Hyperion Part 28

"No. The only wonder is, that he could have followed this course of life for six years. I am astonished that it did not kill him sooner."

"But death came at last in an appalling shape."

"Yes; his forty-sixth birth day found him sitting at home in his arm-chair, with his friends around him. But the rare old wine,--he always drank the best,--touched not the sick-man's lips that night.

His wonted humor was gone. Of all his 'jibes, his gambols, his songs, his flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar, not one now, to mock his own grinning!--quite chap-fallen.'--The conversation was of death and the grave. And when one of his friends said, that life was not the highest good, Hoffmann interrupted him, exclaiming with a startling earnestness; 'No, no! Life, life, only life! on any condition whatsoever!' Five months after this he had ceased to suffer, because he had ceased to live. He died piecemeal. His feet and hands, his legs and arms, gradually, and in succession, became motionless, dead. But his spirit was not dead, nor motionless; and, through the solitary day or sleepless night, lying in his bed, he dictated to an amanuensis his last stories. Strange stories, indeed, were they for a dying man to write! Yet such delight did he take in dictating them, that he said to his friend Hitzig, that, upon the whole, he was willing to give up forever the use of his hands, if he could but preserve the power of writing by dictation. Such was his love of life,--of what he called the sweet habitude of being!"

"Was it not he, who in his last hours expressed such a longing to behold the green fields once more; and exclaimed; 'Heaven! it is already summer, and I have not yet seen a single green tree!'"

"Yes, that was Hoffmann. Soon afterwards he died. The closing scene was striking. He gradually lost all sensation, though his mind remained vigorous. Feeling no more pain, he said to his physician; 'It will soon be over now. I feel no more pain.' He thought himself well again; but the physician knew that he was dying, and said; 'Yes, it will soon be over!' The next morning he called his wife to his bed-side; and begged her to fold his motionless hands together.

Then, as he raised his eyes to heaven, she heard him say, 'We must, then, think of G.o.d, also!' More sorrowful words than these have seldom fallen from the lips of man. Shortly afterwards the flame of life glared up within him; he said he was well again; that in the evening he should go on with the story he was writing; and wished that the last sentence might be read over to him. Shortly after this they turned his face to the wall, and he died."

"And thus pa.s.sed to its account a human soul, after much self-inflicted suffering. Let us tread lightly upon the poet's ashes. For my part, I confess, that I have not the heart to take him from the general crowd of erring, sinful men, and judge him harshly.

The little I have seen of the world, and know of the history of mankind, teaches me to look upon the errors of others in sorrow, not inanger. When I take the history of one poor heart that has sinned and suffered, and represent to myself the struggles and temptations it has pa.s.sed,--the brief pulsations of joy,--the feverish inquie-tude of hope and fear,--the tears of regret,--the feebleness of purpose,--the pressure of want,--the desertion of friends,--the scorn of a world that has little charity,--the desolation of the soul's sanctuary,--and threatening voices within,--health gone,--happiness gone,--even hope, that stays longest with us, gone,--I have little heart for aught else than thankfulness, that it is not so with me, and would fain leave the erring soul of my fellow-man with Him, from whose hands it came,

'even as a little child,

Weeping and laughing in its childish sport.'"

"You are right. And it is worth a student's while to observe calmly how tobacco, wine, and midnight did their work like fiends upon the delicate frame of Hoffmann; and no less thoroughly upon his delicate mind. He who drinks beer, thinks beer; and he who drinks wine, thinks wine;--and he who drinks midnight, thinks midnight. He was a man of rare intellect. He was endowed with racy humor and sarcastic wit, and a glorious imagination. But the fire of his genius burned not peacefully, and with a steady flame, upon the hearth of his home. It was a glaring and irregular flame;--for the branches that he fed it with, were not branches from the Tree of Life,--but from another tree that grew in Paradise,--and they were wet with the unhealthy dews of night, and more unhealthy wine; and thus, amid smoke and ashes the fire burned fitfully, and went out with a glare, which leaves the beholder blind."

"This fire within him was a Meleager's fire-brand; and, when it burned out, he died. And, as you say, marks of all this are clearly visible in Hoffmann's writings. Indeed, when I read his strange fancies, it is with me, as when in the summer night I hear the rising wind among the trees, and the branches bow, and beckon with their long fingers, and voices go gibbering and mockingthrough the air. A feeling of awe and mysterious dread comes over me. I wish to hear the sound of living voice or footstep near me,--to see a friendly and familiar face. In truth, if it be late at night, the reader as well as the writer of these unearthly fancies, would fain have a patient, meek-eyed wife, with her knitting-work, at his elbow."

