The Best Tales of Hoffmann

by E. T. A. Hoffmann

  “No, no, we can have none of that, Antonio,” replied Salvator. “Margaret can be useful to us without being your love messenger exactly. Besides, accident, which often plays fine tricks, might carry your love notes into old Capuzzi’s hands, and bring an endless amount of fresh trouble upon Marianna, just when she is on the point of getting the lovesick old fool under her thumb. Listen to what happened. The way in which Marianna received the old fellow when we took him home has reformed him. He is fully convinced that she no longer loves you, but that she has given him at least one half of her heart, and that all he has to do is to win the other half. And Marianna, since she imbibed the poison of your kisses, has advanced three years in shrewdness, artfulness, and experience. She has convinced the old man, not only that she had no share in our trick, but that she hates our goings-on, and will meet with scorn every device on your part to approach her. In his excessive delight the old man was too hasty, and swore that if he could do anything to please his adored Marianna he would do it immediately, she only has to mention it. At this Marianna modestly asked for nothing except that her zio carissimo [dearest uncle] would take her to see Signor Formica in the theatre outside the Porta del Popolo. This rather stumped Capuzzi; he consulted with the Pyramid Doctor and with Pitichinaccio; at last Signor Pasquale and Signor Splendiano came to the resolution that they really would take Marianna to this theatre tomorrow. Pitichinaccio will accompany them in the disguise of a handmaid. He gave his consent only on condition that Signor Pasquale would make him a present, not only of the plush wasitcoat, but also of a wig, and at night would, alternately with the Pyramid Doctor, carry him home. That bargain they finally made; and so this remarkable trinity will certainly go along with pretty Marianna to see Signor Formica tomorrow, in the theatre outside the Porta del Popolo.”

  It is now necessary to say who Signor Formica was, and what he had to do with the theatre outside the Porta del Popolo.

  At the time of the Carnival in Rome, nothing is more sad than when the theatre managers have been unlucky in their choice of a musical composer, or when the primo tenore at the Argentina theatre has lost his voice on the way, or when the male prima donna of the Valle theatre is laid up with a cold—in brief, when the chief source of recreation which the Romans were hoping to find does not work out. Then comes Holy Thursday and cuts off all the hopes that otherwise might have been realized. It was just after one of these unlucky carnivals—almost before the strict fastdays were past, when a certain Nicolo Musso opened a theatre outside the Porta del Popolo, where he stated his intention of putting nothing but light impromptu comic sketches in the manner of the Commedia dell ’ arte on the boards. His advertisement was ingenious and witty, and consequently the Romans formed a favourable preconception of Musso’s enterprise. But even without this they were so desperate for entertainment that they would have snatched eagerly at the poorest show.

  The interior arrangements of the theatre, or rather of the small shed, did not say much for the financial resources of the enterprising manager. There was no orchestra, nor were there boxes. Instead, a gallery was put up at the back, where the arms of the house of Colonna were conspicuous—a sign that Count Colonna had taken Musso and his theatre under his special protection. A low platform covered with carpets and hung around with painted sheets of paper (which, according to the requirements of the piece, had to represent a wood or a room or a street)—this was the stage. Add to this that the spectators had to content themselves with hard uncomfortable wooden benches, and it was no wonder that Signor Musso’s patrons on first entering were pretty loud in their grumblings against him for calling a miserable shed a theatre. But no sooner had the first two actors who appeared exchanged a few words than the attention of the audience was arrested; as the piece proceeded their interest took the form of applause, their applause grew to admiration, their admiration to the wildest pitch of enthusiastic excitement, which found vent in loud and continuous laughter, clapping of hands, and screams of “Bravo! Bravo!”

  And indeed it would not have been very easy to find anything finer than these extemporized representations of Nicolo Musso; they overflowed with wit, humour, and imagination, and they lashed the follies of the day with an unsparing scourge. The audience was carried away by the incomparable powers of characterization that all the actors showed, but particularly by the inimitable mimicry of Pasquarello, by his marvellously natural imitations of the voice, gait and postures of well-known personages. By his inexhaustible humour, and the point and appositeness of his impromptu sallies, he quite carried his audience away. The man who played the role of Pasquarello and who called himself Signor Formica was animated by a spirit of great originality; often there was something so strange in his tone and gestures that the audience, even in the midst of the most unrestrained burst of laughter, felt a cold shiver run through them. He was excellently supported by Dr. Gratiano, who in pantomime, in voice, and in his talent for saying the most delightful things mixed up with apparently the most extravagant nonsense, seemed to have no equal in the world. This role was played by an old Bolognese named Maria Agli.

