The Tales of Hoffmann, page 35
On the street outside he heard his two uncanny acquaintances burst into a piercing shriek of laughter behind him that froze the blood in his veins.
2
It was in a less devious fashion than the chancellery private secretary that the young painter Edmund Lehsen had made the acquaintanceship of the singular goldsmith Leonhard.
Edmund was sketching a group of trees from nature in a solitary spot in the Tiergarten when Leonhard came up to him and without ceremony looked over his shoulder at what he was doing. Edmund did not allow himself to be in the least distracted but diligently continued drawing, until the goldsmith cried: ‘What an astonishing drawing, my dear young man: that won’t end up as trees but as something quite different.’
‘Do you see something there, sir?’ said Edmund with a flashing glance.
‘Well,’ the goldsmith went on, ‘out of those clusters of leaves it seems to me there are all kinds of figures peering: now genii, now strange animals, now young girls, now flowers. And yet the whole should depict nothing but that group of trees standing before us with the rays of the evening sun sparkling through them, should it not?’
‘Indeed, sir,’ cried Edmund, ‘either you possess a very profound insight, a penetrative eye, for such things, or I have succeeded in conveying my inner inspiration more happily than I usually do. When, amid nature, you abandon yourself wholly to your desires and longings, does it not seem to you too as if all kinds of wonderful forms were gazing at you with loving eyes through the trees and the undergrowth? That is what I wanted to give expression to in this drawing, and it appears I have done so.’
‘I see,’ said Leonhard in somewhat cold and dry tones. ‘You wanted to abandon all real study, take a rest and exercise and enliven your imagination with a pleasant pastime.’
‘Not at all, sir,’ Edmund replied. ‘It is precisely this manner of drawing from nature that I consider the best and most useful study. It is from such studies that I bestow poetry and imagination on the landscape. The landscape painter has to be just as much a poet as a portrait painter does, or he will never be anything but a bungler.’
‘Heaven help us!’ cried Leonhard. ‘You too, my dear Edmund Lehsen!’
‘You know me, sir?’ Edmund interrupted him.
‘Why should I not know you?’ Leonhard replied. ‘I first made your valued acquaintanceship at a time which you probably cannot recall very clearly, namely the moment of your birth. For the small amount of experience you could have possessed at that time you behaved extremely well, made uncommonly little trouble for your mama, let out a very pleasant-sounding cry of joy and vehemently desired to see the light of day – which, by my advice, was not denied you, since according to the most up-to-date physicians this does not merely do no harm to newborn children but is on the contrary beneficial to their minds and to their physical condition in general. Your papa was so delighted he hopped about the room on one leg and sang Bei Männern, welche Liebe fühlen from the Magic Flute. Afterwards he handed me your tiny person and asked me to draw up your horoscope, which I did. Thereafter I was a frequent visitor to your father’s house, and you did not disdain to accept the bags of raisins and almonds which I brought with me. Later I travelled away – you would have been six or eight years old. Then I came here to Berlin, saw you and was pleased to learn that your father had sent you here from Müncheberg to study the noble art of painting – for Müncheberg possesses no great fund of pictures, marbles, bronzes, cameos or other art treasures needed for the pursuit of that study. In this respect your worthy home town cannot be compared with Rome, Florence or Dresden – although Berlin will be compared with them in the future perhaps, if brand-new antiques are fished out of the Tiber and transported here.’
‘My God,’ said Edmund, ‘now I recall everything! Are you not Herr Leonhard?’
‘I am,’ the goldsmith replied, ‘in any event called Leonhard, but I should be surprised if you could remember me from so early a period of your life.’
‘Yet I do,’ Edmund continued. ‘I know I was very glad whenever you appeared at our house, because you always brought me all kinds of nice things and in general paid me a lot of attention, and at the same time I could not shake off a timid sense of awe, even a certain fear and oppression, which often persisted after you had left. But, even more, it is the tales my father told of you which have kept the memory of you lively within me. He was proud of your friendship, since you had with particular dexterity rescued him from all kinds of disagreeable events and involvements such as cannot fail to arise in the course of our life. And he spoke with enthusiasm of how you had penetrated into the profound secret sciences, held sway over many hidden forces of nature, and sometimes – forgive me for saying so – he strongly hinted that, if the total truth were known, you were none other than Ahasuerus, the Wandering Jew!’
