immediate wants of the moment was always fatal to him, and no less so
was the excitement attendant upon the giddy whirl of pleasure and
social popularity, or what stood for such. These were rocks of danger
upon which he always struck. The former led him to indulge in his
reprehensible habit of drinking, and the latter soon made him upset all
the systems of order and regulation. Day he turned into night and night
into day. He shunned for the most part the society of Hitzig and his
circle of friends, with their stimulating discussions that cultivated
the mind whilst unfolding and developing the feelings, and frequented a
low wine-shop and the common coarse company that was to be met with
there. Hence during nearly all the rest of his life, that is, from 1816
to 1821, he spent his mornings in the discharge of his official duties
at the Supreme Court (two mornings a week, Monday and Thursday), or in
writing; the afternoons he generally slept, or in summer took a walk;
and the evenings and nights always found him in the wine-shop of his
choice; and he never liked to leave it until morning came, nor did any
other engagements prevent him from putting in an appearance at his
habitual haunt, even though it were past midnight before he were free.
As already remarked, however, it was not to sit and drink like a sot
that he gave way to this degrading habit, but to get himself "exalted"
as he called it, and then when he was duly "exalted" came the firework
display of wit and glowing fancy, going on hour after hour without rest
or interruption for the space of five or six hours at once. If his
tongue was not the medium through which he discharged the creations of
his teeming imagination, his eagle eye was spying out all that was
ridiculous or strikingly extraordinary, or even what was possessed of a
touch of pathos or deep feeling, or he employed his hand in sketching
and drawing inimitable caricatures. He never sat idle and silent, and
drank steadily and stolidly as so many confirmed drinkers do. Hitzig,
who was deeply grieved at this downward course of his friend and at the
estrangement it had brought about between them, contrived to draw him
away from his demoralising companions of the wine-shop for at least one
night a week. On that evening there was a small gathering at Hoffmann's
house, moderation being strictly enjoined as one of the chief
regulations of the meeting. This small circle, which consisted of
Hoffmann, Hitzig, Contessa, and Koreff,24 and an occasional friend or
two whom one of them introduced, called itself "The Serapion Brethren,"
this title being adopted from the fact that the first meeting was held
on the night of the anniversary of that saint, according to Frau
Hoffmann's Polish almanac. It is interesting to remark that amongst
these occasional guests figures the great Danish poet Oehlenschläger in
the year 1816. In a letter written to Hoffmann on March 26th, 1821,
recommending a young fellow-countryman to him, Oehlenschläger says,
"Dip him also a little in the magic sea of your humour, respected
friend, and teach him how a man can be a philosopher and seer of the
world under the ironical mantle of the mad-house, and what is more an
amiable man as well;" and he subscribes himself, "A. Oehlenschläger,
Serapion Brother."
In 1817 was published the collection of tales called _Die Nachtstücke_,
embracing _Der Sandmann_ (The Sand-man) and _Das Majorat_ (The Entail),
which reproduce personages and experiences belonging to the years in
Königsberg; _Die Jesuitenkirche_ and _Das steinerne Herz_, going back
to his life in Glogau; _Das Gelübde_, built upon a story related by his
wife as connected with her native town of Posen; _Das Sanctus_, which
was suggested by an incident in Berlin soon after Hoffmann's arrival
there; and _das öde Haus_, this last due to the way in which he was
incessantly haunted by the appearance of a closed house in the _Unter
den Linden_. These were mostly written in 1816 and 1817; and to them he
added _Ignas Denner_, which possesses some merit, but is of too gloomy
and darkly unpleasant a cast to be attractive to English readers; it
was written during the first days in Dresden, just after his
emancipation from the Bamberg thraldom. Whilst in it he gives free rein
to sombre melancholy, and dips his pen in "midnight blackness," in _
Berganza_, written about the same time, he has poured out the cynical
bitterness and scathing scorn which was then undoubtedly gnawing at his
heart. _Der Sandmann_, though embodying reminiscences of its author's
youth, also contains material derived from an incident which took place
during a visit of Hoffmann's to Fouqué's country-seat near Ratenow, and
Nathanael was recognised by Fouqué as meant for himself. _Das Majorat_
is, as already stated, a lasting memorial to his old great-uncle,
Vöthöry; the moral backbone of the story--the evil destiny attaching to
the successors of a man whose ambition aimed at founding a powerful
family by an act of injustice to his youngest son--reminds the reader
forcibly of the purpose that runs through Hawthorne's _House with the
Seven Gables_. Of the in many respects admirable story _Das Gelübde_--
it is to be regretted that it is marred by the dangerous nature of the
subject;25 it is else poetically treated and invested with a spirit of
weird mysticism that would have made it rank higher than what it does.