  Thus in a short time all cultured Rome was seen hastening in a continuous stream to Nicolo Musso’s little theatre outside the Porta del Popolo, while Formica’s name was on everybody’s lips, and people shouted with wild enthusiasm, “Oh! Formica! Formica benedetto! Oh! Formicissimo! ”—not only in the theatre but also in the streets. They regarded him as a supernatural visitant, and many an old lady who had split her sides with laughing in the theatre, would suddenly look grave and say solemnly, “Scherza coi fanti e lascia star santi” [Jest with children but let the saints alone], if anybody ventured to say the least thing in disparagement of Formica’s acting. This arose from the fact that outside the theatre Signor Formica was an inscrutable mystery. Never was he seen anywhere and all efforts to discover traces of him were vain, while Nicolo Musso on his part refused to say a word about Formica’s life off the stage.

  And this was the theatre that Marianna was anxious to go to.

  “Let us make a decisive onslaught on our foes,” said Salvator; “we couldn’t have a finer chance than when they’re returning home from the theatre.” Then he imparted to Antonio the details of a plan, which, though it appeared venturesome and dangerous, Antonio embraced with joy, since it held out to him a prospect of carrying off his Marianna from the hated old Capuzzi. He was also delighted to hear that Salvator was especially concerned to chastise the Pyramid Doctor.

  When night came, Salvator and Antonio each took a guitar and went to the Via Ripetta, where, with the express view of causing old Capuzzi annoyance, they complimented lovely Marianna with the finest serenade that ever was heard. For Salvator played and sang in masterly style, while Antonio, as far as the capabilities of his fine tenor would allow him, almost rivalled Odoardo Ceccarelli. Although Signor Pasquale appeared on the balcony and tried to silence the singers with abuse, his neighbours, attracted to their windows by the good singing, shouted to him that he and his companions howled and screamed like so many cats and dogs, and yet he wouldn’t listen to good music when it did come into the street; let him go in and stop up his ears if he didn’t want to listen to good singing. And so Signor Pasquale had to bear the torture nearly all night long of hearing Salvator and Antonio sing songs which either were the sweetest of love songs or else mocked at the folly of amorous old fools. They plainly saw Marianna standing at the window, even though Signor Pasquale begged her in the sweetest of phrases and protestations not to expose herself to the noxious night air.

  Next evening the most remarkable company that ever was seen proceeded down the Via Ripetta towards the Porta del Popolo. All eyes were turned upon them, and people asked each other if these were maskers left from the Carnival. Signor Pasquale Capuzzi, spruce and smug, all elegance and politeness, wearing his gay Spanish suit well brushed, parading a new yellow feather in his conical hat, and stepping along in shoes too small for him, as if he were walking among eggs, was leading pretty Maria
nna on his arm; her slender figure could not be seen, still less her face, since she was smothered up in her veil and wraps. On the other side marched Dr. Splendiano Accoramboni in his great wig, which covered the whole of his back, so that from behind he appeared to be a huge head walking along on two little legs. Close behind Marianna, and almost clinging to her, waddled the eunuch dwarf Pitichinaccio, dressed in fiery red petticoats, his head hideously covered with bright-coloured flowers.

  This evening Signor Formica outdid even himself. As a new number, which he had not done before, he introduced short songs into his performance, burlesquing the style of certain well-known singers. Old Capuzzi’s passion for the operatic stage, which in his youth had almost amounted to a mania, was now stirred up in him anew. In a rapture of delight he kissed Marianna’s hand time after time, and protested that he would not miss an evening at Nicolo Musso’s theatre with her. Signor Formica he extolled to the very skies, and joined hand and foot in the boisterous applause of the rest of the spectators. Signor Splendiano was less satisfied, and kept continually admonishing Signor Capuzzi and lovely Marianna not to laugh so immoderately. In a single breath he ran over the names of twenty or more diseases which might arise from splitting the sides with laughing. But neither Marianna nor Capuzzi heeded him in the least. As for Pitichinaccio, he felt very uncomfortable. He had been obliged to sit behind the Pyramid Doctor, whose great wig completely overshadowed him. He could not see a single thing on the stage, nor any of the actors, and he was also repeatedly bothered and annoyed by two forward women who had placed themselves near him. They called him a dear, comely little lady, and asked him if he was married, though to be sure, he was very young, and whether he had any children, who they swore must be sweet little creatures, and so forth. The cold sweat stood in beads on poor Pitichinaccio’s brow; he whined and whimpered, and cursed the day he was born.

