E. T. A. Hoffmann and the Serapiontic Principle: Critique and Creativity (Studies in German Literature Linguistics and Culture)

E. T. A. Hoffmann and the Serapiontic Principle

Critics have long sought to elucidate the multilayered texts of E. T. A. Hoffmann by applying to them a particular set of theories and ideas that Hoffmann himself subsumed under the heading of the “Serapiontic Principle.” This principle, which Hoffmann expounded in his collection of tales Die Serapionsbrüder, involves a complex intersection of the artist’s faculties of imagination and perception. However, Hoffmann’s mode of presenting his theory presents an unusual problem: rather than the usual form of an essay or treatise, he adopts a fictional framework, complete with a set of “characters”; this in turn sets up a number of perspectives on the theory itself. This combination of literary and theoretical elements presents a severe challenge to critics, and not surprisingly there has been little agreement about what the “principle” actually entails or its wider relevance. With the principle as prime focus, this book provides detailed analysis of a broadly based selection of Hoffmann’s texts, both theoretical and literary. It offers new perspectives on his narrative invention and the range of his theoretical interests, thus redefining his place at the forefront of German Romanticism. Hilda Meldrum Brown is professor of German at St Hilda’s College, University of Oxford.

Studies in German Literature, Linguistics, and Culture

E.T. A. Hoffmann and the Serapiontic Principle Critique and Creativity

Hilda Meldrum Brown

CAMDEN HOUSE

Copyright © 2006 Hilda Meldrum Brown All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under current legislation, no part of this work may be photocopied, stored in a retrieval system, published, performed in public, adapted, broadcast, transmitted, recorded, or reproduced in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. First published 2006 by Camden House Camden House is an imprint of Boydell & Brewer Inc. 668 Mt. Hope Avenue, Rochester, NY 14620, USA www.camden-house.com and of Boydell & Brewer Limited PO Box 9, Woodbridge, Suffolk IP12 3DF, UK www.boydellandbrewer.com ISBN: 1–57113–348–8 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Brown, H. M. (Hilda Meldrum) E. T. A. Hoffmann and the Serapiontic principle: critique and creativity / Hilda Meldrum Brown. p. cm. — (Studies in German literature, linguistics, and culture) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 1–57113–348–8 (hardcover: alk. paper) 1. Hoffmann, E. T. A. (Ernst Theodor Amadeus), 1776–1822. Serapions–Brüder 2. Hoffmann, E. T. A. (Ernst Theodor Amadeus), 1776–1822 — Technique. 3. Frame-stories — History and criticism. I. Title. Series. PT2360.S5B76 2006 833⬘.6–dc22 2006020518 Cover illustration: Einsiedler’s Gedanken, woodcut by Kaspar Oertel of original drawing by Joseph Ritter von Führich. By kind permission of Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin-Preußischer Kulturbesitz. A catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library. This publication is printed on acid-free paper. Printed in the United States of America.

Disclaimer: Some images in the printed version of this book are not available for inclusion in the eBook. To view these images please refer to the printed version of this book.

For ABZ

Contents List of Illustrations

viii

Preface

ix

Acknowledgments

xi

List of Abbreviations

xiii

Introduction: Approaches to the Serapiontic Principle

1

Part 1 1: Overture: Jacques Callot

21

2: Der Einsiedler Serapion: The Formulation of a Principle

33

3: Der Dichter und der Komponist: Text and Music

57

4: Alte und neue Kirchenmusik

72

5: Prinzessin Brambilla: Callot Revisited

92

6: Epilogue: Des Vetters Eckfenster

106

Part 2 7: Frame Narrative and the Serapiontic Principle

119

8: From Visual to Verbal: Three Serapiontic Tales

135

9: The “Nachtseite der Natur” and the Serapiontic Principle

157

10: The Märchen and the Serapiontic Principle

169

11: The Serapiontic Principle: The Wider Critique

185

Conclusion

197

Select Bibliography

201

Index

207

Illustrations 1. Hoffmann’s autograph for Louis Spohr of page of “Still und hehr die Nacht”

68

2. Letter from Ludwig van Beethoven to Hoffmann, 23 March 1820

75

3. Hoffmann’s sketch of his “Neue Wohnung in der Taubenstraße”

112–13

4. Doge und Dogaresse. Copy of oil painting by K. W. Kolbe

137

5. Meister Martin und Seine Gesellen von E.T.A. Hoffmann, etching by H. Schmidt after a painting by K. W. Kolbe

142

6. Gesellschaft in einer Römischen Locanda (Die Fermate). Oil painting by J. E. Hummel

149

7. Hoffmann’s sketch for Das fremde Kind

174

Preface

T

HIS STUDY OFFERS A NEW ANGLE on the works of the great Romantic writer, composer, and eminent judge, E. T. A. Hoffmann. Hoffmann’s status — especially in the Anglo-Saxon world — has been overdetermined by images emanating from such sources as operetta and ballet. He has been regarded mainly as a quaint eccentric with a penchant for paranoid “gothic” characters and spooky, sensationalist scenarios. Conversely, in his native country Hoffmann has been hailed as a leading practitioner of postmodernist theory. The writers of numerous highly technical monographs have strayed ever further away from their starting point in his fiction and failed to demonstrate his breadth and skill as a writer and thinker. By focusing attention on the collection entitled Die Serapionsbrüder I have two aims in mind: first, I wish to demonstrate the coherence and consistency with which Hoffmann puts forward a series of interconnected ideas about the creative process and its reception that add up to a highly individual, if unorthodox, “Poetics.” It is amazing to find how dismissive (or blind) many commentators have been about this important aspect of Hoffmann’s oeuvre and how this lack of awareness has often distorted readings of the Tales. Hoffmann was a leading spirit in German Romanticism, which, as a powerful literary movement, was unique within the European context for its close connection to contemporary philosophical ideas, and which strongly influenced English literature (for example, Coleridge). Hoffmann adapts the “symphilosophizing” tendencies of Novalis and the Schlegel brothers (many of whose ideas he shares), which he transforms into a more relaxed, less intense, but nevertheless seriously informed preoccupation with the implications of idealist philosophy for artistic creativity. Second, such an emphasis on Hoffmann’s theoretical interests and developing “Poetics” sheds new light on many of his Tales that have tended to be ignored. I have focused attention on the Serapionsbrüder collection, not only because this provides the main exposition of these ideas, but because it contains a number of fine but often neglected works that benefit conspicuously from being associated with Hoffmann’s theories and with the frame narrative. These include Die Fermate, Doge und Dogaresse, Meister Martin der Küfner, Das fremde Kind, and Die Königsbraut.

Acknowledgments

I

T IS A PLEASURE TO ACKNOWLEDGE my debt of gratitude to several colleagues. Foremost among these is Professor Jeremy Adler (King’s College, University of London) who has supported this venture throughout and generously shared his extensive knowledge of the philosophical background in German idealism, which I believe to have underpinned much of Hoffmann’s thinking about aesthetics. His suggestions for the chapter entitled “Der Einsiedler Serapion” were invaluable. I have also profited from the expertise of Professor Reinhard Strohm (Oxford), who read the two chapters on Hoffmann and music and made valuable suggestions. A special word of thanks is due to librarian colleagues in Bamberg, Berlin, and Oxford: Prof. Dr. Bernhard Schemmel (Head Librarian, Staatsbibliothek Bamberg and President of the E. T. A. HoffmannGesellschaft) put his unrivaled knowledge of Hoffmann bibliography and iconography at my disposal, and Frau Irmgard Hoffmann of the Staatsbibliothek Bamberg was unstinting in her practical advice and help during my visits to the Hoffmann-Arbeitszimmer in the Staatsbibliothek. My thanks are also due to Frau Dr. Jutta Weber (Department of Manuscripts, Staatsbibliothek Berlin) and to Dr. Jörg Petzel (Berlin) for helpful discussions. At the Oxford end, Ms. Jill Hughes of the Taylorian Library was indefatigable in pursuing obscure references and answering bibliographical queries. I am grateful to the AHRB for funding that enabled me to take an extra term’s research leave, and to St. Hilda’s College and the Faculty of Modern Languages, University of Oxford, for assisting me with travel grants. Hilda Meldrum Brown Oxford, January 2006

Abbreviations AMZ

Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung. Leipzig [Oct. 1798–28 Dec. 1848].

DVjS

Deutsche Vierteljahrsschrift für Literaturwissenschaft und Geistesgeschichte. Stuttgart, 1927–.

ETAHJb

E. T. A. Hoffmann-Jahrbuch (Mitteilungen der E. T. A. Hoffmann-Gesellschaft New Series). Ed. Hartmut Steinecke, et al. Berlin: Erich Schmidt Verlag, 1993–.

HSW

E. T. A. Hoffmann, Sämtliche Werke in sechs Bänden (in 7 volumes). Ed. Hartmut Steinecke and Wulf Segebrecht (with Gerhard Allroggen, Friedhelm Auhuber, Hartmut Mangold, and Ursula Segebrecht). Frankfurt am Main: Deutscher Klassiker Verlag, 1985–2004. Includes the following volumes cited with abbreviations: HSW/FP

Frühe Prose, Werke 1794–1813. Vol. 1 (2003).

HSW/FS

Fantasiestücke, Werke 1814. Vol. 2/1 (1993).

HSW/E

Die Elixiere des Teufels, Werke 1814–1816. Vol. 2/2 (1988).

HSW/NS-B Nachstücke, Klein Zaches, Prinzessin Brambilla, Werke 1816–1820. Vol. 3 (1985). HSW/SB

Die Serapionsbrüder. Vol. 4 (2001).

HSW/KM

Lebensansichten des Katers Murr, Werke 1820–1821. Vol. 5 (1992).

HSW/SW

Späte Prosa, Briefe, Tagebücher, Werke, Aufzeichnungen, Juristische Schriften 1814–1822. Vol. 6 (2004).

KSA

Kritische Friedrich-Schlegel-Ausgabe. Ed. Ernst Behler et al. Paderborn, Zurich: Verlag Ferdinand Schöningh, 1958–.

MHG

Mitteilungen der E. T. A. Hoffmann-Gesellschaft e. V. (1955–1992) Old Series.

RD

Romantik in Deutschland, Sonderband to DVjS (1978). Ed. Richard Brinkmann.

Introduction: Approaches to the Serapiontic Principle

T

HE SERAPIONTIC PRINCIPLE is a term much bandied about in Hoffmann criticism. However, as a concept or critical tool it has not found wide-spread acclaim nor been deemed to have much application to Hoffmann’s literary works, let alone much relevance outside these. Even when it is invoked, there is little agreement about its precise meaning, nor have there been serious attempts to unravel its multifaceted exposition. Some are disposed to deny its importance altogether and complain of muddled presentation on Hoffmann’s part;1 others2 are skeptical about the meaningfulness of terms such as “inneres” or “wirkliches Schauen.” Few, if any, seem to wish to extend its scope beyond the literary to fields like the visual arts and music. It is my intention in this book to clarify Hoffmann’s theory and to show its relevance to a large portion of his creative output. Because for Hoffmann the process of reception is, as we shall see, closely linked to the creative process itself, this scrutiny may produce some new insights into the narrative works and the seriousness of Hoffmann’s purpose as a contributor to the Romantic program. There are good reasons for the neglect and misunderstanding with which the Serapiontic Principle has been received. Hoffmann’s was one of the most acute, perceptive, and wide-ranging critical minds of his generation, not only in the realm of prose fiction and narrative but also in that of musical criticism, in which he was a pioneer, writing regular reviews of compositions by the leading composers of the day in the Leipzig Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung. His most celebrated review — of Beethoven’s Symphony No.5 in C Minor — is still referred to admiringly by musicologists. Both this and other reviews, such as that of the Overture and Incidental Music to Goethe’s Egmont, achieve a level of musical analysis that was technically advanced for its day, combining detailed harmonic analysis with general observations on the process of reception and the effects on the listener produced by great works of art.3 Likewise, the discussions in Die Serapionsbrüder (1819–21) that address particular examples of prose narrative open up at many points a range of analytical perspectives not only on contemporary literature but on the connecting links between the different art forms. As we shall see, it is the Serapiontic Principle that gives focus and depth to these speculations. But in his attempt to follow the debate on such matters that accompanies the tales in Die Serapionsbrüder, the reader is confronted with a major difficulty, not

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normally encountered in critical writing about the arts. For Hoffmann situates the discussions themselves within a fictional context by developing an extremely elaborate frame, complete with a set of characters, all equipped with their own distinctive personalities and perspectives, to the point where, on a superficial reading, these might seem to verge on the contradictory.4 The reader is in fact being challenged to develop a new way of assimilating and appraising multi-stranded discursive arguments that accompany the tales themselves. If he had chosen, Hoffmann could have presented his highly illuminating and continually developing insights into the creative process and narrative art by means of a more traditional form, say the essay format or even series of aphorisms, a form of presentation that had been brought to a high point by theorists and philosophers such as Lichtenberg, but had also been favored by the early Romantics Friedrich Schlegel and Novalis, with whose works he was familiar. In this format one can imagine that Hoffmann’s “Poetology” might have possibly acquired a more clearly defined and respectable status among theorists, and his reputation as an original thinker on aesthetic matters and his considerable contribution to the Romantic debate might have been more appreciated — or noticed. As it is, however, Hoffmann abjured all traditional or formal modes of presenting theoretical ideas on literature. Following the tradition of the second generation of Romantics, to which he (loosely) belongs, he opted for a more informal presentation. Insofar as other members of this group produced aesthetic theories at all (and they were much less inclined to do so than their predecessors) they favored the dialogue form as a vehicle for the presentation of ideas, an especially interesting example of this being the much favored “gallery dialogue” (see below, p. 136). This form can be regarded as an extension of the philosophical dialogue (most familiar to us, perhaps, in the format used by Plato), but it had also been used occasionally by the Jena Romantics, notably the Schlegels and Tieck, mainly for satirical purposes, alongside other forms of presentation, and in Romantic hands it branches out into a less formal, more interactive, chatty, and relaxed kind of discussion. This is a variant that, as we shall see, Hoffmann himself adapts as a sub-form within the larger-scale device of the frame narrative in Die Serapionsbrüder to become a rather more serious and elaborate mode of discussion of aesthetic topics (for example, Der Dichter und der Komponist). The all-embracing frame itself, which Hoffmann adapts from the model of Tieck’s Phantasus, could be regarded as a further large-scale development of the dialogue. This form, which Hoffmann expands to unprecedented proportions, and which acquires a distinctive fictionality, is deployed with considerable originality and provides him, as we shall see, with a flexible vehicle for communicating his most important statements about the arts. The following study attempts to develop ways of teasing out those neglected ideas on creativity and the arts that are central to Hoffmann’s

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oeuvre, but that are deeply embedded in his artistic presentation. Its principal focus will be the Serapiontic Principle, which I regard as the key element for elucidating both the theoretical and the practical sides of Hoffmann’s creative mission. There is an interesting recent parallel case of another great prose writer who has mixed theoretical and fictional elements in her work, and who is herself a Hoffmann aficionado: Christa Wolf.5 In Wolf’s case, additionally, biography and autobiography intermingle, this being a function of Wolf’s distinctively twentieth-century interest in the problem of identity and the difficulty of saying “I.” But the process of writing, essentially the major focus of the biographical process for Wolf — as for Hoffmann — is thematized within the creative work itself (see Nachdenken über Christa T. [1968] and Kindheitsmuster [1977] inter alia). For his part Hoffmann has recourse to his huge framework structure in Die Serapionsbrüder to satisfy and explore from as many angles as possible what almost appears to be a personal quest for illumination about the artistic process. Wolf adopts the expedient of including prefaces and long accounts of the genesis of her works (see Kassandra — Voraussetzungen zu einer Geschichte, 1983), and Hoffmann too favors the preface form in many of his other prose works. But, drawing on new possibilities offered in the media age, Wolf goes further when she even insists that interviews and evidence that would normally be regarded as having purely documentary status should be considered as part of the evidence of the fictional works themselves. Pursuing the parallel further, while by no means echoing Hoffmann’s Serapiontic Principle in its terms of reference, Christa Wolf’s equally wideranging theory of “subjective authenticity,” a portmanteau term that has proved difficult to pin down to one simple formula, serves a similar function of artistic self-analysis within her oeuvre. Like Wolf’s aesthetic, the principle is a nexus of closely interconnected ideas about narrative, and about the creative arts in general, and many varied shoots issue from it.6 Once more like Wolf’s theory, it reflects on the part of the author a high degree of self-consciousness and an almost obsessive insistence on the need to explain the mechanics of the writer’s craft instead of letting this speak for itself. Hoffmann (and Wolf) share the earnest wish to explain their aims in writing — either because they sense special problems in its reception by contemporary readers (Wolf, of course, has a political agenda) and wish to forestall misunderstanding or criticism, or simply for enlightenment about their own creative processes. But in the case of Die Serapionsbrüder these efforts were foiled and for long ill-understood and unappreciated. Thoughtless or penny-pinching editors presented generations of readers with individual tales divorced entirely from the context of the frame narrative, and this undoubtedly led to distorted readings and contributed further to the general misunderstanding of the range and subtlety of Hoffmann’s presentation of particular themes, especially the

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Supernatural.7 Quite apart from highlighting the intrinsic significance of the theoretical content of the frame discussions, a switch of focus to this part of Hoffmann’s work lays down a challenge to the reader to examine its relationship to the individual texts, one that has been almost completely neglected. The common ground evident in the composition of Wolf’s and Hoffmann’s respective methodologies to which I have briefly drawn attention also highlights a feature of Hoffmann’s work that has become much more fully recognized in the wake of the critical theory debates during the latter part of the twentieth century, namely its striking self-consciousness and anticipation of modernist narrative techniques and complexities. It has been helpful to find that narratology has released Hoffmann from the charge of peddling “Unterhaltungsliteratur” (for example, Nußknacker und Mausekönig), or “Spukgeschichten” (for example, Der Sandmann). Indeed, along with other Romantic writers, Hoffmann has now been drawn into the net of poststructuralist and deconstructionist criticism, a position that is at the opposite end from earlier biographical approaches but to which, it is argued by their supporters, his works lend themselves particularly well. According to the leading exponent of this approach among Hoffmann scholars, Detlev Kremer,8 Hoffmann may seem to be communicating meaning to his readers (“sinnzentrierte Lektüren”) by his favored use of allegory, for instance (see Der goldene Topf), but this is deceptive. Instead, his fondness for intertextuality, multi-stranded (“polyphonic”) narrative perspectives (see Die Serapionsbrüder), and his ironic detachment, to single out only a few features, signify a lack of any closure or resolution in the narratives (even in the Märchen) and make multiple, indeterminate meanings and readings not just possible but inevitable. Following the now familiar pattern of analysis established by Jacques Derrida and Roland Barthes, a Hoffmann text can be expected, according to Kremer, to demonstrate the author’s (or more accurately the reader’s, since the term “author” as such no longer carries meaning) response to what he sees as a series of (inconclusive and self-contradictory) reflections on the structures and conditions of Romantic literature (“eine durchgängige Selbstreflexivität”). This kind of approach has been summarized as an “endless play of signifiers which can never be finally nailed down to a single centre, essence or meaning.”9 An alternative response to the complexities of Hoffmann’s narratological strategies, however, might start from an assumption that a “polyphonic” perspectivism does not in itself spell disharmony.10 Equally, the ubiquitous presence of irony in Hoffmann’s works — like that of paradox in the works of other writers of this period — may not be a crazy, “ludic” response that stems from a despair about meaning, but rather an expression of awareness and acceptance of the contradictions with which human

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beings (and especially authors) are confronted, and a recognition that there are nonetheless meaningful patterns to be discerned. These might be, in Hoffmann’s case for example, the polarities of thought and “principles” that he (and his fellow Romantics) had inherited and absorbed from the immensely influential philosophies of their day (such as those of Kant, Fichte, and Schelling). It is clearly awkward for Kremer and others of his persuasion to acknowledge such “außertextuelle” possibilities or to wish to clarify the relationship between transcendental philosophy and literature in the early nineteenth-century German tradition, and it is therefore no surprise to find that the possibility that these discourses might play an important part in defining Hoffmann’s way of looking at the world — one that goes beyond the level of an intertextual game — has been disallowed and discredited.11 Although the “Serapiontic Principle” as outlined, expounded, debated, and exemplified in countless different ways within Die Serapionsbrüder might seem to apply exclusively to the tales in that collection, it is much more far-ranging in scope and can be applied to virtually all of Hoffmann’s prose writings. It is an ever-evolving, self-proliferating phenomenon almost akin to a biological process. The analogy of biological growth and development could certainly be applied to the procedures used in Die Serapionsbrüder itself, which represents the culmination as well as the most thoroughgoing presentation of Hoffmann’s theories, but additional phases in the evolutionary process can be observed in other works too, both those preceding and those following that collection. The first seeds are clearly observable in the preface (“Jacques Callot”) to the Fantasiestücke, while Hoffmann’s last thoughts on the matter are to be detected in the posthumous tale Des Vetters Eckfenster (1822), which could be regarded as a kind of last will and testament. These two examples provide what one could call a prologue and an epilogue to the mainstream exposition presented in Die Serapionsbrüder and can be usefully considered from that perspective. But that does not mean to say that, tucked away in various fictional crannies, there are not many other strands that link up with the main lines of this process. Epigrammatic, often satirical and amusing chapter headings are a feature of certain types of Hoffmann’s narrative both within and without Die Serapionsbrüder; authorial interpolations, addresses to the reader, and many other devices invite a critical response and create a highly interactive relationship between the two.12 Conversely, there is often an appeal for openness of mind on the part of the reader, by which is implied an ability on his or her part to grapple with a number of different approaches and perspectives simultaneously and to exercise critical judgment in evaluating this “polyphonic” approach to themes and issues. Of course this is not to deny the element of play and manipulation, which is undeniably a central feature of Hoffmann’s art. In this respect the diagnosis of postmodernist theory — but not necessarily the consequences

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that it draws — might be accepted. The reader is being invited to participate in a seemingly open-ended process of inquiry and discovery and, as it were, to make his own contribution to the debate. In a sense it might even seem that Hoffmann is setting out deliberately to develop his readers’ critical faculties by presenting alternative ways in which to approach a text. The question has been raised (see Uwe Japp13) as to whether in expounding the so-called “principle” one of Hoffmann’s aims might be to produce guidelines for budding authors or, alternatively, to present his readers and critics with the “correct” kind of critical tools (what Japp calls a “Kriterium der schulgerechten Literaturkritik”) for the purposes of literary analysis. Both would seem unlikely, unless this educational process is intended to open the reader’s mind to critical debate rather than follow one particular line.14 It seems more probable that Hoffmann wishes either to disarm criticism of his work, sometimes even incorporating points raised in reviews,15 or (more positively) to promote a deeper understanding of the implications of critical analysis. Such a program, if indeed Hoffmann was setting out with it in mind, has until recently stood little chance of success with his readership, who have been following quite different cues. Now that the manipulative aspect in all Hoffmann’s narrative fiction, and most especially in Die Serapionsbrüder, is more clearly understood, the playful side of his narrative art can be fully addressed within the wider context of Hoffmann’s ever-evolving program, that is, as a necessary adjunct or counterbalance to the dark and disturbing vision (“Ernst”) presented in many of the tales. For, as we shall see, the Serapiontic Principle is designed to embrace both ends of the artistic spectrum, “Ernst und Scherz,” the serious and the light-hearted, either in juxtaposition or in combination. This paradoxical principle and the ironic narrative stance with which it is associated are principal manifestations of the Serapiontic. They act as a ground bass running through Hoffmann’s entire fiction, but come most clearly and explicitly to the fore in Die Serapionsbrüder. By focusing attention on the Serapiontic Principle, one can more easily judge the nature and function of Hoffmann’s irony, an area in which confusion still reigns, but which, since it represents the point of intersection between the substance and the style of his fiction, is of central importance. The coexistence in Hoffmann’s practice of irony with enthusiasm and commitment to the creative impulse is a highly interesting paradox, and one that he shares with Friedrich Schlegel.16 A detailed analysis of its operation in theory and practice will give the lie to the reductive view of Hoffmann as not much more than a clever manipulator of texts. It has sometimes been argued that the framework discussion in Die Serapionsbrüder was purely a matter of convenience, forced upon Hoffmann by his publisher, who wished to have the tales he had already published and completed linked together by a unifying thread. Because the great majority of tales had indeed been published separately in various

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journals and thus predated the creation of the framework,17 it was assumed that the latter was merely grafted on and had no structural or thematic significance. This approach is at last losing currency,18 though traces still remain in some popular editions and anthologies.19 Typically, under pressure of this kind from a publisher, Hoffmann’s genius was activated. He was not satisfied to provide a flimsy wrapping in which to accommodate his tales, one that could be easily discarded. Hoffmann was put in mind of the model of Ludwig Tieck’s highly successful Phantasus (published in 1812), which he mentions appreciatively in the foreword to the Die Serapionsbrüder, in which, however, the narrative frame had only been loosely presented, leaving much scope for development. He regarded his publisher’s directive as an artistic challenge and seized on the opportunity of developing in much greater detail the ideas about narrative and the creative process that had been gradually taking shape, probably starting in his Bamberg days (that is, from 1808), and had been clarifying in his mind into the germ of a “Poetics” after the highly successful publication in 1814 of his first major collection of tales, the Fantasiestücke in Callots Manier; at that stage he had expressed his thoughts succinctly in a brief preface (“Jacques Callot,” see chapter 1 in this volume). In the Fantasiestücke there are already signs of Hoffmann’s leanings towards the frame narrative, though necessarily at this point only in a rudimentary form, through the introduction of a fictitious narrator in the persona of the “reisender Enthusiast” in Don Juan. Another (anonymous) highly intrusive writernarrator, in Der goldene Topf, cannot resist commenting on the artist’s dilemma as his own in the closing epilogue. Further developments are evident in the ambitious novel, Die Elixiere des Teufels (1815–16), in the extended role accorded to the manipulative fictitious editor at the beginning (especially in the “Vorwort”) and at various stages in the novel thereafter, when he spells out for the reader’s benefit the salient features in the forthcoming narrative: “das Schauerliche, Entsetzliche, Tolle, Possenhafte.”20 The characteristic programmatic emphasis on the mixture of the horrific, the absurd, and the comic by Hoffmann’s fictitious editor is here set before the reader as a paradoxical antithesis or conundrum from the outset. But within the given formats of these various works, some of them freestanding, Hoffmann had little opportunity other than by stealth or brief allusion to give expression to his growing and compelling urge to analyze alongside creating, and to providing a critical commentary to accompany the tales. However, as we shall see, in late works written after the Die Serapionsbrüder (for example, Prinzessin Brambilla [1821] and Des Vetters Eckfenster) he would develop new strategies of internal analysis to replace the more disjoined format of the frame narrative. Hoffmann’s erratic path to becoming a famous literary writer may be recalled at this point. Although he had written for publication in various journals one or two pieces (including “Ritter Gluck”) in his Bamberg

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years, his career as a writer only began in earnest — faute de mieux — in 1813, when it became clear that the political uncertainties during the final stages of the Wars of Liberation that had forced him away from Bamberg and Dresden offered little hope that he would ever be able to earn a living in his preferred role as a composer, or even “Kapellmeister.” Reluctantly he returned to Berlin and eventually to a prestigious position in the state judiciary, and this return to a legal career could, it seems, or perhaps had to, coexist with Hoffmann’s belated debut as a popular writer and (soon) local celebrity in Berlin. A hectic program of writing in his spare time went hand in hand with professional responsibilities that became ever greater as Hoffmann’s outstanding legal ability was recognized officially and he was rewarded with important assignments;21 these twin roles were combined at a level of intensity and excellence that is truly remarkable. Hoffmann was catching up rapidly in the art of writing and he must have been almost surprised at the ease with which he so quickly attained success. Having during his Bamberg period already combined practical and creative musical activities with critical analysis of new compositions through his contributions to the Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung, it is not surprising that now that he had focused on a new artistic métier as a writer (albeit part-time) he should experiment with combining the critical and the creative sides of his own writings. However, one cannot infer that the decision to create a link between his tales, most of which, as mentioned above, had already been published separately, had been in his mind from the outset. It was more a question of opportunities and a happy conjunction of events that took place in Hoffmann’s personal life in Berlin around 1818. For his fascination with the creative process and the art of narrative was by no means a closet pursuit. It found expression in his gregarious leanings, his sociability, and constant desire to interact with fellow writers and other kindred spirits, sharing his ideas and receiving from others stimulus and encouragement. The cliché image of the alcohol-driven writer holding forth among his friends in wine-houses and hostelries so assiduously peddled and trivialized by Jacques Offenbach in The Tales of Hoffmann has been hard to dispel. But it creates an impression of over-indulgence or loss of control that is highly misleading. Rather, the evidence suggests that in Hoffmann’s case, the twofold stimulus of wine and companionship unleashed a spate of brilliant conversation, tale-telling, and discussion of artistic matters.22 Armed with his publisher’s generous advance towards the publication of Die Serapionsbrüder and seizing the opportunity of the return to Berlin after a three-year journey round the world of his friend, the botanist and writer Adalbert von Chamisso, Hoffmann decided in November 1818 to reinstate a literary club, the “Seraphinenorden,” which he had founded a few years earlier but which had lapsed in 1815 on the departure of Chamisso for foreign parts.23

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The phenomenon of artistic groupings and their significance for literary movements and programs is an important feature of Romanticism in Germany and Austria of the nineteenth century and one that has attracted much attention.24 Obviously, this was an extension of the aristocratic salons of the eighteenth century, now transposed to a middle-class milieu. Frequently groupings were focused on a particular geographical center, for example, Jena, Heidelberg, Vienna, or, in Hoffmann’s case, Berlin. The latter two localities are especially significant in that they imply distinctly urban milieus: Hoffmann’s works are full of allusions to city life in its gregarious aspect; they are often set in coffee-houses and wine-bars and offer glimpses of life on the streets of Berlin. As it was to do for Alfred Döblin over a hundred years later, Berlin, the big city, soon to become a metropolis, was already starting by the early decades of the nineteenth century to serve as a powerful source of inspiration and stimulus to artists. Its excitement, dynamism, and limitless possibilities replaced the rural or pastoral landscapes that had for so long performed a similar role and inspiration for German artists. It is a moot point whether Hoffmann would have been able to develop his career as a prose writer so successfully had he remained in a provincial town and without this intense form of stimulus.25 By temperament he had always been susceptible to environmental influences, as can be seen from his extreme reaction when “banished” to a Polish backwater (P5ock) during his period of office in the legal department of the Prussian Civil Service. The transformation of a real biographical situation — namely the refounding of the “Seraphinenorden” — into a literary theme presented no difficulty for Hoffmann (we shall see later that by basing a fictional narrative on such solid foundations he was in fact implementing one of the cardinal principles of the Serapiontic Principle). At first Hoffmann and his publisher had agreed to give the collection the title Die Seraphinenbrüder, recalling the early days of the club. But when in 1818 Hoffmann got down seriously to the business of creating the framework narrative, his imagination immediately started to work on the matter of incorporating into a fictitious frame his now fully fledged theoretical interests in the creative process. He conceived the idea of giving the members of the literary group a patron, the Polish Saint Serapion, as a peg on which to hang his theories. The hermit figure (“Einsiedler”) around whom an exemplary tale was to be spun was a stock Romantic motif 26 and as such would provide familiar access to his readership. At the same time — perhaps surprisingly — the original “Seraphinenorden” in turn was rechristened the “Serapionsorden,” thus turning the real into the imaginary. This kind of blurring of the distinctions between the two worlds is entirely characteristic. The real and the fictional meet again in Hoffmann’s foreword to the collection (which originally comprised two books only), where he pointedly alludes to an actual reunion of the literary friends on St. Serapion’s