The others in the collection are of lesser merit.
The next year 1818 saw no important work from Hoffmann's pen; but in
1819 appeared _Die seltsame Leiden eines Theaterdirekters_, a book
written in the form of a dialogue, which was due to the example of his
favourite, Diderot's "Rameau's Nephew" (by Goethe), and which conveys a
tolerably faithful account of Hoffmann's experiences in the capacity
indicated whilst in the town on the Regnitz, and indeed is useful as
illustrating the condition of the German stage generally at that
period. This was followed by a kind of fairy tale, _Klein Zaches
genannt Zinnober_; as this book was generally believed to be a local
satire upon persons and circumstances well known, it entailed many
severe strictures and much unpleasantness upon its writer. The truth
about it seems to be this: the idea--that of a sort of ugly kobold of
the Handy Andy type--was suggested by a sudden fancy during an attack
of fever, and in a moment of semi-delirium. On recovering his health
again, Hoffmann set to work in his impetuous and hasty way, and worked
out the idea in probably less than a fortnight. Similarly his _Meister
Floh_, one of the last and weakest caricatures he wrote, was likely to
have entailed disagreeable consequences upon him, had not his last
illness come before any authoritative steps could be taken. For he had
made use of incidents which came to his knowledge in the official
discharge of his duties, and which were of such a character that they
ought to have been guarded as inviolable secrets; and he further
employed certain phrases which he took from confidential papers that
likewise came into his hands in consequence of his public position. In
extenuation of his fault, or perhaps in explanation of it, be it
remarked that his conduct does not appear to have been actuated by
premeditated or deliberate malice, but to have sprung solely from his
recklessness and want of prudence: the ridiculous appealed to his sense
of humour so irresistibly that nothing was sacred against it, and so
nothing was safe from it.
In the summer of 1819 Hoffmann was ordered by his physician to visit
the Silesian baths; and he derived excellent benefit from the
prescription, coming home stronger and in a more healthful frame of
mind than his friends had seen him for a long time. Soon after his
return he was appointed on the commission selected to inquire into
those secret societies and other suspicious political organisations
which were particularly active about this time (_Burschenschaften_,
_Landsmannschaften_ in their political aspect). Towards the end of the
year he published the first two volumes of the _Serapionsbrüder_, the
third volume following in 1820 and the fourth in 1821. These volumes
contain all his tales that had appeared in various magazines and serial
publications, together with others now first published, and are linked
together by a running commentary, or rather they are set into it as
into a framework; the Serapion Society are represented as meeting at
stated intervals, when one or more of the members relate a tale. The
discussions which precede and follow the tales are full of sage remarks
about art and art-matters and other ripe practical wisdom, and contain
perhaps more matured thought than anything else that proceeded from
Hoffmann's pen. Of these numerous stories the best have been selected
for translation in these two volumes, namely, _Der Artushof_ (Arthur's
Hall), _Die Fermate_ (The Fermata), _Doge und Dogaresse_ (Doge and
Dogess), _Meister Martin der Küfner und seine Gesellen_ (Master Martin
the Cooper and his Journey men ), _Das Fräulein von Scudéri_
(Mademoiselle de Scudéri), _Spieler Glück_ (Gambler's Luck), and _
Signor Formica_. The remaining twelve tales call for no special
mention, except perhaps _Nussknacker_, which has been already alluded
to, _Das fremde Kind_, a curious mixture of reality and fairyland, and
_ Der Zusammenhang der Dinge_, which is not devoid of interest. Several
of the things in this collection suggest comparison with Poe's writings
for weirdness and bizarre imaginative power, though of course there are
wide differences between the styles of the two writers.