  After the conclusion of the performance, Signor Pasquale waited until the spectators had left the theatre. The last light was extinguished just as Signor Splendiano lit a small piece of wax torch at it; and then Capuzzi, with his worthy friends and Marianna, slowly and circumspectly set out on their return journey.

  Pitichinaccio wept and screamed; Capuzzi, greatly to his vexation, had to take him on his left arm, while with the right he led Marianna. Dr. Splendiano showed the way with his miserable little bit of torch, which only burned with difficulty, and even then in a feeble sort of a way, so that the wretched light it cast merely served to reveal to them the thick darkness of the night.

  While they were still a good distance from the Porta del Popolo they suddenly found themselves surrounded by several tall figures closely enveloped in mantles. The torch was knocked out of the doctor’s hand, and went out on the ground. Capuzzi, as well as the doctor, stood still without uttering a sound. Then, from some invisible source, a pale reddish light fell upon the muffled figures, and four grisly skulls fixed their hollow ghastly eyes upon the Pyramid Doctor. “Woe—woe—woe betide thee, Splendiano Accoramboni!” the terrible spectres shrieked in deep, sepulchral tones. Then one of them wailed, “Do you know me? do you know me, Splendiano? I am Cordier, the French painter, who was buried last week; your medicines brought me to my grave.” Then the second, “Do you know me, Splendiano? I am Küfner, the German painter, whom you poisoned with your infernal actuarial. ” Then the third, “Do you know me, Splendiano? I am Liers, the Fleming, whom you killed with your pills, and whose brother you defrauded of a picture. ” Then the fourth, “Do you know me, Splendiano? I am Ghigi, the Neapolitan painter, whom you despatched with your powders. ” And lastly all four together, “Woe—woe—woe upon thee, Splendiano Accoramboni, cursed Pyramid Doctor! We bid you come—come down with us beneath the earth. Away—away—away with you! ” and so saying they threw themselves upon the unfortunate doctor, and raising him in their arms, whisked him away like a whirlwind.

  Now, although Signor Pasquale was a good deal overcome by terror, yet it is surprising how promptly he recovered courage as soon as he saw that it was only his friend Accoramboni with whom the spectres were concerned. Pitichinaccio had stuck his head, with the flower-bed that was on it, under Capuzzi’s mantle, and clung so fast around his neck that all efforts to shake him off proved futile.

  “Pluck up your spirits,” Capuzzi exhorted Marianna, when nothing more was to be seen of the spectres or of the Pyramid Doctor; “pluck up your spirits, and come to me, my sweet little dove! As for my worthy friend Splendiano, it’s all over with him. May St. Bernard, who also was an able physician and gave many a man a lift on the road to happiness, may he help him, if the revengeful painters whom he hastened to get to his Pyramid break his neck! But who’ll sing the bass of my canzonas now? And this booby, Pitichinaccio, is squeezing my throat so, that, besides the fright caused by Splendiano’s abduction, I fear I shall not be able to produce a pure note for six weeks to come. Don’t be alarmed, my Marianna, my darling! It’s all over now.”

  She assured him that she had quite recovered from her alarm, and begged him to let her walk alone without support, so that he could free himself from his troublesome pet Pitichinaccio. But Signor Pasquale only took faster hold of her, saying that he wouldn’t let her leave his side a yard in that pitch darkness for anything in the world.