Berkley smiled; but Flemming continued without noticing the smile, though he knew what was pa.s.sing in the mind of his friend;

"The life and writings of this singular being interest me in a high degree. Oftentimes one may learn more from a man's errors, than from his virtues. Moreover, from the common sympathies of our nature, souls that have struggled and suffered are dear to me.

Willingly do I recognise their brotherhood. Scars upon their foreheads do not so deform them, that they cease to interest. They are always signs of struggle; though alas! too often, likewise, of defeat. Seasons of unhealthy, dreamy, vague delight, are followed by seasons ofweariness and darkness. Where are then the bright fancies, that, amid the great stillness of the night, arise like stars in the firmament of our souls? The morning dawns, the light of common day shines in upon us, and the heavens are without a star! From the lives of such men we learn, that mere pleasant sensations are not happiness;--that sensual pleasures are to be drunk sparingly, and, as it were, from the palm of the hand; and that those who bow down upon their knees to drink of these bright streams that water life, are not chosen of G.o.d either to overthrow or to overcome!"

"I think you are very lenient in your judgment. This is not the usual defect of critics. Like Shakspeare's samphire-gatherer, they have a dreadful trade! and, to make the simile complete, they ought to hang for it!"

"Methinks it would be hard to hang a man for the sake of a simile. But which of Hoffmann's works is it, that you have in your hand?"

"His Phatasy-Pieces in Callot's manner. Who was this Callot?"

"He was a Lorrain painter of the seventeenth century, celebrated for his wild and grotesque conceptions. These sketches of Hoffmann are imitations of his style. They are full of humor, poetry, and brilliant imagination."

"And which of them shall I read to you? The Ritter Gluck; or the Musical Sufferings of John Kreisler; or that very exquisite story of the Golden Jar, wherein is depicted the life of Poesy, in this common-place world of ours?"

"Read the shortest. Read Kreisler. That will amuse me. It is a picture of his own sufferings at the aesthetic Teas in Berlin, supposed to be written in pencil on the blank leaves of a music-book."

Thereupon Berkley leaned back in his easychair, and read as follows.

CHAPTER IV. MUSICAL

SUFFERINGS OF JOHN KREISLER.

"They are all gone! I might have known it by the whispering, shuffling, coughing, buzzing through all the notes of the gamut. It was a true swarm of bees, leaving the old hive. Gottlieb has lighted fresh candles for me, and placed a bottle of Burgundy on the piano-forte. I can play no more, I am perfectly exhausted. My glorious old friend here on the music-stand is to blame for that.

Again he has borne me away through the air, as Mephistopheles did Faust, and so high, that I took not the slightest notice of the little men under me, though I dare say they made noise enough. A rascally, worthless, wasted evening! But now I am well and merry!

However, while I was playing, I took out my pencil, and on pagesixty-three, under the last system, noted down a couple of good flourishes in cipher with my right hand, while the left was struggling away in the torrent of sweet sounds. Upon the blank page at the end I go on writing. I leave all ciphers and sweet tones, and with true delight, like a sick man restored to health, who can never stop relating what he has suffered, I note down here circ.u.mstantially the dire agonies of this evening's tea-party. And not for myself alone, but likewise for all those who from time to time may amuse and edify themselves with my copy of John Sebastian Bach's Variations for the Piano-forte, published by Nageli in Zurich, and who find my marks at the end of the thirtieth variation, and, led on by the great Latin Verte, (I will write it down the moment I get through this doleful statement of grievances,) turn over the leaf and read.

"They will at once see the connexion. They know, that the Geheimerath Rodelein's house is a charming house to visit in, and that he has two daughters, of whom the whole fashionable world proclaims with enthusiasm, that they dance like G.o.ddesses, speak French like angels, and play and sing and draw like the Muses. The Geheimerath Rodelein is a rich man. At his quarterly dinners he brings on the most delicious wines and richest dishes. All is established on a footing of the greatest elegance; and whoever at his tea-parties does not amuse himself heavenly, has no ton, no esprit, and particularly no taste for the fine arts. It is with an eye to these, that, with the tea, punch, wine, ice-creams, etc., a little music is always served up, which, like the other refreshments, is very quietly swallowed by the fashionable world.

"The arrangements are as follows.--After every guest has had time enough to drink as many cups of tea as he may wish, and punch and ices have been handed round twice, the servants wheel out the card-tables for the elder and more solid part of the company, who had rather play cards than any musical instrument; and, to tell the truth, this kind of playing does not make such a useless noise as others, and you hear only the clink of money.