10




INTRODUCTION

Day. At the same time Hoffmann draws attention to the literary model for his frame — Tieck’s Phantasus. Hoffmann’s flattering remarks about Tieck’s achievement may nowadays seem rather excessive: Tieck represents the “vollendeten Meister” whose observations on art and literature offer “die tiefsten scharfsinnigsten Bemerkungen.”27 Disarmingly, Hoffmann implores the “geneigter Leser” not to make comparisons between such an accomplished work as Tieck’s and his own. Probably no irony is intended here since Hoffmann was one of the more modest of all the great writers, but his emphasis on sociability is an underlying principle that certainly links his work with Tieck’s: Hier soll die Unterhaltung der Freunde, welche die verschiedenen Dichtungen mit einander verknüpft aber mit das treue Bild des Zusammenseins der Gleichgesinnten aufstellen, die sich die Schöpfungen ihres Geistes mitteilen und ihr Urteil darüber aussprechen. Nur die Bedingnisse eines solchen heitern unbefangenen Gesprächs, in dem recht eigentlich ein Wort das andere gibt, können hier zum Maßstabe dienen.28

Originally, the two books of tales envisaged by both Hoffmann and his publisher were to be arranged according to certain principles, the respective volumes being concluded with a Märchen (Nußknacker und Mausekönig and Das fremde Kind respectively). The rationale for this, at least on the author’s part, is important and its implications will be discussed below at greater length. According to the principles laid down by the Bund, each book represents an evening’s worth of storytelling, ranging over the entire gamut of the serious, the tragic, the comic, and the absurd. It is clear that the author intends to manipulate his reader’s moods and responses not just to individual stories but to the set of narratives as a whole. Concluding each set with a Märchen ensures that there will be a balancing out, that any dissonances will be resolved and that the mood on parting will always be brought back to a happy state of equilibrium. Of course it is clear that an element of performance is involved in this arrangement, whereby the tales are being orally delivered and responded to. This criterion seems to be important for Hoffmann and for his readers, though for the latter the reception process is experienced at a remove — and any fictional equilibrium achieved may not find an exact equivalent for a readership. Readers are unlikely to experience the mixture of moods presented by the tales in the same way as listeners, who are reacting, as it were, to a kind of live performance, which creates an immediacy of response and direct interaction. It is this kind of prescriptive manipulation that might lend support to Uwe Japp’s notion mentioned above that, in expounding his theories of narrative, Hoffmann has a didactic program in mind. But if so, it is one achieved by hidden persuasion and manipulation rather than by direct statement. For each and every theoretical statement is placed within its fictitious context, and related to the personality of the member

INTRODUCTION




11

involved. This means that it may be modified by opposing or differing ideas voiced by one or other of the characters discussing it; second, it is subject to its practical outcome (or, alternatively, its starting point) in the form of the particular (doubly fictitious) narrative tale from which it is derived or to which it may give rise. Discussion of Hoffmann’s many and varied forms of expounding the Serapiontic Principle, traced over the period of its evolution and development, will form the basis of the first part of the following study. The second part examines the way in which this process operates in conjunction with particular tales on which it is focused, which are mainly taken from the Serapionsbrüder collection. I shall examine the use of the framework technique in particular, and its relationship to those tales that seem to acquire among the members of the group the status of exemplarity (or, as in one interesting case, non-exemplarity) as specimens deemed “Serapiontic.” In both the more general and the more applied contexts the nature of Hoffmann’s analysis is so penetrating that important issues are addressed within the fields of psychology and aesthetics, such as the mindbody question, the nature of sense perception, and the relationship of the individual senses to one another and to the aesthetic experience, drawing on the latest theories. For at the beginning of the nineteenth century a seismic shift was taking place in theories of sense perception. Dissatisfaction with rigid Enlightenment ideas was now openly expressed, particularly in relation to the possibility of a strict separation or hierarchical arrangement of the senses.29 The earlier reduction of the senses to but five in number (vision, hearing, taste, smell, and touch) and the categorization of the first two, which were sometimes termed “Fernsinnen,” while the remainder were “Nahsinnen,” was now questioned.30 Hoffmann and his generation would have no truck with the dominance of the eye that had prevailed in the Enlightenment scheme of things. This was now associated either with the idea of primacy of rationality and the intellect, or else the autocratic monopoly by one sense, sight, as the exclusive source for obtaining information about the physical world. Kant’s clear opposition of the physical and mental faculties had been modified by Schiller’s development of an intermediary category of the Aesthetic and the “Spieltrieb,” conceived of as a harmonious amalgamation of (all) the senses and the intellect. But that somewhat contrived solution to the problem of dualism did not clearly address the question of the relationship of the senses either to one another or to other faculties such as the emotions or the imagination (variously termed “Einbildungskraft,” “Phantasie,” “Herz,” “Gefühl,” or “inneres Anschauen”), which all clamored for attention within the Romantic canon. In seeking to extend the bounds of perception Hoffmann was at one with his contemporaries, and it has recently been argued that this quest was born of a desire to pursue further the Enlightenment’s thirst for

12




INTRODUCTION

knowledge,31 different only insofar as that knowledge now enters hitherto uncharted realms, which may include the subconscious or the extrasensory. The exclusivity of the eye itself is subject to limitations, and more attention is given to its operation in conjunction with other faculties, for example, imaginative processes (cf. the “mind’s eye”). The remarkable development of alternative sense perceptions in the case of blind or deaf subjects had already been noted by Enlightenment theorists,32 but the consequences drawn from this observation are now much more radical. Claims are even made that physiological processes, such as the operation of the ganglia in the nervous system, which do not come under the control of the conscious mind, can lead the subject beyond his physical limits into mysterious spiritual realms.33 Most important of all, the verbal and aural faculties come to the fore, and the various art works, literature, and music to which they are respectively linked tend to displace the visual arts, which had for so long assumed the leading position in eighteenth-century theory and practice. A further extension of this revolution in sense perception and what Gerhard Neumann has described as the “Grenzerweiterung der Wahrnehmung” (106–7) is the move to break down barriers between the various art forms themselves and to do so, moreover, by creating connecting links across the defined limits of individual art forms. The philosopher Schelling states: Ich bemerke . . . , daß die vollkommenste Zusammensetzung aller Künste, die Vereinigung von Poesie und Musik durch Gesang, von Poesie und Malerei durch Tanz, selbst wieder synthesiert die componiertste Theatererscheinung ist, dergleichen das Drama des Altertums war, wovon uns nur eine Karikatur, die Oper, geblieben ist, die in höherem und edlerem Stil von Seiten der Poesie sowohl als der übrigen konkurrierenden Künste uns am ehesten zur Aufführung des alten mit Musik und Gesang verbundeten Dramas zurückführen könnte.34

Schelling’s prophetic view of opera as a worthy potential successor to Greek drama would find fulfillment fifty years later when Richard Wagner created the ambitious form of music drama, a fully integrated amalgamation of words and music, which would approach Schelling’s ideal more nearly than any other form had ever done. But the postulation of what became known as the total work of art (“Gesamtkunstwerk”) had been an important clarion call to Romantic artists before Wagner’s day and throughout the nineteenth century. The Gesamtkunstwerk could indeed be described as the most exotic fruit of this profound revolution of the senses. Hoffmann plays his part in the program both in practice and in theory (for example, through his opera Undine) and, as Gerhard Neumann rightly suggests, it is encapsulated in the Serapiontic Principle.35 It would go beyond the bounds of this study to consider the full implications of the Gesamtkunstwerk here. The same applies to the phenomenon of

INTRODUCTION




13

synesthesia — the artificial mingling of sense impressions, a device especially favored by Romantic poets and most famously, later in the nineteenth century, by Baudelaire, who, greatly influenced by Hoffmann’s call for unity across the arts, proposed an elaborate theory of “Correspondances.”36 Yet another of these fruits was the much increased scope now given to the sense of hearing and its appropriate art form, music, which, now liberated, was destined to rise to rare heights in German-speaking lands.37 These developments form an important background to Hoffmann’s theories and explain to some extent their breadth of range and his reluctance to consider narrative or narrative theory in isolation from other artistic phenomena. It might seem odd to find an essay on church music (Alte und neue Musik) and on the relationship between the opera composer and his librettist (Dichter und Komponist) appearing in what is essentially a collection of narratives. But it is perfectly understandable in Hoffmann’s terms; indeed one has the impression that the inclusion of these substantial pieces on music, both of which address the issue of its relationship with words, is essential to Hoffmann’s theoretical armature. He probably would have been uncomfortable had not Die Serapionsbrüder included some substantial representation for this art form, in which he himself was a performer and composer and which he always regarded as supreme among its sister arts, as he had already proclaimed in the earlier Kreisleriana. As we shall also see, one of Hoffmann’s major means of facilitating theoretical connections between the different art forms is through the Serapiontic Principle. In the following study attention will be drawn to what seem to me the major primary sources for Hoffmann’s exposition of the Serapiontic Principle over the range of his prose writings between 1815 and 1822. The preface to the Fantasiestücke, entitled “Jacques Callot,” immediately clarifies his position on the role of “inneres Schauen” in the creative process and anticipates several of what will become the important features of the Serapiontic Principle. The main section examines and evaluates, first the exemplary and central narrative, entitled Der Einsiedler Serapion, which is the major point of reference for all subsequent allusions to and discussions of the principle in Die Serapionsbrüder. There follow analyses of the two essays in the same collection that focus on music and demonstrate the connection between this art form and the principle. Hoffmann’s continued elaboration of the principle and inclusion of additional facets after this point are studied in Prinzessin Brambilla, and his final insights, formulated shortly before his death, are expressed in Des Vetters Eckfenster. The majority of these texts are semi-theoretical, in the sense that they contain what could be described as discursive as opposed to fictional material. This applies especially to the tale Der Einsiedler Serapion, arguably the most substantial text, whose exegesis leads to a major theoretical formulation. But as is often the case with Hoffmann the fictional is never entirely detached from the nonfictional.

14




INTRODUCTION

The second part deals first with the mechanics and distinctive role of the fictional frame, examining the individual characters, their interaction, and the achievement (or not) of consensus in the critiques and wider discussions of the issues raised by the individual tales. It then examines in detail various ways in which frame and principle in Die Serapionsbrüder operate in the more practical context of narrative appraisal. General theoretical points emerging from the first part, together with the appropriate critiques that emerge in the frame discussion, provide a context in which to examine tales that have been selected to illustrate different aspects of the Serapiontic Principle. Here I have chosen to group them according to the following themes: the transformation of material from the visual to the verbal medium; the “serapiontic” exploration of the Supernatural, first, as a malevolent “böses Princip” and second, (in the Märchen form) as a basically benign force. The concluding chapter reviews the wider relevance of the Serapiontic Principle, and briefly considers its application as a tool for literary critique with reference to two of the most celebrated tales from the Fantasiestücke and Nachtstücke collections respectively, namely, Der goldene Topf and Der Sandmann.

Notes 1 H. Pfotenhauer, “Exoterische und esoterische Poetik in E. T. A. Hoffmanns Erzählungen,” Jahrbuch der Jean Paul Gesellschaft 1982: 129–44, writes of Hoffmann’s “Fehlleistungen” and “Ausdrucksschwierigkeiten” (botched efforts and problems of expression, 134). Siegfried Schumm, Einsicht und Darstellung (Göppingen: A. Kümmerle, 1974), 161, states that Hoffmann is “kein Philosoph,” but concedes that his thinking is shaped by contemporary philosophical trends. 2

Uwe Japp, in a succinct and illuminating analysis, prefers the term “Korrelationspoetik” to Hoffmann’s theory of the principle and finds difficulty in particular with the term “inneres Schauen” (“Das Serapiontische Prinzip,” in E. T. A. Hoffmann, Text ⫹ Kritik, ed. Heinz Ludwig Arnold [Munich: Text ⫹ Kritik, 1992], 63–75; here, 73). 3 Carl Dahlhaus, Die Musiktheorie im 18. und 19. Jahrhundert, part 1 (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1984), 196: “Durch Beethovens Symphonien in Hoffmanns Interpretation [. . .] ist der Musikbegriff der ersten Jahrhunderthälfte geprägt worden wie durch Wagners Musikdramen [. . .] in Nietzsches Interpretation [. . .] der des zweiten.” 4

Readers who are unfamiliar with the frame in the Die Serapionsbrüder may wish to refer at this point to chapter 7, “Frame Narrative and the Serapiontic Principle,” which discusses Hoffmann’s use of the device. 5

On Christa Wolf’s Hoffmann reception see Beverley Hardy in Howard Gaskill, ed., Neue Ansichten (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1990), 73–84.

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15

6 The intricacies of narrative perspective in Hoffmann’s work have been described as “polyphonic”; see Victor Terras, “E. T. A. Hoffmanns polyphonische Erzählkunst,” The German Quarterly 39 (1966): 551. The term has more recently been adopted by Detlev Kremer, among others, in his book E. T. A. Hoffmann: Erzählungen und Romane (Berlin: Erich Schmidt Verlag, 1999). 7

Hoffmann’s early and major detractor, Walter Scott, and Goethe (who followed him in his denigration of the content of the tales), together with his former friend, the publisher Julius Hitzig, seemed quite unaware of the significance of the distancing techniques evident in Die Serapionsbrüder and elsewhere in Hoffmann’s works. This may have set an unfortunate precedent. 8

Detlev Kremer, E. T. A. Hoffmann: Erzählungen und Romane, 12.

9

See the critique of deconstruction by Terry Eagleton, in his Literary Theory: An Introduction (Oxford: Blackwell, 1985), 138. 10

As is well known, contrapuntal and polyphonic musical textures invariably exist within a harmonic framework. See Nora Haimberger, Vom Musiker zum Dichter: E. T. A. Hoffmanns Akkordvorstellung (Bonn: Bouvier, 1976). Haimberger emphasizes the point that for Hoffmann dissonance (especially as represented by the dominant and diminished seventh), is often employed metaphorically to express anguish. However, Hoffmann (in the form of his musician-character, Kreisler) regards dissonance as something to be resolved (“unaufgelöste Dissonanzen [sind] recht widrig”), and his supreme model for consonance is Palestrina (106). See also discussion below in part 1, chapter 4, “Alte und Neue Kirchenmusik.” 11 Detlev Kremer, Romantische Metamorphosen: E. T. A. Hoffmanns Erzählungen (Stuttgart: J. B. Metzler, 1993) 227, 324; Peter von Matt, Die Augen der Automaten: E. T. A. Hoffmanns Imaginationslehre als Prinzip seiner Erzählkunst (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1971), 103; Claudia Liebrand, Aporie des Kunstmythos (Freiburg im Breisgau: Rombach, 1996), 10. 12

See Petra Liedke Konow, “Sich hineinschwingen in die Werkstatt des Autors: Asthetische Rekurrenzphänomene in E. T. A. Hoffmanns Rahmenzyklus Die Serapionsbrüder,” ETAHJb 2 (1994): 57–68. Japp, “Das Serapiontische Prinzip,” in E. T. A. Hoffmann, Text ⫹ Kritik, ed. H. L. Arnold, 63.

13

14

Having said that, there is often evidence that the discussion is being steered towards a consensus position, see below, part 2, chapter 7, “Group Dynamics.”

15

See, for example, points raised in the discussion of Nußknacker und Mausekönig, part 2, chapter 10, below. 16 Kremer, in his E. T. A. Hoffmann: Erzählungen und Romane, also invokes Fr. Schlegel’s theory in support of his deconstructionist interpretation of Hoffmann’s irony, but without drawing attention to its wider implications. See Athenäum: A. W. and F. Schlegel, eds., Eine Zeitschrift, vol. 1, section 2 (Berlin: F. Schöningh, 1798), 190 where irony is defined as a “steten Wechsel von Selbstschöpfung und Selbstvernichtung.” See also Ernst Behler, German Romantic Literary Criticism (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1993), 149.

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INTRODUCTION

17 Of all the tales in Die Serapionsbrüder only “Der Einsiedler Serapion,” “Die Bergwerke zu Falun,” [“Eine Spukgeschichte”] [“Vampirismus”] and “Die Königsbraut” had not been published before. 18 See Walter Müller-Seidel’s still excellent afterword to the Winkler edition of Die Serapionsbrüder (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1978), 1001: “erst in der Überschau des Ganzen wird die künstlerische Leistung in ihrem vollen Umfang sichtbar” and “[wir] wollen die Geschlossenheit des Zyklus betonen.” 19

E.g. E. T. A. Hoffmann, Werke, ed. H. Kraft and M. Weckert (Frankfurt am Main: Insel, 1967), which is based in turn on the Aufbau-Verlag edition. 20 Die Elixiere des Teufels, E. T. A. Hoffmann, Sämtliche Werke in sechs Bänden, ed. Hartmut Steinecke and Wulf Segebrecht (with Gerhard Allroggen, Friedhelm Auhuber, Hartmut Mangold, and Ursula Segebrecht) (Frankfurt am Main: Deutscher Klassiker Verlag, 1985–2004), vol. 2/2:12. Henceforth HSW. 21

On Hoffmann’s success at — and difficulty with — combining two very different careers, see Ulrich Mückenberger, “Phantasie und Gerechtigkeitssinn: Der Dichter und Jurist E. T. A. Hoffmann,” Neue Rundschau 100, no. 2 (1989): 163–86. 22

Hitzig, Hoffmann’s friend and biographer adopts a prudish tone about what he regarded as the excesses of the gatherings after Hoffmann and his friends moved venue from Manderlee to Lutter und Wegener (SB, in HSW, 1235. This view has recently been challenged by Lothar Pikulik, E. T. A. Hoffmann als Erzähler (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1987), 52–53. 23 The relationship between the real and the fictional club is dealt with in more detail below, part 2, chapter 7, “The Frame.” 24

See Marianne Thalmann, Romantiker entdecken die Stadt (Munich: 1965), where Hoffmann’s works are cited passim; also Lothar Pikulik, E. T. A. Hoffmann als Erzähler, 21–22. 25

See below, chapter 4, “Über alte und neue Kirchenmusik,” in which there is discussion of the respective stimulus on the creative process of a rural or an urban environment. 26

Cf. “Zeitung für Einsiedler,” a Romantic periodical publication founded by Arnim, Brentano, and Görres in 1808. It also appeared as “Trösteinsamkeit.” 27

Hoffmann, “Vorwort” to Die Serapionsbrüder, 11.

28

Hoffmann, “Vorwort” to Die Serapionsbrüder, 11.

29

This had already been challenged by the farsighted Lessing, who contrasted the “physical” and the “spiritual” eye (das körperliche Auge and das Auge des Geists). See his early poem “Uber die Mehrheit der Welten”(1746) and reference there to “des Geistes schärfres Auge,” in Werke, ed. K. Lachmann, (Stuttgart: Göschen, 1886), 272. In Laokoon it seems that the phrase “des Geistes Auge” is synonymous with “Einbildungskraft.” See Peter Utz, Das Auge und Ohr im Text: Literarische Sinneswahrnehmung in der Goethezeit (Munich: W. Fink, 1990), 40. Influences from neo-Platonism cannot be discounted. 30

Cf. Utz, Das Auge und Ohr im Text, 66, who glosses a passage from Schiller’s Ästhetische Erziehung as follows: “die geschichtsphilosophische Grenze von Naturund Vernunftmensch scheint hier als Grenze zwischen Nah- und Fernsinnen.”

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31 See Gerhard Neumann, who, in a wide-ranging essay, describes the Serapiontic Principle itself as just such an extension, as “eine Poetologie der erweiterten Aufklärung,” (“Hoffmanns Wissenschaftspoetik,” in Aufklärung als Form [Würzburg: Königshausen und Neumann, 1997]), 116. J. W. Ritter, the influential physicist and friend of Novalis, proposed a rearrangement of the traditional order of significance accorded to the respective faculties by privileging hearing over sight, see Ritter, Fragmente aus dem Nachlaß eines jungen Physikers (Hanau/Main: Kiepenheuer, 1984 (based on 1810 edition, Heidelberg, Mohr und Zimmer), 166: “Das Hören ist ein Sehen von innen, das innerstinnerste Bewußtsein [. . .]. Der Gehörsinn ist unter allen Sinnen des Universums der höchste, größte, umfassendste, je es ist der einzige allgemeine Sinn. Es gilt keine Ansicht des Universums ganz und unbedingt, als die akustische.” 32

Cf. Diderot, “Lettre sur les aveugles”; “Lettre sur les sourds et muets.”

33

See Hoffmann’s tale “Der Magnetiseur” (Fantasiestücke) and (untitled) tale of “magnetism” from the Serapionsbrüder narrated by his character Lothar, and discussed below, part 2, chapter 9, “The Nachtseite der Natur.”

34 See “Philosophie der Kunst,” in Schellings Ausgewählte Schriften, ed. Manfred Frank, vol. 2 (1801–3) (Frankfurt am Main: 1985), 564. 35

Cf. Neumann, “Hoffmanns Wissenschaftspoetik,” 114–17.

36

See Utz, Das Auge und Ohr im Text, 210.

37

Hoffmann alludes to Ritter’s theories in “Johannes Kreislers Lebensbrief.” Reil and Herder have also been invoked as pioneers in placing the aural above the visual faculties; see Utz, Das Auge und Ohr im Text, 194.

Part 1

1: Overture: Jacques Callot

H

OFFMANN’S FIRST COLLECTION OF TALES, the Fantasiestücke, was published in four books between 1814 and 1816, and right from the start of his compilation in 1813 he adopted deliberate principles in the order and presentation of the individual works. Not yet at this point favoring the route taken by Goethe in his Unterhaltungen deutscher Ausgewanderten or Ludwig Tieck in his Phantasus, and which he himself would develop in Die Serapionsbrüder, of providing a frame narrative, he did not wish to throw his works before his public in a random fashion, either. Instead he adopted two unifying structural elements to place around the tales, first an overarching title: Fantasiestücke in Callots Manier: Blätter aus dem Tagebuch eines reisenden Enthusiasten, which he himself justified as having been deliberately chosen as a preface (“Vorrede”) to the succeeding tales.1 The second consisted in a succinct programmatic opening piece, Jacques Callot, in which he sought to provide his readership with what amounts to a concise statement of the artistic principles that he was proposing to adopt in the collection as a whole. In this connection it is relevant that several of the tales themselves were still taking shape at the point when the first two volumes had already been published (Der goldene Topf, for example, followed as volume 3 later in the same year, 1814, after the appearance of the first two books). Because not all the tales — or other writings, such as the essays Der Dichter und der Komponist and Über alte und neue Kirchenmusik that he wrote during the period in which the collection was assembled — were taken up in the Fantasiestücke, it would appear that the principles of eligibility outlined in Jacques Callot were consciously and consistently adopted. The title itself was immediately contentious and had to be defended by Hoffmann against the objections of the then hugely popular writer Jean Paul (Richter) who had condescended (under persuasion from Hoffmann’s publisher Kunz) to supply a preface (the present “Vorrede”). Hoffmann’s title contains in compressed form a number of separate ingredients that carry various important signals to his readership. First, the term “Fantasiestücke” is one that Hoffmann seems to have annexed from the visual arts;2 second, the use of the term “Manier” (which is here applied to the seventeenth-century French engraver, Callot) had been famously employed by Goethe in his essay of 1789 entitled “Einfache Nachahmung der Natur, Manier, Stil.” Last but not least, there is the creation of a fictitious narrator in the guise of a “reisender Enthusiast,” who threads his way through the collection, drawing on the journal he has ostensibly compiled

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on his travels, and sometimes also appearing in his own right as a character within a particular tale. The word “Enthusiast” is itself a highly resonant term in early nineteenth-century Germany;3 it is connected with the concept of original genius (for which the Sturm-und-Drang term “Genie” is no longer deemed suitable) and sometimes, in its more intense manifestations, is linked to the term “Exaltation.” To certain minds, therefore, it has strong associations with extreme Romantic attitudes or forms of behavior. And as such it is not without pejorative overtones. Hoffmann seems to wish to maintain a degree of distance towards the excesses associated with his enthusiast’s utterances. The high incidence of superlatives that the latter applies to Callot, for example, “überreich,” “heterogenst,” “natürlichst,” point to a degree of authorial detachment. In addition, in the seventh chapter of volume 1, Die Abenteuer der Sylvester-Nacht, Hoffmann introduces a counter-figure to the enthusiast in the guise of an editor (“Herausgeber”). As we hear from the traveling enthusiast, this editor figure interestingly bears the name “Theodor Amadäus Hoffmann,” a good example of the “fictional author” if ever there was one, and a typically ironic gesture on Hoffmann’s part.4 Die Abenteuer der Sylvester-Nacht is flanked by a preface, the authorship of which is attributed to this “Hoffmann”-editor, and a postscript presented by the traveling enthusiast. As the first to have his say, the editor takes the opportunity offered by directly addressing the “günstiger Leser” and providing an apologia for the enthusiast’s more extravagant flights of fancy. The distancing effect towards the enthusiast that is thus created is then finally counterbalanced by the real (or “empirical”) author, Hoffmann, who allows the enthusiast to have the last word and to address “Hoffmann” as “editor.” The process of splitting the narrative voices en route in the collection, so to speak, and separating them out into two distinct and contrasting personalities (or separate aspects of one personality) is characteristic of Hoffmann’s flexible approach to narrative perspective. In this instance one might suspect that the device is reflecting an unresolved dualism in his own position and giving evidence of a fundamental polarization in the mind of the creative artist and teller of tales, who is torn between unbridled enthusiasm (such as characterizes the tone of the Kreisleriana, for instance) and the more cautious sobriety (“Besonnenheit”) that is evident in many of the others. More persuasive, however, is the view according to which enthusiasm and sobriety are regarded as complementary rather than mutually exclusive or adversarial aspects in Hoffmann’s conception of the genial,5 and it has been observed that elsewhere he specifically attributes such qualities to Beethoven, who, for Hoffmann, represents the archetypal Romantic artist.6 In this first collection of tales we can already detect the seeds of the elaborate narrative devices and structures that will be developed further in Hoffmann’s later fiction and will attain a high degree of complexity in Die

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23

Serapionsbrüder. In the Fantasiestücke the two narrators interact with the tales, with each other (a little), and also with the fictitious “günstiger Leser” in the characteristically playful and manipulative way in which Hoffmann chooses to present narrative — though at this stage the artistic and thematic ramifications are still rather less developed than they will later become. In his preface to the Fantasiestücke, Jean Paul’s alternative suggestion for a title to the collection — “Kunstnovellen” — is surprisingly anodyne. When suggesting it, he was already familiar with the Jacques Callot preface, and could scarcely have missed its import or have misunderstood Hoffmann’s intentions. Either Jean Paul did not examine the ideas in the Callot piece (or did not want to, for there was little love lost between the two writers) or he was not concerned to evaluate its relevance to the collection as a whole. Possibly there may have been a more sinister reason for his rejection of the title — one that would have applied as much, of course, to the Callot piece as to the title itself. Jean Paul reacted particularly unfavorably to the precise nature of the artistic program outlined by Hoffmann, for which the Callot engravings were intended to serve as a model. It is clear that he did not care for “Hoffmanns views emanating from the new-fangled literary school” (that is, Romanticism, with which Hoffmann is clearly identified).7 But Hoffmann was not prepared to give ground on a matter to which, on his own admission, he had given much thought (“den Zusatz ‘in Callots Manier’ hab ich reiflich erwogen”).8 Over and above any personal animosity between the two writers there is evidently here a plain clash of ideas about art and in particular the direction being taken by the recent (“neu-poetisch”) generation of Romantic writers. Jean Paul [Richter] (1763–1825), a quirky, idiosyncratic writer, possessed of a truly elephantine humor (or “Laune” as Hoffmann ironically described it when discussing the matter of the preface with his publisher, Kunz), was, because of his age, an outsider, caught between Romanticism and Classicism, and his position in literary history is difficult to pin down. At a time when German writers were simultaneously confronted with the powerful influences emanating from Weimar and the heady programs being advanced by the new generation of Romantics in Jena, he had been plowing a lone and independent furrow and was skeptical about subscribing to what he regarded as current literary fashions. As Hoffmann had feared, he was precisely the wrong person to provide a preface for his Fantasiestücke.9 Because of the elegance and lightness of touch with which Hoffmann dispatches theoretical matters, it could easily escape the attention of the reader that what, in the Callot piece, may appear at first sight to be a historicizing appreciation of a seventeenth-century French graphic artist is in fact nothing of the sort. As Siegbert Prawer has so convincingly argued, Jacques Callot is both a persuasive piece of rhetoric, artfully and subtly

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presented, and a presentation of key points in the Romantic program.10 The Callot originals (which Hoffmann had seen in Bamberg) serve as a starting point for the narrator’s enumeration of a range of artistic principles; in observing and reconstructing Callot’s own methods of projecting his vision of the physical world, Hoffmann is simultaneously becoming aware of parallels that can serve as guidelines for the would-be Romantic artist (here represented by the traveling enthusiast). The direct address to Callot (“du kecker Meister”) also sets up a level of intimacy and understanding and a closeness between the writer’s and the visual artist’s respective approaches to their craft. The features identified in Callot’s model of creativity are many; indeed, in its sheer conciseness, the piece packs in a whole repertoire of technical features relating to Callot’s art that Hoffmann regards as having wider applicability. The reader is hustled briskly from one to the other and might have wished to linger on some, but it is as if Hoffmann is setting down a number of key points — almost a kind of memorandum — for his own future reference and development. We have to remember that Jacques Callot is a kind of opening fanfare to the Fantasiestücke. As Prawer has demonstrated, it operates on two levels: first as itself an artful construct and secondly as an artistic credo. Although Hoffmann described it in a letter as a preface, he did not choose that (or a similar term) in the published version, as if he wished his reader to enjoy the manner in which it is presented as much as the content, inviting him to see it as an integrated, not detached, part of the Fantasiestücke. It was in fact his first attempt to combine these two functions of theoretical issues and pure narrative and he succeeds in smuggling in a large number of key issues without a sense of overload. The piece is both succinct and suggestive. If one were to sum up the key assumptions that underpin the large range of topics covered in Jacques Callot, one would point to the common ground that is established between the two distinct art forms, the visual and verbal, the main issue being the way the faculty of imagination (“Fantasie”) operates in each and the ironic distance that the artist assumes towards his material. Callot is praised especially for being able to take ordinary material from the real world (“die Gestalten des gewöhnlichen Lebens”) and to transform this matter into forms that are remote, strange, and exotic, but that still retain something of their familiar origins. The memorable, succinct phrase used here is “etwas fremdartig Bekanntes.”11 The process of transformation is therefore non-(rather than anti-)naturalistic but manages to be so in a way that does not seek to disguise its “real” origins. Even a seemingly prosaic subject — a peasants’ dance — becomes in Callot’s hands hyper-real in that the musicians sitting aloft in the trees resemble birds rather than humans. So vivid are the results that an artistic procedure and technique that are employed in what is in point of fact a black-and-white engraving triggers in the observer the kind of response