  Just as Signor Pasquale, now at his ease again, was about to proceed on his road, four frightful fiend-like figures rose up in front of him, as if out of the earth; they wore short flaring red mantles and fixed their keen glittering eyes upon him, at the same time making horrible noises—yelling and whistling. “Ugh! ugh! Pasquale Capuzzi! You cursed fool! You amorous old devil! We belong to your fraternity; we are the evil spirits of love, and have come to carry you off to hell—to hell-fire—you and your crony Pitichinaccio.” Thus screaming, the Satanic figures fell upon the old man. Capuzzi fell heavily to the ground and Pitichinaccio along with him, both raising a shrill piercing cry of distress and fear, like that of a whole troop of cudgelled asses.

  Marianna had meanwhile torn herself away from the old man and leaped aside. Then one of the devils clasped her softly in his arms, whispering the sweet glad words, “O Marianna! my Marianna! At last we’ve managed it! My friends will carry the old man a long, long way from here, while we get to safety.”

  “O my Antonio!” whispered Marianna softly.

  But suddenly the scene was illuminated by the light of several torches, and Antonio felt a stab in his shoulder. Quick as lightning he turned around, drew his sword, and attacked a bravo, who with his stiletto upraised was just preparing to deliver a second blow. He saw that his three companions were defending themselves against a superior number of gendarmes. He managed to beat off the fellow who had attacked him, and joined his friends. Although they were maintaining their ground bravely, the contest was too unequal; the gendarmes would certainly have proved victorious if two newcomers had not suddenly ranged themselves with a shout on the side of the young men, one of them immediately cutting down the fellow who was pressing Antonio the hardest.

  In a few minutes the contest was decided against the police. Several lay stretched on the ground seriously wounded; the rest fled with loud yells towards the Porta del Popolo.

  Salvator Rosa (for he it was who had hastened to Antonio’s assistance and cut down his opponent) wanted to take Antonio and the young painters who were disguised in the devil’s masks and then and there chase the police into the city.

  Maria Agli, however, who had come along with him, and, notwithstanding his advanced age, had tackled the police as stoutly as any of the rest, urged that this would be imprudent, for the guard at the Porta del Popolo would be certain to know of the affair and would arrest them. So they all betook themselves to Nicolo Musso, who gladly received them into his narrow little house not far from the theatre. The artists took off their devils’ masks and laid aside their mantles, which had been rubbed over with phosphorus, while Antonio, who, beyond an insignificant scratch on his shoulder, was not wounded, exercised his surgical skill in
binding up the wounds of the rest—Salvator, Agli, and his young comrades—for all the others had been wounded, though none of them at all dangerously.

  The adventure, despite its foolhardiness, would undoubtedly have been successful, if Salvator and Antonio had not to a certain extent overlooked one person, who upset everything. The ci-devant bravo and gendarme Michele, who lived below in Capuzzi’s house, and was his general servant, had, in accordance with Capuzzi’s directions, followed Capuzzi’s party to the theatre, but at some distance off, for the old gentleman was ashamed of the tattered reprobate. In the same way Michele was following them homewards. And when the spectres appeared, Michele who, be it remarked, feared neither death nor devil, suspecting that something was wrong, hurried back as fast as he could run in the darkness to the Porta del Popolo, raised an alarm, and returned with all the gendarmes he could find, just at the moment when, as we know, the devils fell upon Signor Pasquale, and were about to carry him off as the dead men had the Pyramid Doctor.

  In the very hottest moment of the fight, one of the young painters observed that one of the gendarmes, taking Marianna in his arms (for she had fainted), made off for the gate, while Signor Pasquale ran after him with incredible swiftness, as if he had quicksilver in his legs. At the same time, by the light of the torches, the artist caught a glimpse of something gleaming, clinging to Capuzzi’s mantle and whimpering; no doubt it was Pitichinaccio.

  Next morning Dr. Splendiano was found near the Pyramid of Cestius, fast asleep, doubled up like a ball and squeezed into his wig, as if into a warm soft nest. When he awakened, he rambled in his talk, and there was some difficulty in convincing him that he was still on the surface of the earth, and in Rome to boot. And when at length he reached his own house, he returned thanks to the Virgin and all the saints for his rescue, threw all his tinctures, essences, electuaries, and powders out of the window, burned his prescriptions, and vowed to heal his patients in the future by no other means than by anointing and laying on of hands, as some celebrated physician of former ages, who was at the same time a saint (his name I cannot recall just at this moment), had done with great success before him.