Nutcracker and Mouse King and The Tale of the Nutcracker
Page 11
So whether it was fatigue or lack of habit or the result of a rare well-being—within ten minutes I was fast asleep.
I don’t know how long I was unaware of what was happening around me when I was suddenly yanked from my slumber by noisy bursts of laughter. Now I opened my big, haggard eyes that saw nothing overhead but a lovely Boucher ceiling scattered with doves and cupids. I tried to get up but my efforts were fruitless. I was attached to my easy chair no less solidly than Gulliver to the Lilliputian shore. I promptly grasped the drawback of my position: I had been caught off guard in enemy territory and I was now a prisoner of war. The best thing for me to do in my situation was to bravely resign myself to my fate and to negotiate my freedom amicably.
My first proposal was to take the victors to Felix tomorrow and to put his entire boutique at their disposition. Unfortunately, it was the wrong time. I was speaking to an audience who was listening to me with mouths stuffed full of babas and hands crammed full of patties.
So my proposal was shamefully rejected.
I offered to gather the whole honorable company tomorrow, in a garden of their choosing, and to let off fireworks composed of many pinwheels and Roman candles as fixed by the spectators themselves.
This offer was successful among the little boys, but vehemently opposed by the little girls, who declared that they were horribly scared of fireworks: Their nerves couldn’t stand the banging of the crackers, and the stench of the powder greatly upset them.
I was about to try a third proposal when I heard a gentle, melodious voice that glided softly into the ears of my companions. Their words made me shudder:
“Have Papa tell us a lovely tale—he’s making a fuss!”
I wanted to protest, but at that very instant my voice was drowned out by these shouts:
“Ah! Yes! A tale! A lovely tale! We want a tale!”
“But, children,” I cried with all my strength. “You’re asking me for the most difficult thing in the world! A tale! What are you doing? Ask me for the Iliad. Ask me for the Aeneid. Ask me for Jerusalem Delivered, and I’ll manage! But a tale, a fairy tale! Damn it! Perrault is a very different man from Homer, from Virgil, and from Torquato Tasso. And Tom Thumb is a very different original creation from Achilles, Turnus, or Renaud!”
“We don’t want a verse epic,” the children yelled unanimously. “We want a tale!”
“My dear children, if—”
“There’s no ‘if.’ We want a tale!”
“But my little friends—”
“There is no ‘but.’ We want a tale! We want a tale! We want a tale!” All these voices chorused in a tone that brooked no reply.
“Very well then,” I sighed. “Let’s have a tale!”
“Ah! That’s wonderful!” said my persecutors.
“But I have to warn you about one thing. The tale I’m going to tell you is not by me!”
“Who cares, so along as it’s entertaining!”
I admit I was a bit humiliated by the audience’s lack of interest in an original work.
“And so who is the author of the tale, mein Herr?” asked a melodious voice, belonging, no doubt, to a setup more curious than the others.
“The author is E. T. A. Hoffmann, mademoiselle. Do you know Herr Hoffmann?”
“No, mein Herr, I don’t know him.”
“And what is the title of your tale?” This question was asked in a hearty tone by someone who senses he has the right to question the son of the master of the house.
“‘Nutcracker of Nuremberg,’” I replied in all humility. “Do you care for the title, my dear Henry?”
“Hmm! That title is not very promising. But so what—it can still work! If you bore us, I’ll stop you, and you’ll try another title, and so on, I warn you, until we find a title that amuses us.”
“One moment, one moment! I refuse to accept that commitment. I could take it only if you were important people!”
“Still, those are our conditions. Otherwise you’ll be a prisoner in perpetuity.”
“My dear Henry, you are a charming child, a wonderful pupil, and I’ll be amazed if you don’t grow up to become a very distinguished statesman someday! Untie me, and I’ll do anything you like!”
“Word of honor?”
“Word of honor!”
At that moment, I felt the thousand bonds loosening. Everyone had lent a hand for my release, and within thirty seconds my freedom was restored.