‘Why not the Pied Piper of Hamelin or Old Every where-and-Nowhere or Peterkin or some other kobold?’ the goldsmith interrupted. ‘But I will not deny that there are indeed certain peculiar circumstances connected with me, of which I cannot speak without giving offence. I did indeed render your papa many a service through my secret arts: he was especially delighted with the horoscope which I drew up for you after your birth.’
‘Well, now,’ the young man said, his cheeks flushing red, ‘the horoscope, you know, was not so delightful as all that. My father often repeated to me that your prophecy had been that something great would become of me, either as a great artist or a great fool. But at least I have this prophecy to thank that my father placed nothing in the way of my artistic inclination; do you not think your horoscope will prove true?’
‘Oh, absolutely,’ the goldsmith said composedly, ‘there can be no doubt about it, for you are even now on the right road to becoming a great fool.’
‘What, sir,’ cried Edmund, taken aback, ‘do you say that to my face? You –’
‘It is’, the goldsmith interrupted, ‘entirely up to you whether you avoid the evil alternative of my horoscope and become a proficient artist. Your drawings, your sketches, betray a rich and lively imagination, an active power of expression, a bold dexterity in representation; on these foundations a gallant structure may be erected. Leave aside all modish extravagances and give yourself wholly to serious study. I applaud your aspiration to the dignity and simplicity of the old German artists, but here too you must avoid the reefs upon which so many come to grief. For it requires a profound heart, a strength of soul such as can withstand the enervation of modern art, to grasp the true spirit of the old German masters and to penetrate the meaning of their creations. Only then will the spark from your innermost being be ignited and only then will true inspiration fashion works which, without blind imitation, are worthy of a better age. Nowadays, however, young people think that, when they have put together some biblical picture or other, with figures thin as rakes, faces a yard long, stiff, angular clothing and false perspectives, they have been painting in the manner of the old exalted German masters. Such wretched, spiritually dead imitators are like the peasant boy who kept his eyes closed in church during the Pater Noster as though he had got the prayer by heart, explaining that if he didn’t know the words he at any rate knew the tune.’
The goldsmith said much more that was true and beautiful about the noble art of painting and gave the artistically inclined Edmund some excellent instruction, so that Edmund, mightily impressed, asked at last how it was possible for Leonhard to have acquired so much knowledge without himself being a painter, and why he lived in such obscurity without seeking to impose his influence upon artistic endeavour of every kind.
‘I have told you already’, the goldsmith replied in a very gentle and serious tone, ‘that it is long, indeed marvellously long experience that has sharpened my eye and my judgement. As for my obscurity, however, I am conscious that my presence would everywhere appear as something strange – a fact determined not only by the structure of my whole personality but also by the feeling I produce of possessing a certain inherent power – and that this could disrupt my entire peaceful existence here in Berlin. I recall a man who could in a certain sense be my ancestor and who has entered so into my flesh and blood that I am sometimes subject to the strange delusion I am him. I mean none other than Leonhard Turnhäuser zum Thurm from Switzerland, who in the year 1582 lived here in Berlin at the court of the Elector Johann Georg. At that time, as you will know, every chemist was called an alchemist and every astronomer an astrologer, and Turnhäuser performed some remarkable feats and was, moreover, an excellent physician. But he committed the error of wanting to assert his arts everywhere, of involving himself in everything, of being everywhere at hand with deeds and advice. This attracted hatred and envy to him, as a rich man who expends his wealth on luxuries attracts enemies, even if the wealth has been acquired honestly. Now it happened that the Elector became convinced that Turnhäuser was able to make gold, but, either because he was really unable to do so or for some other reason, Turnhäuser obstinately refused to set about making it. Then his enemies went to the Elector and said: “Do you not see what an impudent crafty fellow this is? He boasts of knowledge which he does not possess and carries on all kinds of sorcery and Jewish dealings, for which he ought to suffer a shameful death, like the Jew Lippold.” It emerged that Turnhäuser had in reality been a goldsmith, and all the art and erudition he had amply demonstrated was then called into question. It was even alleged that all the ingenious writings, the momentous prognostications, he had published were not his own work but had been written for him by others in exchange for money. Enough: hatred, envy and slander brought it about that, to avoid the fate of the Jew Lippold, Turnhäuser had to leave Berlin and Brandenburg in the greatest secrecy. Then his enemies cried that he had gone over to the papist mob, which was, however, not the case. He went to Saxony and, without renouncing his arts and his erudition, pursued his goldsmith’s trade.’