In March, 1820, came a letter of good wishes from Beethoven, whose
music Hoffmann greatly admired; hence the letter was a source of much
real pleasure to him. Spontini, the well-known writer of operas, came
to Berlin in the summer of the same year and was received by Hoffmann
with every mark of respect. It was indeed maintained that the composer
of _Undine_ showed an unworthy servility in the way in which he
publicly acknowledged Spontini's talent. Whether this is true would
appear doubtful; servility was not one of the author's failings, though
vanity was. By Spontini's ministering to his vanity Hoffmann may have
been provoked to return him the compliment in his own coin, but it is
hardly likely that he went so far as to flatter against his own
conviction or against his better judgment. Of his longer and more
ambitious works the one which he ranked highest in merit was _
Lebensansichten des Katers Murr, nebst Biographie des Kapellmeisters
Johannes Kreisler_, the first volume of which appeared in 1820 and the
second in 1822. In respect of literary form and execution, as well as
of artistic worth, this is undoubtedly Hoffmann's most finished
production (_i.e._ of his longer works). It contains a good deal of
genial, keen, and subtle satire, conveyed in the doings of Murr the
tom-cat; and it is also a useful source for early biographical details,
both of facts and of mental development and opinions, contained in the
"waste-paper leaves" (treating of Kreisler), inserted at frequent
intervals between those which carry on the life and adventures of Murr.
The third volume, which was all ready and completed in the author's
head, and only wanted writing down, never came to the birth. The first
two volumes present to us a personification of Hoffmann's humoristic
self, and the third was to culminate in Kreisler's insanity, a result
brought about by the disappointments and baffling experiences he
encountered in life--Hoffmann's own career, that is; and the whole was
to conclude with the _Lichte Stunden eines wahnsinnigen Musikers_,--a
work which had been occupying his mind ever since he was in Bamberg,
and which had not yet been executed. In 1821 was published one of his
weakest things, a fairy tale, _Prinzessin Brambilla_, which is greatly
wanting in clearness of conception, though he himself ranked it highly.
The excesses in which Hoffmann had for so long indulged brought at
last, as may easily be conceived, their own inevitable retribution. The
first herald of the approaching physical troubles was the death
(November 30, 1821) of the sagacious cat who was the real hero of
_Kater Murr_. Hoffmann was much cut up by the death of his favourite,
which he described to Hitzig with truly touching pathos.26 Soon after
this he was suddenly stricken down by disease--_tabes dorsalis_; his
body gradually died, beginning at the feet and moving up to the brain,
a process which lasted several weeks. But from the autumn of 1821 to
April, 1822, he was cheered by the daily visits of the beloved friend
of his youth, Hippel, who had come up to Berlin for that space of time.