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and vivid impression that could normally, that is in real life, be achieved only through color: “kräftig und in den natürlichsten Farben glänzend.”12 Choice and selection of material are additional aspects of Callot’s art to be addressed. The salient features are intensity and concentration. Based on the minutiae of ordinary everyday life, the artist’s process of selection is designed to create a sense of plenitude, of teeming life, but to do so in the most economical manner: “Kein Meister hat so wie Callot gewußt, in einen kleinen Raum eine Fülle von Gegenständen zusammenzudrängen.” Clearly defined figures and images stand out in sharp relief, at one and the same time free-standing, distinct entities, existing “als Einzelnes für sich” and yet at the same time all the heterogeneous parts belonging to a totality. In one sense such an art form might immediately conjure up other familiar seventeenth-century examples, notably the Dutch school of genre painting. But it would seem that Hoffmann deliberately veered away from referring to this school, despite its growing popularity in the early nineteenth century.13 He also veered away from his first thoughts about a suitable model, namely, the eighteenth-century English satirical graphic artist William Hogarth, for reasons that will become clearer. It is obvious that his choice of Callot as an alternative was very carefully considered, as he himself attested. Genre painting was probably too naturalistic to meet his criteria or serve as a model for his Romantic program; he was looking for something that would give more food for thought, above all something that would stimulate and appeal to the imaginative faculties. Jacques Callot does not present a detailed analysis of painterly techniques at all. Indeed on technical grounds the point is made that Callot breaks all the rules of composition, that his works have been taken to task by “schwierige Kunstrichter” (hard-to-please critics) on the charge that they do not pay enough attention to fundamental aspects of composition such as the grouping of figures or to the distribution of light. Callot’s appeal lies in less tangible effects and above all on an underlying approach to his materials that triggers his creative powers to produce works that touch equally deep chords in the viewer’s heart and mind. Hoffmann is searching in this essay to uncover this process, starting from the point of its reception, that is, the viewer’s personal response, and working back from there to the creative act. The conceptual framework he comes up with focuses on two terms in particular: the first, irony, denotes a mode of looking at the world in general and taking up a certain position towards it; the second focuses more precisely on one means whereby this is achieved, namely, by exploiting the grotesque, a feature common to the visual and verbal arts and one that is based on the exaggeration of particular (that is, existing) features of the original source material and that often creates disturbing or shocking effects. Both these elements that Hoffmann identifies in Callot’s art open up common ground that stretches beyond the normal bounds of each individual art form and promotes a broad view

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not just of art but of life. In other words they touch on the philosophical or the “weltanschaulich” aspect of the Romantic program, which — in all its various manifestations — is seeking for new, or unusual, forms of expression. It is well established that irony is a key concept in Hoffmann’s work and, as will become amply clear later, it is an important ingredient in the Serapiontic Principle, where it is linked to Lothar’s theory of “Erkenntnis der Duplizität.” Its central role in Jacques Callot already provides an explanation for Hoffmann’s persistent refusal to accept the limitations of any theory of art that confines itself to merely reproducing what we perceive in the physical world. Combined with the all-important faculty of imagination (“Fantasie”) — here briefly defined in non-visual terms — irony supplies a perspective on the substance, the true meaning lying beneath the surface level of reality. In this role and in its more extreme form, it borders on the satirical and is often harsh and excoriating, since Hoffmann implies that at the heart of all things in the world of humans all is not necessarily for the best: benign and malevolent principles exist side by side. This train of thought might initially have led Hoffmann to consider Hogarth as his paradigm, since that particular artist’s vision of mankind presents unforgettable images of depravity, cruelty, and inhumanity, unmasking the hypocrisy lying behind a complacent social order. Such a view of underlying horror is, however, too bleak and hopeless for Hoffmann. It is “punitive satire” (as opposed to “scherzende”) to use Schiller’s helpful terminology;14 it employs black humor and is one-sided in its focus on ills that may be real but that are too closely linked with specific social or political conditions and need to be placed within a wider perspective. Irony and “scherzende Satire” work differently. Callot’s irony, for instance, presupposes a sovereign detachment on the part of the artist, who, by exercising his imagination, can look out over the entire range of human activity, some of it uplifting or amusing, some dark and disturbing, thereby displacing man from the complacent Enlightenment perch that he has attained by virtue of his position as the unique possessor of reason. Thus the example of Callot’s art opens up the prospect of exploring the darker side of human existence (“die Nachtseite der Natur” as G. H. Schubert describes it), but viewing it with a certain detachment and awareness of its function within the whole. The narrator explicitly draws together this definition of irony and the process of reception, as the serious viewer of Callot’s art is invited to penetrate the surface level of reality in order to understand what lies beneath what may seem to be “skurril” attempts of the artist to horrify by such grotesque hybrid forms: Die Ironie, welche, indem sie das Menschliche mit dem Tier in Konflikt setzt, den Menschen mit seinem ärmlichen Tun und Treiben verhöhnt,

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wohnt nur in einem tiefen Geiste, und so enthüllen Callots aus Tier und Mensch geschaffne groteske Gestalten dem ernsten tiefer eindringenden Beschauer, alle die geheimen Andeutungen, die unter dem Schleier der Skurrilität verborgen liegen. (HSW/SB, 18)

One work of Callot’s is cited for just such serious contemplation as an example of the use of the grotesque: his “Temptation of St. Anthony”15 (which in some respects is reminiscent of the earlier treatment of this subject by Matthias Grünewald in his Isenheimer Altar) demonstrates how parts of the human anatomy can be reified and turned into instruments of destruction or ridicule by devilish fiends who torment the Holy Man. These images are typically grotesque in their comic, but simultaneously indecent and sinister, distortion of the human body and the pain and violence that they convey. Nonetheless Callot’s artistry wins from the viewer terms of approbation, “vortrefflich” and “ergötzlich,” even as he lays bare the horror of what lies beneath the surface. The two chosen examples, the “Peasant Dance” and the “Temptation,” represent contrasting styles of artistry and evoke a different range of responses, the one at surface level being a happy scene that on closer scrutiny contains dissonant elements through the slightly grotesque detail of tree musicians; the other unrelievedly somber in its images but with a modicum of comic relief being suggested through the distorted physiognomy of the devils. The complementarity of the serious and the comic (often defined as “Ernst und Scherz”) is one of the cardinal principles on which Hoffmann’s narrative program is based and, as will be demonstrated, is specifically linked to the Serapiontic Principle. Surveying Jacques Callot in detail as I have been doing above, one becomes aware that not even the stealth and sophistication of Hoffmann’s presentation can conceal the insistence with which he is promoting the Romantic program and, conversely, how the barbs against Enlightenment and Classical norms are deliberately timed to achieve maximum effect. On two separate occasions the opportunity is taken to refer explicitly to Romanticism. The first occurs in the context of Hoffmann’s discussion of the first of his two Callot examples, the “Peasants’ Dance,” where the seeming coarseness of the subject matter is transcended by an imaginative and original treatment: it appears “in dem Schimmer einer gewissen romantischen Originalität,” opening up immediately the dimension of the strange and the fantastic. The second is reserved for the last summarizing paragraph in which the narrator (in the form of the traveling enthusiast) reiterates his point about Callot’s amazing ability to transform reality and lend to it an aura of mystery and the exotic, but now he applies this principle explicitly to the literary sphere. This process of transformation of the ordinary (“die Gestalten des gewöhnlichen Lebens”) into the extraordinary is reinforced as a cardinal principle of Romanticism; it emanates from

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the poet’s inner world, “in seinem innern romantischen Geisterreiche.” Once more the term “Schimmer” is used to suggest the mysterious and impalpable effects this has on the reader or receiver: Könnte ein Dichter oder Schriftsteller, dem die Gestalten des gewöhnlichen Lebens in seinem innern romantischen Geisterreiche erscheinen, und der sie nun in dem Schimmer, von dem sie dort umflossen, wie in einem fremden wunderlichen Putz darstellt, sich nicht wenigstens mit diesem Meister entschuldigen und sagen: Er habe in Callots Manier arbeiten wollen? (HSW/FS 2/1, 18)

The twofold iteration of the word “Romantic” is quite deliberate: the first statement applies to the effects produced by the visual art form, the second to the literary sphere. It is clearly Hoffmann’s intention to link these different art forms under the “Romantic” heading. In addition to such explicit reference to the Romantic program there are other hints and allusions in the text that the careful reader will immediately associate with it. Chief among these is the motif of the veil (“Schleier”) that is lifted in an attempt to disclose mysteries. Sources for this notion, which is much favored by Hoffmann’s contemporaries, including Schelling and Novalis,16 probably come from the contemporary interest in Egyptian religious mysteries associated with temple of Sais and its cult of the veiled goddess, Isis. Novalis and many others had been attracted by this imagery, which appealed for both its religious and its artistic associations. Hoffmann’s veil is given a slightly different twist: instead of drawing aside the veil of the goddess, the serious viewer is encouraged to draw aside the “Schleier der Skurrilität,” in other words the husk that constitutes the outer appearance of the art form, in order to penetrate the mysterious depths beneath the surface, thus gaining access to “die geheimen Andeutungen,” intimations of higher truths that can then be revealed and communicated by the artist. Other signs of direct allegiance to the Romantic program include terms like “Fantasie,” “wunderlich,” and of course “Ironie” and “grotesk.” At the same time as this vigorous promotion of the Romantic cause is being expressed, the case against the opposition (whether Enlightenment or Classical) is not forgotten: for example, the references to the rules of painting that Callot is deemed to have infringed remind one of examples elsewhere among Romantic writers of concern about the stultifying effect of the art academies on spontaneous creativity, or likewise in the punchline at the very end of Jacques Callot when the word “Manier” is used provocatively to clinch the respectability of a concept that had been subject to critical examination and had acquired negative connotations within the canon established by Weimar Classicism.17 In the visual arts “manner” or “mannerism” was originally applied to late Renaissance and early seventeenth-century work (for example, Goya) and was criticized

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specifically for its complicated groupings and its fondness for the grotesque and fantastic. To the classical mind it appeared one-sided, lacking all harmony and balance. Both in terms of its subject matter and the techniques it employed, “Manier” had become discredited. With Hoffmann’s piece that rejection is boldly addressed and the position reversed. His method of using the comparatively unknown seventeenth-century artist, Callot, to reflect an early nineteenth-century aesthetic position that was being implemented by the second generation of Romantic writers was original and subtle. But the strategy of singling out this particular approach to art was especially daring in its explicit prioritization of “Manier” and blatant departure from Goethe’s carefully constructed three-stage scheme, in which “Stil” is the highest criterion and “Manier” occupies an ambiguous position. Over and above this general artistic manifesto with its clear statement of allegiance to Romanticism, Jacques Callot is a key document in Hoffmann’s own personal evolution as a theorist. Already it contains in a nutshell some of the most important themes and issues that he would take up and develop further in Die Serapionsbrüder. These include principally questions associated with the creative process: the use of the fantastic and the grotesque; the centrality of irony; the mixture of serious and comic at the center of art and of life; and the importance of the reception process, especially the interactive aspect of narrative technique. As far as the creative process is concerned, Hoffmann had not as yet clarified or conceptualized matters that would become of major importance in his later works, especially Die Serapionsbrüder. His approach is intuitive, tentative, and experimental (though the tentative aspect that is such a feature of the style and presentation and has been so well analyzed by Siegbert Prawer may well be a deliberately assumed pose). To take an example: the description of Callot’s modus operandi and the transformation of ordinary life into something rich, exotic, and yet familiar (“etwas fremdartig Bekanntes”) would be examined in much more detail within the context of the discussions of the Serapiontic Principle, of which it could be regarded as an embryo form. In particular, more attention would be paid to the role of sense perception and the opposition of the purely visual faculty (“Sehen”) and the visionary and imaginative (“inneres Schauen”). A whole range of possibilities would be opened up to chart the operation of the faculty of imagination (“Fantasie”) and its effect on the psyche of the artist himself, whose extreme flights of fancy may result in a dislocation or inability to adjust to normal circumstances. The operation within the creative process of the analytical faculty (“Erkenntnis”), for example, alongside the purely imaginative (“Fantasie”) is another issue that would have to wait until Hoffmann had amassed more experience of narrative writing from which he could deduce what he would term (like the philosophers of his day) “principles.”

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On the other hand the interactive approach that Hoffmann would make particularly his own in his prose fiction is already present in exemplary form in “Jacques Callot. The reception-process of a work or works of art is deliberately set before us by the expedient of presenting an enthusiast who is attempting to articulate his overwhelmingly positive reaction to this artist’s graphic work and to penetrate beneath its surface — with the additional purpose of transposing his findings to another art form, namely, literature. The receiver is at one and the same time a potential writer (“Dichter” or “Schriftsteller” as Hoffmann disarmingly suggests, leaving open the level of greatness) and/or a highly receptive reader. The degree of responsiveness and appreciation can be gauged by the implication that as an observer he is able, through the operation of his imagination, to convert a black-and-white print into a work that is full of color, following the allusive and virtuoso techniques adopted by the artist. In this ability to transform material the receiver is no passive consumer but develops his creative powers in ways analogous to those of the artist himself. Hoffmann pays his public a big compliment, though one wonders how many have risen to the challenge.18 Not all, it seems, have been able to appreciate the wide-ranging relevance of the Callot piece and its subtitle to the “Fantasiestücke.”

Notes 1 In a letter to Kunz (8 September 1813), Hoffmann expressly drew attention to the importance of the title-appendage to the Fantasiestücke: “Den Zusatz ‘in Callots Manier’ hab ich reiflich erwogen und mir dadurch Spielraum zu Manchem gegeben.” This suggests that he had in mind certain overarching principles for the collection, albeit flexible ones. 2 See E. T. A. Hoffmann, HSW/FS, 583: “ ‘Fantasiestücke in Callots Manier’ heißt bei Hoffmann also etwa ‘phantastische Gemälde in der Art Callots.’ ” It had, however, become a commonplace for the term to be applied to musical compositions from J. S. Bach to Mozart and many nineteenth-century composers, and this general meaning suits Hoffmann’s interdisciplinary program ideally. 3 See Friedrich Schlegel, “Enthusiasmus und Ironie,” in KSA, 2:318. Christa Karoli, Ideal und Krise enthusiastischen Künstlertums in der deutschen Romantik (Bonn: 1968). See also the useful commentary in HSW/FS, 589–92. 4 HSW/FS, 359: “Du siehst, mein lieber Theodor Amadäus Hoffmann! Daß nur zu oft eine fremde dunkle Macht sichtbarlich in mein Leben tritt.” 5 6

Put forward by Hartmut Steinecke; see HSW/FS, 591.

In Hoffmann’s famous review of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony in C Minor in the Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung, Leipzig (henceforth AMZ), the composer is presented as the quintessential Romantic artist: “so entfaltet auch nur ein sehr tiefes Eingehen in die innere Struktur Beethovenscher Musik die hohe Besonnenheit des

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Meisters, welche von dem wahren Genie unzertrennlich ist und von dem anhaltenden Studium der Kunst genährt wird” (HSW/FP, 720–74). (This formulation is taken over almost verbatim into the “Kreisleriana” (HSW/FS 1:3 and 4:9). 7 Jean Paul to Kunz 16 November 1813: “Ich muß vollständig-wahr sein können; besonders da mir Hoffmanns Ansichten aus der neu-poetischen Schule nicht immer zusagen. Der in meiner entworfenen Vorrede gebrauchte Titel ‘Kunstnovellen’ wäre vielleicht der passendste für das Buch,” (Schnapp, E. T. A. Hoffmann in Aufzeichnungen seiner Freunde und Bekannten [Munich: Winkler, 1974], 261). 8 Hoffmann to Kunz 8 September 1813, in E. T. A. Hoffmann, HSW, vol. 1, 1794–1813, ed. G. Allroggen et al., 307. 9

“Jean Pauls Kleister-und Essig-Aale haben mir tüchtig vorgeschnalzt,” wrote Hoffmann to Kunz on 24 March 1814 (HSW vol. 1, 25). Jean Paul’s remarks had a considerable (negative) effect on the reception of the Fantasiestücke, so much so that Hoffmann implored his publisher to omit the preface altogether in subsequent editions — but to no avail. It is with us today, an odd period piece that shows scant appreciation of Hoffmann’s genius. 10

Siegbert Prawer, “Die Farben des Jacques Callot: E. T. A. Hoffmanns ‘Entschuldigung’ seiner Kunst,” in Wissen aus Erfahrungen (Festschrift für Herman Meyer), ed. Alexander von Bormann (Tübingen: 1976), 392–401. 11

This formulation bears unmistakable traces of Novalis: cf. “Die Kunst, auf eine angenehme Art zu befremden, einen Gegenstand fremd zu machen und doch bekannt und anziehend, das ist die romantische Poetik” (Novalis, Fragmente, ed. E. Kamnitzer, (Dresden: Wolfgang Jess, 1929), 621, no. 1941. 12

This point is noted by Prawer, “Die Farben des Jacques Callot,” 395.

13

See Heinrich von Kleist apropos his source material for Der zerbrochne Krug, in a letter to Fouqué, 25 May 1811, in Sämtliche Werke, vol. 2, ed. Helmut Sembdner (Munich: Hanser, 1965), 862: “Es ist nach Teniers gearbeitet.”

14 “Über naive und sentimentalische Dichtung” in Werke (Nationalausgabe), vol. 20, part 1 (Weimar: Hermann Böhlaus Nachfolger, 1962), 442: “satirisch ist der Dichter, wenn er die Entfernung von der Natur und den Widerspruch mit dem Ideale . . . zu seinem Gegenstand macht. Dies kann er aber sowohl ernsthaft und mit Affekt, als scherzhaft und mit Heiterkeit ausführen. . . . Jenes geschieht durch die strafende, oder pathetische, dieses durch die scherzhafte Satire.” 15 The first work of Callot’s described in “Jacques Callot” is the untitled engraving that art historians call “Bauerntanz zu dem Musikanten aufspielen, die wie Vögelein in den Bäumen sitzen”; the second “Die Versuchung des Heiligen Antonius.” Hoffmann was familiar with the Stengel collection of Callot’s works in Bamberg and may well have been familiar with other works of his as well. See commentary in HSW/FS, 606–7. We shall find below (see chapter 5, “Callot Revisited”) that he would return to Callot as an inspiration in his late tale Prinzessin Brambilla. 16 Cf. Novalis, “Die Lehrlinge zu Sais,” in Novalis Schriften, vol. 1, ed. P. Kluckhohn and R. Samuel (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1960), 110: “Einem gelang es — er

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hob den Schleier der Göttin zu Sais / Aber was sah er? Er sah — Wunder des Wunders — sich selbst.” 17

H. M. Brown, “Goethe and Hoffmann on “Manier,” Oxford German Studies 33 (2004): 149–65.

18

As a footnote to this question of reception and quality of response on the part of Hoffmann’s readership, one is put in mind of the tongue-in-cheek vignette in Des Vetters Eckfenster in which the flower-girl expresses her untutored opinions about the book she has borrowed from the lending library, unaware that she is addressing its author himself. See chapter 6.

2: Der Einsiedler Serapion: The Formulation of a Principle Introduction

S

INCE HIS FIRST ATTEMPTS in the Fantasiestücke (the Callot preface and the “Kreisleriana”) to formulate his aesthetic ideas, Hoffmann’s Romantic program had been developing apace alongside his growing experience as a writer. The need for an appropriate medium to present his ideas was therefore becoming urgent. Like his fellow Romantics who had a theoretical bent, Hoffmann could not use forms like manifestos or treatises, all of which had associations with Enlightenment systems. His need was for a flexible instrument that could accommodate his ever-expanding thoughts about the creative process and give scope for the expression of different shades of an argument — a requirement that may have reflected his cast of mind or, possibly, have been a by-product of his legal training. He was clearly committed to delivering his ideas in a form that was both lively and flexible.1 His preferred mode of presentation — an elaborate frame narrative — and the demands it makes on the reader somewhat resemble those created by a sophisticated modern literary text — and in elucidating any such text, as present literary criticism reveals, one can expect ambiguities rather than categorical statements. The form of presentation employed for the exposition of the Serapiontic Principle in Die Serapionsbrüder is particularly complex. Here confusion has reigned about the relationship between the tale of the hermit, the narrator (Cyprian’s) interpolations, the initial discussion of its meaning by members of the group, and Lothar’s subsequent summarizing and definitive statement, which is based on gathering up all the strands of the previous discussion to form a “principle.” Hoffmann uses the term “principle” frequently in both his critical and his fictional works,2 and it is widely employed in contemporary philosophy. The formulation of the Serapiontic Principle, as things turn out, has to wait until another tale, Rat Krespel, has been narrated. Most commentators concentrate exclusively on Lothar’s summarizing statement, which follows on from the group’s reactions to this work, without connecting it up to the important first stage in the process that leads on to this defining point, a process that also involves a consensus among the four group members who have expressed their individual viewpoints. Hoffmann had good reason, I believe, to adopt this two-stage presentation and in this chapter I shall show how it is connected

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with the underlying philosophical premises of the argument and the nature of the theory that is being expounded. This aspect of Hoffmann’s thinking has, surprisingly, attracted little attention in the secondary literature. As a reader Hoffmann was an omnivore, a man with the widest intellectual interests, living and writing at a time of tremendous intellectual ferment in the German-speaking world and consorting with many other first-class minds.3 He was acquainted with the leading ideas being propounded in the Romantic period, particularly those of its early generation, the philosophically literate Frühromantiker, especially Novalis, and also with the scientific writings of popularizers like J. W. Ritter (who was a close associate of Schelling’s) and G. H. Schubert, who wrote particularly on the role of the unconscious, and much of whose work was on the borderlands of psychology and philosophy. Hoffmann’s keen interest in developments in the mind-body question, for instance — a topic that, as we shall see, the members of the Serapionsbund regularly examine in its various forms — is well documented. Detailed case histories had been compiled in the fields of Mesmerism, Somnambulism, and Galvanism, and were arousing much interest both at the popular level and among writers who were prompted to speculate about the consequences that might be drawn between the workings of the human mind and the unconscious. Hoffmann’s writings — both fictional and theoretical — testify amply to his knowledge of current theories relating to medicine and psychology.4 These interests would clearly provide Hoffmann with important and up-to-date themes for his writings (Die Elixiere des Teufels, Der Sandmann, Der Magnetiseur). But at a more fundamental level a clear intellectual framework can be discerned in Hoffmann’s aesthetic theory or poetics. This is not intrusive, and no philosophers’ names are mentioned, but its terminology immediately betrays its origins in post-Kantian Idealist philosophy, specifically “Naturphilosophie,” which was gaining ground from the late 1790s and through the early 1800s among the Frühromantiker, as their initial enthusiasm for Fichte started to wane. This had as its main practitioner Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph Schelling (1775–1854), who produced a series of widely publicized lectures and influential works, the most relevant of which to Hoffmann are “Ideen zu einer Philosophie der Natur” (1797), “Von der Weltseele” (1798), and “Erster Entwurf eines Systems der Naturphilosophie” (1799). Hoffmann notes two of the above in his diary without comment but his diary entry for the other, “Von der Weltseele,”5 conveys slightly more information. It would seem from his letters that Hoffmann had made a thorough study of this particular text, announcing on 26 July 1813 to his friend Kunz6 that he had concluded his “Studium von Schellings Weltseele” and hoped to proceed forthwith to a reading of Schubert’s Ansichten von der Nachtseite der Naturwissenschaft (1808), a prospect that he was clearly relishing rather more. It is interesting that this serious study of philosophical works should have started just

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at the point when Hoffmann had completed his first collection of tales, the Fantasiestücke, and the first draft of his major opera, Undine, and was undertaken shortly after the first publication of these philosophical works. Schubert’s Ansichten, which was based on an influential lecture series given in Dresden, had been published five years earlier, but as far as we can tell it did not attract Hoffmann’s attention at that juncture, even though he had access to the extensive lending library in Bamberg run by his friend Kunz. Nor is there any evidence of his having read Schelling’s “Naturphilosophie” at that point either, although the particular texts he mentions in 1813 had all been published several years earlier. The co-presence of the works of Schelling and Schubert on Hoffmann’s reading list in 1813 does not seem to have been fortuitous. Schubert was a popularizer of Schelling’s Naturphilosophie (among other theories) and applied its principles to his own scientific observations eclectically. His books are written in an accessible style with plenty of anecdotes and illustrations and little or no systematic theorizing — and, in comparison with Schelling’s, could be described as philosophically undemanding. Whether by chance, design, or a desire to approach the subject systematically, Hoffmann’s order of reading seems to have made sense, familiarization with the basic principles being a precondition for a study of the diverse application of these. Schubert’s debt to Schelling can be illustrated from a comparison of two brief extracts, both of which, as we shall see, have relevance to Hoffmann’s own literary presentation of themes concerning the relationship between “Geist” and “Natur.” Schelling wrote: Die Natur soll der sichtbare Geist, der Geist die sichtbare Natur sein. Hier also, in der absoluten Identität des Geistes in uns und der Natur außer uns, muß das Problem, wie eine Natur außer uns möglich sey, auflösen.7

Schubert wrote: Der Geist der Natur scheint sich mit denselben Gedanken, mit denselben Problemen zu beschäftigen, welche auch dem unsrigen am meisten anliegen, und welche derselbe am meisten zu lösen bemüht ist. . . . Der Geist der Natur tut hier wirklich einen prophetischen Blick über das jetztige Dasein des Menschen hinaus, und beantwortet diesem hiermit eine der angelegentlichsten Fragen seines Geistes.8

The style and emphasis may be different: Schelling’s abstraction contrasts with Schubert’s more down-to-earth application of the general principle of equivalence or reciprocity between “Geist” and “Natur.” Both refer to the problematic aspect of that relationship, implying that perfect harmony is something to be striven for rather than assumed. Schelling’s statement is based on the premise that total identity can only be achieved in the Absolute. This issue will be broached in Hoffmann’s programmatic opening tale, Der Einsiedler Serapion, where the operation of “Geist” is examined

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in quasi-philosophical terms by the Einsiedler, and, later in the book, from a contrasting perspective, by Lothar. The almost dialectical manner in which these two discourses are presented and discussed has a direct bearing on the formulation of the Serapiontic Principle itself and on our evaluation of its significance. However, another possibility is raised at this time by various thinkers anxious to bring a happy resolution of the potential dichotomy for mankind a bit closer. This is the superimposition on the (potentially) oppositional structure of “Geist” and “Natur,” together with the positive and negative principles that are characteristic of each, of a “triadisches Geschichtsbild,” an idea that is familiar to us from other sources in the Goethezeit, ranging from Schiller (“Über naive und sentimentalische Dichtung”) through to Novalis (“Die Christenheit oder Europa”) and beyond.9 According to the Romantic version of this historical view of the dichotomy, man’s innate capacity for development in intellectual and spiritual terms (in Romantic parlance often concisely expressed in terms of the mathematical progression known as “Potenzierung”10) points forward to the possibility of the future reattainment of an absolute state of harmony between “Geist” and “Natur.” Schelling expresses the notion of regained harmony in terms of the evolution of the individual human “Geist” and its future return to the blissful state of childhood harmony as “victor over its own powers and by dint of its own merits.”11 Schubert’s diagnosis of a universal conflict in the respective spheres of “Geist” und “Natur” is similar, but expressed in more concrete terms: In der ganzen uns umgebenden Sinnenwelt zeigt sich, ebenso wie in der geistigen, der stete Kampf zweyer Prinzipien, welche ursprünglich einander befreundet, sich feindlich gegen einander entzünden. Der Kampf zwischen beyden läßt sich durch die verschiedensten Entwicklungsstufen — Klassen und Geschlechter — verfolgen, bis dahin, wo zuletzt das zerstörende Prinzip von dem ihm entgegengesetzten besiegt wird.12

The prospect of a reconciliation of the warring principles suggested here is expressed in explicitly Christian terminology, as Schubert alludes to the biblical fall and the regaining of the lost paradise in terms of a divine revelation of the higher truths that are to be gleaned from the evidence of nature’s symbolic language: “Der Inhalt jenes großen HieroglyphenBuches ist mithin derselbe, als der der geschriebenen Offenbarung.”13 Hoffmann is aware of the same constant battle between opposing principles, and this dualistic perspective on life will underpin Lothar’s formulation as the “Duplizität des Seins,” which becomes a key aspect of the Serapiontic Principle. For his part he will propose two solutions to the basic problem, one time-bound, the other transcending time. The first is the above-mentioned familiar triadic formula, which here is expressed in terms of the personal or spiritual development of an individual character

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and will be reinforced through the agency of myth. This approach is exemplified in Der goldene Topf, where the Genesis myth provides an analogue for Anselmus’s development as a poet. It can be found in several other mythical interpolations in his Märchen, such as Prinzessin Brambilla and Meister Floh. A harmonious synthesis between “Geist” and “Natur” can also occasionally be achieved by visionary insights that transcend time: “Ahnungen,” or intimations of a higher world that beckons intermittently and to which access comes through sudden, intense experiences and emotions aroused by art (most especially music), which border on ecstasy.14 Hoffmann’s entire work could be said to oscillate between these contrasting positions, the dualistic impasse and the visionary, transcendental resolution of dichotomies. Unlike some of his Romantic predecessors, however, such as the visionary Novalis, who also addresses the problem posed by the opposition of “Geist” and “Natur,” instead of privileging one side of the equation, for example, “Geist” (in its equivalent form of “Fantasie”), Hoffmann presents characters who are exposed to powerful pressures from both sides, the physical and the spiritual, which prove incapable of resolution — and sometimes (though not frequently) this is taken to the extreme limits of tragedy (for example, in Die Elixiere des Teufels). The problem of resolution is at the forefront of many of his fictional and theoretical works15 and the obstacles are meticulously exposed. However ardently resolution is desired, however, it is often left hanging or shown to be impossible (as in Der Sandmann, Die Bergwerke zu Falun, and Rat Krespel). The tale that editors have entitled Der Einsiedler Serapion, which is narrated by the frame character Cyprian, seems at one level to achieve resolution, but this too, on closer inspection, turns out to be complex and conditional.16 It contains in a nutshell the basic programmatic material that will form the mainstay of the frame dialogue over the length and breadth of the Serapionsbrüder. It is a complex piece in which a philosophical debate is presented through the filter of a narratorial perspectivism, in which the reader’s attention is fully engaged as he is invited to consider the plausibility of the arguments being proposed and weigh up their relative importance. If the contextualization of the argument17 is ignored or random selections made from it, the results can only be one-sided. Both the contents of Serapion’s argument and the mode of its presentation must therefore be examined in greater detail than is customary.

