The Best Tales of Hoffmann

by E. T. A. Hoffmann

  Let the reader picture to himself the open coffin with the corpse of the lovely girl, surrounded by the hired mourners singing their dismal De profundis in hoarse voices, and then the comical masks of Pasquarello and Dr. Gratiano, who were expressing their grief in the most ridiculous gestures, and lastly the two Capuzzis, wailing and screeching in despair. Indeed, everyone who witnessed the extraordinary spectacle could not help feeling, even in the midst of the unrestrained laughter they had burst out into at sight of the marvellous actor who portrayed Capuzzi, that their hearts were chilled by a most uncomfortable feeling of awe.

  Now the stage grew dark, and there was thunder and lightning. A pale ghostly figure, which bore most unmistakably the features of Capuzzi’s dead brother, Pietro of Senigaglia, Marianna’s father, rose seemingly from the ground.

  “O you infamous brother, Pasquale! what have you done with my daughter? what have you done with my daughter?” wailed the figure, in a dreadful and hollow voice. “Despair, you atrocious murderer of my child. You shall find your reward in hell.”

  Capuzzi on the stage dropped on the floor as if struck by lightning, and at the same moment the real Capuzzi reeled from his seat unconscious. The bushes rustled together again, and the stage was gone, and also Marianna and Capuzzi and the ghastly spectre Pietro. Signor Pasquale Capuzzi lay in such a dead faint that it cost a good deal of trouble to revive him.

  At length he came to himself with a deep sigh, and stretching out both hands before him as if to ward off the horror that had seized him, he cried in a husky voice, “Leave me alone, Pietro.” Then a torrent of tears ran down his cheeks, and he sobbed and cried, “Oh! Marianna, my darling child—my—my Marianna.” “But recollect yourself,” said Cavalcanti, “recollect yourself, Signor Pasquale, it was only on the stage that you saw your niece dead. She is alive; she is here to crave pardon for the thoughtless step which love and also your own inconsiderate conduct drove her to take.”

  And Marianna, and behind her Antonio Scacciati, now ran forward from the back part of the hall and threw themselves at the old gentleman’s feet—for he had meanwhile been placed in an easy chair. Marianna, looking most charming and beautiful, kissed his hands and bathed them with tears, beseeching him to pardon both her and Antonio, to whom she had been united by the blessing of the Church.

  Suddenly the hot blood surged into the old man’s pallid face, fury flashed from his eyes, and he cried in half-choked voice, “Oh! you abominable scoundrel! You poisonous serpent whom I nourished in my bosom!” Then old Toricelli, with grave and thoughtful dignity, put himself in front of Capuzzi, and told him that he (Capuzzi) had seen a representation of the fate that would inevitably and irremediably overtake him if he had the hardihood to carry out his wicked purpose against Antonio and Marianna’s peace and happiness. He depicted in startling colours the folly and madness of amorous old men, who call down upon their own heads the most ruinous mischief which Heaven can inflict upon a man, since all the love which might have fallen to their share is lost, and instead hatred and contempt shoot their fatal darts at them from every side.

  At intervals lovely Marianna cried in a tone that went to everybody’s heart, “O my uncle, I will love and honour you as my own father; you will kill me by a cruel death if you rob me of my Antonio.” And all the eminent men by whom the old gentleman was surrounded cried with one accord that it would not be possible for a man like Signor Pasquale Capuzzi di Senigaglia, a patron of art and himself an artist, not to forgive the young people, and assume the part of father to the most lovely of ladies, not possible that he could refuse to accept with joy as his son-in-law such an artist as Antonio Scacciati, who was highly esteemed throughout all Italy and richly crowned with fame and honour.

  Then it was patent to see that a violent struggle went on within the old gentleman. He sighed, moaned, clasped his hands before his face, and, while Toricelli was continuing to speak in a most impressive manner, and Marianna was appealing to him in the most touching accents, and the rest were extolling Antonio all they knew how, he kept looking down—now upon his niece, now upon Antonio, whose splendid clothes and rich chains of honour bore testimony to the truth of what was said about the artistic fame he had earned.