Now since one must keep one’s word, even when given to a child, I invited my listeners to make themselves comfortable so that they might listen painlessly from listening to slumber. And once each listener was ready, I began.
The Tale of the Nutcracker
Godfather Drosselmayer
Once, in the town of Nuremberg, there lived a highly esteemed presiding judge known as Presiding Judge Silberhaus, which means Silver House.
This judge had a boy and a girl.
The boy, nine years old, was called Fritz.
The girl, seven and a half years old, was called Marie.
They were two lovely children, but so different in face and character that no one would ever have believed them to be brother and sister.
Fritz was a big boy, chubby, blustering, mischievous, stamping his foot at the slightest annoyance. He was convinced that everything in the world was created for his entertainment, and he stuck to his guns until the doctor, intolerant of his cries and tears, his stamping foot, emerged from his office! Raising the forefinger of his right hand to the level of his brow, the doctor merely said: “Herr Fritz!”
The boy was then taken with an enormous desire to sink into the ground.
As for the mother: Needless to say, no matter how high she lifted her finger or even her hand, Fritz totally ignored her.
His sister, Marie, by contrast, was a frail and pallid child with long curly hair, of course, and falling on her narrow white shoulders like a sheaf of moveable and radiant gold on an alabaster vase. Marie was modest, gentle, affable, and merciful toward all sufferings, even those of dolls. She obeyed the slightest signal of her mother, and she never talked back even to her governess, Mademoiselle Trudchen. As a result, Marie was adored by everyone.
Meanwhile, December 24 of the year 17——had arrived. You are not unaware, my little friends, that December 24 is Christmas Eve—that is, the eve of the day when the Infant Jesus was born in a manger between a donkey and a cow. Now I’m going to explain something to you. Even the most ignorant among you have heard that each country has its own customs—isn’t that so? And the most educated among you know, without a doubt, that Nuremberg is a German city famous for its toys, its dolls, and its Punchinellos. Indeed, it sends caseloads of these wondrous things all over the world, so that the children of Nuremberg must be the happiest on earth—unless they are like the inhabitants of Ostende, who have oysters only to watch them pass.
Hence, Germany, being a different country from France, has different habits from France. Among the French, the first day of the year is the day of gift giving, so that many people strongly wish that the year began on January 2. In Germany, however, the day of gift giving is December 24—that is, Christmas Eve. Furthermore, gifts are exchanged in a very particular fashion on the other side of the Rhine. You see, a large tree is placed in the salon. The tree stands in the middle of a table, and the toys to be given to the children are hung from all the branches. If a toy is too heavy for the tree, it is put on the table. Then the children are told that it is dear little Jesus who sends them their share of the presents He has received from the Three Magi. Now this is only a little white lie, for, as you know, all the good things of this world come from Jesus.
I don’t need to tell you that among the favored children of Nuremberg—that is, among those who received the most Christmas toys of all kinds—were the children of Judge Silberhaus. For, aside from their parents, who adored them, they also had a godfather who adored them, and whom they called Godfather Drosselmayer.
I ought to sketch
a portrait of this illustrious personage, whose place in the city of Nuremberg was almost as distinguished as that of Judge Silberhaus. Godfather Drosselmayer, a medical counselor, was anything but handsome. He was gaunt, five feet eight inches tall, and quite stooped, so that if he dropped his handkerchief, he could scarcely bend down to pick it up despite his long legs. His face was as wrinkled as a rennet that has suffered an April frost. In lieu of his right eye he wore a big, black patch. He was totally bald, a disadvantage he countered by wearing a grassy, curly periwig—a highly ingenious device of his own composition made of spun glass. In regard to this respectable headgear, he was forced to keep his hat under his arm nonstop. His remaining eye was alive and brilliant. It seemed to perform not only its own tasks but also those of its missing comrades, for it rolled swiftly about a room of which Godfather Drosselmayer desired to capture all the details in one swoop, or else to focus sharply on people of whom he wished to plumb their deepest thoughts.