Der Einsiedler Serapion This is one of the tales in the collection in which the teller of the tale himself plays a leading part in its action. The hermit’s tale is presented by Cyprian, the member of the brotherhood who is the most receptive to the

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Occult and Supernatural; there are added complexities because of the time-span that has now elapsed between the event and its telling and the fact that the teller informs his audience that he no longer entirely shares the views and attitudes that he held at the time it took place. Thus Cyprian performs the double function of eye-witness and partly doubting Thomas. Even within the “erzählte Zeit” of the narrative, his attitude develops. At first sight he had found the hermit’s “madness” incomprehensible and taken on the role of a psychotherapist, using methods that were at the time current for dealing with patients in asylums who exhibited idées fixes and that could be described as aggressive shock tactics.18 When these fail, the skeptic becomes more sympathetic to the crazy logic of the hermit’s position, to the extent that the latter even entertains hopes of converting him to his own view of reality. This does not, however, happen, nor does it lead to any fundamental change in Cyprian’s outlook: his attitude towards the hermit remains ambiguous. On the one hand the perspective of normal rationality reasserts itself; on the other he does believe he has achieved more insight and understanding of the underlying causes of the hermit’s delusion and also has become aware of the fact that it has a positive angle, insofar as the hermit’s visionary pronouncements, when applied to artistic matters, carry considerable authority. The hermit’s story touches on issues of time, place, and identity. It also raises questions about what actually constitutes insanity, a matter that was of great contemporary interest and on which a wide spectrum of views prevailed, ranging from the view that it was merely a kind of false perception to its being regarded as a serious physical malfunctioning. At the same time — and it is here that the tale will open up onto the theme of art — the hermit’s “Wahnsinn” is revealed to be compatible with the highest degree of artistic and narrative skill. The question of how to interpret the contradiction in the hermit’s behavior and views, which will occupy the members of the group in their discussions for some time, revolves mainly around one main issue: the relationship of madness and great art to one another. The business of exegesis does not start outside the telling, however, for in the exchanges between Cyprian and the hermit there has already been a great deal of discussion, much of it of a serious nature on the borderlands between philosophy and psychology. It is principally in the matters of identity, time, and place that the hermit’s idée fixe manifests itself.19 Although in real life, we are led to believe, he is a German nobleman and a former diplomat, Serapion insists that he is an early Christian martyr, Saint Serapion, living in the Theban desert in the third century A.D. The little hermitage that he has built with his own hands and round which he has placed an idyllic garden is situated in a German forest near B. (almost certainly Bamberg). It is not entirely clear what has triggered this transformation from the worldly position of a successful diplomat of aristocratic origins, who has combined his professional

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career with writing poetry, to that of a recluse who has opted out of virtually all social activity and turned his back on “normal” life. A recurring motif is Serapion’s reference to his “martyrdom” which, he insists, was instigated by the Roman Emperor Decius, but he gives no details of the reasons for it. “Martyrdom” here, at the most prosaic level, could be seen as a metaphor or chiffre for a serious life crisis and for survival of a sort beyond this; it clearly represents a total rejection of material in favor of non-worldly values, and his post-martyred condition manifests itself in the ascetic life of monasticism and self-denial, familiarly associated with the hermit topos in Romanticism.20 Following this train of thought — though Serapion himself does not make this explicit — the struggle with conflicting principles may have been the cause of the crisis in Graf P.’s life, and only by completely rejecting the material world and assuming another identity could he hope to survive. Pursuing this even further, the drastic outcome might be construed as an oblique comment on Hoffmann’s part about the precarious position of the sensitive individual — one thinks of his gallery of artist figures that are “zerrissen” and their inability to resolve the claims of “inneres” with “äußeres Leben.” The hermit, then, lives entirely in the world of the spirit (“Geist,” “Fantasie”), whose main focus in his case appears to be literary creation, since for the benefit of Cyprian he narrates on the spot three brilliant tales (to which, tantalizingly, Hoffmann does not give his readers access and which therefore remain at the level of oral tradition (all the other tales will be “read” by their author-narrators). He claims he has attained a high degree of serenity (“Heiterkeit”), which is only ruffled when visitors like Cyprian try to persuade him to return to his former condition. The hermit, it seems, is in a state of denial about his past, sensing that to return to it, even in his imagination, will induce the same torments and conflicts that he associates with his earlier “martyrdom.” In other words his madness seems to be a defense against what he regards as a world full of pain and conflict. At some deeper, subconscious level he must surely be aware of this, hence the vehemence of his attempts to ward off what he describes as the attacks of “Widersacher,” that is to say, those Satanic beings, or antiChrists, who would seek to persuade him to return to “normal” life. There are clear allusions here to Satan’s temptation of Christ and of various Saints (for example, St Anthony).21 But Serapion’s opposition to such attempts does not take the form of angry, emotional outbursts. Rather, as a coping device the hermit has evolved an elaborate theory or philosophy of his own to explain and confirm the validity of his extreme position (or, viewed from another angle, the role he has assumed). This philosophy carries overtones of Fichte’s transcendental idealism and also of Novalis’s idea of “magic idealism,” upholding the supremacy of mind (“Geist”) over all claims upon it emanating from the empirical world, and most specifically the realm governed

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by time and space: “Ist es nicht der Geist allein, der das was sich um uns her begibt in Raum und Zeit, zu erfassen vermag?” For the hermit, therefore, “Geist” controls sense perception — and thus time and space — rather than vice versa: “Ja, was hört, was sieht, was fühlt in uns? — vielleicht die toten Maschinen die wir Auge — Ohr — Hand etc. nennen und nicht der Geist?” With this rhetorical question Serapion reveals his contempt for the empiricist, sense-based, mechanical theories of perception that were associated with Enlightenment philosophy. As an alternative we are presented with an example of the belief in the primacy of “Geist,” which, in Romantic usage, includes overtones of “spirit” and “imagination” as well as “mind” in the narrower intellectual sense (Hoffmann, like most Romantics, consistently avoids Kant’s terminology of “Verstand” and “Vernunft”). The power and control attributed to this faculty of “Geist” is, in Serapion’s interpretation, absolute, possibly divine in origin, since he describes his own dedication to the spiritual life in such terms, styling himself as “den Gott geweihten Anachoreten.” To bolster this notion of the supremacy of “Geist” over sense perception and to define his conception of “Geist” more precisely, Serapion sets up an imaginary debate with Ariosto,22 one of the early Renaissance poets (the other sparring partners from his imaginary literary circle are the figures of Dante and Petrarch, with whom Serapion conducts regular imaginary discussions in a kind of “Geistergemeinschaft”). Serapion’s argument takes on the features of an academic “disputatio”: First he puts his own proposition about the exclusive power of the mind (“Geist”) to create its own — the only — world in time and space and the subordinate role played in this process by the senses themselves. Then he sets up his fictitious mouthpiece, Ariosto, to articulate a proposition that contradicts the one he himself has put forward. This proposes that the figures and events created by the poetic imagination (“Geist”) are unique and inhabit a world of their own, unconnected to that which is governed by space and time, which, it is implied, operates according to different laws: “[er meinte] er habe im Innern Gestalten und Begebenheiten geschaffen, die niemals in Raum und Zeit existierten.” This view, attributed to Ariosto,23 which postulates a clear separation between “Geist” and “Natur,” art and life, conflicts with Serapion’s unitary, monistic conception. Serapion finally restates his own position, challenging and manipulatively knocking down the inherently dualistic view of his opponent, Ariosto (“ich bestritt, daß dies möglich sei”). Serapion’s clinching argument in the debate about mind and matter introduces a new point, as he calls on a superior faculty that he describes as “höhere Erkenntnis” and that he identifies exclusively with the exceptional poet, the “seer,” prophet, or mystical thinker. He believes he has won over his opponent to his side: “er [Ariosto] mußte mir einräumen, daß es nur Mangel höherer Erkenntnis sei, wenn der Dichter alles, was er vermöge seiner besonderen Sehergabe vor sich in vollem Leben erschaue,

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in den engen Raum seines Gehirns einschachteln wolle” (HSW/SB, 34). Undismayed by any mismatch between the fruits of a potentially infinite imagination and the finite human physical repository (“Gehirn”) that is available for processing these, the mind of the possessor of this “higher faculty” of knowledge and understanding (for so the hermit views his own position) can transcend the gulf between “Geist” and “Natur,” and can attribute to his fantasy world the same location in time and space as applies to the phenomenal world, that is, the realm that exists outside the poetic — or poeticized — world. But this view of the mind and imagination — implying an enhanced, intensified (“potenziert”) form of insight and creativity — is a poetic ideal rather than a practical proposition for artists who have not adopted Serapion’s idée fixe solution for dealing with the strains and pressures, the paradoxes and contradictions with which they are confronted in everyday life. And that means the majority. A new aspect in the discussion presents itself at this point: the familiar Romantic triadic “Geschichtsbild” mentioned above, according to which human perception and the imaginative reception of sense data involved in the creative process may be viewed in terms of a progression over time (and to express which, as I mentioned above, Hoffmann will have recourse to invented interpolated myths). In Serapion’s case the myth through which this idea is transmitted is encapsulated in his own fictionalized life story, which is summed up in his preand post-martyred condition and his appropriation of the identity of the Saint. Serapion is meticulous in recording details of time and place as if they were not simply extensions of his own imagination. He transposes time from the present nineteenth to the third century A.D. and the place from Bamberg to the Theban desert near Alexandria, the application of the visionary “höhere Erkenntnis” bringing with it the insight that past, present, and future are as one, and distances between widely separated parts of the world are non-existent: “Erst nach dem Märtyrertum kommt jene höhere Erkenntnis, die genährt wird von dem Leben in tiefer Einsamkeit” (HSW/SB, 34). From this exclusive perspective inhabited by the seer or prophet, Serapion sets himself apart from ordinary mortals, implying two levels of awareness, a lower and a higher: “Erkenntnis” (the term used by Lothar) and “höhere Erkenntnis” (which is exclusively used by Serapion). Serapion’s form of life has much of the Rousseauesque idyll about it; his garden is described in such a way as to evoke the Garden of Eden. But, to complicate the matter, the hermit’s apparent return to a state of childlike innocence may be a (fictive) delusion, a “Wahn” rather than a reality. For if, as was suggested earlier, Serapion’s “martyrdom” is a chiffre for his rejection of all the conflicts that confront the sensitive and creative mind in its dealings with the “real” world, then his past, that world to which he had once belonged is, equally, not something that he can completely

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discard or forget.24 As an inspired poet like Hölderlin knew only too well, few poets are visionaries for more than limited periods; “höhere Erkenntnis” as a strategy for overcoming life’s dichotomies is not a durable option. Only extreme expedients (such as a deliberately or unconsciously assumed madness or the inspired poet’s moments of exaltation) can conceivably provide some respite. As with the narrator’s glimpse of his hero Anselmus (Der goldene Topf) arriving in “Atlantis, dem Land der Poesie,” when viewed from the empirical standpoint such claims have all the fragility that characterizes poetic illusion (“Wahn”). In this complex opening preface Hoffmann is deliberately using hyperbole, calling on a most extreme example of the poet’s dilemma. The hermit’s “vision” and belief that he has achieved a Utopian state is a poet’s “solution” couched entirely within his own terms of reference. There will be many other poet and artist figures in the subsequent tales, some of whom may approach the mad or the eccentric, like Rat Krespel, but there are none who attain the exemplary status of the hermit, which is set up in the frame dialogue. The problem of reconciling the inner and outer worlds, in Schelling’s terms “Geist” and “Natur,” will be demonstrated through these artist figures in various ways and shown to affect them at different levels of intensity, some tragic, some ironical, and some lighthearted. Other angles on the issue are already suggested within the exemplary tale Der Einsiedler by the introduction of a different kind of poet as sparring partner, here the (doubly) fictionalized Ariosto — and are further reinforced by the ambiguous reaction over time to Serapion of his fellow artist and our narrator-figure, Cyprian, who is skeptical, but increasingly sympathetic towards the hermit; other members of the Bund will, of course, persist in regarding him as (negatively) mad. Serapion is presented as a kind of “super-artist” — a kind of intensified, “potenziert” Kreisler, one might say — who, to his own satisfaction at least, achieves a consistency in his art and his life that is denied to others is. This is attested by his ability to tell tales the excellence of which Cyprian as listener is at a loss to describe in words other than by a series of superlatives and which Hoffmann himself, as author, leaves to the imagination of his readers. The first of the “Novellen” Serapion narrates25 is described by Cyprian as emanating from “der geistreichste, mit der feuerigsten Fantasie begabte Dichter.” And the artistic excellence of these tales is described in greater detail thus: “Alle Gestalten traten mit einer plastischen Rundung, mit einem glühenden Leben hervor, daß man fortgerissen, bestrickt von magischer Gewalt wie im Traum daran glauben mußte, daß Serapion alles selbst wirklich von seinem Berge erschaut” (HSW/SB, 34). The nature of the reception process and the criteria that are here carefully relayed by Cyprian will be important for the future discussions of the principle. The overlap with Callot’s pictorial depictions (note the word “plastisch”) is striking, as is the notion that the sense of

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reality conveyed by the work is attributable to the viewer’s belief that what is depicted is based on the closest possible identification between the artist’s “Geist” and his material, and that what Serapion has “seen” from his mountain-top vantage point is imbued with a dynamic quality that parallels life itself.26 What is being described by Cyprian — though not recognized by Serapion — is reminiscent of a principle that had been formulated by S. T. Coleridge at roughly the same period: the notion, now so familiar in the English tradition as to almost have become a commonplace, of the “willing suspension of disbelief,”27 a principle on which so much great imaginative art depends. It is to some extent a paradoxical notion, since “willing” is as much as to say “knowing” and the idea of “suspension” in the reception process suggests a condition in which the receiver can temporarily occupy an alternative world to that which he normally inhabits, while remaining aware of the boundaries between them. For poets such as Novalis (and Hoffmann’s Serapion) this point is taken further, and the poet’s exceptional ability to transform the bare bones of reality and to persuade others to suspend their normal ways of evaluating it is developed to the point where the attainment of this alternative view is elevated to the status of a “magic” power. When applied to the creative act and its reception, this magical power dissolves all barriers between the empirical and the imaginative worlds. The artist’s state of creative “exaltation,” his sense of being driven by a quasidivine power, cannot be maintained indefinitely, and the contours of the real world of time and space will reassert themselves. What Serapion is trying to do — and, it would appear, not entirely without difficulty — is to perpetuate that state of exaltation and “höhere Erkenntnis,” to create for himself as in an artwork a timeless Golden Age world, not “willingly,” but rather by denial. His imaginative faculty (“inneres Schauen”) is in perpetual overdrive, drawing on his accumulated inner resources of imagination and applying and extending the artist’s intense concentration and visionary sweep until, to his satisfaction, the external world is, as it were, forced to bend to his command. When viewed from the normal, commonsensical perspective, these moments of exaltation may seem bizarrely inappropriate or disturbing (even the sympathetic Cyprian testifies to a feeling of “tiefer Schauer”). The particular form taken by Serapion’s “madness” is not, as far as one can tell, documented in any precise way in the case histories itemized by Reil, Pinel, and others in the contemporary medical and psychiatric literature with which, as we have seen, Hoffmann was familiar, though there are references there to other types of idées fixes.28 It seems to be presented almost as a deliberately chosen strategy, or at least one to which Serapion is subconsciously attracted, and the blurring of the distinction between “Wahn” and “Wahnsinn” is significant. As was noted, it clearly does not in any way impair the quality of his artistic abilities, nor, more surprisingly, is

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it incompatible with a sense of humor (though we have to take this on trust).29 The Graf’s insistence on being identified with the historical persona of the hermit Serapion indicates that he has adopted a role, one moreover which has been carefully selected after considerable research into the lives of the early saints. It also suggests that the concepts of space and time are still important to Serapion in theory, even though in practice he is fictionalizing and manipulating them, living out his inner life in terms of the alternative reality that he has created for himself.30 Depending on one’s viewpoint this can be seen as either an idyllic or a hellish condition, and judging by the collective responses of the reasonably normal members of the Serapionsbrüder, it is chiefly the latter. Serapion’s story presents a reference point to which other artists can be compared, not in order that they might emulate the hermit’s extreme behavior, but so that they (and presumably Hoffmann’s readers) can be reminded of the gulf that exists between the real and the imaginary worlds. One is struck by the complexities and ambiguities raised by Der Einsiedler Serapion, Hoffmann’s second major attempt to create a programmatic “Vorspiel” to a collection of tales. The Callot preface is by comparison clear and straightforward; it concentrates almost entirely on matters of artistic skill and presentation, and nothing is said about the artist’s personal struggles or mental condition. By focusing on such an extreme figure and by allying the theme of madness to that of art Hoffmann has greatly added to the problem of interpretation; this can easily be demonstrated by reviewing the secondary literature on the topic of the Serapiontic Principle, much of which focuses on the theme of madness. It is especially confusing that no sooner has the main section of Cyprian’s narrative ended with his account of the death of the hermit than the members of the Bund express strong views and adverse reactions that raise doubts about the very status of the tale in the mind of the reader. Even Cyprian’s championship of the hermit is brought into question when he confesses that his meetings with him and his own enthusiasm date from an earlier phase in his life, when he was especially drawn to the then fashionable “gothic” mode of writing and to exploring situations in which “die Natur gerade beim Abnormen Blicke vergönne in ihre schauerlichste Tiefe”; now, as Cyprian recounts the tale several years on, he expresses a deep “Grauen.” Theodor for his part is particularly upset at Serapion’s insistence that madness is a state comparable to bliss (“Seligkeit”) and should be embraced by artists in general. Ottmar, normally well disposed to manifestations of the occult, finds in the tale “Etwas Überspanntes.” Only Lothar is completely silent. As was already pointed out, Hoffmann, adopts an installment system in his exposition of the Serapiontic Principle. Before members of the group can make further progress towards a narrative theory to guide their own efforts, another story, Rat Krespel, is inserted. This has been deliberately

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chosen by Theodor, its author and narrator, with a view to creating a kind of corrective to the first tale, which he dislikes so intensely. The central figure, Krespel, shares with the hermit an oddness and singularity but would certainly not rate so highly on the scale of madness. His background, though, is not completely dissimilar to Graf P.’s; a high-powered lawyer, diplomat, and councillor whose advice is sought by princes, he combines his professional with his artistic interests (music being the relevant art form in this case), and has a penchant for playing — and dismembering — violins. He could be described as a sensitive soul who has little defense against the wiles of his fellow humans, especially those close to him, other than by creating a hard, misanthropic shell and keeping them at bay: “Es gibt Menschen . . . denen die Natur oder ein besonderes Verhängnis die Decke wegzog . . ., sie gleichen dünngehäuteten Insekten, die im regen sichtbaren Muskelspiel mißgestaltet erscheinen, ungeachtet sich alles bald wieder in die gehörige Form fügt” (HSW/SB, 54). Vulnerability, awkwardness, and social ineptness are common features among Hoffmann’s gallery of poets and dreamers (one thinks of Anselmus). But these qualities are more acute in Krespel’s case and seem to involve his adopting particularly grotesque postures at inappropriate moments, mixing the serious and the frivolous in a disturbing and disconcerting confusion, as, for example, when he performs a kind of “Totentanz,” a frenzied jig, immediately after his daughter’s funeral, almost dragging the observing Theodor along with him: “es war mir, als wollte er mich verhüllt herabziehen in den schwarzen entsetzlichen Abgrund des Wahnsinns” (HSW/SB, 53). For the narrator, Theodor, Rat Krespel must be regarded as a transitional tale in terms of its presentation of the theme of madness. Indeed, together with its successor, Die Fermate, it is meant to demonstrate a progression, illustrating “den sanften Übergang vom Wahnsinn durch den Spleen in die völlig gesunde Vernunft.” That sense of gradation is not, however, fully attested to by all the members of the Bund, since their attitudes towards “Wahnsinn” differ so much and they are still unable to see any wider relevance in the tale of Serapion. Nevertheless, it is clear to the reader that a strategic element is involved in the arrangement of the tales, both in terms of the development of themes and, more generally, in their overall arrangement within particular books. Der Einsiedler Serapion presents a form of mental aberration (whether it can be described as clinical madness is another matter), disturbing, first, because it can be viewed as an extreme reaction to a profound insight into the nature of life and above all the difficulty of reconciling its dichotomies, and, second, because the subject himself is so resistant to any well-meaning attempts to “cure” him. This is very much an exploration of the “Nachtseite der Natur,” the human mind in extremis, having been forced into a position of isolation and inaccessibility. Rat Krespel reveals a different picture, dark too, certainly, but possibly one that

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is more accessible in human terms than is the hermit’s: however eccentric Krespel’s behavior may be, he is not taking upon himself the role of a prophet who advocates madness as a panacea for all earthly problems, as Serapion had done. There is bitterness, not self-deluded “Heiterkeit,” in Krespel’s behavior, a growing misanthropy, outbursts of “spleen” and also an intermittent anti-social tendency to isolation.31 These behavioral oddities are Krespel’s only outlets as a sensitive individual who is not well equipped to hit back at the world. Krespel is not opting out of social life like the hermit; he continues painfully to live it out as one personal disaster after another befalls him. Serapion’s coping device had been to take refuge in his delusion and idée fixe; Krespel’s bitter outbursts against the world are described as his own particular form of lightning conductor, “sein Blitzableiter” (HSW/SB, 54), and thus they too serve as a kind of safeguard. We learn much later of the causes for such suffering: an unhappy marriage, and unwarranted cruelty, violence, and abuse towards him from his Italian prima-donna wife. This degree of suffering might be compared to Graf P’s mysterious “martyrdom,” but it does not lead to madness. After this brilliant, disturbing, and unresolved tale Theodor carries forward the narrative scheme he had announced by lightening the atmosphere in Die Fermate, deliberately eradicating all reference to madness. This delightful tale is linked to Rat Krespel by the theme of music and the figure of the prima donna.32 But this time the manipulative female virago — here presented in a far less dangerous form in the character of Therese — is neutralized by the firm handling she receives at the hands of Theodor, the frame character who, as Cyprian had been, is a leading player in his own tale. While the first reactions to Der Einsiedler Serapion had been based on the controversial figure of the hermit and the theme of madness, the more obviously artful narrative qualities in the two subsequent tales and the absence in them of any theorizing or reflection on the topic of madness give the reader scope to view and enjoy them in terms of fiction rather than as programmatic utterances. That seems to be the way they are judged too by the Serapionsbrüder, while Der Einsiedler Serapion at this stage in the development of the group’s establishment retrospectively acquires an important new programmatic significance. It would appear that the exercise of comparing and contrasting the two tales (Der Einsiedler Serapion and Rat Krespel) — a basic but nevertheless fruitful tool in all literary criticism and pedagogy — promotes these new insights. The formerly silent Lothar now steps forward to claim for Der Einsiedler Serapion an exemplary status, brushing aside Rat Krespel as a tale full of “kecke Tollheit” but heart-rending to an almost unbearable degree (“die . . . mir wenigstens das Herz zerschneidet”). This new assessment and evaluation is achieved by Lothar’s placing the theme of madness (which had loomed so large in the members’ first reactions) within a wider context and viewing the figure

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of the hermit now from the perspective of the artist as the true poet (“des wahren Dichters”) who maintains his ancient, time-honored role of a prophet and seer and points the way to future generations. This broad sweep would indeed seem justified from the evidence of Cyprian’s tale. where the virtues and benefits of the poet-hermit’s simple life lived in idyllic harmony with nature had been extolled as a model and as an (implied) antidote to its alternative, namely, modern materialism and inner conflict. Lothar, more than the others, it seems, is able to appreciate the Classical resonances of this vision of the Golden Age, which had inspired generations of poets from antiquity through to the Renaissance (for example, Ariosto and Tasso) and beyond. Lothar is also mindful now of the qualities that single Serapion out as a potential model and guide for budding poets and artists. Even his madness, when viewed alongside the disturbing, unbalanced example of Krespel, seems less offensive and is now used metaphorically as a defining quality associated with the great artist: “weil nur der Geist des vortrefflichsten oder vielmehr des wahren Dichters von ihm [Wahnsinn] ergriffen werden kann” (HSW/SB, 67). But ultimately — and at this point Lothar is moving towards the first important formulation and statement of what can be identified as a “principle” — it is the quality of Serapion’s poetic visions and his ability to communicate these to others that will have the most practical relevance to a group of writers who are planning to refound their literary society. Intensity and communicability of the inner vision is paramount, as is the sense that what the poet communicates is based on personal involvement with his material, and that his transformation of this results in an enhancement or intensification of what has been observed or perceived and raises the work above the ordinary level, giving it lasting appeal: Jeder prüfe wohl, ob er auch wirklich das geschaut, was er zu verkünden unternommen, ehe er es wagt, laut damit zu werden. Wenigstens strebe jeder ernstlich darnach, das Bild, das ihm im Innern aufgegangen recht zu erfassen mit allen seinen Gestalten, Farben, Lichtern und Schatten, und dann, wenn er sich recht entzündet davon fühlt, die Darstellung ins äußere Leben [zu] tragen. So muß unser Verein auf tüchtige Grundpfeiler gestützt dauern und für jeden von uns allen sich gar erquicklich gestalten. Der Einsiedler Serapion sei unser Schutzpatron, er lasse seine Sehergabe über uns walten, seiner Regel wollen wir folgen, als getreue Serapionsbrüder! (HSW/SB, 69)

A three-stage process is being described here: first the successful internalization of carefully selected sense impressions, then the shaping of this material into artistic form, and finally — when cast in the form of the finished work — a process of externalization as the finished product acquires a public dimension through the reception process. Ideally, in these processes of internalization

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and reception a harmony between “Geist” and “Natur” should be achieved through the medium of the artwork. In practice, however, this will rarely be the case: as the frame discussion will reveal, faults can easily be identified, particularly at the second (“wirkliches Schauen”) and the final stages of the creative process. The brethren, however, in this much extended evaluation of Serapion’s significance as a poet, are being urged to set him as the highest possible yardstick by which to judge their future literary efforts. To this program can be added some additional points supplied by Lothar. As well as expressing the need for intense imaginative focus on the material as defined above — for the poet, that is, to inwardly “see” the subject of his inspiration — Lothar uses the term “das geistige Auge” to convey more precisely the major faculties involved, suggesting the interaction of the two crucial organs of perception and imagination, the eye and the mind.33 Second, he alludes to the nature and range of the emotions that must be brought into play in the process of artistic representation (“darstellen”). Here Hoffmann is promoting one of his most insistent credos, namely, the idea that art is meant to convey the whole gamut of human emotions; further, that these should be expressed as feelings that are both extreme and strongly contrastive, that is, as emotions such as pleasure and pain, and in all their variations: “Lust, Entsetzen, Jubel and Schauern.”34 The “geistiges Auge” — as a hybrid faculty, an amalgamation of mental and physical perception — operates within the poet’s special sphere, he being the instigator of its field of activity, while the specific emotions involved in the responses elicited by the finished artwork (“Lust,” “Schauern,” and so on) may be contained in the poet’s own personal “Begeisterung,” or general involvement with his material, and are more deliberately tailored to the reactions of the recipients of this process, namely, his audience or readership. In Hoffmann’s poetics the links between the processes of genesis and reception of a work of art are unusually close, but the relationship is complex and the emotions involved in the case of the latter are more specifically targeted.35 The contrasting emotions cited as essential for the receiver hold the key to Hoffmann’s narrative ambitions in general, ranging as they do from, on the one hand, exaltation and on the other to the “gothic” mode evoking “Schauer,” which some have seen as Hoffmann’s most distinctive contribution to literature. These seemingly incompatible forms of literary reception may coexist within a single work (Rat Krespel with its bitter-sweet quality could be cited), or may be presented through the particular organization of an entire set of narratives (for example, the arrangement of the tales within the respective books), or, as in Kater Murr by means of a daring attempt to achieve simultaneity in the presentation of the comic and the tragic, in which the two narratives are constantly juxtaposed.36 In his long peroration Lothar finally switches the attention of the group away from the theme of madness, which had arguably been overstated by

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Cyprian at the outset of the discussion, to the neglect of the theme of art. He is now able to place this “Wahnsinn” in the context of Serapion’s exclusive cultivation of the faculty of the imagination (in effect it is an extension of the process of “inneres Schauen”), and this, as he had already explained in great detail, is also the poet’s most powerful faculty. What Serapion lacks is the ability, or rather, in his post-martyr state, the willingness, to suspend disbelief and to accept that this imaginative realm is only part of a larger totality, the dualistically constructed state of being that defines all human life: “Armer Serapion, worin bestand dein Wahnsinn anders, als daß irgendein feindlicher Stern dir die Erkenntnis der Duplizität geraubt hatte, von der eigentlich allein unser irdisches Sein bedingt ist” (HSW/SB, 68). Here once more Hoffmann can draw on his knowledge of Schelling’s “Naturphilosophie,” with its built-in polarities,37 to present a counterweight to the one-sided (though artistically effective) “Wahn” or “Wahnsinn” represented by the Einsiedler: “Es gibt eine innere Welt und die geistige Kraft, sie in voller Klarheit, in dem vollendesten Glanze des regesten Lebens zu schauen, aber es ist unser irdisches Erbteil, daß eben die Außenwelt in der wir eingeschachte[l]t,38 als der Hebel wirkt, der jene Kraft in Bewegung setzt (HSW/SB, 68). The interdependence of the external and internal worlds is further illustrated in the analogy of the former as a circle within whose defined compass “die inneren Erscheinungen,” that is, our imaginative perceptions, at first vague and undefined, must find appropriate forms of clothing and transmission to the outside world: “Die inneren Erscheinungen gehen auf in dem Kreise, den die äußeren um uns bilden (HSW/SB, 68). This formulation of the relationship between the internal and the external worlds also bears the imprint of Schelling’s thought on Lothar’s discourse. According to the terms of this argument, then, Serapion, despite, as he professes, being possessed of “höhere Erkenntnis,” himself lacks selfknowledge, refusing to accept the limitations of the human condition, which is one in which subject and object, “Geist” and “Natur,” are distinct, definable entities. He confuses the functions of mind and sense perception and refuses to allow for their possible intermingling (as is clear from his rejection of the term “das geistige Auge”). He refuses, in other words, to accept the fact that the mind is governed by the physical constraints placed upon it by virtue of its dependence on sense perceptions, and that it is subject to the limits set by time and space. It is clear that Serapion’s monistic view of the world is philosophically in tune with recent philosophical trends as represented by Fichte’s system, but in denial towards the implications of Schelling’s. The latter’s, however, find a spokesman in Lothar, who substitutes for Fichte’s solipsistic “Ich-NichtIch” configuration Schelling’s “Geist-Natur,” thereby redefining the role and significance of the external forces.39 Hoffmann would appear to relish the opportunity here of suggesting an amalgamation of the two positions

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of these rival — though not hugely contrasted systems — through his analysis of the creative process. We can thus see how Hoffmann reveals his philosophical credentials (which would have been immediately identifiable by his contemporary readers) to provide a suitable conceptual framework in which to place his theory of the Serapiontic Principle. Further evidence of this philosophical underpinning can be found in the fact that Lothar’s analysis, down to its very terminology, makes deliberate cross-reference to that earlier philosophical debate in Der Einsiedler Serapion, the disputatio between Ariosto and Serapion mentioned above. Serapion had contemptuously applied the word “eingeschachtelt” [sic], for instance, to describe the limitation involved in attempting to process multifarious creative insights through the agency of one physical organ, the brain (“Gehirn”), whose proper function, it is implied, is to deal with more lowly sense impressions. Now Lothar picks up this notion of restriction implicit in the processing of sense impressions, but does so in order to confirm that such apparent restriction of the poet’s autonomy does indeed reflect the true state of affairs: “Es ist unser irdisches Erbteil, daß eben die Außenwelt, in der wir eingeschachte[l]t, als der Hebel wirkt, der jene Kraft in Bewegung setzt”: the internal and external are inextricably bound together. He also picks up the phrase “jenen Funktionen der Wahrnehmung” as if continuing the train of thought originally articulated by Serapion when he had asked the rhetorical question: whether it is the mind (“Geist”) or some other organ of perception (eye, ear, or hand) that is exclusively responsible for fashioning (“gestalten”) material derived from the world around us in time and space: “Gestaltet sich nun etwa der Geist seine in Raum und Zeit bedingte Welt im Innern auf eigne Hand und überläßt jene Funktionen einem anderen uns innewohnenden Prinzip?” A dualist might wish to reply in the affirmative to this rhetorical question, which clearly expects the answer “no.” Serapion’s own implied (solipsistic) position has now been addressed directly by Lothar and dismissed as untenable. Another position had been suggested, that of Ariosto (Serapion’s fictional sparring partner); his view was, roughly, that the poet can “give to airy nothings a local habitation and a name,” that is, he can conjure up a world of imaginary figures and events — even, possibly, a Golden Age — that has no counterpart in the “Außenwelt.” In other words, that time and space can exist in two entirely different forms, one fictional the other “real.” That position had been vigorously rejected by Serapion because of its dualistic implications and the separation of the internal and external worlds that it entailed. Lothar’s “correction” is based on his view that the external world has a prior role in the processing of the poet’s materials — events, actions, and so on — all of which do indeed have their starting point in sense perception, not vice versa. None of this debate — apart from the important statement about Serapion’s failure to recognize the “Duplizität” of life — impinges on the

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hermit’s artistic excellence or the way in which his “inneres Schauen” operates to produce works of exemplary quality. Drawing, presumably, on a rich inner life and storehouse of impressions that had developed in his earlier eventful days, he can subconsciously activate a “Hebel” that promotes his imaginative fancies and visions.40 These seem to be triggered for example, when he looks down on the countryside from the vantage point of his hill (a familiar metaphor for the artist’s superior vantage point). Presumably this external motivation does not have to be “topped up” on each occasion when he is creating a story, but can be stored in the memory for future use. While contemporary thinking of the day as represented by Hoffmann’s principal points of reference, Schubert and Schelling, emphasized the ideal of a harmonious reciprocity between the external and internal worlds, if only in the Absolute, Lothar’s dualistic formulation does not refer explicitly to harmony. The Romantic pursuit of unity — to which Hoffmann also is dedicated, and which constitutes one pole in his double view — is represented by Serapion’s poetic vision, although that in turn is qualified by the general awareness of the fact that his illusory attainment of “höhere Erkenntnis” has been bought at the expense of that ordinary “Erkenntnis” (reflection, ironic awareness) that is Lothar’s more pragmatic yardstick of measurement. The principle of “Duplizität that finally emerges from the dialectic set up by Serapion’s and Lothar’s respective definitive positions will serve Hoffmann in an even more significant and practical way than Lothar’s brief and rather laconic phrase “Erkenntnis der Duplizität” might suggest. For it is on the basis of this awareness of the two-sidedness of life and the distinctness of “Geist” and “Natur” that Hoffmann will apply to his narrative fiction a very important means of processing his material while in no way excluding the inspirational or “enthusiastic” insights when the poet may exult in his sense of tapping in to the very primal forces that unite “Geist” and “Natur.” This is the ingredient of irony (which he appropriately shares with that other dualistic thinker, Ariosto) and which, like Friedrich Schlegel, Hoffmann does not see as incompatible with enthusiasm. The entire Serapionsbrüder collection is enclosed within the ironic embrace created by the frame narrative. It can be identified internally, when, for example, sharp juxtapositions, either of tales themselves or of situations within them, including mythological interpolations, expose the dissonances and contradictions in life; and second, and most important, in the self-reflexive mode of narration and the nature of the commentary that Hoffmann’s large and brilliantly organized framework technique makes possible. This latter important dimension of the Serapiontic Principle — ironically — cannot be theorized about or be the subject of reflection in Die Serapionsbrüder for the very obvious reason that the figures in the frame behave as “real” characters and cannot see themselves or their debates as part of a work of fiction!