Edmund felt strangely drawn to the old goldsmith, and the latter rewarded the respectful confidence which Edmund exhibited towards him, not only by remaining a stern but profoundly instructive critic of his work, but also by revealing to him certain secrets possessed by ancient painters in the preparation and mixing of colours which, when put into practice, proved wonderfully effective. Thus there arose between Edmund and Leonhard the relationship of beloved and promising pupil and fatherly teacher and friend.
Soon afterwards it happened that, on a lovely summer’s evening at the Hofjäger in the Tiergarten, Counsellor Melchior Vosswinkel could not get a single one of the cigars he had brought with him to stay alight. None of them would draw. With mounting annoyance the counsellor threw one after the other to the ground and at length cried: ‘God Almighty, have I, at great trouble and expense, procured cigars direct from Hamburg only to have the wretched things ruin my best hours of relaxation? How can I enjoy the pleasures of nature in a reasonable fashion or conduct a useful conversation? It’s dreadful!’
He had to some extent directed these words to Edmund Lehsen, who was standing beside him and whose cigar was burning merrily. Edmund, though unacquainted with the counsellor, straight away drew out a full box of cigars and offered it amicably to the distracted man with the request that he would help himself, as he could vouch for the quality and combustibility of the cigars, even though he had not got them direct from Hamburg but had bought them from a shop in the Friedrichsstrasse.
With an ‘I am much obliged to you,’ the counsellor, now all joy and contentment, did indeed help himself, and as, barely touched by the burning spill, the pleasant weed began to emit fine light-grey clouds of smoke, he cried in delight: ‘O my worthy sir, you really have rescued me from the most abominable straits! A thousand thanks – and I am almost impudent enough to ask you for another when this one is finished.’
Edmund answered that the box of cigars was at his command, and the two then parted. But as twilight was beginning to come on and Edmund, reflecting on an idea for a picture and absentmindedly paying no attention to the people around him, was making his way through the chairs and tables on his way out of the Hofjäger, the counsellor suddenly reappeared before him and asked very amicably whether he would not join him at his table. Desiring to escape into the woods, Edmund was on the point of refusing when he beheld a girl – the very image of youth, sweetness and charm – sitting at the table from which the counsellor had risen.
‘My daughter Albertine,’ the counsellor said to Edmund, who stood motionless gazing at the girl, almost forgetting to speak. At first glance he had recognized in Albertine the lovely and elegantly dressed woman he had encountered before one of his drawings at the previous year’s exhibition. She had with acute perspicacity explained to the older woman and the two young girls who were with her the meaning of the fantastical picture, she had gone into the draughtsmanship and grouping, she had lauded the master who had created the work and remarked that he must be a very young and promising artist whom she would like to get to know. Edmund had stood close behind her and drunk in avidly the praise that flowed from those fairest of lips. But, for the sheer sweet fear he felt, and the anxious beating of his heart, he could not bring himself to step forward as the creator of the picture. Then Albertine had dropped the glove she had just removed from her hand; Edmund had quickly stooped to pick it up, Albertine had done likewise, and their heads had met with a loud bump! ‘God in Heaven!’ Albertine had cried, grasping her head in pain.