Now Godfather Drosselmayer was, as I have said, a medical counselor. And instead of dealing, like most of his colleagues, with the killing of living people correctly and according to rules, he occupied himself exclusively with restoring life to dead things. That is to say: by studying the bodies of humans and animals, he got to know all the ins and outs of machines. As a result, he constructed men who walked, men who saluted, men who presented arms, ladies who danced, who played the harpsichord, the harp, and the viola; dogs that ran, that fetched, that barked; birds that flew, that saluted, that hopped and sang; fish that swam and that ate.
In the end, Godfather did manage to get dolls and Punchinellos to utter a few uncomplicated words—such as “Papa,” “Mama,” “Daddy.” However, they were spoken in a shrill, repetitive voice, which saddened you because you sensed that everything resulted from a self-acting scheme. And, all in all, an automatic combination is never anything but a parody of the masterpieces of the Lord.
Still, despite all these fruitless exertions, Godfather Drosselmayer never despaired. He stated firmly that he would invent real men, real women, real dogs, real birds, and real fish. Needless to say, his two godchildren, to whom he had promised his first triumphs in this matter, were eagerly looking forward to that day.
We must realize that, having reached this degree of science in mechanics, Godfather Drosselmayer was a valuable man for his friends. If a clock fell ill in the home of Judge Silberhaus, and despite the care taken by normal clockmakers, its hands stopped marking the time and its ticktock broke off, as did its gears.
They sent for Godfather Drosselmayer, who came running, for he was an artist in love with his art. He was taken to the sick clock, which he promptly opened and inserted between his knees. Next, flicking his tongue from the corner of his mouth, his single eye flashing, his glass periwig on the floor, he produced a hoard of small, nameless instruments from his pockets. He had invented them himself, and he alone knew how to employ them. He usually picked the sharpest instruments, thrusting them into the interior of the clock. This acupuncture profoundly offended little Marie, who couldn’t believe that the poor clock didn’t suffer from these operations. Quite the opposite: The clock resuscitated from the gentle trepanation. And once it returned to Marie’s casket, or between her columns, or to her rock, it began to live, beat, and purr for all it was worth. This instantly restored its existence to the apartment, which seemed to have lost its soul in losing its joyful guest.
Moreover, little Marie had painfully watched the kitchen dog turning the spit—an exhausting occupation for the poor animal. At the little girl’s request, Godfather Drosselmayer had agreed to descend from the heights of science to fabricate a canine automaton, who was now turning the spit with no pain and no greed. Meanwhile, Turc, performing the same task he’d been performing during these past three years, had become very chilly. He now warmed his muzzle and his paws, and, truly of independent means, he had nothing more to do than watch his successor. Once mounted, this replacement could devote an hour to his gastronomic chore, ignored by just about everyone else.
Thus, after the judge, after his wife, after Fritz, and after Marie, Turc was certainly that household member who most loved and venerated Godfather Drosselmayer. Whenever he sensed that the godfather was approaching, Turc put on a big show, whereby his joyful barking and his wagging tail announced that the medical counselor was arriving. So Turc proclaimed his coming before the worthy godfather had even touched the knocker on the door.
Hence, on that blessed Christmas Eve, twilight was beginning to settle in. All day long, Fritz and Marie had been barred from entering the grand salon, and now they huddled in a small corner of the dining room. Mademoiselle Trudchen, their governess, was knitting by the window, trying to catch the final beams of the sun. The children were imbued with a vague fear because, according to the custom of that solemn day, no one had brought them any light. As a result, they spoke softly, the way you whisper when you’re a bit scared.
“Brother,” said Marie, “Papa and Mama are certainly taking care of our Christmas tree. Since morning, there’s been a racket in the salon, which we’re not allowed to enter.”
“Listen,” said Fritz. “Some ten minutes ago, I could tell by Turc’s barking that Godfather Drosselmayer was coming in.”