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As I shall demonstrate in later chapters, there are other Serapiontic or Serapion-related features and points of detail that will be added in the course of the discussions and in the light of the ever-growing corpus of tales that will accumulate over subsequent evenings of story-telling. But the general terms of reference have been set out clearly and will provide the basis for all future discussions. Hoffmann has presented his arguments in terms of contemporary thought, using Fichte, Schelling, and Schubert as his points of reference, and adopting mainly the terminology of “Naturphilosophie.” But his development of these ideas is wholly distinctive and original: his approach to the consequences of the dualism present in Schelling’s thought will be worked out in many forms, literary and thematic, and the prospect of harmony or transcendence implied by the Fichtean hermit model will be only cautiously entertained and entirely confined to the realm of aesthetics, rather than to life in general. Life itself will consistently display its ambiguous, unresolved aspect to the reader of Die Serapionsbrüder.

Notes 1 Hoffmann made this point himself when presenting his musical essays for the AMZ to the publisher, Härtel, in dialogue form; HSW, vol. 1, Frühe Prosa, Kommentar, 1309: “Die Einkleidung, welche die Spur der Zeitverhältnisse trägt und die tröstenden Schlußworte, die ich dem Dichter in den Mund gelegt, dürften wohl ein größeres Interesse gewähren, als wenn ich dem Ganzen die Form einer trocknen Abhandlung gegeben.” 2

In Die Elixiere des Teufels two principles are sharply contrasted, the one benign, the other hostile. Pater Leonardus expounds the positive principle as follows: “Ist es nicht herrlich, Bruder Medardus, daß unsere Kirche darnach trachtet, jene geheimnisvollen Fäden zu erfassen, die das Sinnliche mit dem Übersinnlichen verknüpfen, ja unseren zum irdischen Leben und Sein gediehenen Organism so anzuregen, daß sein Ursprung aus dem höheren geistigen Prinzip, ja seine innige Verwandtschaft mit dem wunderbaren Wesen, dessen Kraft wie ein glühender Hauch die ganze Natur durchdringt, klar hervortritt und uns die Ahndung eines höheren Lebens dessen Keim wir in uns tragen, wie mit Seraphsfittichen umweht” (HSW 2/2: 33). Compare with Medardus’s exultant feeling of power, a principle that he has copied from Euphemie: “Es bedurfte nur Euphemies Erklärung über die Tendenz ihres Lebens, um mich selbst die überwiegende Macht fühlen zu lassen, die wie der Ausfluß höherer Prinzipe mein Innerstes beseelte” (HSW 2/2: 84). The expression of polarities in terms of positive and negative “Principien” is also a feature of contemporary philosophy; cf. Schelling: “In der Natur strebt alles continuierlich vorwärts; daß dies so ist, davon müssen wir den Grund in einem Prinzip suchen, das eine unerschöpfliche Quelle positiver Kraft, die Bewegung immer von neuem anfängt und ununterbrochen unterhält. Dieses positive Princip ist die erste Kraft der Natur. Aber eine unsichtbare Gewalt führt alle Erscheinungen in der Welt in den ewigen Kreislauf zurück. Das dies so ist, davon müssen wir den

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letzten Grund in einer negativen Kraft suchen, die, indem sie die Wirkungen des positiven Princips continuierlich beschränkt, die allgemeine Bewegung in ihre Quelle zurückleitet. Dieses negative Prinzip ist die zweite der Natur” (Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph Schelling, Ideen zu einer Philosophie der Natur (1797), in Schellings Werke, ed. Manfred Schröter [Munich: Beck, 1927], 1:449); also G. H. Schubert, Die Symbolik des Traums (Bamberg: 1814), 3–4. 3 It is hard to overestimate the mood of intellectual excitement generated in the first decades of the nineteenth century and the extent to which it percolated down to the general public through popular writings. Writing of the “Jahrhundertwende” Robert Solomon observes: “It is a rich and exuberant period. The excitement of the French Revolution was still in the air. Napoleon was beginning to institute the ideological reforms of the enlightenment and shake up the feudal German princes, German poetry was making a claim to international status, and German philosophy, thanks to Kant, was already recognized as the best in Europe” (Robert Solomon, Continental Philosophy since 1750 (Oxford: Oxford UP, 1988), 54–55. 4

Regarding Hoffmann’s familiarity with current theories and his contact with leading practitioners such as Adalbert Friedrich Marcus (an associate of Schelling’s) in Bamberg, then a leading medical center with an excellent hospital, see Wulf Segebrecht, “Krankheit und Gesellschaft: Zu E. T. A. Hoffmanns Rezeption der Bamberger Medizin,” in Romantik in Deutschland: Ein interdisziplinäres Symposium, special issue of DVjs [henceforth cited as RD] ed. Richard Brinkmann (Stuttgart: 1978), 267–90. 5

This work made a strong impression on Goethe, who maintained close relations with Schelling over the years and supported his candidature for the Chair of Philosophy at Jena. See Karl Otto Conrady, Goethe: Leben und Werk, vol. 2 (Königstein: 1985), 187. Goethe’s poem “Weltseele,” written in 1803, by its very title acknowledges the close bond between him and Schelling at that time. Jeremy Adler, in his article “Schellings Philosophie und Goethes weltanschauliche Lyrik,” Goethe Jahrbuch 1995: 149–65, has shown that the reciprocal benefits issuing from the various exchanges between the two extended, in Goethe’s case, far beyond this particular poem. 6 E. T. A. Hoffmann, Briefwechsel, ed. Hans von Müller and Friedrich Schnapp (Munich: 1967–69), 1:403. 7

Schelling, Ideen zu einer Philosophie der Natur in Werke, ed. M. Schröter 1:706.

8

G. H. Schubert, Die Symbolik des Traums (Bamberg: 1814), 36–37.

9

See especially Hans-Joachim Mähl, Die Idee des goldenen Zeitalters im Werk des Novalis (Heidelberg: 1965). 10

Cf. Martin Dyck, Novalis and Mathematics (Chapel Hill: U of North Carolina P, 1958), 85–86; also John Neubauer, “Zwischen Natur und mathematischer Abstraktion: Der Potenzbegriff in der Frühromantik,” RD (1978): 175–86.

11

Cf. Schelling “Über den Verlust und die Wiederherstellung der Identität”: “Vorher hatten die Menschen im (philosophischen) Naturzustand gelebt. . . . Es wäre auch nicht zu begreifen, wie der Mensch je jenen Zustand verlassen hätte, wüßten wir nicht, daß sein Geist, dessen Element Freiheit ist, sich selbst frei zu

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machen strebt, sich den Fesseln der Natur und ihrer Vorsorge entwinden, und dem ungewissen Schicksal seiner eignen Kräfte überlassen mußte, um einst als Sieger, und durch sein eignes Verdienst in jenen Zustand zurückzukehren, in welchem er unwissend über sich selbst die Kindheit seiner Vernunft verlebte” (Schelling, “Uber die Probleme, welche eine Philosophie der Natur aufzulösen hat,” in Ideen zu einer Philosophie der Natur, 602. 12

Schubert, Die Symbolik des Traumes, 37–39.

13

Schubert, Die Symbolik des Traumes, 37–39.

14

Cf. “Alte und neue Kirchenmusik” and discussion below in chapter 4.

15

Hoffmann will sometimes, for example, use the idea of musical harmony as a metaphor to express the resolution of “dissonance,” see below, chapter 4. 16 See section on “consensus” in the frame narrative, chapter 7 in this volume, “Frame Narrative and the Serapiontic Principle.” 17 See chapter 7 in this volume, “Frame Narrative and the Serapiontic Principle.” Many distinguished commentators, past and present, lapse into the solecism of attributing views expressed by individual characters to Hoffmann himself. 18 Cf. J. C. Reil, Beiträge zur Beförderung einer Curmethode auf psychischem Wege (Halle: 1808–12) and Ph. Pinel, Abhandlung über Geistesverwirrungen oder Manie, aus dem Französischen übersetzt und mit Anmerkungen versehen von Mich. Wagner (Vienna: 1801). Hoffmann was familiar with both works, as is evident from Cyprian’s reference (“Ich las den Pinel — den Reil — alle möglichen Bücher über den Wahnsinn” (SB, 27). 19

See Reil, Rhapsodien über die Anwendung der psychischen Kurmethode auf Geisteszerrüttungen, 2nd ed. (Halle: 1818), 316: “Die fixe Idee, als Produkt einer zu hoch gespannten Saite im Gehirn, tönt bei jeder auch noch so heterogenen Erregung desselben.” 20 The topos of “Einsiedlertum” reached a peak of popularity in the Romantic period. “Klosterbrüder” and “Einsiedler” occur in the pages of Wackenroder, Tieck, Arnim and Brentano, to name but a few of Hoffmann’s contemporaries. See G-L. Fink, “L’Erémite dans la littérature allemande,” Etudes germaniques 18 (1963): 163–99, and J. Fitzell, The Hermit in German Literature (Chapel Hill, NC: U of North Carolina P, 1961). 21

See Eva Horn, “Die Versuchung des heiligen Serapion: Wirklichkeitsbegriff und Wahnsinn bei E. T. A. Hoffmann,” Deutsche Vierteljahrsschrift für Literaturwissenschaft und Geistesgeschichte (henceforth DVjS) 76 (2002): 214–28. 22

Ludovico Ariosto (1474–1533) was the author of many epic poems on chivalric themes, the most famous of which is Orlando Furioso. Ariosto was “discovered” by the Frühromantiker, who sensed in him a kindred spirit. Benedetto Croce (see Ariosto, Shakespeare und Corneille (Bari: 1961) has drawn attention to Ariosto’s sovereign irony, which he compares to “das Auge . . ., der auf die Bewegung in der Schöpfung, aller Schöpfung blickt, jedes Ding gleicherweise liebt, gute wie böse. . . . Von der gewöhnlichen Bedeutung der Ironie vollzog sich der Übergang zu jenem metaphysichen Verständnis, wie es unter Fichtianern und Romantikern gängig ist. Wir sollten bereit sein, ihre Theorie auf die Inspirationen des Ariosto anzuwenden” (quoted in Ernst Behler, Klassische Ironie, Romantische Ironie,

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Tragische Ironie (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1972), 52. Schelling too was interested in Renaissance writers like Ariosto and Dante and wrote an essay entitled “Dante in philosophischer Beziehung” in 1803. 23 For an analysis of Goethe’s reception of Renaissance ideas see Jeremy Adler, “Modelling the Renaissance: Intertextuality and the Politics of Goethe’s Tasso,” Proceedings of the English Goethe Society 63 (1994): 1–48. For discussion of the importance of the Italian Renaissance for the Early Romantics, see Ernst Behler, “Die italienische Renaissance in der Literaturtheorie der Brüder Schlegel,” in Romantik und Renaissance, ed. S. Vietta (Stuttgart and Weimar: Metzler, 1994), 176–95. 24 Eva Horn, “Die Versuchung des heiligen Serapion,” 224, has drawn attention to the “Freudian slip” made by the hermit when he comments on the vast distance separating Bamberg and “das ferne, ferne Alexandria” (SB, 31). 25 An interesting choice of genre. One might have expected “Märchen,” given the importance Hoffmann attached to this form for expressing the fantastic. 26

See also discussion in chapter 1 in this volume, “Overture: Jacques Callot.”

27

Cf. S. T. Coleridge, Biographia Literaria (1817): “In this idea originated the plan of the Lyrical Ballads in which it was agreed that my endeavour should be directed to persons and characters supernatural, or at least romantic; yet so as to transfer from our inward nature a human interest and a semblance of truth sufficient to procure for these shadows of imagination that willing suspension of disbelief for the moment, which constitutes poetic faith,” Romantic Poetry and Prose, ed. Harold Bloom and Lionel Trilling (Oxford: Oxford UP, 1981), 645. It is perhaps no coincidence that Coleridge made a detailed study of German idealist thought, in particular that of Schelling, and that his analysis of the imagination, like Hoffmann’s, was strongly colored by the subject-object dichotomy.

28

Hoffmann disarmingly excludes the applicability of the theory of idée fixe by making Cyprian himself refer to it deprecatingly: “Ich holte weit aus und sprach sehr gelehrt über die Krankheit der fixen Ideen, die den Menschen zuweilen befalle.” Serapion disclaims at length being possessed of any such idée fixe (SB, 29).

29

Cf. “Sein unübertreffllicher Humor machte ihn zum angenehmsten, seine Gemütlichkeit zum liebenswürdigsten Gesellschafter, den es nur geben könnte” (SB, 25). Again, the word “Gemütlichkeit,” which is widespread in Hoffmann’s works, might seem puzzling when applied to one who has chosen the life of a hermit. For further discussion of Hoffmann’s use of the term, see below, ch. 5, “Prinzessin Brambilla.” 30 Some commentators see a connection with Fichte’s solipsistic philosophy; see, for example, Silvio Vietta “Romantikparodie und Realitätsbegriff im Erzählwerk E. T. A. Hoffmanns,” Zeitschrift für deutsche Philologie 100 (1981): 575–91; here, 585; and K-D. Dobat, Musik als romantische Illusion, (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1984), 232: “In Serapions Argumentation zeigt sich bereits eine Radikalisierung der Fichteschen Position, indem die autonomen Denkmuster zur Erfassung der irklichkeit sich verselbständigt haben.” 31 At one point in his life Krespel is described as “anachoretisch” (HSW/SB, 45) . Later, however, he displays more sociable tendencies.

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See discussion below, chapter 8, “From Visual to Verbal.”

33

The idea stems from Neo-Platonism and Plotinus. It is invoked by many Romantics, most notably by the painter Caspar David Friedrich: “Schließe dein leibliches Auge, damit du mit dem geistigen Auge zuerst siehest dein Bild. Dann fördere zutage, was du im Dunklen gesehen, daß es zurückwirke auf andere von außen nach innen” (Caspar David Friedrich in Briefen und Bekenntnisse [Berlin: Henschelverlag Kunst und Gesellschaft, 1968], 94). 34

Another notable example is the preface to Die Elixiere des Teufels, in which the reader is enjoined to accompany the “editor” “durch finstre Kreuzgänge und Zellen — durch die bunte — bunteste Welt zu ziehen und mit ihm das Schauerliche, Entsetzliche, Tolle, Possenhafte seines Lebens zu ertragen” (HSW, Elixiere, 12).

35

Cf. Petra Liedke Konow, “Sich hineinwerfen in die Werkstatt des Autors: Ästhetische Rekurrenzphänomene in E. T. A. Hoffmanns Rahmenzyklus, Die Serapionsbrüder,” ETAHJb 2 (1994): 57–68. 36

The junctures between the narratives are typographically emphasized, and two distinct story lines emerge, Murr’s autobiography and Kreisler’s biography. The contrast forms a structural principle on which the entire work is based. 37

Schelling, “Von der Weltseele”: “Es ist ein erstes Prinzip einer philosophischen Naturlehre, in der ganzen Natur auf Polarität und Dualismus auszugehen,” Schellings Werke, ed. Schröter, 1:527. 38

The “Lesart” “eingeschachtet,” which occurs several times in the first edition of Die Serapionsbrüder (1819–21), is not semantically consistent with the form “eingeschachtelt,” which only occurs once (it is used by Serapion himself in his disputatio with Ariosto when he tries to make nonsense of the idea that the higher insights of the poet could be bundled [“eingeschachtelt”] into the narrow confines of the brain). Although the reading “eingeschachtet” in Lothar’s formulation and at other points in the Die Serapionsbrüder may be diplomatically correct, one cannot help but feel that the image of the “Schachtel” is more apposite than one of a “Schacht,” and that we could well be dealing with a misprint (or rather several). It is even possible that some commentators have been misled into building up theories on the basis of the metaphorical implications of one or the other term. However, given the lack of any extant manuscript source for Die Serapionsbrüder, the matter is unlikely to be resolved. I am grateful to Prof. Wulf Segebrecht (Bamberg) for his valuable comments on this textual problem. 39

Other references to Fichte occur in Prinzessin Brambilla. See Jeremy Adler, Introduction to Kater Murr (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1999), xix. Fichte’s term “Ich” is generally replaced by “Geist” in Hoffmann’s usage, which suggests an alignment with Schelling. See also the discussion of Prinzessin Brambilla in chapter 5 in this volume. 40 Cf. Lothar: “Du sahst den versteckten Hebel nicht” (HSW/SB, 68)which echoes the phrase “der versteckte Poet,” which Hoffmann took from Schubert. See discussion below on irony and “der versteckte Poet,” chapter 5, Prinzessin Brambilla: Callot Revisited.

3: Der Dichter und Der Komponist: Text and Music

A

S THE TITLE SUGGESTS, this dialogue addresses the relationship between words and music — here the libretto and the operatic score. It is an important historical landmark in the succession of lively debates over the centuries on this topic that have accompanied and tracked the emergence of German opera as a major and distinctive form, though Hoffmann’s contribution has been somewhat neglected in comparison with those of other illustrious practitioners, who include Gluck, Carl Maria von Weber, Richard Wagner, Richard Strauss, and Hugo von Hofmannsthal. It was in fact an issue that so preoccupied Hoffmann that he had been planning to write an essay on the topic from as early as his Bamberg period (1809), when he was regularly producing and conducting operas at the theater. Hoffmann’s perspective is polemical in that he is aware at the beginning of the nineteenth century of signs of degeneration in the form of opera in Germany (in his words, “die ausgeartete Form der Oper”) and is anxious to diagnose the causes, which, he suspects, may have something to do with the quality of libretti and the treatment of words by the composer; such a diagnosis may, hopefully, lead to a cure.1 In all this we detect something of Hoffmann’s role as the pioneer figure in the evolution of German Romantic opera. In both versions of the essay (the earlier one of which appeared in the Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung, the later one in Die Serapionsbrüder), Hoffmann’s contribution is presented fictitiously through dialogue form2 but this dialogue in turn is placed within a complex frame in which different views are expressed. Now it takes its place as part of the wide-ranging discussions of aesthetic matters, both philosophical and technical, that are such a distinctive feature of Die Serapionsbrüder. Hoffmann’s profound insight into the problems raised in interdisciplinary collaboration is based on first-hand experience as a writer of libretti and as a composer, as well as in the practical role of producer, interpreter, conductor, and even professional critic of the finished products. This foundation in the practical, analytical, and creative aspects of opera writing gave him an unusually authoritative perspective among his contemporaries, providing a firm basis for theoretical speculations about the problem of the relationship of text to music, and promoting access to broader interdisciplinary issues and the creative process in general, which was clearly a topic that fascinated him. At an earlier point he had considered including the dialogue-essay in the Fantasiestücke but thought better of it (possibly taking

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the view that the inclusion of the extensive Kreisleriana gave sufficient coverage to the topic of music), and when it came to planning the new collection, Die Serapionsbrüder, in 1819, he reminded his publisher, Reimer, of the appropriateness of including the piece, suitably altered to fit its new surroundings. I shall suggest he had good underlying reasons for so doing. For it is no accident that almost as soon as the program for successful (“Romantic”) narrative art has been given an airing at the beginning of volume 1 of the Serapionsbrüder, following the presentations of the tales Der Einsiedler Serapion and Rat Krespel, there follows in close juxtaposition with Der Dichter und der Komponist a second major exposition focusing on the interdisciplinary connection of text and music in the hybrid form of opera. The theme of the relationship of words and music is then followed through and consolidated further in volume 2 with the dialogue Alte und neue Kirchenmusik. This reinforces the important part played by spiritual and religious forces in the creative and reception process and their problematic status in early nineteenth-century church music. A deliberate and systematic presentation of key aesthetic principles can thus be observed in these early chapters of the collection although it is typical of Hoffmann’s understated approach towards his subject not to labor the point. In its original form, Der Dichter und der Komponist is the earliest of the pieces in the Serapionsbrüder collection to have been written and published, and there is a substantial gap in time between the two versions, during which important political changes had taken place. Napoleon had now been defeated and a mood of postwar exhilaration and a sense of renewal were evident after 1815 before the new order (which would be of a marked conservative character) had became consolidated and a more sober mood of “Restoration” was reflected in the forms of realism that we associate with the Biedermeier style. The original (Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung) form of Der Dichter und der Komponist exists simply as a free-standing dialogue between the two friends, Ferdinand, a poet, and Ludwig, a composer. But in its later form in Die Serapionsbrüder it is flanked by two fairly substantial discussions among the musical members of the Bund, Theodor, and Cyprian, the latter supported by the theoretically-minded, always skeptical, often moody, and sometimes maverick Lothar.3 The six-year gap (1813–19) between these two published versions enabled Hoffmann to visit the topic afresh and add new facets and perspectives. This period in Hoffmann’s creative life is marked by the completion (in 1814) and performance (in 1816) to acclaim at the National Theater in Berlin of his own most ambitious opera, Undine, based on a libretto written by the popular Romantic writer Baron Friedrich de la Motte Fouqué, author of the celebrated “Erzählung” of that name. That Hoffmann’s views on the opera form and his judgments on particular examples in the operatic repertoire were still

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undergoing development during this period can be observed in his famous volte face about the operas of the controversial Italian celebrity composer of the day, Gasparo Spontini, who had been enjoying a prolonged succès fou in Paris with his vast and spectacular works.4 Many of the basic ideas in the essay about the relationship between Dichter and Komponist owe much to Hoffmann’s own personal experience of collaboration with Fouqué, which belongs to the earlier part of this period, namely the years 1812–13. Their exchanges are well documented and are revealing about the respective attitudes of the two partners in the enterprise. For one thing, when it came to delicate matters, the negotiations were often transacted through an intermediary, their mutual friend, Julius Hitzig, the publisher, who acted as a kind of broker. That in itself does not point to an ideally frank and open relationship between Dichter und Komponist. Thus, when Hoffmann wanted to convey the message that a libretto must be brief and to the point (Fouqué being a notoriously long-winded writer) he asked Hitzig to insinuate this notion into his discussions with the writer. Later, he pointed out for Fouqué’s benefit the high points in the action of the original Märchen and the parts he regarded as potentially the most suitable for composition. Conversely, when Fouqué started work on converting his Märchen into a “Textbuch,” he remarked ironically to Hitzig (apropos the subject matter of Undine): “Das Wasser geht mir . . . etwas an die Zähne,”5 and later (on completing act 1), perhaps a shade ungraciously: “Von dieser [Undine] wird, so Gott will, heute der erste Akt fertig.”6 Hoffmann, though, seemed to be extremely satisfied with the end product (on 30 November 1812 he told Hitzig “ich finde durchaus im Text nichts zu ändern”).7 The whole process of conversion from book to libretto took only two months. Hoffmann reports that he is proceeding to the business of composition, which is being done after he has finished his working day, that is, from seven until ten thirty P.M., in a coffeehouse.8 At this point in the process he is composing entirely in his head. Thereafter at home, and with the aid of a piano, he can continue composing, and only after that proceed to write down the music in score. As an interesting postlude Fouqué records that Hoffmann’s participation in the process was extensive and that he scrutinized every line: “Hoffmann hat so viel Teil an der Dichtung als Opernentwurf, daß ich ohne ihn auch über keine Zeile disponieren darf.”9 It is certainly the case that at several points Hoffmann underlined his main criterion for a successful libretto: “vorzüglich gedrängte Kürze” (for which Emanuel Schikaneder serves as a model) and the need to bring out clearly the points of highest dramatic and emotional impact.10 This input into the libretto on the part of the composer presents an interesting compromise, in which the actual text is sketched out by the author following prompts from the composer and is subsequently subjected to revisions by the composer. The division of labor between Dichter and Komponist in this collaboration is thus not exactly

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cut-and-dried, and the role of the Komponist in contributing to the general lay-out of the libretto is considerable.11 A question that is not, of course, clarified in these exchanges is why, although himself an accomplished writer, Hoffmann did not feel confident from the outset about creating his own libretto based on Fouqué’s Märchen as well as composing the music.12 Quite apart from his own professed disinclination to write verse — and German Romantic opera, while showing signs of starting out on its long road to music drama (a term that Hoffmann was one of the first to employ, putting it in the mouth of his character Ferdinand)13 was still operating for its texts on the “Singspiel” model of alternating spoken dialogue and verse arias — Hoffmann may have had other more fundamental reasons for wishing to preserve the two distinct functions of Dichter and Komponist. As will be seen, these link up with the theoretical principles that he had been formulating in connection with literature, mainly narrative, and the visual arts (Jacques Callot) and that he now wished to extend into the field of music. Hence the appropriateness of this essay (and its complementary piece, Über alte und neue Kirchenmusik) within the Serapionsbrüder collection. Briefly, the dialogue in Der Dichter und der Komponist deals with the notorious difficulties experienced by any composer who harbors ambitions to write operas. How can such a composer procure a suitable text? He is forced continually to ransack the literary repertoire, ancient and contemporary alike (in Hoffmann’s case the names of those whose works he had thus ransacked include Goethe, Calderón, and Franz von Holbein, as well as Fouqué). Since selections of such texts have to be made, then cast into regular meter and rhyme, in theory as many as three separate persons could be involved in what can then become a three-stage process. Whether the adaptation should be carried out by the author, a second writer, or indeed the composer himself is the point at issue in Hoffmann’s dialogue. In his early, less ambitious operatic works, Hoffmann himself did what seems to be regarded by his fictitious character, the soldier-poet Ferdinand, as the hack work; in others, such as Undine, he demurred.14 The stay-at-home composer, Ludwig, in the inner dialogue has come to the conclusion that there is an intractable problem here: it is that the composer needs a handy and compliant Dichter more than the Dichter needs the composer. And Ferdinand confirms that no Dichter worth his salt can tolerate the hard grind of preparing a text to become “opernfähig”: it is, he complains “die undankbarste Arbeit der Welt.” If the composer for his part is too proud to deal with the less glamorous mechanical task of adapting a text for the purposes of creating a libretto, and transposing it into regular meter and rhyme schemes, neither does the poet for his part wish to break down what may be his own carefully wrought artwork into such component parts and serve them up for the purpose of an operatic presentation. It seems that the technical problems cannot be solved without one side giving some

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ground: the composer lacks the technical means — and Ludwig argues that each art form has its own specialist skills that are not transferable to the others15 — the poet has the means, but neither the will nor the motivation to serve as a skivvy rather than a collaborator working on equal terms. He too has his amour propre16 (one notes that the assumption is made here that the contemporary writer or poet is being required to do both the writing and the adaptation (or possibly plunging straight into a libretto?), a situation that would, of course, not arise in the case of texts by long-dead authors, which could be adapted). In this dialogue Ludwig, the musician, is the partner who has an idealistic vision of the great power that words and music can wield jointly through the hybrid form of opera. Ferdinand’s role initially is the negative one of resisting any involvement on the part of the poet and putting the burden of libretto writing entirely onto the composer. It would appear that in his estimation opera is not worth the effort, although he starts to move his position in the face of the powerful rhetoric used by Ludwig to convey the sublime and otherworldly effect that is evoked when the two parts of the enterprise, music and words, interact at the deepest level, each enhancing the other. This invocation of the sublime is the climax and turning point of the dialogue. Then, Ludwig argues, the rewards are equally overwhelming for both parties, for along with their audience both participants will gain access to jenem fernen Reiche, das uns oft in seltsamen Ahnungen umfängt, und aus dem wunderbare Stimmen zu uns herabtönen und alle die Laute wecken, die in der beengten Brust schliefen, und die, nun erwacht, wie in feurigen Strahlen freudig und froh heraufschießen, so daß wir die Seligkeit jenes Paradieses teilhaftig werden — da sind Dichter und Musiker die innigst verwandten Glieder einer Kirche: denn das Geheimnis des Worts und des Tons ist ein und dasselbe, das ihnen die höchste Weihe erschlossen.17 (HSW/SB, 102)