  All rage left Capuzzi’s countenance; he sprang up with radiant eyes, and pressed Marianna to his heart, saying, “Yes, I forgive you, my dear child; I forgive you, Antonio. Far be it from me to disturb your happiness. You are right, my worthy Signor Toricelli; Formica has shown me in the tableau on the stage all the mischief and ruin that would have befallen me had I carried out my insane design. I am cured, quite cured of my folly. But where is Signor Formica, where is my good physician? let me thank him a thousand times for my cure; it is he alone who has accomplished it. The terror that he has caused me to feel has brought about a complete revolution within me.”

  Pasquarello stepped forward. Antonio threw himself upon his neck, crying, “O Signor Formica, you to whom I owe my life, my all—oh! take off your mask, so that I may see your face, so that Formica will not be any longer a mystery to me.”

  Pasquarello took off his cap and his mask, which looked like a natural face, since it offered not the slightest hindrance to the play of countenance, and Formica, Pasquarello, was transformed into—Salvator Rosa.

  “Salvator!” exclaimed Marianna, Antonio, and Capuzzi, utterly astounded.

  “Yes,” said that wonderful man, “it is Salvator Rosa, whom the Romans would not recognize as painter and poet, but who in the character of Formica drew from them almost every evening for more than a year, in Nicolo Musso’s wretched little theatre, the most noisy and most demonstrative storms of applause, from whose mouth they willingly took all the scorn, and all the satiric mockery of what is bad, which they would on no account listen to and see in Salvator’s poems and pictures. It is Salvator Formica who has helped you, Antonio.”

  “Salvator,” began old Capuzzi, “Salvator Rosa, I have always regarded you as my worst enemy; yet I have always prized your artistic skill very highly; and now I love you as the worthiest friend I have, and beg you to accept my friendship in return.”

  “Tell me,” replied Salvator, “tell me, my worthy Signor Pasquale, what service I can render you, and accept my assurances beforehand, that I will leave no stone unturned to accomplish whatever you may ask of me.”

  And now the genial smile which had not been seen upon Capuzzi’s face since Marianna had been carried off, began to steal back again. Taking Salvator’s hand he lisped in a low voice, “My dear Signor Salvator, you possess an unlimited influence over good Antonio; beseech him in my name to permit me to spend my few remaining days with him, and my dear daughter Marianna, and to accept at my hands the inheritance left her by her mother, as well as the good dowry which I was thinking of adding to it. And he must not look jealous if I occasionally kiss her white hand; and ask him—every Sunday at least when I go to Mass, to trim my rough mustache, for there’s nobody in all the world understands it as well as he does.”

  It cost Salvator an effort to repress his laughter at the strange old man; but before he could make any reply, Antonio and Marianna, embracing the old gentleman, assured him that they should not believe he was fully reconciled to them, and should not be really happy, until he came to live with them as their dear father, never to leave them again. Antonio added that not only on Sunday, but every other day, he would trim Capuzzi’s mustache as elegantly as he knew how, and accordingly the old gentleman was perfectly radiant with delight. Meanwhile a splendid supper had been prepared, to which the entire company now turned in the best of spirits.

  In taking my leave of you, beloved reader, I wish with all my heart that, while you have been reading the story of the wonderful Signor Formica, you have derived as much pure pleasure from it as Salvator and all his friends felt on sitting down to their supper.

  THE KING’S BETROTHED

  I

  It was a blessed year. In the fields the corn, the wheat and the barley were growing most glorio
usly. The boys waded in the grass, and the cattle in the clover. The trees hung so full of cherries that a whole army of sparrows, though determined to peck everything bare, were forced to leave half the fruit for a future feast. Every creature filled itself full every day at the great guest table of nature. Above all, however, the vegetables in Herr Dapsul von Zabelthau’s kitchen garden had turned out to be such a splendid and beautiful crop that it was no wonder Fräulein Aennchen was unable to contain herself with joy on the subject.

  This would be a good place to explain who Herr Dapsul von Zabelthau and Aennchen were.