Edmund had started back in horror; had stepped on the old lady’s little dog, which had squealed aloud; and had then trodden on the foot of a gouty professor, who had let out a fearsome roar and had called down upon the unfortunate Edmund all the torments of damnation. And people had come running from all the other rooms, and every lorgnette had been directed at Edmund, who, blushing scarlet and to the accompaniment of the whimpering of the injured little dog, the cursing of the professor, the scolding of the old lady and the laughter and tittering of the girls, had rushed out in despair, while several ladies had opened their smelling-bottles and Albertine had applied eau-de-Cologne to her bruised forehead.
Even then, at the critical moment of that ludicrous scene, Edmund had, without being clearly aware of it, fallen in love, and only the excruciating sense of the fool he had made of himself had kept him from seeking the girl out in every end and corner of the town. He could think of Albertine only as standing with a forehead swollen red and with the bitterest reproach, the most resolute rage, in her face and whole being.
But not the slightest trace of any of this was observable today. Albertine blushed again and again, to be sure, when she beheld the youth and seemed to be as confused and disconcerted as he was; but when the counsellor asked after his name and station, she interposed with a sweet smile that, unless she was very much mistaken, she beheld before her Herr Lehsen, the splendid artist whose drawings, whose pictures, had moved her so profoundly.
As you may imagine, these words went through Edmund like an electric shock. Delighted by what he had heard, he was about to break out into the choicest figures of speech when the counsellor forestalled him by thumping him violently in the chest and saying: ‘My dear fellow! the cigar you promised me!’ Then, as he ignited the cigar Edmund offered him with the glowing ashes of the one he had just finished smoking, he went on: ‘so you are a painter, and, it seems, an excellent one, if my daughter Albertine, who has a very fine understanding of such things, says so. Well, I am very glad to hear it; I love painting or, in the words of my daughter Albertine, art in general, with a fervour quite uncommon – I absolutely dote on it! I am also a connoisseur – yes, truly, a genuine connoisseur of painting! I can no more be taken in than my daughter Albertine can; we have eyes – yes, eyes! Tell me, my dear painter, tell me honestly without any false modesty, you are, are you not, that splendid artist whose pictures I pass every day and have to stop and gaze at for minutes on end on account of the riveting beauty of their colours?’
Edmund could not quite understand how the counsellor could contrive to pass his paintings every day, since he could not remember ever having painted sign-boards. But a little interrogation revealed that what Melchior Vosswinkel was referring to was nothing other than the varnished tea-trays, fire-screens and other things of that sort displayed in Stobwasser’s on the Unter den Linden, which he did indeed contemplate with delight when he took four anchovies and a glass of Danzig brandy at the Sala Tarone at eleven o’clock each morning. He regarded these manufactures as the highest thing ever achieved in art. Edmund was not a little rattled by this revelation and inwardly cursed the counsellor as his continuing insipid stream of words made any advance to Albertine impossible.
At length an acquaintance of the counsellor’s appeared and drew him into conversation, and Edmund exploited this circumstance to sit down close beside Albertine, who seemed pleased to see him do so.
Everyone who knows Demoiselle Albertine Vosswinkel knows that she is, as above mentioned, the very image of youth, charm and beauty; that, like all Berlin girls, she knows how to dress very tastefully in the finest fashion; that she sings in Zelter’s academy, receives instruction in the fortepiano from Herr Lauska, can imitate the daintiest steps of the finest ballerina, has already furnished the exhibition with a beautifully embroidered tulip attended by sundry forget-me-nots and violets; and, although of a cheerful, exuberant temperament by nature, is yet able, especially when taking tea, to display sufficient refinement of sensibility. Everyone also knows, finally, that in a neat dainty hand she copies into a little morocco-covered book poems and aphorisms she has found especially pleasing in the writings of Goethe, Jean Paul and other gifted men and women and that she never confuses mir with mich or Sie with Ihnen. It was thus quite natural that, sitting beside the young painter who gave every sign of being consumed with the delight of an awakening love, Albertine should ascend into a sensibility even more rarefied than that usually displayed at tea-circles and readings and that she should begin in the most agreeable fashion to lisp melodiously of poetical temperament, childlike receptivity, seriousness of purpose and other things of that sort.