Ferdinand’s opposition weakens markedly after this peroration: Ich höre meinen lieben Ludwig, wie er in tiefen Sprüchen, das geheimnisvolle Wesen der Kunst zu erfassen strebt, und in der Tat schon jetzt sehe ich den Raum schwinden, der mir sonst den Dichter vom Musiker zu trennen schien. (HSW/SB, 101)

This is because what his friend is offering is no ordinary kind of opera, in which music and words simply follow their own agenda and never merge fully (what Ludwig dismissively terms “Schauspiel mit Gesang”). Rather it is a full-blooded new program for opera, in which the constituent parts merge and interact at a profound level, creating something that transcends those constituents. With high pathos Ludwig enjoins Ferdinand to rise to the new challenge now confronting the Dichter:

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Der Dichter rüste sich zum kühnen Fluge in das ferne Reich der Romantik; dort findet er das Wundervolle, das er in das Leben tragen soll, lebendig und in frischen Farben erglänzend, so daß man willig daran glaubt, ja daß man, wie in einem beseligenden Traume, selbst dem dürftigen, alltäglichen Leben entrückt in den Blumengängen des romantischen Landes wandelt, und nur seine Sprache, das in Musik ertönende Wort versteht. (HSW/SB, 103)

What is more, this Romantic program lays heavy emphasis on the Supernatural and otherworldly, thus challenging the Dichter to explore new and exciting territory for his art. Ferdinand, it would appear, is gradually coming round to admitting that the gap between Dichter and Komponist is narrowing and to warming to the notion that there is a socio-religious aspect in such collaboration: invisible forces existing between like-minded spirits are all gathered together in a kind of virtual institution, or church. By joining such a community the Dichter is subscribing to artistic values that will consolidate and strengthen the new Romantic program for opera. Ferdinand is thus gradually coaxed into abandoning his cynical disbelief and becoming an enlightened supporter, even agreeing with Ludwig’s argument about the suitability of a fiaba, (that is, fairytale) by Gozzi18 entitled Il corbo (the plot of which is fully recounted) as ideal material for an operatic libretto. The eligibility of this particular text as the source for a libretto is based on the evidence, first, of its happy combination of comic and serious elements (“Ernst und Scherz”) and, secondly, its poetic treatment of the Supernatural, which is so skillful that all disbelief is suspended. The skeptical Ferdinand has to admit: “Du hast recht, das Wunderbare erscheint hier als notwendig, und ist so poetisch wahr, daß man willig daran glaubt.” Additional points that sway Ferdinand are Ludwig’s reassurance that both the opera seria with its sublime effects as represented by Gluck (and to a lesser extent Piccinni), and the opera buffa (represented in German by Mozart) already provide models. These two types of opera fulfill Hoffmann’s requirement that the Serapiontic in art must express the whole spectrum of “Ernst” and “Scherz.” Ferdinand can see from this that the new program will allow plenty of scope for the Dichter to deploy his talent for characterization and present a full range of human experience: In der opera buffa wäre es recht eigentlich das Phantastische, was in die Stelle des Romantischen tritt und die Kunst des Dichters müßte darin bestehen, die Personen nicht allein vollkommen geründet, poetisch wahr, sondern recht aus dem gewöhnlichen Leben gegriffen, so individuell auftreten zu lassen, daß man sich augenblicklich selbst sagt: Sieh da! Das ist der Nachbar, mit dem ich alle Tage gesprochen. (HSW/SB, 112)

This speech does more than merely voice agreement with Ludwig’s presentation of the new program for opera. It also makes unmistakable

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reference to what we recognize from the earlier discussion as a main feature of the Serapiontic Principle, namely, that the Supernatural or otherworldly must be allied to the familiar and everyday (as in Jacques Callot’s phrase: “etwas fremdartig Bekanntes”). I shall return later to the soubriquet “serapiontic” that is applied to Ferdinand by the frame character Theodor and at first sight might seem puzzling. It seems, then, that when the two disputants had been discussing the technical problems associated with collaboration they were at loggerheads. The opening up by Ludwig of what can be described as a transcendental dimension to the fruits of this joint enterprise (“die innigst verwandten Glieder einer Kiche”) combines with further appraisal of the existing models of Gluck’s and Mozart’s operatic practice to produce a persuasive case and bring about an appreciation on Ferdinand’s part of the range of the new program in which Ludwig is seeking to involve him. At the end of the debate only one sticking point seems to remain: the demand on the part of the composer for linguistic simplicity and dramatic conciseness — and one recalls here Hoffmann’s guide-lines for Fouqué in composing the libretto for Undine as conveyed via Hitzig — is not immediately acceptable to Ferdinand, who persuasively expresses the poet’s frustration at, among other things, having his offerings rejected when inferior ones are accepted, and who still has difficulties with the autocratic demands of the composer and the drastic compression he demands for an operatic presentation: Alle Mühe diese oder jene Situation, den Ausbruch dieser oder jener Leidenschaft, recht in bedeutenden Worten aufzufassen und darzustellen, ist vergebens; denn alles muß in ein paar Versen abgetan sein, die sich noch dazu rücksichtslos nach eurem Gefallen drehen und wenden lassen sollen. (HSW/SB, 114)

The Dichter’s concern at the brutal reductionism applied to what may have been conceived of as a free-standing, fully articulated prose work or stage drama but which now has to be tailored to fit the operatic format is perfectly understandable, and rather gives the lie to the possibility of any equal partnership between Dichter und Komponist. Ludwig has to concede that it is only the broad brush strokes that count in a successful libretto and that it operates most effectively when the words have reached the limits, in other words when the music can take over to express the inexpressible (“Das ist ja eben das wunderbare Geheimnis der Tonkunst, daß sie da, wo die arme Rede versiegt, erst eine unerschöpfliche Quelle der Ausdrucksmittel öffnet!”).19 Es ist die Musik, die nun das Ganze so in richtiges Licht und gehörige Perspektive stellt, daß alles lebendig hervortritt, und sich einzelne, willkürlich scheinende Pinselstreiche zu kühn herausschreitenden Gestalten vereinen. (HSW/SB, 114)

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Ludwig’s program for Romantic opera also takes account of the practicalities of the theater and the needs of the audience — a matter on which Ferdinand has nothing to say. Realistically, the audience probably cannot hear all the words which are sung, but all the more reason why the focus should be concentrated on effects of high dramatic impact (“Beinahe ohne ein Wort zu verstehen, muß der Zuschauer sich aus dem, was er geschehen sieht, einen Begriff von der Handlung machen können”). This is a telling point with which few would disagree and it is one to which, as we saw above, Hoffmann attached special importance in his collaboration with Fouqué. The danger inherent in too vague a response, that is, where the music alone is left to carry the meaning, must be counterbalanced by a libretto that focuses concisely on essentials and eschews all that is irrelevant, such as Metastasian metaphors; these essentials focus on the emotions that are conveyed by the particular dramatic situation: Was nun die Worte betrifft, so sind sie dem Komponisten am liebsten, wenn sie kräftig und bündig die Leidenschaft, die Situation, welche dargestellt werden soll, aussprechen; es bedarf keines besondern Schmuckes, und ganz vorzüglich keine Bilder. (HSW/SB, 115)

Ludwig produces a familiar but telling example to illustrate the point: the emotions aroused by an archetypical operatic situation, namely, the parting between two lovers. The word “addio,” he suggests, is all that is required for the librettist to represent the idea of such a parting. No verbal reflections on the matter are relevant or interesting. It is for the composer to draw on his rich reservoir of melody and harmony by means of which the full range and depths of emotion appropriate to such a situation can be explored. In view of all these points there is really no way that Ludwig can sidestep the disparity that has been opened up in terms of the respective contributions of Dichter and Komponist: his only hope is to appeal to Ferdinand’s idealism, the notion of collaboration and the sacrifice of individual autonomy in the interests of the collective good embodied by the new Romantic opera. However, in order to sum up the complexities of the relationship we must return to the question of the Serapiontic and its general relevance for Hoffmann’s program for the arts and the aspirations of a post-war generation. And that in turn requires us to consider the reactions of the members of the Bund in the overarching frame that surrounds the inner dialogue. As if gently to remind and plant associations in the mind of the reader of the Serapionsbrüder, Hoffmann twice uses the epithet “serapiontisch” to describe the gallant poet-cum-soldier Ferdinand, once before the dialogue begins, when Theodor, the narrator, explains (HSW/SB, 94) that he was able to bolster his own morale during the anxious period during the war when he was in danger of losing all confidence in his “Existenz in der Kunst,” by inventing a “Serapiontic friend,” an alter

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ego and sparring partner (that is, Ferdinand the soldier-poet). And after Theodor’s narrative concludes with Ferdinand’s idealistic vision of a postwar renaissance of the arts, Lothar refers to him once more as Theodor’s “serapiontischer Freund” (HSW/SB, 118). That tense period (1813–14), in which the inner dialogue is set and when the future was still hanging in the balance, has now by 1819 long since passed into history, but it is still close enough for the members of the Bund to recall and relive in their imaginations the sense of heightened intensity so typical during a time of war. The theme of war in fact itself acts, in Chinese box fashion, as a frame to the dialogue itself. The unusual circumstances of the meeting of Ludwig and Ferdinand form a brilliant vignette that depicts the reactions and behavior of a group of civilians under bombardment.20 In contrast to the material privations and nerve-shattering experiences of the citizens of Dresden, there is the exalted idealism of those, like Ferdinand, who had been moved to take action in defense of their fatherland and its cultural heritage. In turn, the soldier Ferdinand contrasts sharply with the stay-athome composer, Ludwig, who continued (albeit with an uneasy conscience) throughout the war to devote his energies to his art, music, existing in a kind of ivory tower. Ferdinand, the man of action, thus becomes a symbol of hope for the regeneration of his country in peacetime when, as Ludwig proposes, he joins him in embracing the new Romantic program which has the Serapiontic Principle as its foundation stone (“Grundstein”). This two-fold iteration of the term “serapiontic” (first by Theodor, then by Lothar) is a suggestive reminder to the reader of the continuities that Hoffmann wishes to build in to the theoretical part of the frame structure in the Serapionsbrüder. Lothar’s succinct formulation earlier in the first volume, which serves as a guideline for future discussions of the principle, had contained the image of the lever (“Hebel”),21 implying the intensification of the creative imagination at the crucial point of gestation (in that earlier context, of course, the terms of reference are still literature). The notion of applied force during the “levering” process introduces a different image, that of kindling (“entzünden”): the “Geist” is ignited and the imagination can blaze forth (Hoffmann frequently uses the term “entzünden” to express the mysterious workings of inspiration). Here, as so often in the case of these exegeses, we have to bear in mind the fictional dimension of the frame, and the continuity and cross-referencing of the topics under discussion. In Der Einsiedler Serapion Lothar had produced a constructive critique to set against the one-sidedness and extreme subjectivity, bordering on “madness,” of the hermit’s view of life that was at the heart of that tale. At that point he was careful to emphasize the importance in creative work of striking a balance between the extremes of poetic fancy and the more controlled, detached, sober procedures that contribute to the production of great works of art. In the frame dialogue surrounding Der Dichter und der

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Komponist, Theodor the composer is under pressure from his fellow Serapionsbrüder, Ottmar, Lothar, and Cyprian, all of them writers who have all tried in vain to get him to agree about the choice of a libretto. Failure to reach agreement on this matter has brought them to consider the option that the Komponist should, as twentieth-century composer Paul Hindemith, who experienced similar frustrations, once expressed it, faute de mieux “lay his own eggs”22 and write his own libretto. The inner dialogue has left the issue largely unresolved and if anything caused a polarization between Lothar — who remains convinced that the composer should write his own libretto (a paper solution, as Ludwig has demonstrated) and clearly identifies with Ferdinand’s original defense of that position — and Cyprian, who seems to have been won over by Ludwig, the composer’s (more problematic) case for aiming at a deep level of integration of music and text — moving into the field of “Durchkomponierung,” one might suggest — while keeping the two functions of poet and composer separate. At the end of a session (or volume, as here), earnest attempts are made to conclude on a note of reconciliation and harmony among the members of the group. But as we have seen, there is no clear resolution either in the inner frame dialogue or in the narrative frame. The apparent agreement reflected in Ferdinand’s seemingly compliant and enthusiastic final speech relates more to his commitment to a new political and social order of things and the opportunity for a general renewal of culture in the postwar world than to an equal sharing out of the spoils between Dichter and Komponist. He has certainly raised some pretty intractable practical problems about collaboration, which Ludwig has blithely ignored. On the other hand, he has demonstrated his credentials as an artist who can appreciate the potential for “Serapiontic” collaboration in the field of opera and has glimpsed some of the ways in which the hybrid form can combine higher flights of imagination with the true Dichter’s natural concern to depict human characters and situations in depth, albeit in a more concentrated fashion than would be normal in a literary context. But that implies a compromise. In his excellent book on Hoffmann’s musical writings,23 David Charlton gives an interesting reading of Hoffmann’s purpose in Der Dichter und der Komponist (based, however, mainly on the early Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung version). He rightly draws attention to the contemporary debates regarding the respective merits of the dual or single identity of an opera composer and librettist. Not only were several composers — admittedly none of them among the giants — engaged in writing their own texts in the early 1800s but, as he points out, Hoffmann himself had done so in his earlier works (though admittedly these were all rather slight Singspiele, such as “Die Maske” [1799]). Significantly, as we have seen, he had expressly refused to take over the entire task in his most

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ambitious opera, Undine. Charlton, however, reads Der Dichter und der Komponist as a call to arms on Hoffmann’s part and an encouragement to composers to take over the entire business of adaptation of a libretto as well as its musical composition. From our analysis of the Serapionsbrüder text I would argue that the position is much more ambiguous, and that Ludwig is throughout putting up a stout case for separation of the two functions, much of which eventually finds acceptance with Ferdinand. As we have seen, Ludwig, who in Charlton’s reading would surely have to become a spokesman for such a mission, declares his own reluctance to deal with both parts of the job and spends his time trying to persuade Ferdinand otherwise. As Ludwig sees it, musical composition draws on a general inspiration on the part of the composer, which may be triggered by the possibilities of a particular text not of his own making (Hoffmann uses the image of a surging torrent to suggest the powerful flow of melodic inspiration: “ganz hingerissen und nur arbeitend in den Melodien, die ihm zuströmten, würde er vergebens nach den Worten ringen” [HSW/SB, 100]). He is clear that such a flow of musical inspiration could be completely destroyed by the need to wrestle with words and the particularities of the text at the same time: “so würde dieser Strom . . . gar bald, wie in unfruchtbaren Sand versiegen” (HSW/SB, 100). He would even feel happier about coming up with the basic ideas for a text than he is with the business of tailoring it to the demands of the musical score, though that does not seem to be a serious option. It is clear that the Dichter, Ferdinand, gives way to Ludwig’s rhetorical appeal for solidarity in the promotion of the Romantic program for opera (and its “Serapiontic” foundations) at a time of national renewal, while Ludwig for his part, it would appear, makes no reciprocal concessions. Charlton finds support in the frame discussion for his view that Hoffmann is urging a multi-tasking on the part of the composer and leans in particular on Lothar’s view and the fact that he remains unconvinced that Theodor has proved his point about the impossibility of combining the two roles (“er hat mich nicht überzeugt” [HSW/SB, 114]). It would seem, paradoxically, that the two (doubly) fictitious characters, Ludwig and Ferdinand, are eventually of one mind, in visionary rather than in practical terms, whereas, even after Theodor has finished his narration (which had been intended as a means of illustrating and clarifying the issues), unanimity has receded even further among the members of the group. However, Hoffmann has a final card up his sleeve. If verbal means of resolution cannot be achieved, music itself can prove its superiority. The final traces of discord among the members of the group are completely resolved by Cyprian and Theodor, who invoke the muse of music itself and suggest an extempore performance. The four Serapionsbrüder form a vocal quartet (Theodor accompanying them on the piano) and sing a

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Disclaimer: Some images in the printed version of this book are not available for inclusion in the eBook. To view the image on this page please refer to the printed version of this book.

Hoffmann’s autograph for Louis Spohr of page of “Still und hehr die Nacht” (“Nachtgesang aus der Genoveva des Maler Müllers”), from Herford Homburg, Louis Spohr: Bilder und Dokumente seiner Zeit (Kassel, 1968).

composition of Theodor’s (as yet not written out), based on a poem by Maler Müller (from Golo und Genoveva).24 This produces a suitably harmonious and uplifting parallel to the visionary speech in which Ferdinand had prophesied a glorious renaissance in Germany after the conclusion of the war, a speech that carries clear overtones of the same intellectual, spiritual and artistic awakening and renewal that Novalis had articulated over a decade or so before in his essay “Die Christenheit oder Europa”: Die Morgenröte bricht an und schon schwingen sich begeisterte Sänger in die duftigen Lüfte und verkünden das Göttliche, es im Gesange lobpreisend. Die goldnen Tore sind geöffnet und in einem Strahl entzünden Wissenschaft und Kunst das heilige Streben, das die Menschen zu einer Kirche vereinigt . . . Ewig verbunden zum höhern Sein im Leben und Tode. (HSW/SB, 118)

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This musical finale is indeed a highly individual — though not immediately transposable — solution to the age-old aporia presented by the relationship of Dichter and Komponist.25

Notes 1

“Manches über die jetztige ausgeartete Form der Oper so wie die Bedingnisse des wahren OpernSujets und die Behandlung desselben von Seiten des Dichters und des Komponisten würde darin vorkommen” (1 July 1809, letter to the editor of the AMZ, Friedrich Rochlitz; reprinted in Hoffmann’s Briefwechsel, vol. 1, ed. Harro von Müller and Friedrich Schnapp [Munich: Winkler, 1967], 293. Carl Maria von Weber made a similar point in 1812, when writing about Anton Dreysig’s “Singakademie,” referring to the “increasing deterioration of vocal and especially choral music.” See John Warrack, ed., Carl Maria von Weber, Writings on Music (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1981), 115. 2 Hoffmann had deliberately chosen the more lively form, which permitted what he termed “die Einkleidung, welche die Spur der Zeitverhältnisse trägt” over a “trockene Abhandlung.” Rochlitz, the enlightened editor of the AMZ, actively encouraged this kind of fictitious presentation; see Warrack, Carl Maria von Weber, Writings on Music, 216. 3

For an analysis of the individual characters in the frame, see below, chapter 7, “Frame Narrative and the Serapiontic Principle.” 4 Compare Hoffmann’s critical remarks in 1815 on Spontini’s Fernan Cortez in “Briefe über Tonkunst in Berlin” with his enthusiasm for the same composer’s Olimpie in 1821 (“Nachträgliche Bemerkungen über Spontinis Oper Olimpia”). See H. M. Brown, “Italia and Germania: Reflections on a Theme in the Works of E. T. A. Hoffmann,” The Publications of the English Goethe Society, New Series 70 (2000): 10–11. 5

Fouqué to Hitzig, 7 September 1812, in Schnapp, Der Musiker E. T. A. Hoffmann, 188.

6

Fouqué to Hitzig, 17 September 1812, in Schnapp, Der Musiker E. T. A. Hoffmann, 190. 7

Hoffmann to Hitzig, 30 November 1812, in Schnapp, Der Musiker E. T. A. Hoffmann, 200. It is interesting that in his famous review of Hoffmann’s Undine Carl Maria von Weber found fault with the libretto, his criticism being that the author “knew his own story” too well and therefore failed to clarify the action sufficiently in his adaptation. See John Warrack, ed., Carl Maria von Weber, Writings on Music, 203. 8

Schnapp, Der Musiker E. T. A. Hoffmann, 201: “und nun eile ich mit der Undine in der Tasche in ein mir nahe gelegenes mit dem Theater verbundenes Kaffeehaus . . . und komponiere . . . um halb 11 Uhr — nun setze ich mich an mein Klavier — die aufgeschlagene Undine vor mir und nun geht erst recht das rechte begeisterte Komposition los — So kommt es denn, daß ich, bin ich ganz fertig, sehr rasch und ohne eine Note ändern zu müssen die ganze Komposition aufschreibe.”

9

Schnapp, Der Musiker E. T. A. Hoffmann, 201.

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Hoffmann to Hitzig 15 August 1812. Briefwechsel, ed. Müller and Schnapp, 348.

11

Long after Hoffmann’s death, in 1839, Fouqué modestly claimed only to have written the verse sections of Undine: “Höchstens fügte ich meinerseits noch eine Arie oder ein Duo hin und wieder ein” and, unlike his counterpart, Ferdinand, in Hoffmann’s dialogue piece, did not seem to resent the inequality of the relationship, conceding that “der Operndichter billig und notwendig dem Komponisten ausnehmend viel überlassen muß,” Schnapp, Der Musiker E. T. A. Hoffmann, 602. Because of his considerable practical experience of the theater, which far exceeded Fouqué’s, as well as his literary talents, Hoffmann was hardly a typical example of the Komponist. When, after Hoffmann’s death, there was discussion between the theater director, Brühl, and Fouqué about a revival of Undine, Fouqué was happy to plan a completely new introduction with a new composer (Kienlen), Weber having been approached without success, as he was involved with the completion of Euryanthe. Nothing came of the venture. 12 Jean Paul had already raised expectations that Hoffmann could carry out both tasks; see the preface to “Fantasiestücke”: “denn bisher warf immer der Sonnengott die Dichtgabe mit der Rechten und die Tongabe mit der Linken zwei so weit auseinanderstehenden Menschen zu, daß wir noch bis diesen Augenblick auf den Mann harren, der eine echte Oper zugleich dichtet und setzt” (HSW 2/1:16). Hoffmann’s dialogue could therefore be regarded as a riposte or answer to the question posed in the outer frame by Ludwig: “Ist denn nicht vollkommene Einheit des Textes aus der Musik nur denkbar wenn Dichter und Komponist eine und dieselbe Person ist?” 13

“Doch glaube ich, daß es eine schwere Aufgabe sei, nach den Bedingnissen des musikalischen Drama zu schreiben” (HSW/SB, 104). 14

He later (1821) himself uncomplainingly assumed the lowly role of translator and adaptor of the French text of Spontini’s opera Olimpie for its first performance at the Königliches Schauspielhaus, Berlin. 15

“Es ist uns Komponisten auch in der Tat kaum zuzumuten, daß wir uns jenen mechanischen Handgriff, der in jeder Kunst zum Gelingen des Werks nötig, und den man nur durch steten Fleiß und anhaltende Übung erlangt, aneignen sollen, um unsere Verse selbst zu bauen” (HSW/SB, 99). 16

The discrepancy is neatly pointed up in the respective level of royalties that were paid to each. In the case of Hoffmann and Fouqué the ratio was 5:3 (composer:librettist). See Brühl to Hoffmann, 10 August 1816 (Schnapp, Der Musiker E. T. A. Hoffmann, 446). 17 Modern readers have trouble with these effusive signs of religiosity on Hoffmann’s part. Carl Dahlhaus, however, contextualizes them in an illuminating way; see C. Dahlhaus, “E. T. A. Hoffmanns Beethovenkritik und die Ästhetik des Erhabenen,” in Beethovens klassische und romantische Musikästhetik (Cologne: Laaber, 1988), 98–111. Dahlhaus links Hoffmann’s concept to Kant’s and Schiller’s theory of the Sublime but insists that Hoffmann’s substitution of a religious dimension must be taken literally: “Das moralische Pathos, das bei Kant und Schilller herrschte, wurde durch ein religiöses — das man nicht als pseudo-religiös verdächtigen sollte — abgelöst,” (108). See also Dahlhaus’s discussion of the transcendental

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in music in the following chapter, entitled “Geheimnisvolle Sprache eines fernen Geisterreichs: Kirchenmusik und Oper in der Ästhetik E. T. A. Hoffmanns.” 18 Gozzi was one of Hoffmann’s favorite authors; see Hedwig Rusack, Gozzi in Germany (New York: Columbia UP, 1930). The insertion of a long résumé of the fairy tale into the essay dialogue is possibly inappropriate, but on the other hand it provides the reader with some clear evidence of what Hoffmann believes to be suitable material on which to base a libretto, It would seem, however, that no composer has taken the hint. 19

Ludwig invokes an important principle, “Potenzierung,” borrowed from mathematics (see discussion above, chapter 3, “Der Einsiedler Serapion”) to express the process of intensification and stepping up of expressive power when music is allied to words: “In der Oper soll die Einwirkung höherer Naturen auf uns sichtbarlich geschehn, und so vor unseren Augen sich ein romantisches Sein erschließen, in dem auch die Sprache höher potenziert . . . ist” (HSW/SB, 104). I shall discuss this idea in further detail in the next chapter, “Über alte und neue Kirchenmusik.” 20

Hoffmann had first-hand experience of the bombardment of Dresden. He was also an eye-witness at the battlefield near Dresden, which he visited in 1813, about which experience he wrote a visionary essay; see “Die Vision auf dem Schlachtfeld bei Dresden,” HSW/FS, 479–82. 21 Cf. “Es ist unser irdisches Erbteil, daß eben die Außenwelt in der wir eingeschachte[l]t, als der Hebel wirkt, der jene Kraft in Bewegung setzt” (HSW/SB, 68). See discussion above, Der Einsiedler Serapion. 22 Paul Hindemith, Briefe, ed. D. Rexroth (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 1982), 154. 23

David Charlton, E. T. A. Hoffmann’s Musical Writings (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1989); “Introduction to The Poet and the Composer: Hoffmann and Opera,” 169–209.

24

“Still und hehr die Nacht.” Hoffmann himself started to set these very poems to music in Bamberg in 1809, but no extant manuscript has survived, apart from the autograph page, whose relationship to the verbal description in HSW/SB is unclear. See HSW/SB, 1305. The detailed description of the four sections of Müller’s poem and precise reference to modulations (A major–F minor–D major–B minor–F major) suggest the existence of an actual composition of Hoffmann’s. See also Wolfgang Schneider, “E. T. A. Hoffmanns Nachtgesang aus der ‘Genoveva’ des Malers Müller,” MHG 11 (1964): 37–48.










25 Apropos this see Brian Trowell’s article on “Libretto” in The New Grove Dictionary of Opera, ed. Stanley Sadie (London: Macmillan, 1992), 1201: “Whoever writes the libretto for an opera must acknowledge that, unless the form changes beyond recognition, melodic and musical forms must play the primary role in shaping its success.” Trowell also quotes W. H. Auden’s reflections after his collaboration with Stravinsky on The Rake’s Progress: “The verses which the librettist writes are not addressed to the public, but are really a private letter to the composer. They have their moment of glory, the moment in which they suggest to him a certain melody; once that is over, they are as expendable as infantry to a Chinese general: they must efface themselves and cease to care what happens to them.”

4: Alte und neue Kirchenmusik

T

HIS ESSAY (OR, AS THEODOR DESCRIBES IT, “KLEINE ABHANDLUNG”) can be regarded as a continuation — and, as will be presently suggested, the climax — of Hoffmann’s exposition in the Serapionsbrüder of his theoretical program as it had been outlined up to this point in the various formulations of the Serapiontic Principle. Hoffmann has moved on from the literary aspects to a consideration of two major ways in which music can achieve its potential as the most expressive of all art forms: the first (outlined in “Der Dichter und der Komponist”) is in the hybrid form of opera, the second, in the form of church music (“Über alte und neue Kirchenmusik”). Both forms, significantly, involve the interdependence of music and words (or texts). We saw how the first iteration of Hoffmann’s literary program, based on the “Serapiontic Principle,” had been (fictionally) prompted by the spontaneous response of a group of friends to the stimulus of a literary reunion after a long absence — and in an atmosphere where a strong collective will is evident among the group to set up a program of renewal of their creative mission and release their long-dormant imaginative powers.1 A similar missionary zeal accompanies “Der Dichter und der Komponist,” which calls for a new program of Romantic opera and has all the greater sense of immediacy in that, at the time the original version was written in 1814, the Allies were moving towards victory against Napoleon. A sense of mission also underpins “Alte und neue Kirchenmusik,” which, once more, exists in two widely spaced versions. In this, the second of the two pieces dealing with the question of the relationship between words and music, the hybrid form in question — church music — proves in one sense to be less problematic than opera, in that the need to fashion a fresh text on each separate occasion, with all the related difficulty of deciding whether this should involve one or two separate artists, has been eliminated. The permanent form of the church liturgy, even down to the traditional language, Latin, has the advantage of simplifying the process of musical setting and leaving the composer free to respond to an already “given” and seemingly endlessly inspirational structure and linguistic construct.2 The reader is provided with a succinct analysis of the characteristic features of each section of the Mass: Kyrie, Gloria, Credo, Sanctus, Benedictus and Agnus Dei, an analysis that sums up their underlying purpose and effect: “Die Worte des Hochamts geben in einem Zyklus nur den Anlaß, höchstens den Leitfaden der Erbauung und in jeder Stimmung werden sie den richtigen Anklang der Seele erwecken” (HSW/SB, 490).

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There is a broad survey of the historical field — reaching as far back as medieval times and using the high point in the history of church music, the Renaissance, both as a paradigm for the purposes of comparison with the present and as a springboard for the future.3 The awareness that church music in his own day is now in serious decline,4 not surprisingly, leads to another call to arms on Hoffmann’s part and an appeal to his contemporaries to take up the challenge and revive the form. Hence the sense of mission and a certain rhetorical flavor that creeps in to the “Abhandlung” from time to time. However, the nature of and response to this appeal by the members of the “Bund” (as well as by modern commentators) is by no means straightforward, and has been the focus of much debate. This may be partly the result of a complicated genesis, certainly in comparison with “Der Dichter und der Komponist.” Although Hoffmann preferred to leave the piece on church music together with its preliminary frame discussion untitled, from the time of its publication in Die Serapionsbrüder onwards editors have opted to supply one nonetheless. Their choice is identical to the title that belongs strictly to the much longer and more detailed essay on the topic of church music, commissioned by Rochlitz, the editor of the Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung, that appeared in that journal in 1814. This has led to confusion, since readers have not always been aware that there are substantial differences between the two versions. First, there is a huge difference in scale: the Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung version runs to around twenty-eight printed pages and contains many musical examples and analyses based on the works of now obscure Italian composers,5 while the Serapionsbrüder version runs to only twelve and contains no musical quotations. Clearly the latter is aimed at a less specialist audience. And the ratio of musical analysis to more discursive material is greatly altered. Second, and most important, though scarcely ever commented on, the later Serapionsbrüder version is an amalgamation of two separate pieces written for the musical journal. Not only does Hoffmann annex and pare down parts of his original essay on Church Music, but he also takes over a second piece that had first been published in May 1813, namely, his review of Beethoven’s Mass in C Major. Finally, while the original version is presented from the perspective of one uniform authorial voice, the later one separates out into two distinct voices, a feature that is matched by a two-part presentation of the external frame characters, Cyprian and Theodor.6 Because the “inner dialogue” emerges directly from the “outer” and what had been a general discussion involving additional perspectives and voices, a more highly differentiated presentation of the issues is achieved than had been possible in the original Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung version. As I shall demonstrate, the inclusion of a section referring to the Beethoven Mass may have served the purpose of enabling Hoffmann to address a theme of direct relevance to his presentation and theory of the Serapiontic Principle, namely, the process

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of linking words and music to create sublime, otherworldly effects. This could be seen as an extension of the more secular processes described in the earlier companion piece on opera. But this issue is shown to be controversial, since, as it turns out, there is an absence of consensus among the members of the group as to whether, in the chosen contemporary example of church music, the Beethoven Mass, the composer has actually succeeded in scaling the expected heights in his handling of the words and music.7 There is also ridicule for the decision made by the publisher Breitkopf und Härtel (which in fact was made at the composer’s request) to commission for the Mass in C a translation of the Latin text into the vernacular German, the two versions to appear side by side.8 The inappropriate register of this translation (actually it bears an uncanny resemblance to the famous pantheistic speech in the catechism scene of Goethe’s Faust!) is amusingly analyzed by members of the group who, on this matter at least, are unanimous about its unsuitability. But at a more serious level this tailpiece to the debate underlines further the problematical status of church music in Hoffmann’s day which can be seen to extend even to a general sense of insecurity about the time-honored supremacy of the Latin text of the Mass. The problem of old and new emerges in two main forms in the debate in the final version, which is shared almost but not quite entirely between the two musical frame characters, Theodor and Cyprian: the issues of the spiritual force of church music and its present-day decline are debated. Within the main analysis itself Cyprian’s contribution is the more substantial of the two. As mentioned above, it is a greatly compressed version of the original essay,9 but is now mainly concentrated on Palestrina and one or two other composers (for example, Caldara and Allegri). At the same time the material incorporated from Hoffmann’s review of what was a representative new or modern work, Beethoven’s Mass, and the discussion of this work — a performance of which, the frame character Sylvester reports, he has recently attended in the Catholic Church and about which he is enthusiastic (“im höchsten Sinn des Worts ergriffen”) — forms an important starting and concluding point for the more widely ranging discussion of church music and the general problems confronting sacred music at the time. One line of argument addresses the past, present, and future of church music. The Beethoven Mass, a brand new work by an already famous composer, far from being greeted with enthusiasm by all members of the group, evokes reservations for its allegedly uninspiring musical treatment of the form. Even Theodor, who as a composer himself is the major spokesman for music, seems slightly ambivalent: “Und doch fand ich mich getäuscht in Ansehung dessen wie Beethoven die Worte des Hochamts aufgefaßt hat.” This disappointment echoes that expressed by Hoffmann in his original Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung review, where he too had clearly come to

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Disclaimer: Some images in the printed version of this book are not available for inclusion in the eBook. To view the image on this page please refer to the printed version of this book.