  Perhaps, dear reader, at some time or other you have found yourself in that beautiful country which is watered by the pleasant, kindly river Main. Soft morning breezes breathe their perfumed breath over the plain as it shimmers in the golden splendour of the newly risen sun. It is so beautiful that you cannot stand being cooped up in your stuffy carriage, and you alight and wander into the little grove, through the trees of which, as you descend towards the valley, you come in sight of a little village. And as you stand gazing, there suddenly comes toward you, through the trees, a tall, lanky man, whose strange dress and appearance rivet your attention. He wears a small gray felt hat on top of a black periwig; all his clothes are gray—coat, vest, breeches, stockings—even his walking stick. He comes towards you with long swinging strides, seemingly unaware of your existence, and almost runs you down. “Good morning, sir!” you cry, whereupon like a man startled out of a dream, he replies “Good morning.” In a moment he adds, “Oh, sir, how thankful we ought to be that we have a good, fine morning. The poor people at Santa Cruz have just had two earthquakes, and now—at this moment—rain is falling in torrents.” While you have been thinking what to reply to this strange creature, he, with an “Allow me, sir,” gently passes his hand across your brow, and inspects the palm of your hand. And saying, in the same melancholy accents as before, “God bless you, sir! You have a favorable constellation,” he goes striding on his way.

  This odd personage was none other than Herr Dapsul von Zabelthau, whose sole—rather miserable—possession is the village, or hamlet, of Dapsulheim, which lies before you in this most pleasant and smiling country which you are now entering. You are looking forward to something in the shape of breakfast, but in the little inn things have a rather gloomy aspect. Its small store of provisions was cleaned out at the fair, and as you can’t be expected to be content with nothing but milk, they tell you to go to the Manor House, where the gracious Fräulein Anna will entertain you hospitably with whatever is available there. Accordingly, you betake yourself there without further ceremony.

  Concerning this Manor House, there is nothing further to be said than that it has doors and windows, like that of Baron Tonderton-tonk in Westphalia. But above the hall door the family coat-of-arms, carved in wood with a skill that would do credit to a native New Zealander, makes a fine show. And this Manor House derives a peculiar character of its own from the circumstances that its north side looks upon the enceinte, or outer line of a defense belonging to an old ruined castle, so that the back entrance is what was formerly the castle gate, and through it one passes at once into the courtyard of that castle, in the middle of which the tall watchtower still stands undamaged.

  From the hall door, above which is the coat-of-arms, a red-cheeked young lady comes to meet you; with her clear blue eyes and fair hair she might be called very pretty indeed, although her figure may be considered just the least bit too roundly substantial. A personification of friendly kindliness, she begs you to go in, and as soon as she ascertains your wants, serves you up the most delicious milk, a liberal allowance of first-rate bread and butter, uncooked ham—as good as you would find in Bayonne—and a small glass of beet brandy. Meanwhile, this young lady, who is none other than Fräulein Anna von Zabelthau, talks to you gaily and pleasantly of rural matters, displaying anything but a limited knowledge of such subjects. Suddenly, however, there resounds a loud and terrible voice, as if from the skies, crying “Anna, Anna, Anna!” This rather startles you, but Fräulein Anna says pleasantly, “There’s papa back from his walk, calling from his study for his breakfast.” “Calling from his study,” you repeat, or enquire, astonished. “Yes,” says Fräulein Anna, or Fräulein Aennchen, as the people call her. “Yes; papa’s study is up in the tower there, and he calls down through the speaking trumpet.” And you see Aennchen open the narrow door of the old tower, with a dejeuner à la fourchette similar to that which you have had yourself-namely, a liberal helping of bread and ham, not forgetting the brandy-and go briskly in. But she is back directly, and taking you around the charming kitchen garden, has so much to say about feather leaf, rampion, English turnips, Little Green Heading, Montrue, Great Mogul, Yellow Prince’s Head, and so forth, that you would have no idea that all these fine names merely mean various cabbages and salad greens.

  I think, dear reader, that this little glimpse which you have had of Dapsulheim is sufficient to enable you to understand all the outs and ins of the establishment, concerning which I have to narrate to you all sorts of extraordinary, barely comprehensible matters and occurrences. Herr Dapsul von Zabelthau had during his youth very rarely left his parents’ castle. They had been people of considerable means. His tutor, a strange, elderly man, after teaching him foreign languages, particularly those of the East, fostered his natural inclination to mysticism, or more exactly, occultism. This tutor died, leaving to young Dapsul as a legacy a whole library of the hidden sciences, into the very depths of which he proceeded to plunge. His parents dying, he betook himself to long journeyings, and (as his tutor had impressed him with the necessity of doing) to Egypt and India. When he got home again after many years, a cousin had looked after his affairs with such zeal that there was nothing left but the little hamlet of Dapsulheim. Herr Dapsul was too eagerly occupied in the pursuit of sun-born gold of a higher sphere to trouble himself about earthly things. He rather felt obliged to his cousin for preserving for him pleasant, friendly Dapsulheim, with its fine, tall tower, which had been built for astrological operations. In the upper story he at once established his study.