“Oh, goodness!” cried Marie, clapping her two little hands together. “What is our dear godfather going to bring us? I’m sure it will be some beautiful park filled with trees and with a lovely river flowing across a flowery meadow. There’ll be silver swans with golden collars floating on the river, and a girl will bring them marzipans, which they’ll eat all the way up her aprons.”
“First of all,” said Fritz in the pedagogical tone that was peculiar to him, and that his parents rebuked him for as one of his worst faults, “you should know, Mademoiselle Marie, that swans don’t eat marzipans!”
“I didn’t think they did! But since you’re eighteen months older than I, you must know more about such things than I do!”
Fritz put on airs.
“Then,” he replied, “I believe I can say that if Godfather Drosselmayer does bring us anything, it’ll be a fortress, with soldiers to guard it, cannons to defend it, and enemies to attack it! The combat will be superb!”
“I don’t like battles,” said Marie. “If he does bring us a fortress, as you put it, it will be for you. Only I demand the wounded so I can treat them.”
“Whatever he brings,” said Fritz, “you know very well that it won’t be for you or for me. On the pretext that Godfather Drosselmayer’s gifts are real masterpieces, they’ll be taken back as soon as they are given to us. Then they’ll be locked away on the top shelf of the glass cabinet, which only Papa can reach and only if he climbs on a chair. As a result,” Fritz went on, “I love the toys that Papa and Mama give us—I love them just as much as I love Godfather’s presents and even more. And we’re allowed to play with our parents’ gifts until they fall to pieces.”
“I love them too!” Marie replied. “Only we mustn’t repeat any of these things to Godfather Drosselmayer.”
“Why not?”
“He’d be deeply hurt if he saw that we loved our parents’ gifts more than his. When he brings them, he intends to give us great pleasure. And we have to let him believe that he’s not mistaken.”
“Bah!” said Fritz.
“Mademoiselle Marie is right, Monsieur Fritz,” said Mademoiselle Trudchen, who normally held her tongue and spoke only under very important circumstances.
“Come on,” said Marie brightly in order to keep Fritz from talking back to the poor governess. “Come on! Let’s guess what our parents will give us. On condition that she won’t scold her, I confided in Mama about my doll, Mademoiselle Rose. I explained that she was growing clumsier and clumsier despite my endless sermons. Her sole occupation was to tumble on her nose—an accident that always left highly distasteful marks on her features. Since her face now clashed with her frocks, there was no possibility of taking her out into the world.”
Upon hearing these words, Mademoiselle Trudchen felt that this was the right moment to speak up again.
“Monsieur Fritz and Mademoiselle Marie,” she said. “You know perfectly well that it is the Infant Jesus who gives and blesses all these lovely toys that you receive. So do not designate in advance the toys you desire, for Jesus knows better than you yourselves the toys you can find agreeable.”
“Oh, yes!” said Fritz. “Last year He gave me only the infantry, while, as I’ve just told you, I would have found a squadron of Hussars very enjoyable.”
“I can only thank Him,” said Marie. “All I asked for was a single doll and I also received a pretty white dove with a rosy beak and rosy feet.”
At this juncture, the night had settled in fully. The children spoke more and more softly and huddled closer and closer together. They felt surrounded by the beating wings of their joyous guardian angels and they heard a distant sweet and melodious music like the music of an organ that has chanted the Nativity of Our Lord under the somber arches of a cathedral. That same moment, a vivid light swept across the wall, and the children understood that it was the mark of the Infant Jesus. After leaving their playthings in the salon, he was flying on a golden cloud, soaring toward the homes of other children, who looked forward just as eagerly to his visit.
A bell rang promptly, the door banged open, and the house was filled with a light so powerful that the children had only enough strength to exclaim: “Ah! Ah! Ah!”
The parents then went over to the threshold and took Fritz and Marie by the hand.
“Come and see, my little friends,” they said, “what the Infant Jesus has brought you.”
The children stepped into the salon, followed by Mademoiselle Trudchen, who had put her knitting on the chair in front of her.