Letter from Ludwig van Beethoven to Hoffmann, 23 March 1820. By kind permission of Musikabteilung mit Mendelssohn-Archiv, Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin-Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Mus.ep.autogr.

the work with certain expectations. These were based partly on his hunch that in this first setting of the Mass Beethoven would be influenced by the robust example of Joseph Haydn’s greatest works in the genre (for example, the Cäcilienmesse and the so-called Nelson Mass) but possibly also on his having recently reviewed Beethoven’s revolutionary Fifth Symphony, in which the composer had so effectively exploited the “Hebel des Schauers, des Entsetzens,” that he was likewise expected to raise the level of the liturgical text to sublime regions. On the other hand Hoffmann (in both

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versions) and his character Theodor share the view that the overall tone of Beethoven’s work is an entirely appropriate expression of devotional piety. Theodor cannot fault its clear, simple, unostentatious outlines or its effective, but not flamboyant, instrumentation (“die verständige Instrumentierung”). The problem, therefore, seems to be not that Beethoven’s Mass represents just another inadequate new setting, reflecting modern degeneration, but that in its many-sidedness Beethoven’s genius has not conformed here to the highest expectations.10 It would be a misreading of the text to propose, therefore, that Hoffmann’s conflation of the two different reviews is undertaken as a rod to beat the back of all contemporary composers of church music: Beethoven is not being accused, as most of them are, of mixing the sacred with the secular, or for introducing frivolous operatic devices into the musical score. The Mass in C is, as Theodor firmly puts it, “ganz des genialen Meisters würdig.” But the general trends forming around it are worrying (Hoffmann removed from the original review a phrase about the settings of the Mass as having become a mere fashion, a mere “Mode”). He has other purposes in mind for Beethoven’s Mass in its new Serapionsbrüder setting, as I shall presently demonstrate. The main problem with most modern settings of the Mass in his view lies in a lack of genuine religious commitment and the consequent inability of composers to rise to true spiritual heights. This matter is fully covered in Cyprian’s section, an appropriate allocation, as he is associated with matters spiritual rather than with musical technicalities (though, of course, the origins of Cyprian’s argument can be found in Hoffmann’s own original essay and thus presumably also carry — or carried — authorial approval).11 Cyprian, not the composer Theodor, appears qua historian of church music who interprets the current trends in church music as indicative of an urgent need to redefine and reinstate the religious dimension. It is not made clear, however, whether his negative diagnosis of present-day church music points to a growing crisis in religion itself in an increasingly secularized, post-Aufklärung world, or whether those other competing developments in the fields of opera and instrumental music that he views as detrimental to church music are the cause or merely the symptoms of a more deep-seated malaise. His historical argument traces a rising trend in musical spirituality forwards from antiquity to the Middle Ages and one backwards from the present, both of which meet in a peak in the world of Renaissance music and Palestrina. The magnificent edifice of polyphonic church music is presented as a model that would spread its benign influence over the whole of church music for another two hundred years12 (that, of course, takes us to the “Aufklärung,” which Hoffmann, like Novalis, holds responsible for stifling all imaginative and spiritual impulses in the name of Reason). Palestrina’s style is described in terms of monumental architecture:13 as blocks of pure polyphony, based on series of

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chords (triads) — virtually all of them consonant — that build up to create an overwhelming effect.14 The task now before Hoffmann’s contemporaries is to recapture and build upon the spirit of such music, even if the style as such cannot be replicated. At this point we note the rhetorical emphasis and “enthusiasm” mentioned above: “Mag die Zeit der Erfüllung unseres Hoffens nicht mehr fern sein. Mag ein frommes Leben in Friede und Freudigkeit beginnen und die Musik frei und kräftig ihre Seraphsschschwingen regen” (HSW/SB, 500).15 This analysis of the excellence of Palestrina’s music — which represents a veritable “Golden Age” — is composed of contrasting elements. The “enthusiastic” (and missionary) is certainly one, but should not lead one to ignore the other more analytical aspects, which relate to the technical skills of the composer. The first line of approach necessarily tends to be orientated around the reception process; the second focuses more on the musical language itself and identifies more precisely the methods of composition. Sometimes (as in the above example) the two become intertwined, which can be disconcerting and tends to alienate musicologists whose appreciation of Hoffmann’s analytical insights may be adversely affected by the copresence of rhetorical or emotional appeals. The treatment of the theme of the special status of music among the other art forms is a case in point. For, according to Cyprian, music’s main distinguishing feature is its unique ability to convey an overwhelmingly spiritual meaning. Modern commentators might well agree with the premise that among art forms music has unique features, but would almost certainly not admit to the second proposition, which is predicated on the admission of “extra-musical” considerations into the argument. The claim for uniqueness in these terms is expressed at various points throughout the essay and in vocabulary that at times may sound annoyingly abstract or vague (for example, “ätherisch”), though the term “Geist” to express imaginative and creative processes (compare Vergeistigung; “reingeistig”) — is central to Romantic philosophical terminology of the period (see Schelling) in general and is employed ubiquitously and consistently throughout Hoffmann’s writings: “Keine Kunst geht so ganz und gar aus der inneren Vergeistigung des Menschen hervor, keine Kunst bedarf nur einzig reingeistiger ätherischer Mittel, als die Musik” (HSW/SB, 494). This idea receives further elaboration: “Die Ahnung des Höchsten und Heiligsten der geistigen Macht, die den Lebensfunken in der ganzen Natur entzündet, spricht sich hörbar aus im Ton und so wird Musik, Gesang, der Ausdruck der höchsten Fülle des Daseins — Schöpferlob” (HSW/SB, 494). Here, as at many other points in the essay, the idea of reciprocal forces at work in the spheres of “Natur” und “Geist” carries strong echoes of Schelling’s “Naturphilosophie.” In the “Philosophie der Kunst” (1802–3), for example, Schelling draws attention to the uniqueness of music as an art form in very similar terms: “So sind die Formen der Musik als

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Formen der real betrachteten Ideen auch Formen des Seyns und des Lebens der Weltkörper als solcher, demnach die Musik nichts anderes als der vernommene Rhythmus und die Harmonie des sichtbaren Universums selbst.”16 Hoffmann elaborates further on the idea of the spiritual force conveyed by music by making a connection between organized religion and music. Whether this is purely metaphorical or literal is sometimes difficult to decide (the term “Schöpferlob” is highly suggestive). Commentators are reluctant to take Hoffmann’s expressions of religious fervor at face value.17 The context of an essay on church music necessarily implies church performance and the use of particular musical and liturgical forms, of which the Missa is the most important. Clearly Hoffmann’s main reference point is the Catholic liturgy, with which he was fully conversant from his early days in Prussian Poland (P5ock, Posen, and Warsaw) and, of course, later in Bamberg. He is aware of moves elsewhere in the German-speaking world to adapt works like the Beethoven Mass for use in Protestant churches, but from his personal statement at the very end of his earlier review he clearly shares the misgivings expressed by his character Theodor about the division of the structure of the Mass by Beethoven’s publisher’s into three sections (this being the usual format for the so-called “Lutheran” Mass) and reduced to a format in the vernacular composed of what are termed “hymns.” Certainly Hoffmann felt strongly about the further misappropriation of religious music for the purposes of concert performances.18 For there is no doubt that an ecclesiastical ambience is for Hoffmann a prime factor in contributing to the religious aura that he regards as an essential ingredient in the performance of church music. Palestrina is a prime example of how music was used as a means of reinforcing and reaffirming the spiritual content of the Mass (“als in Italien das Christentum in seiner höchsten Glorie strahlte”). According to a much quoted but not wholly authenticated anecdote,19 Palestrina, the icon of Renaissance church music, responded to the threat of an interdict, pronounced by the Pope at the Council of Trent, on the further performance of polyphonic music in the Sistine Chapel. The reason behind this interdict was that settings of the words of the Mass had now reached a level of unintelligibility that could no longer be tolerated. Elaborate, distracting modulations and extended melismas (that is, groups of several notes, sung to a single syllable) all contributed, it was contended, to distract attention from the deeper liturgical meanings, so that the intonation of the Mass had come to represent a purely secular experience and was not conducive to the reinforcement of belief. The Mass in six parts that Palestrina composed, as some historians would have it, to correct this impression and restore the confidence of the Papacy in the important liturgical role of music, was dubbed Missa Papae Marcelli. Significantly, this is the work which

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Hoffmann chose to single out as exemplifying an ideal marriage of music and words to create a sense of the otherworldly. Palestrina’s insistence on making the text intelligible in accordance with the Council’s demands (“ut verba ab omnibus percipi possint”: so that the words can be understood by all) would seem to have been realized by his adoption of a “note-by-note” technique, where the clarity of the words is achieved by, wherever possible, matching each syllable to a note, in marked contrast to the preceding plethora of melismas and modulations within the musical texture. Hoffmann’s reference to the anecdote concerning the Missa Papae Marcelli underlines further his statement that a cultic dimension is intrinsic to the nature of music:20 “Ihrem innern eigentümlichen Wesen nach ist daher die Musik religiöser Kultus und ihr Ursprung einzig und allein in der Religion, in der Kirche zu suchen und zu finden” (HSW/SB, 409). However, Hoffmann does not intend to obfuscate this issue by giving an impression that the means by which music is able to achieve the transcendental and inexpressible is entirely shrouded in mystery.21 As he himself had stated in “Der Dichter und der Komponist,” music is a “potenzierte Sprache,” a more intensely expressive language, which, when combined with appropriate words, can extend their range of expression to unheard-of heights. This unique “potential” power can, he argues, be traced to music’s harmonic system and in particular the role played within it of the chord or triad.22 As Palestrina’s Mass had demonstrated, these sublime effects are produced by an arrangement of chords to form a powerful and seamless structure with a minimum of modulation and maximum of consonance.23 The spaciousness of church acoustics also plays a role in achieving such otherworldly effects: “Ohne allen Schmuck, ohne melodischen Schwung folgen in seinen Werken meistens vollkommen konsonierende Akkorde aufeinander, von deren Stärke und Kühnheit das Gemüt mit unnennbarer Gewalt ergriffen und zum höchsten erhoben wird” (HSW/SB, 497). Here Hoffmann is also drawing attention to the effect of the predominantly consonant nature of Palestrina’s harmonies, in which the infrequent dissonances are quickly resolved, thus releasing tension and producing an effect of exceptional serenity and tranquillity. The various associations that accumulate around this one technical feature, the triad, are truly remarkable: social (“Gemeinschaft”) and therapeutic (“Trost”) as well as religious, benefits can all be gained, so it is suggested, from the effects produced by this most fundamental feature of musical harmony. The communion at higher level between the poet-librettist and the opera composer that had been suggested in “Der Dichter und der Komponist” was in that context enthusiastically heralded in an ecclesiastical metaphor as a communion of like-minded members belonging to one single congregation or “church” (“die innigst verwandten Glieder einer Kirche”). Now — because of present-day inadequacies — the idea of communion is extended over a wider range in time and place to encompass an

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invisible church (“eine unsichtbare Kirche”24) linking past and present. At the same time something closely akin to a musical equivalent of the community of saints is being suggested: the musical masters, such as J. S. Bach and Handel join Palestrina and others who inhabit a kind of paradise (“Pantheon” or even “Valhalla” does not quite convey the meaning). The works of these great artists (“die heilige Schar”) transcend time and space. They serve as a perpetual reminder to each new generation of the heights to which art and religion, in close alliance, can rise: “Eine wunderbare Geistergemeinschaft schmiegt ihr geheimnisvolles Bund um Vergangenheit, Gegenwart und Zukunft. Noch leben geistig die alten hohen Meister, nicht verklungen sind ihre Gesänge: nur nicht vernommen wurden sie im brausenden tosenden Geräusch des ausgelassenen wilden Treibens, das über uns einbrach” (HSW/SB, 499). The note of high pathos struck by Cyprian is unmistakable. Cyprian, as we have seen, normally represents an extreme position on matters like the Occult and the Mystical and is frequently teased by his fellow members, which makes the reader alert to Hoffmann’s possible irony whenever he gives tongue (as, for example in the opening tale, “Der Einsiedler Serapion”). But on this occasion the promulgation of the idea of the “Geistergemeinschaft” and the “heilige Schar” is likely to reflect the views of the author, since the same visionary speech, virtually verbatim, can be found in the original Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung version,25 in which Hoffmann has adopted no literary persona but is speaking directly to his readership. The “communio sanctorum,” or fellowship of holy persons, specifically saints, is a notion that appears in the annals of the early church in the fifth century A.D. and becomes an integral part of the Nicene Creed and thus part of the Eucharist. Great art — particularly music — outlives human transience, an idea already to be found in the Classical world (compare Horace: “Exegi monumentum aere perennius”: I have built a monument more durable than bronze). In articulating this idea Hoffmann is thus placing himself in a long-established Western cultural tradition. But now it receives added spiritual significance and status through the associations with the Christian liturgy that Hoffmann weaves into it. “Über alte und neue Kirchenmusik” has provoked much discussion and many differences of opinion. It may be useful at this point to summarize the most obviously controversial points. These are, first, the apparent contradiction in an approach that tries to combine normative and historical criteria. It is argued26 that the essay operates with value judgments that do not blend happily with a strictly chronological survey of the development of church music within its long and illustrious tradition in Western music. Following on from this general point we find criticisms from musicologists about Hoffmann’s rejection from his pantheon of specific works in the musical canon: most notably Mozart’s Masses (“seine schwächsten Werke”) and Haydn’s Oratorios (The Creation is deemed to be too secular)

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while, on the other hand, the church music of Michael Haydn is extolled. It is this partisan approach and its seemingly narrow basis for judgment that leads scholars like Martin Geck to make the radical observation that Hoffmann is operating with what he terms an “Ideologie” and that he is “gegen die Sache and für das System.”27 This would point to a rigid adherence on Hoffmann’s part to his own value system and little appreciation for the technical excellence of many other examples of church music, simply on the grounds that they do not fit his preconceived ideas about genre. On the other hand, however, it is conceded28 that Hoffmann’s insistence on preserving the cultic and linguistic traditions in the performance of the Mass and other liturgical forms played an important part in the revival of early church music in Germany which, through the development of “Singakademien” and choirs, gathered momentum in the 1820s and culminated in rediscovery of Bach’s great sacred works and Mendelssohn’s celebrated first performance of the St. Matthew Passion in Berlin in 1829. Another line of approach that has often been used to counter Hoffmann’s argument — and chiefly by musicologists — focuses on what is interpreted as his proposition that the developments in vocal and instrumental techniques have affected church music adversely. More often than not the technically sophisticated mechanisms of woodwind and brass instruments, as Hoffmann saw it, had seduced composers of church music into exploiting their new-found brilliance of timbre and greater freedom in modulation, thus interfering drastically with the vocal line. This had had the effect of moving church music further away from its roots. Contamination from the theater and the opera, where the new instrumental virtuosity had been developing apace (Cyprian talks of “von dem kraftlos verwirrenden Geräusch der Instrumente”) had further militated against the simplicities for which Palestrina’s music had so long served as a paradigm and which were so ideally suited to the cultic and sublime aspects of performance. It is on this point perhaps that Hoffmann’s argument is most vulnerable and that he has been accused of contradicting himself. As has been pointed out, the language of music, its entire melodic and harmonic system, could never have developed in the kind of segregated environment he seems to be suggesting. Hoffmann himself in his famous review of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony had already expertly analyzed the contributions made by the individual instruments to the orchestration and the powerful effect of the whole symphony, and asserted that instrumental music is “die romantischte aller Künste.”29 It seems unlikely that he would turn his back on such prospects of greater expressiveness in the field of church music. Possibly some of Hoffmann’s critics have not examined his text, and in particular the frame discussion, closely enough.30 For at the beginning

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of the piece Theodor has already made it abundantly clear that his critique is addressed to the excesses of the new instrumental revolution, not to its complete irrelevance for the future of church music. How could that be when Hoffmann’s character has conceded the huge new expressive potential that is available and stated unequivocally that there is indeed an important role for the new instrumentation — subject to the proviso that it should always be appropriate to the substance of any piece of church music: “Indessen bin ich doch der Meinung, daß man mit dem Reichtum den die Musik, was hauptsächlich die Anwendung der Instrumente betrifft, in neuerer Zeit erworben, in der Kirche zwar nicht prunkenden Staat treiben dürfe, ihn aber doch auf edle, würdige Weise anwenden könne” (HSW/SB, 492). Hoffmann, then, envisages a coming together of old and new and is far from imposing an “ideology.” He had acknowledged the dynamic march of the times in Schellingian terms: “immer weiter fort und fort treibt der waltende Weltgeist” and is anxious only to preserve what is fundamental to the nature of church music, not reconstitute Palestrina. His two advocates, Cyprian and Theodor, are basically of one mind (though Cyprian is the more hard-line, Theodor more open to new possibilities). Cyprian finds comfort in the fact that there are still a few “treue Diener der von der Erde verschwundenen Kirche” around and invokes the supreme example of Mozart’s Requiem. He reserves his wit and ire for the more common, run-of-the-mill examples, full of empty passage-work with intricate but non-essential, restless modulations. In particular, he is concerned about the effect on good choral singing of fussy writing for the now technically much improved woodwind and brass instruments. At the end of his visionary speech Cyprian urgently and eloquently conveys the need for composers to focus single-mindedly on the eternal verities in great art (“das Wahrhaftige”), such as have been transmitted over the ages by “die heilige Schar” (alias the “Geistergemeinschaft”). In this way spiritual “Reichtum” will replace “Ostentation.” That brings us back, finally, to the Serapiontic Principle and its connection to the ideas explored in “Alte und neue Kirchenmusik.” As is the case in “Der Dichter und der Komponist” — and just as deliberately, it seems — the essay is topped and tailed by a passing reference to the principle. The wry, cynical (“skurril”) Vincenz,31 who, it is emphasized, is no musician himself and has just joined the four founding members, mockingly utters the words “O Serapion” before Theodor even starts to launch into his enthusiastic presentation of the excellence of some contemporary settings of the Mass by Mozart and Haydn that seem to him to fulfill all the demands of the Romantic program. After the conclusion of the “kleine Abhandlung” the frame discussion resumes, and Vincenz once more intervenes, makes a joke about the story of Pope Marcellus and Palestrina’s Mass, and imposes his own individual ban on any further “serapiontisch” discussions on music: “nun verbanne ich, ein zweiter ergrimmter Papst

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Marcellus, alles fernere Gespräch über Musik aus der Kapelle des heiligen Serapion” (HSW/SB, 501)32 It would seem that, as with the earlier essay on Romantic opera, Hoffmann wishes to draw the reader’s attention to the “serapiontic” nature of the discussion, which is meant to be read in conjunction with the ongoing discussions of the principle that had been so deliberately launched in these first chapters. There are two immediate points of linkage. The first relates to the matter of words and music, which was fully analyzed in “Der Dichter und der Komponist,” where we saw how difficult it was to persuade the wordsmith of the value of the Romantic program for opera, in which his contribution seemed to be the lesser. As has been already noted, this problem should scarcely ever arise with the texts for church music except in the revealing case of the vernacular version of the Beethoven Mass. With good reason Hoffmann spends some time in the closing phase of the discussion demonstrating exactly why the vernacular text is deemed unsuitable. When Theodor had expressed his disappointment with the Beethoven work, he used terminology reminiscent of the first Serapiontic discussion, in which Lothar had interpreted the hermit’s story and used the motif of the lever (“Hebel”) to define the point of intersection between reality and imagination and to demonstrate the process of enhancement of the creative impulse. Beethoven’s Mass, it seems, for some tastes (not Sylvester’s) fails to achieve the sublime effect, which involves a complex amalgam of terror and delight such as we associate with a sublime experience:33 “Beethovens Genius bewegt sonst gern die Hebel des Schauers, des Entsetzens” (HSW/SB, 493). According to the analytical (though not particularly musical) Lothar, however, the Mass in C remains firmly earthbound; his negative view has been much influenced, it seems, by the plodding translation of the Missa into the vernacular, which is now wittily illustrated by members of the group. In this way, therefore, we infer that for a composer the (“given”) words of a liturgical text themselves can serve the same function as the images or other starting material (for example, pictures, historical documents, tales) that are all grist to the mill of the “serapiontic” artist. They provide the basis on which the imagination must get to work to internalize and “lever” the material to greater levels of expressiveness: “Die Worte des Hochamts geben in einem Zyklus nur den Anlaß, höchstens den Leitfaden der Erbauung und in jeder Stimmung werden sie den richtigen Anklang in der Seele erwecken” (HSW/SB, 490). The set Latin words of the Mass have an endless appeal and carry multifarious associations; they can and have been a source of the most diverse and imaginative musical inspiration over many centuries. They meet the needs of a composer admirably and do not require any alteration (nor, Hoffmann would add, translation). Hoffmann uses the term “hieroglyph” to suggest the mysterious “higher language” of the music in such a context. It is a much used, even

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overworked term in Romantic parlance. Here it does not express the notation, which was introduced in the Middle Ages, in order to give music permanence on paper, but rather the special expressive qualities underlying the mere notes, qualities that enable music, through performance, to rise to sublime heights. This “higher language” is formed by the inspired interaction between the two fundamental principles on which music is based, namely, melody and harmony: “die Hieroglyphe des Tons in seiner melodischen und harmonischen Verkettung.” Again, as in the earlier discussions of the Serapiontic Principle, the ordinary materials, there the written words or images, here notes representing musical sounds, both signifier and signified, become the bedrock on which complex and elaborate imaginative structures can be built. However, to my mind the key argument to support the thesis that Hoffmann is attempting to draw music into the theory of the Serapiontic is to be found in the frame discussion that precedes the discussion on church music. We have to remember that before editors superimposed the title this discussion ran straight into the “Abhandlung” without a break, linking discussion and exposition more tightly. The first part of the frame discussion contains a display of extravagant verbosity on the part of the new recruit, the “scurrilous” Vincenz, who obviously identifies himself with Shakespeare’s fool, Jacques. This “Scherz” gets so out of hand that the stern leader and theoretician, Lothar, has to intervene and does so by restating, for the new recruit’s benefit, the fundamental features of the Serapiontic Principle, by which all members are obliged to abide. The important restatement at this point has been largely ignored, despite the reappearance in it of features familiar to us from Lothar’s initial formulation: Es gehört ein eigner Sinn, ein durchdringender Blick dazu, die Gestalten des Lebens in ihrer tieferen Eigentümlichkeit zu erschauen und auch mit diesem Erschauen ist es nicht getan. All die aufgefaßten Bilder, wie sie im ewigen bunten Wechsel sich ihm zeigten bringt der Geist, der in dem wahren Dichter wohnt, erst auf die Kapelle34 und wie aus dem Niederschlag des chemischen Prozesses gehen als Substrat die Gestalten hervor, die der Welt, dem Leben in seiner ganzen Extension angehören. (HSW/SB, 488)

What we find this time is a succinct summary of the entire process, starting with the inital “Erschauen,” that is the penetration of the material (“die Gestalten des Lebens”) by “ein durchdringender Blick.” The next phase involves the “Geist” — Hoffmann’s shorthand for the integrating faculty of imagination — which gets to work on this rich mix of material drawn from real life and mentally stored (“wie sie im ewigen bunten Wechsel sich ihm zeigten”). To clarify further this complex process of interaction Hoffmann now applies a metaphor that he had not used previously, taken from the field of chemistry. These select “Gestalten,”

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transformations of images derived from external sources, are, as it were, subjected through the creative process to the same kind of refining techniques as are applied in the testing and isolating of precious metals. Of Hoffmann’s many and varied means of attempting to explain and describe the mysterious workings of the creative process, this particular metaphor seems to me to convey his meaning very appropriately. The process of extraction of nobler elements from among a heterogeneous (“bunt”) array of possible components and the identification of the product itself as the “substrate” that emerges from all this clarifies the transforming relationship that the creative artist brings to bear on his material. At the same time it reinforces the point that the starting material itself must be worked upon and refined if the potential enrichment (the “Potenzierung”) of its contents is to be fully realized. Out of this complex brew will emerge such creations as the great figures of world literature, such as Falstaff and Sancho Panza. And as a postscript Cyprian adds to this the final phase in the equation: the importance of “Erkenntnis,” a concept familiar to us from Lothar’s earlier formulation. For these creations of the imagination have their counterparts in everyday life: this means that the physical appearance of an individual may, in certain instances, strike the onlooker as being all of a piece with his inner qualities and character (“sein ganzes Wesen”), just as in the higher imaginative examples. According to Cyprian, in making this connection we are using our cognitive faculty of “Erkenntnis” (“Liegt es denn aber nicht bloß in unserer Erkenntnis, daß es geschieht?”) In other words we simultaneously are aware of and separate out two levels, the material and the non-material, and in so doing experience that selfsame “Erkenntnis der Duplizität” that Lothar had identified as a basic principle applicable to both life and art when he gave his first definition of the Serapiontic Principle.35 As a final footnote to Hoffmann’s deliberate linking up of theoretical statements across the different books of the Serapionsbrüder, one notes that Vincenz’s still dismissive reaction to the conclusion of the more discursive section refers back ironically to the telling image “auf die Kapelle bringen,” which was such an important part of Lothar’s programmatic summary, by turning it into a pun, and describing it mockingly as a “Gespräch über Musik aus der Kapelle des heiligen Serapion.” This can be read at two levels. One is to bring the “kleine Abhandlung” — and thus music — into a close relationship with the Serapiontic Principle that had been so clearly outlined by Lothar, originally in terms of literary creativity. The other is to treat the subject in a mocking fashion, mixing “Ernst” with “Scherz,” which is also one of the features of that same Principle. The operation of the principle in an art form like music is obviously more difficult to define than in the literary context, since, to use another image in this connection, it would seem that the rungs of the “Himmelsleiter,”36 rather than being set on terra firma, are already positioned at a higher

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point on the scale that leads heavenwards. However, again it is by the association of music with words that the relationship is comparable. Under the Serapiontic umbrella we are being invited to connect up these various examples of creativity across different art forms and note their potential participation in the same general dynamic process (compare Schelling’s “immer waltende Geist”) that feeds into great art. The transition from this part of the frame discussion, which is couched mainly in terms of literature, to the topic of music, specifically church music, is further reinforced by Sylvester’s strong support for Lothar’s restatement of the Serapiontic Principle. By picking up the term “durchdringen,”37 which Lothar had applied to the artist’s penetrating gaze (“erschauen”), Sylvester links it to the reception process in the case of music, which, he argues, takes complete hold of his inner being (“mein ganzes Wesen . . . ganz und gar durchdringend”) and can inspire sublime emotions. Hoffmann possibly wants his readers to regard this sublime outcome as a “Substrat,” and as part of the same process that Lothar had described, though this is left implicit. From here we are led back to the Beethoven Mass in C, on which Cyprian and Theodor (as well as Sylvester and Lothar) immediately take up opposing positions. Cyprian and Lothar are in agreement about the failure of this work to scale the heights of sublimity (“hübsche und geniale Musik,” “durchaus kein Hochamt” and “zu jubilierend zu irdisch jauchzend”). Sylvester and Theodor insist on the sublimity of Beethoven’s work. Sylvester’s retention of the key term “durchdringen” drives home the point that the sublime can be expressed in a variety of forms through the almost infinite number of possibilities for setting the same sacred texts. This then prompts Theodor to give an apologia for what is clearly being construed by him as an example of “neue Kirchenmusik” and to defend it against the ultraconservative line taken by Cyprian. However, this is another case where, despite all attempts, a clear resolution or consensus (“Sättigung,” to use Schelling’s terminology) cannot be achieved, as the members remain divided. With this essay Hoffmann has concluded the major exposition of his program, extending the range of reference of the Serapiontic Principle by drawing it into the sphere of hybrid, word-based art forms such as opera and church music. There will be further references to the principle, but they will be brief, and no new major points will be added after the first two volumes. Having — with the help of his gang of seasoned critics — covered the ground so comprehensively, Hoffmann can proceed to apply his findings to the particular texts that follow — and later in the collection even to the works of some other contemporary writers. He will, however, as we shall see, at a later date, in Prinzessin Brambilla and “Des Vetters Eckfenster,” have some important additional thoughts on the principle.

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Notes 1

See introduction to this volume.