  This careful cousin now pointed out that Herr Dapsul von Zabelthau was bound to marry. Dapsul immediately admitted the necessity, and without more ado at once married the lady whom his cousin had selected for him. This lady disappeared almost as quickly as she had appeared on the scene. She died, after bearing him a daughter. The cousin attended to the marriage, the baptism, and the funeral; so that Dapsul, up in his tower, paid very little attention to any of it. For there was a very remarkable comet visible most of this time, and Dapsul, ever melancholy and anticipative of evil, considered that he was involved in its influence.

  His little daughter, under the careful upbringing of an old grandaunt, developed a remarkable aptitude for rural affairs. She had to begin at the very beginning, and, so to speak, rise from the ranks, serving successively as goose-girl, maid-of-all-work, upper farm-maid, housekeeper, and finally, as mistress, so that Theory was all along illustrated and impressed upon her mind by a salutary share of Practice. She was exceedingly fond of ducks and geese, hens and pigeons, and even the tender broods of well-shaped piglings she was by no means indifferent to, though she did not put a ribbon and a bell round a little white sucking pig’s neck and make it into a sort of lapdog, as a certain young lady, in another place, was once known to do.

  But more than anything—more than even to the fruit-trees-she was devoted to the kitchen garden. From her grandaunt’s attainments in this line she had derived very remarkable theoretical knowledge of vegetable culture (which the reader has seen for himself), as regarded digging of the ground, sowing the seed, and setting the plants. Fräulein Aennchen not only superintended all these operations, but lent most valuable manual aid. She wielded a most vigorous spade—her bitterest enemy would have admitted this. So that while Herr Dapsul von Zabelthau was immersed in astrological observations and other important matters, Fräulein Aennchen carried on the management of
the place in the ablest possible manner, Dapsul looking after the celestial part of the business, and Aennchen managing the terrestrial side of things with unceasing vigilance and care.

  As above said, it was small wonder that Aennchen was almost beside herself with delight at the magnificence of the yield which this season had produced in the kitchen garden. But the carrot bed was what surpassed everything else in the garden in its promise.

  “Oh, my dear, beautiful carrots!” cried Anna over and over again, and she clapped her hands, danced, and jumped about, and conducted herself like a child who has been given a grand Christmas present.

  And indeed it seemed as though the carrot-children underground were taking part in Aennchen’s gladness, for some extremely delicate laughter, which just made itself heard, was undoubtedly proceeding from the carrot bed. Aennchen, however, didn’t pay much heed to it, but ran to meet one of the farm men who was coming, holding up a letter, and calling out to her, “For you, Fräulein Aennchen. Gottlieb brought it from the town.”

  Aennchen saw immediately from the handwriting that it was from none other than young Herr Amandus von Nebelstern, the son of a neighbouring proprietor, now at the university. During the time when he was living at home, and in the habit of running over to Dapsulheim every day, Amandus had arrived at the conviction that all his life he never could love anybody except Aennchen. Similarly, Aennchen was perfectly certain that she could never really care the least bit about anybody else but this brown-locked Amandus. Thus both Aennchen and Amandus had come to the conclusion and arrangement that they were to be married as soon as they could—the sooner the better—and be the very happiest married couple in the wide world.

  Amandus had at one time been a bright enough natural sort of lad, but at the university he had got into the hands of god knows whom, and had been induced to fancy himself a marvellous poetical genius, and to indulge himself to an extreme amount of absurd extravagance in expression of ideas. He carried this so far that he soon soared far away beyond everything which prosaic idiots term Sense and Reason (maintaining at the same time, as they do, that both are perfectly coexistent with the utmost liveliness of imagination).