Hoffmann celebrated his 46th birthday with this true friend, and with
Hitzig and others less dear. Hoffmann and Hippel were dwelling fondly
upon the days of their youth and reviving old recollections, when
mention was made of death and dying. Hitzig remarked in substance that
"life was not the highest of all goods;" this caused the suffering
Hoffmann to reply with passionate emphasis, such as he did not give way
to on any other occasion during the course of the evening, "No, no--let
me live, live--let me only live, no matter in what condition." "There
was something awful," says Hitzig, "in the way in which these words
burst from his lips." And his wish was fulfilled in terrible wise; one
limb after the other failed to perform its office; his feet and hands
and certain parts of his inner organism became quite dead. On the day
before he died he was virtually a corpse as far as his neck; and so he
was full of hope that he should soon be well again, since he "felt no
more pain then." Even in this truly pitiable and helpless condition his
imagination continued to pour forth a stream of the most whimsical and
humorous fancies, and his cheerfulness was even greater than in the
days of sound health. Hippel's departure in April was a hard blow to
him. About four weeks before his death he underwent the sharp operation
of being burned on each side of the spine with red-hot irons. When
Hitzig entered the room after the terrible operation was over, Hoffmann
cried, "Can you smell the flavour of roast meat?" and he said that
whilst the doctors were burning him, the thought entered his mind that
the "Minister of Police was having him leaded lest he should slip out
as contraband;"--he was shrivelled up to a mummy almost, so that, owing
to his small size as well, a woman could carry him in her arms. Though
his body was thus a perfect wreck, his mental powers were as brilliant
and keen as ever; and when his hands proved useless to him, he engaged
the services of an amanuensis and went on dictating until almost the
very hour of his death. In fact, the last thing he spoke about was a
direction for his writer to read to him the passages where he had
broken off in _Der Feind_; then he turned his face to the wall; the
fatal rattle was heard in his throat; and all Hoffmann's earthly
troubles were over (June 25, 1822).
It is very remarkable that the works dictated by this extraordinary man
on his deathbed show an almost total departure from the style of most
of his previous tales. He no longer records his own experiences,--the
events and occurrences, the sentiments and thoughts, that were
peculiarly his own,--but he writes from a purely objective standpoint,
and _creates_. Of most of his other works it may be said that they are
_ he_; but of these it can only be said they are _his_ in the sense
that they owed their origin to him. _Meister Johannes Wacht_, one of
these, is translated in Vol. II. The scene is laid in Bamberg, and the
characters of the story were also said to be faithful portraits of
actual people in Bamberg; yet we look in vain to find anything like
Hoffmann himself in it. _Des Vetters Eckfenster_, though hardly a tale,
is yet one of the best things Hoffmann has written. Those who know
Émile Souvestre's _Un Philosophe sous les Toits_ would find in this
thing of Hoffmann's dying days something to their taste; it is a
running commentary on personages seen in the market from the writer's
own window, and each little scene brings before us a true and lifelike
character in a few weighty and well-chosen words. _Die Genesung_, a
mere sketch, arose out of the dying man's pathetic longing to see the
green of the woods and the meadows. _Der Feind_, a fragment full of
promise, is a tale of old Nuremberg of the days of Albrecht Dürer, who
figures in it. Before being deprived of the use of his hands he had
written several other short tales, amongst which may be mentioned _Die
Doppeltgänger_, as being a favourite theme with Hoffmann, and _Der
Elementargeist_, a weird, entrancing story. In _Die Räuber_ he gives us
a weak version of Schiller's celebrated work.
In Hoffmann we have an instance of a man who nearly all his life long
failed to get himself placed amid the circumstances in the midst of
which it was his one burning wish to be placed. He never found his
right calling. He is a man ruined by circumstances (_zerfahren_). He
was not wanting in warm natural feeling, as is proved by his close and
faithful friendships with Hippel, Hitzig, and Kunz; and more than one
instance of spontaneous kindness and of winning amiability are
preserved by his biographer.27 In youth his mind and heart were full of
noble thoughts and aspirations, and he was sincerely desirous to
educate himself up to better things. We see it in "May it never happen
to me that my heart is not readily receptive of every communication
from without, as well as for every feeling within, for the head must
never injure the heart, nor must the heart ever run away with the head,
that is my idea of culture," and "an excitable heart and a restless
nature will never let us be quite happy, but will have a beneficial
influence upon our education, upon our striving after greater
perfection." His poetic temperament, and such like poetic tendencies,
found no responsive sympathy amongst his relatives. Being thrust back
upon himself and then having his feelings centred, when at length they
did meet with sympathetic appreciation, in such a way as could only