"This is a hint for the younger part of the company to pounce upon the Misses Rodelein. A great tumult ensues; in the midst of which you can distinguish these words,--

"'Schones Fraulein! do not refuse us the gratification of your heavenly talent! O, sing something! that's a good dear!--impossible,--bad cold,--the last ball! have not practised anything,--oh, do, do, we beg of you,' etc.

"Meanwhile Gottlieb has opened the piano-forte, and placed the well-known music-book on the stand; and from the card-table cries the respectable mamma,--

" 'Chantez donc, mes enfans!'

"That is the cue of my part. I place myself at the piano-forte, and the Rodeleins are led up to the instrument in triumph.

"And now another difficulty arises. Neither wishes to sing first.

"'You know, dear Nanette, how dreadful hoa.r.s.e I am.'

"'Why, my dear Marie, I am as hoa.r.s.e as you are.'

"'I sing so badly!--'

"'O, my dear child; do begin!'

"My suggestion, (I always make the same!) that they should both begin together with a duet, is loudly applauded;--the music-book is thumbed over, and the leaf, carefully folded down, is at length found, and away we go with Dolce dell' anima, etc.

"To tell the truth, the talent of the Misses Rodelein is not the smallest. I have been an instructer here only five years, and little short of two years in the Rodelein family. In this short time, Fraulein Nanette has made such progress, that a tune, which she has heard at the theatre only ten times, and has played on the piano-forte, at farthest, ten times more, she will sing right off, so that you know in a moment what it is. Fraulein Marie catches it at the eighth time; and if she is sometimes a quarter of a note lower than the piano-forte, after all it is very tolerable, considering her pretty little doll-face, and very pa.s.sable rosy-lips.

"After the duet, a universal chorus of applause! And now arriettas and duettinos succeed each other, and right merrily I hammer away at the thousand-times-repeated accompaniment. During the singing, the Finanzrathin Eberstein, by coughing and humming, has given to understand that she also sings. Fraulein Nanette says;

"'But, my dear Finanzrathin, now you must let us hear your exquisite voice.'

"A new tumult arises. She has a bad cold in her head,--she does not know anything by heart! Gottlieb brings straightway two armfuls of music-books; and the leaves are turned over again and again.

First she thinks she will sing Der Holle Rache, etc., then Hebe sich, etc., then Ach, Ich liebte, etc. In this embarra.s.sment, I propose, Ein Veilchen auf der Wiese, etc. But she is for the heroic style; she wants to make a display, and finally selects the aria in Constantia.

"O scream, squeak, mew, gurgle, groan, agonize, quiver, quaver, just as much as you please, Madam,--I have my foot on the fortissimo pedal, and thunder myself deaf! O Satan, Satan! which of thy goblins d.a.m.ned has got into this throat, pinching, and kicking, and cuffing the tones about so! Four strings have snapped already, and one hammer is lamed for life. My ears ring again,--my head hums,--my nerves tremble! Have all the harsh notes from the cracked trumpet of a strolling-player been imprisoned in this little throat! (But this excites me,--I must drink a gla.s.s of Burgundy.)

"The applause was unbounded; and some one observed, that the Finanzrathin and Mozart had put me quite in a blaze. I smiled with downcast eyes, very stupidly. I could but acknowledge it. And now all talents, which hitherto had bloomed unseen, were in motion, wildly flitting to and fro. They were bent upon a surfeit of music; tuttis, finales, choruses must be performed. The Canonicus Kratzer sings, you know, a heavenly ba.s.s, as was observed by the gentleman yonder, with the head of t.i.tus Andronicus, who modestly remarked also, that he himself was properly only a second-ratetenor; but, though he said it, who should not say it, was nevertheless member of several academies of music. Forthwith preparations are made for the first chorus in the opera of t.i.tus. It went off gloriously. The Canonicus, standing close behind me, thundered out the ba.s.s over my head, as if he were singing with ba.s.s-drums and trumpet obbligato in a cathedral. He struck the notes gloriously; but in his hurry he got the tempo just about twice too slow. However, he was true to himself at least in this, that through the whole piece he dragged along just half a beat behind the rest. The others showed a most decided penchant for the ancient Greek music, which, as is well known, having nothing to do with harmony, ran on in unison or monotone.

They all sang treble, with slight variations, caused by accidental rising and falling of the voice, say some quarter of a note.

"This somewhat noisy affair produced a universal tragic state of feeling, namely a kind of terror, even at the card-tables, which for the momentcould no longer, as before, chime in melodramatic, by weaving into the music sundry exclamations; as, for instance;

" 'O! I loved,--eight and forty,--was so happy,--I pa.s.s,--then I knew not,--whist,--pangs of love,--follow suit,' etc.--It has a very pretty effect. (I fill my gla.s.s.)