion, banged the cup down upon the table and almost broke it, screaming in a high shrill voice, “By the infernal pit of Pluto! by all the furies! you will turn my wine into poison—into poison I tell you. But I see through you, you and your fine friend Signor Antonio, you think to make sport of me. But you’ll find yourselves deceived. Pay me the ten ducats you owe me immediately, and then I will leave you and your associate, that barber-fellow Antonio, to make your way to the devil.”

  Salvator shouted, as if mastered by the most violent rage, “What! you have the audacity to treat me in this way in my own house! Do you think I’m going to pay you ten ducats for that rotten box? The worms have long ago eaten all the goodness and all the music out of it. Not ten—not five—not three—not one ducat shall you have for it, it’s not worth a farthing. Away with the tumble-down thing!” and he kicked over the little instrument again and again, till the strings were all jarring and jangling together.

  “Ha!” screeched Capuzzi, “justice is still to be had in Rome; I will have you arrested, sir—arrested and cast into the deepest dungeon,” and he was about to rush out of the room, blustering like a hailstorm. But Salvator took fast hold of him with both hands, and drew him down into the chair again, softly murmuring in his ear, “My dear Signor Pasquale, don’t you perceive that I was only jesting with you? You shall have for your spinet, not ten, but thirty ducats cash down.” And he went on repeating, “thirty bright ducats in ready money,” until Capuzzi said in a faint and feeble voice, “What do you say, my dear sir? Thirty ducats for the spinet without its being repaired?” Then Salvator released his hold of the old gentleman, and asserted on his honour that within an hour the instrument should be worth thirty—nay, forty ducats, and that Signor Pasquale should receive as much for it.

  Taking in a fresh supply of breath, and sighing deeply, the old gentleman murmured, “Thirty—forty ducats!” Then he began, “But you have greatly offended me, Signor Salvator—” “Thirty ducats,” repeated Salvator. Capuzzi simpered, but then began again, “But you have grossly wounded my feelings, Signor Salvator—” “Thirty ducats,” exclaimed Salvator, cutting him short; and he continued to repeat, “Thirty ducats! thirty ducats! as long as the old gentleman continued to sulk—till at length Capuzzi said, radiant with delight, ”If you will give me thirty—I mean forty ducats for the spinet, all shall be forgiven and forgotten, my dear sir.”

  “But,” began Salvator, “before I can fulfill my promise, I still have one little condition to make, which you, my honoured Signor Pasquale Capuzzi di Senigaglia, can easily grant. You are the first composer in all Italy, besides being the foremost singer of the day. When I heard in the opera Le Nozze di Teti e Peleo the great scene which that shameless Francesco Cavalli has stolen from your works, I was enraptured. If you would only sing me that aria while I put the spinet to rights you would confer upon me the greatest pleasure I can conceive.”

  Puckering up his mouth into the most winning of smiles, and blinking his little gray eyes, the old gentleman replied, “I perceive, my good sir, that you are yourself a clever musician, for you possess taste and know how to value the deserving better than these ungrateful Romans. Listen—listen—to the aria of all arias.”

  Thereupon he rose to his feet, and stretching himself up to his full height, spread out his arms and closed both eyes, so that he looked l
ike a cock preparing to crow; and he at once began to screech in such a way that the walls rang again, and Signora Caterina and her two daughters soon came running in, fully under the impression that such screaming must betoken some accident or other. At the sight of the crowing old gentleman they stopped on the threshold utterly astonished; and thus they formed the audience of the incomparable musician Capuzzi.

  Meanwhile Salvator, having picked up the spinet and thrown back the lid, took his palette in hand, and in bold firm strokes began on the lid of the instrument the most remarkable piece of painting that ever was seen. The central idea was a scene from Cavalli’s opera Le Nozze di Teti, but there was a multitude of other personages mixed up with it in the most fantastic way. Among them were the recognizable features of Capuzzi, Antonio, Marianna (faithfully reproduced from Antonio’s picture), Salvator himself, Signora Caterina and her two daughters—and even the Pyramid Doctor was not wanting—and all grouped so intelligently, judiciously, and ingeniously, that Antonio could not conceal his astonishment, both at the artist’s intellectual power as well as at his technique.