bring disappointment and unhappiness, he was early made a fit
instrument for circumstances to play upon, and sorely was he buffeted
by them through all the years from going to Posen right down until the
day of his death. But this result must also be traced partly to the
want of a parent's loving, watchful eye. In those years which are the
most important for moulding a boy's character he was practically left
to go his own way. True, his uncle Otto held him down to habits of
industry and order; but he did nothing to encourage the boy's better
and higher nature, or guide it sympathetically along the paths where it
was striving to find its own way. Hoffmann had no high idea of the
moral dignity of man, and at times even seemed to have but little
conception of it. The relations upon which he lived with his uncle Otto
and the history of his own father prevented this sense of moral worth
from being planted in his mind. The germ which bore fruit in his love
for extremes, for what was extraordinary and quite out of the common
beaten track of life, was probably engendered in the following way. Not
finding the sympathy he needed in his efforts after a better life, he
turned in upon himself and began to despise the petty details of
everyday existence; and several passages in his letters clearly go to
show that his unhappiness and discontent were largely due to the fact
of his overlooking the real enjoyment to be derived from the small
occurrences and events of every day, which rightly viewed are capable
of affording such a large fund of real contentment. In a letter to
Hippel early in 1815, he himself states, "For my shattered life I have
really only myself to blame; I ought to have shown more resolution and
less levity in my earlier years. When a youth, when a boy, I ought to
have devoted myself entirely to Art and never to have thought of
anything else. But of course something also was due to perverse
education." It must not be supposed, however, from the above that he
was deficient in firmness or strength of will. The perseverance with
which he worked through his early examinations, as well as the energy
and zeal he brought to bear upon his official duties, contradict such
supposition. Specific instances might also be quoted did space permit;
it will be enough to recall his resolve never to gamble. It is stated
that he avowed his intention to amend his ways if he recovered from his
last fatal illness. The real key to his wayward character lies in the
fact just alluded to, that he had no conception of the supreme
importance of moral worth. This was the backbone wanting in his
character; and for this reason we fail to detect any steady sterling
course of action through all the vicissitudes of his life. If he had a
ruling motive it was capricious humour; at any rate it swayed him more
than anything else. On one day he would laugh at what had annoyed him
on the day preceding, or be delighted to-day at what he had greeted
yesterday with irony. Nobody knew better than himself how he was
tyrannised over by his changeable moods. "My capricious humour
(_Laune_) is the first weather-prophet I know, and if I had the
good-will and were bored I could make an almanac," is one of his
expressions; and another runs, "You know that my capricious humour is
often _Maître de Flaisir_." Besides being thus the creature of caprice,
he was also impulsive, impetuous, and wont to act with impassioned
haste. These qualities were revealed in his restless vivacious eyes, in
his movements and gestures, and even broke out in extraordinary
grimaces, as already remarked. And just in the same fervid eager way he
often seized upon an idea or a pleasing fancy, till it took complete
possession of him; he could not rid himself of it. With this was
combined his remarkable quickness of perception and comprehension; a
single gesture or phrase was often sufficient to enable him to grasp a
character. What he hated above all things was dulness--_ennui_; this
never failed to provoke his keenest irony and bitterest sarcasms. In
his last years he even became cynical and rugged and vulgar, in which
we may of course trace the influence of his tavern associates. It is to
his credit that he did not sink into Byronic misanthropy and bitter
self-lacerating scorn, or even into Heine's irreverence and persiflage.
An old German poet says, "Seht das Loos der Menschheit--Heute Freude,
Morgen Leid;"28 but with Hoffmann joy and pain were frequently more
closely allied than this even: whilst the jest was on his lips the
sting would be in his heart. In this, as well as in several other
features of his stormy career, he did indeed resemble his countryman
Heine. One of the necessities of his nature was human society--not
simply society, however, but people who could appreciate him, who could
fall in with his moods, and either follow intelligently when he led, or
lend him a stimulating and helping hand to keep the ball of wit and
jollity rolling. An illustration of this is found in the fact that he
"did not love the society of women. If he could not mystify them, or
draw them into the circle of his fantasies, or discover in them any
decided talent for comicality, he preferred the society of men."
Amongst women, however, after those of the class just named, he was
most interested in young and pretty girls, being attracted by the charm
of their fresh beauty, not by the charm of their mind. Learned women he
hated.