2

The frame characters Lothar and Sylvester ask for elucidation concerning this implied uniformity and limitation in the liturgical texts, and an answer to the question of how one single text can produce such a huge wide variety of musical responses: “Überhaupt möcht ich wissen, worin die völlig miteinander kontrastierende Verschiedenheit des Geistes liegt in dem die Meister die einzelnen Sätze des Hochamts komponiert haben?” (HSW/SB, 489). It is a fair question, and Theodor’s and Cyprian’s extended discussion is meant to provide some of the answers. 3

Among the works of others of his contemporaries who had proclaimed a similar view of the art of this period, the joint collection of essays by W. H. Wackenroder and Ludwig Tieck (“Herzensergießungen eines kunstliebenden Klosterbruders”) is the most familiar. 4 Various reasons have been suggested for this, such as the adverse effects on the choral tradition and choirs of the widespread secularization of monasteries and convents after 1803. Hoffmann also has an eye on the deleterious effects of the a-religious intellectual atmosphere that had been established during the Aufklärung, reaching a climax in the French Revolution. This forms part of his polemic in the “Abhandlung.” 5

In addition to Palestrina’s “Missa Papae Marcelli” Hoffmann includes discussion of works by Vallotti, Caldara, and Marcello, often supported by substantial quotations from unpublished manuscript material. 6

To some extent the two frame characters, Cyprian — the more mystical — and Theodor — the more musical — polarize into supporter and antagonist respectively on the issue of “old” and “new” church music. Cyprian is allotted parts of the original essay on church music, while Theodor takes over the opening section of the review of Beethoven’s Mass in C. This polarization (which turns out to be not so clear-cut as might have been supposed) may reflect uncertainties towards the issue that had developed in Hoffmann’s own mind over the intervening five-year period. 7

The Mass in C, op. 86 is Beethoven’s first known attempt at the form. The more famous Mass in D, op. 123 (“Missa Solemnis”), written some years later, was unknown to Hoffmann. Its grandeur and sublimity would have provided an interesting corrective to the lightweight impression of the earlier Mass as articulated by some members of the Bund. 8 This was carried out by Dr. Christian Schreiber. Beethoven was not particular about the quality of the text: “es braucht eben kein Meisterstück zu sein, wenn es nur gut auf die Musik paßt” (Georg Kinsky, Ludwig van Beethoven, thematischbibliographisches Verzeichnis. ed. Hans Halm [Munich: G. Henle, n.d.], 240) Ironically, Beethoven particularly liked the opening translation of the Kyrie (“tief im Staub anbeten wir”) which is ridiculed by the Serapionsbruder, Sylvester, on the grounds that it is “modern, gesucht preziös und weitschweifig zu gleicher Zeit” (HSW/SB, 501).

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9 The research materials were lent to him in May 1814 by Breitkopf und Härtel and consisted of manuscripts as well as printed music, so much of Hoffmann’s discussion would have been based on what amounted to musical scores that readers were encountering for the first time; see Charlton, E. T. A. Hoffmann’s Musical Writings (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1989), 353, and Martin Geck, “E. T. A. Hoffmans Anschauungen über Kirchenmusik,” Beiträge zur Geschichte der Musikanschauung im 19. Jahrhundert, ed. Walter Salmen (Regensburg, 1965), 61. 10 Hoffmann’s analysis of the work itself is full of praise for its technical excellence. Having himself been trained in early days, however, in the rigors of counterpoint, he seems a trifle concerned about the lightness of touch with which Beethoven dispatches some of the fugal sections (for example, in the Osanna, 754). Perhaps he is concerned about a general lack of rigorous technical training in his own time, which he connects with the decline in the traditional foundations for church music, and disappointed that Beethoven is not upholding this more emphatically. See Karlheinz Schlager, Kirchenmusik in romantischer Sicht:. Zeugnisse des Musikjournalisten und des Komponisten E. T. A. Hoffmann (Regensburg: Katholische Universität Eichstätt, 1993), 7. Beethoven’s respect for Hoffmann (“einem so geistreichen Mann”) is reflected in his letter dated 23 March 1820 (see figure 2). 11

As already mentioned above, much of the technical analysis from the original review has not been carried over into the Serapionsbrüder version. This lends to Cyprian’s statements a more obviously subjective tone. 12

This presentation of the virtues, musical and religious, of Palestrina’s music has been compared by one musicologist to the very criteria that had been set by the Council of Trent itself, and that were readopted in the nineteenth century in the Revival Movement for church music: see K. Schlager, Kirchenmusik in romantischer Sicht, 7. 13 See the contrasting imagery of the two cathedrals in Theodor’s section (below, 89): St. Peter’s, Rome, representing the Classical, the Straßburg Münster the Modern and Romantic. This imagery can be traced back to Goethe’s Sturm und Drang essay “Von deutscher Baukunst” (1773). 14 It has been suggested that in his interpretation of Palestrina’s music Hoffmann is following in the footsteps of the composer Johann Friedrich Reichardt, whose writings were known to him through the AMZ. However, Hoffmann’s debt could also be indirectly routed through August Friedrich Schlegel. These two possible sources for Hoffmann use very similar terminology in their description of the Palestrina’s harmonies: Reichardt writes of “Kraft und Kühnheit,” Schlegel of “Stärke und Kühnheit.” See Ernst Lichtenhahn, “Zur Idee des goldnen Zeitalters in der Musikanschauung E. T. A. Hoffmanns” in RD, 505–6. 15

Perhaps the association of this word with the “Seraphinenorden” the real-life equivalent of the “Serapionsorden,” may not be fortuitous. 16 Schelling, Ausgewählte Schriften, ed. Manfred Frank, 6 vols. (Stuttgart: Suhrkamp, 1985), 2:329. 17 See Klaus-Dieter Dobat, Musik als romantische Illusion. Eine Untersuchung zur Bedeutung der Musikvorstellung E. T. A. Hoffmanns für sein literarisches Werk (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1984), 85: “Stößt der theologische Bezug bei Hoffmann

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häufig auf Verwunderung, so sollte doch darauf hingewiesen werden, daß sein Konzept nicht religiös motiviert ist, sondern die zeitgenössische Umwertung des Kunstenthusiasmus mitvollzieht und in einer säkularisierten Kunstreligion aufgeht.” Some might not wish to be so categorical regarding Hoffmann’s personal religious views, about which we can only speculate. The Cyprian voice is insistent in the Serapionsbrüder, though occasionally it has to be checked by those of other members, such as Lothar and Theodor. The many parallels between religious terminology and musical analysis that have already been noted above in Hoffmann’s work and that include the use of the term “Gott” to express the idea of a divine Absolute (see discussion in chapter 2, “Der Einsiedler Serapion”) are commonplace among the Romantics and suggest the importance for their thinking of the transcendental dimension. This is possibly more relevant than any attempt to identify Hoffmann’s beliefs with particular religious systems or doctrines. In discussing this matter in connection with Hoffmann, Carl Dahlhaus inclines to applying the concept of a “Kunstreligion”; this he traces to the writings of Schopenhauer. See Dahlhaus, “Instrumentalmusik und Kunstreligion,” in Die Musiktheorie im 18. und 19. Jahrhundert, Part 1: Grundzüge einer Systematik (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1984), 91–94. 18 “So ist wahrscheinlich um der herrlichen Musik auch in protestantischen Kirchen ja wohl sogar in Konzertsälen Eingang zu verschaffen, auch in der deutschen Bearbeitung das Ganze in drei Hymnen geteilt” (HSW/SB, 414). One recalls in this connection Hoffmann’s remark about the unsuitability of performing Mozart’s Requiem Mass in a concert hall, where it is like “die Erscheinung eines Heiligen auf dem Ball” (a saint appearing at a ball). See “Alte und neue Kirchenmusik,” AMZ version, in HSW 2/1, 529. 19 For details see Hoffmann HSW, 2/1:890: “sein Hauptziel . . . war, eine Kirchenmusik zu fördern, die an den Errungenschaften der kunstvollen Polyphonie festhielt, ohne die Verständlichkeit des Textes zu gefährden.” 20 Again musicologists would not agree about permitting extra-musical factors into an appraisal; see Knud Jeppersen, The Style of Palestrina and the Dissonance (New York: Dover, 1970), 47. While noting the external impetus to achieve new heights that Palestrina would have received from his project to reform the Mass, the excellence of the work created to that end, so Jeppersen argues, can be substantiated and appreciated exclusively in musical terms. Much the same could presumably be said about J. S. Bach’s B minor Mass (which unfortunately for Hoffmann was at this time virtually unknown), though, in Hoffmann’s defense, musical analysis as a discipline can hardly be held to have succeeded in explaining the overpowering effect that these (and other) masterpieces may have on the listener. 21

Hoffmann twice uses the comparison between the sublime effect produced by the architecture of St. Peter’s in Rome and that of the Strassburg Cathedral (the latter much heralded as a symbol of “German” art by the young Goethe) to convey the difference in kind between the effects of the older Italian form of the Mass and its modern-day counterparts. In doing so he uses the (Goethean) term “kommensurabel” (implying “with human measure”) to suggest the limited range of the latter, implying its opposite, the term “inkommensurabel,” to describe the higher forms.

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22 Composers and thinkers (from Pythagoras through to Kepler and beyond) have speculated on the transcendental or mystical significance of music’s foundations in physical and mathematical laws; for example, see Paul Hindemith’s Kepler Opera, Die Harmonie der Welt (1954). Modern analysts have tended to draw on the mathematical rather than the mystical aspects. Carl Dahlhaus, however, raises doubts about the truly scientific basis of what is often regarded as evidence, namely harmonic progression; see “Musik als Wissenschaft, Kunstlehre und Propädeutik,” in Die Musiktheorie im 18. und 19. Jahrhundert, Part 1: Grundzüge einer Systematik, 102–16. Contemporaries of Hoffmann such as J. W. Ritter (Fragmente aus dem Nachlaß eines jungen Physikers (Leipzig and Weimar: 1984), 102–16) and A. W. Schlegel (Vorlesungen über schöne Literatur und Kunst, ed. J. Minor (1884), 1:257) also discuss the symbolic nature of the triad and the associated idea of unity or “Gemeinschaft,” as well as its associations with the Trinity. Hoffmann has assimilated some of these associations in his reference in the essay, for example, his phrase “eine wunderbare Geistergemeinschaft,” see below, p. 80. 23 For a discussion of Romantic harmony and in particular the resolution of dissonance, see Nora Haimberger, Vom Musiker zum Dichter: E. T. A. Hoffmanns Akkordvorstellung (Bonn: Bouvier, 1976). 24 The notion of the “invisible church” is often read as a reaction to institutional religion, but I do not believe this is uppermost in Hoffmann’s usage. The motif has been traced to an “Athenäum” aphorism of Friedrich Schlegel (KSA, 11:243 [no. 414]), but many other examples, from Luther to Kant, Hegel, and Schelling can be cited: see Wolfgang Rüdiger, “Musik und Religion,” in Musik und Wirklichkeit bei E. T. A. Hoffmann: Zur Entstehung einer Musikanschauung in der Romantik (178–92) (Pfaffenweiler: Centaurus, 1989). 25

See Hoffmann, HSW, vol. 2/1, 531.

26

Feldges and Stadler, E. T. A. Hoffmann: Epoche — Werk — Wirkung (Munich: Beck, 1986), 252: “Tatsachlich bereitet Hoffmanns Text Schwierigkeiten: die Stilkriterien . . . scheinen zu einseitig aus den Werken der Vergangenheit bezogen . . . und durch die Gegenüberstellung von ‘inbrünstiger Andacht’ und ‘prunkenden Leichtsinn’ droht der Diskurs von einer historisch-ästhetisch auf eine moralische Ebene verschoben zu werden.” 27

Martin Geck, “E. T. A. Hoffmans Anschauungen über Kirchenmusik,” 63.

28

Martin Geck, “E. T. A. Hoffmans Anschauungen über Kirchenmusik,” 71, where Hoffmann is deemed to be more worthy of the description “Vater der zu seiner Zeit beginnenden Restauration der Kirchenmusik” than any other musician or theorist in this area before or after him. Musicological opinion is, however, sharply divided on the extent to which Hoffmann can be regarded as a pioneer of the revival of early church music in the nineteenth century. 29 30

HSW, vol. 1, Frühe Prosa, 532.

A notable exception is Carl Dahlhaus, Die Idee der absoluten Musik (Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1978), 94–98, who argues convincingly that instrumental and church music are complementary: “Es ist derselbe Geist des modernen Zeitalters, der sich in der Vokalpolyphonie als christlicher Geist und in der Symphonie als romantischer Geist manifestiert”(96).

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31 For further analysis of the role of this figure see part 2, chapter 7, “Frame Narrative and the Serapiontic Principle.” 32

For the play on the word “Kapelle” see discussion below, pp. 85–86.

33

Cf. Hoffmann’s review of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, HSW 1:534: “Beethovens Musik bewegt die Hebel des Schauers, der Furcht, des Entsetzens, des Schmerzes und erweckt jene unendliche Sehnsucht, die das Wesen der Romantik ist.”

Cf. “Gold auf die Kapelle bringen” ⫽ by chemical means to test metals. The “Kapelle” is a crucible in which an unpurified mixture of metals is melted and the pure, in the form of a “Substrat,” is separated from the impure. 34

35

See chapter 2 in this volume, “Der Einsiedler Serapion.”

36

See HSW/SB, 371.

37

The chemical term “Durchdringung” is one that Hoffmann uses regularly when defining both the creative and the reception processes. It is common in Romantic writings; see Schelling: “Zu einer vollkommen chemischen Durchdringung gehört auch, daß kein Teil der Auflösung weniger aufgelöst enthalte, als er enthalten könnte, d.h. daß beide Körper durch einander gesättigt sind” (Ideen zu einer Philosophie der Natur, vol. 5 of Werke, ed. Manfred Durner et al. [Stuttgart: Frommann-Holzboog, 1994], 296).

5: Prinzessin Brambilla: Callot Revisited

E

for analysing his aesthetic theories afforded by the framework in Die Serapionsbrüder, Hoffmann continues right to the very end of his career to examine points not covered there or to clarify and develop other key issues in greater detail than had been possible within the scope of the frame discussions. Prinzessin Brambilla offers the opportunity of tackling irony, a topic that had been somewhat neglected in the Serapionsbrüder (presumably, as I suggested above, because of the fictional frame itself) but that had been briefly identified as a key principle as early as the Callot preface to the Fantasiestücke. The tale also enlarges on the topic of allegory, which had only been summarily addressed so far. By a happy coincidence — the presentation to Hoffmann of eight original Callot prints of the Carnival by a friend1 — he had a suitable model on which to expand and develop in more theoretical terms what had become central features of his own narrative technique. Prinzessin Brambilla is generally regarded as one of Hoffmann’s most complex and difficult works and possibly for this reason has become a particular source of attraction to those who have praised its “unerschöpfliche Bildgestalt” and its “bewegliches Spiel der Konstruktion und Dekonstruktion.”2 This approach might be thought to cast doubt on any view of Prinzessin Brambilla that regards it a source of material to illustrate the further development of aspects of Hoffmann’s aesthetic theory. However, such a procedure can be justified on several counts. First, the allegorical element embedded in the elaborate structure of the tale is more fully developed than hitherto and the issue of allegory itself becomes a focus of discussion. Since, however, within the tale itself opinions differ on the interpretation of the term allegory, and it is linked to the concepts of irony and humour, the presentation of this issue becomes one of some complexity. Second, the subject of the allegory in Prinzessin Brambilla itself relates to aesthetic matters and forms of creativity, and, more narrowly, to theatrical performance. Finally, even a close deconstructionist reading cannot gloss over the fact that theoretical discussions among the characters (chapter 3), as well as narratorial interventions (chapter 4), place before the reader’s consideration ideas that themselves are elaborated in the course of the tale and carry a degree of independent authorial authority, akin to the techniques used in the Serapionsbrüder. No more than those, I suggest, can they be easily deconstructed. VEN AFTER HAVING EXPLORED THE EXTENSIVE OPPORTUNITIES

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Of course it would be absurd to suggest that Hoffmann wrote Prinzessin Brambilla simply to illustrate a somewhat neglected aspect of his own theory and approach to creative writing. It is first and foremost a work of incredible imaginative invention and exuberance, but characteristically, in the process of creating the extravaganza, the self-conscious and analytical part of Hoffmann’s mind is ensuring that his readers are provided with pointers towards an understanding of its deeper meaning. Hoffmann’s imagination was always at work refashioning and recreating promising material that might come his way haphazardly. We have noted how creatively he responded in Die Serapionsbrüder to his publisher’s demand for a suitable means of linking his collected tales, by building around them an intricate fictional frame with its own independent narrative. The Callot prints in turn became, in true Serapiontic fashion, the catalyst for his setting in motion a purely fictitious narrative plot, based on the Roman carnival. The late return to Callot will at the same time have invited further reflection on the role of irony as a principal device for uncovering the deeper levels of meaning that underlie the surface of reality (“alle die geheimen Andeutungen, die unter dem Schleier der Skurrilität verborgen liegen,” as Hoffmann had expressed it in Jacques Callot). As was already suggested, this irony would turn out to be an offshoot of the Serapiontic Principle. By a happy conjunction of events this revisiting of the “scurrilous” artist who had so successfully combined “Ernst” and “Scherz” — another strand of the Serapiontic Principle — gave Hoffmann the opportunity to expand upon and embellish his earlier, more briefly expressed ideas about irony. The operation of an ironic principle takes various forms in Prinzessin Brambilla; sometimes it is expressed in a discursive, sometimes in an exemplary mode. The discursive mode is not by any means confined to theorizing about humor and irony (these two being closely connected in Hoffmann’s theory) but these twin issues are placed within a broader frame of reference, one that has strong connections with the principle as expounded in Die Serapionsbrüder. Thus, for example, via authorial intrusions into the text (for example, chapter 4) the reader is encouraged to join the narrator in a journey away from the level of the commonplace and everyday (“gewöhnlicher Alltäglichkeit”) and into higher realms of fantasy (a locality to which Hoffmann likes to attach the term “Reich”). Here it is a “Reich, welches der menschliche Geist im wahren Leben und Sein nach freier Willkür beherrscht” (HSW/NS-B, 791).3 This possibility for free and uninhibited movement between the two levels is liberating and may produce a sense of exaltation in the minds of characters and readers who are able and willing to suspend disbelief.4 Not all Hoffmann’s characters respond so enthusiastically, however. Lothar, the eternal doubting Thomas and the frame character in Die Serapionbrüder who is responsible for drawing together the threads of the discussion of the principle, presents the

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terms of reference and postulates two opposing worlds, “Außen” and “Innen,” which are very similar to the narrator’s formulation in Prinzessin Brambilla. But Lothar brings a more guarded response to the practical limitations faced by the individual artist. This is an awareness of the “Duplizität des Seins” (“unser irdisches Erbteil”), and it is this more sober awareness (based on “Erkenntnis”) — which is the other side of the artistic coin of “Exaltation” and represents that critical detachment (which elsewhere Hoffmann terms “Besonnenheit”) — that opens up the possibility of two modes of irony, one exultant, imbued with a sense of freedom, the other more sober, tending towards melancholy, and based on an awareness of limitation.5 For Hoffmann the ironic mode is thus achieved by an awareness of the totality of life in all its contradictions, the “Ernst” and the “Scherz,” the limited (“bedingt”) and the unlimited (“unbedingt”). G. H. Schubert had used the phrase “der versteckte Poet in uns” to demonstrate that the principle of irony operates both in the dream world and in the natural world, as a means of bringing together contradictions and polarities that cannot be resolved: Dasselbe, was wir bei der Sprache des Traums bemerken, jenen Ton der Ironie, jene eigentümliche Ideenassociaten und den Geist der Weissagung, finden wir auch auf ganz vorzügliche Weise, in dem Originale der Traumwelt, in der Natur wieder. In der Tat, die Natur scheint ganz mit unserem versteckten Poeten einverstanden, und gemeinschaftlich mit ihm über unsere elende Lust und lustiges Elend zu spotten, wenn sie bald aus Gräbern uns anlacht, bald an Hochzeitsbetten ihre Trauer klagen hören lasset, und auf tiefe Weise Klage mit Lust, Fröhlichkeit mit Trauer wunderlich paart.6

This view of irony implying the parallel direction of “Geist” and “Natur” is grounded in contemporary philosophical thought, specifically Schelling’s “Naturphilosophie.” Elements of both Friedrich Schlegel’s theory of irony and Schubert’s adaptation of Schelling’s ideas seem to be present in Hoffmann’s conception, although Schubert, conspicuously, is not concerned with literary usage. Hoffmann, for his part, is following the trend established by Schlegel, which situates irony firmly in literaryphilosophical territory and away from the rhetorical sphere, which it had occupied almost exclusively since antiquity.7 These implications of the theory of irony are made explicit in the Märchen-capriccio Prinzessin Brambilla.8 In simple terms the quest of the hero, Giglio — at first sight indistinct and unfocused — is marked by many obstacles and setbacks. It has been triggered by his creation of an idealized image (“Zauberbild”) of his beloved, which in turn had been set in motion by the fairy-godfather figure, the magician Celionati, whose magic spectacles act as a catalyst for change, enabling the user to see beyond the everyday levels of reality to higher realms of the imagination. In Giglio’s case this

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vision of an ideal conflicts with his existing overblown self-image, resulting in a “chronic dualism.” The experiential process — after many a turn and twist — consists of a gradual realization and understanding (“Erkenntnis”) of his true self, his vocation as an actor and the true significance of his attainment of his beloved as a tangible reward for his progress. The latter, Giacinta, initially a kind of Cinderella figure, living in poverty as a lowly seamstress, undergoes a parallel, though less complex and more shadowy development than Giglio’s. Her contact with the theater world, as a costume maker, starts at a modest level, but she ultimately moves closer to the higher reaches of this art world through her active involvement in the carnival in the metamorphosed form of Prinzessin Brambilla. Finally, she undergoes a further typically Romantic super-transformation in the interpolated “Urdarquelle” myth, where she takes on the form of Mystilis, the inspirational muse figure for the hero, in allegorical terms a female embodiment of Romantic poetry.9 According to the secondary Märchen, or myth, of the “Urdarquelle,” which is interpolated into the first, that is, the carnival action, Mystilis emerges, after the paralysing torpor of the “Blumenschlaf” (a typical Märchen motif, reminiscent of the Sleeping Beauty), from the calyx of an exotic lotus flower, a potent symbol in Romantic iconography.10 As so often when expounding the various facets of the Serapiontic Principle, Hoffmann is here aligning his imagery with well-established Romantic traditions in both literature and the visual arts. Allegory plays an extremely important part in Hoffmann’s presentation of this particular double Märchen. There is of course nothing new in his use of mythical parallels in the form of interpolations, as these feature in virtually all his Märchen, (for example, the creation myth in Der goldene Topf.11 Such is the exuberance of Hoffmann’s fantasy, however, that it is not the dry, reductive-looking résumés such as “Glauben und Liebe” (Der goldene Topf), or “Der Gedanke tötet die Anschauung” (Prinzessin Brambilla) and so on, that stand out in the reader’s memory, but rather the richness and elaboration in the author’s depiction of these “parallel universes,” the real and the fantastic, so liberally endowed with inventive details and humor. In all these instances one figure is charged with the task of making explicit, or interpreting, the “meaning” of the allegory. In Prinzessin Brambilla the reader is offered contrasting readings by the hero Giglio and the masterful Celionati respectively: Giglio in his higher transformed state as Prince Cornelio Chiappieri, an Assyrian prince, and the charlatan Celionati (alias Der Magus Hermod in the “Urdarquelle”), who is sometimes seen as an “alter ego” of the author.12 The latter confirms Giglio’s diagnosis of what Hoffmann, perhaps not without a dash of self-irony, given his prolific tendency elsewhere to insert allegorical myths into his Märchen, presents as a “weakness” (“Fehler”) of Celionati’s, namely his tendency “oftmals ins Allegorische zu fallen” — but, as we shall see, this remark will be qualified.

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The fact that there is ambiguity about Celionati’s definition of the term “allegory” within the tale itself is significant. Goethe’s famous and influential distinction between “allegory” and “symbol” had given primacy to the symbolic mode of expression in which multifarious possibilities of meaning are deemed infinitely more attractive than a clear-cut, one-to-one equivalence between the “allegorical material” and the subject of the allegory.13 For Goethe allegory is a somewhat discredited form. Mainly through the popularity in the eighteenth century of the fable, a kind of miniature allegory, it was deemed to have become virtually a mechanical device.14 The result of Goethe’s reevaluation is a polarization of the two modes, allegory and symbolism, and a downgrading of allegory, which found widespread acceptance (and to some extent still does). In the important discussion between the German artists and Celionati in the caffè greco (chapter 3) the spokesman for the Germans, the painter Franz Reinhold, links allegory and irony but disapproves of irony being too closely linked to allegory, which he appears to be using in the pejorative, limited Goethean sense (“Gott tröste Euch, wenn Ihr uns etwa die Dummheit zutrauen solltet, die Ironie nur allegorisch gelten zu lassen” (HSW/NS-B, 813), whereas irony has a more profound, philosophical dimension. This idea is picked up by Celionati at the end of the tale in his summarizing “Erklärung,” which draws out the inner allegorical meaning of the “Urdarquelle” myth in a tongue-in-cheek way, almost, it would seem, in defiance of Reinhold’s strictures. As a postlude to the “happy-ever-after” ending in which Prince Chappieri/Giglio, through having learned to laugh at himself, is united with his Princess Brambilla/Giacinta, he offers a deliberately pedantic explanation of Giacinta’s role, thus: “Ich könnte sagen, du seiest die Fantasie, deren Flügel erst der Humor bedürfte um sich emporzuschwingen, aber ohne den Körper des Humors wärst du nichts, als Flügel und verschwebtest, ein Spiel der Winde, in den Lüften” (HSW/NS-B, 910).15 This explication of Giacinta’s allegorical function in Prinzessin Brambilla is in fact an object lesson in irony on Celionati’s part; for he is ironizing his own propensities towards allegorizing, and standing back to assert that he himself is not going to pursue this route, on the grounds that both Reinhold and Giglio, in his transformed role of Prinz Cornelio Chiapperi), had already (and, he implies, justly) criticized this tendency in him: “Aber ich will es nicht tun, und zwar auch schon aus dem Grunde nicht, weil ich zu sehr ins Allegorische, mithin in einen Fehler fallen würde, den schon der Prinz Cornelio Chiapperi auf dem caffè greco mit Recht an dem alten Celionati gerügt hat” (HSW/NS-B, 910). In fact he does not follow his own resolve, but proceeds to draw out further allegorical meanings from the whole story — explaining the significance of both the myth and the carnival action — and identifying the theatrical carnival in terms of the familiar notion of a “Welttheater,” albeit one in miniature: “in der kleinen Welt, das Theater genannt. . . . So

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sollte . . . wenigstens in gewisser Art das Theater den Urdarbronnen vorstellen, in den die Leute kucken können” (HSW/NS-B, 910).16 Since there seems to be good authority for regarding Celionati as one of the author’s alter egos, his statements carry considerable weight. However, the careful reader will note his phrase “in gewisser Art,” which leaves one wondering if Hoffmann is suggesting the tentative nature of a (limited) allegorical interpretation such as he has supplied (and one also notes the equally tentative, hypothetical phrase: “man könnte glauben . . .”). Indeed any reductive view of the “allegorical” nature of Prinzessin Brambilla cannot satisfy, for in the Romantic period the term was subjected to another general overhaul and ceased to hold the same pejorative connotations that it had for the classical Goethe. Both Schelling17 and Solger18 allow for its having a double significance; in other words the figures and characters take on a fictional identity independently of any meanings or interpretations to which they might be subject, and cannot therefore be reduced to mere chiffres. This more liberal interpretation of allegory also informs Tzvetan Todorov’s more recent very nuanced analysis of the concept (which is presented in the context of his study of the Fantastic), in which he suggests that there are many different relationships and permutations between allegory and its abstract “meanings.” Todorov contrasts the reductive, or, as another commentator puts it, “over-determined” form of allegory,19 which is more akin to fable, with other (“under-determined”) examples, in which the independence of the allegorical material from its subject of allegory allows the former to retain its power and force and to resist all explaining away.20 The discussion of allegory in Prinzessin Brambilla employs terminology familiar to us from Hoffmann’s other expositions in the Serapionsbrüder frame. Celionati had proclaimed in the caffè greco, when events were nearing a climax, that Giglio’s problem consisted in a fundamental, or “chronic” dualism, and this had been redefined by Franz Reinhold in more contemporary, philosophical (that is, “German”) terms as “jene seltsame Narrheit, in der das eigene Ich sich mit sich selbst entzweite, worüber denn die eigene Persönlichkeit sich nicht mehr festhalten kann” (HSW/NS-B, 894). Celionati confirms his agreement (“nicht übel”) but supplements it with more detail about the precise nature of this personality disorder in the Urdarquelle myth, which he proceeds to narrate in two instalments. The first is relayed in the caffè Greco; in this instalment the absurdly self-conscious attitudes of the young royal couple, King Ophioch and Queen Liris, in the myth are emphasized, one of whom laughs inanely, while the other is over-serious and completely wrapped up in solemn thoughts, neither of them heeding the other or mindful of their duties as rulers. The situation escalates to the point where their mental paralysis precipitates a universal stagnation throughout the entire kingdom. Their problem is redefined later in a fantastic episode when the magician

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Hermod (who is part of the Urdarquelle myth and, as was suggested above, is the Märchen counterpart of Celionati in the outer tale) formulates it once more in the language of contemporary German philosophy, this time playfully transposing the term “chronische Dualismus” into the Fichtean terminology of “Ich” and “Nicht-Ich” in a formulation that may well be parodistic: “Der Genius mag aus dem Ich gebären/Das Nicht-Ich, mag die eigne Brust zerspalten,/Den Schmerz des Sein’s in hohe Lust verkehren” (HSW/NS-B, 904).21 The Urdarquelle quest involves a process of self-discovery, which is achieved by the age-old motif of the mirror-image and selfconfrontation, a harmonious variant on the Doppelgänger motif. This is clearly a parallel to Giglio’s situation in the outer carnival action, when, having assumed the mask of Pantalon, the commedia character, he ultimately confronts his “phantom-Ich” and after a sword-fight destroys it. By this voluntary act of destruction of what is amusingly termed his “Nicht-Ich,”22 which turns out to be a cardboard cutout and mere husk, and by this assertion of his true “Ich,” Giglio has attained “Erkenntnis” and overcome his “chronic dualism.”23 The means whereby this fundamental “dualism” can be overcome is now specified as an ironic detachment — “Ironie” and “Humor” — specifically, the ability to laugh (but through “Lachen” but not “Gelächter”), at the absurdities of life (“die Faxen des ganzen Seins”) and most especially at oneself. It seems that this variety of humor, with its unmistakable self-awareness, is identified as specifically “deutsch” and possesses therapeutic powers (“die wunderbare, aus der tiefsten Anschauung der Natur geborene Kraft des Gedankens, seinen ironischen Doppeltgänger zu machen” (HSW/NS-B, 826), a phrase that once more suggests the Schellingian reciprocity of the two systems of “Geist” and “Natur” and once more brings to mind Schubert’s notion of the “versteckte Poet.” The creative process and “Kraft des Gedankens,” can, so it seems, through the positive effect of irony, unite the warring faculties of thought (“Gedanke”) and intuition (“Anschauung”). Hoffmann is presenting two levels of artistic creativity in Prinzessin Brambilla: the first focused on the main plotline with its emphasis on theatrical performance, ranging from the bombastic tragedies of the Abbate Chiari to works of real stature, the second on the author-narrator’s selfconscious intrusions and anxiety to share with the reader the convolutions of his own inspiration and his progress with creating his complex narrative with the help of “allegory.” This level implies literary forms (for example, a prose “capriccio”) and is predicated on a fruitful relationship between the reading audience and the author who is presenting the material.24 Of the many examples of this relationship I shall examine only two additional examples, one from chapter 3, the other from chapter 4. In both it seems that Hoffmann is searching for some internal narrative equivalent to the convenient framework technique that had served him so well in the Serapionsbrüder. The first example is virtually a dialogue and is presented

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in the unashamed theorizing of the caffè greco artists, principally their leader Reinhold, and Celionati. It offers an interesting twist to the subject of humor by relating it to national differences between the Germans and the Italians. The second is less integrated into the plot, being a long narratorial excursus in which the author-narrator confides in his “vielgeliebter Leser,” in an attempt to reconstruct and disclose the imaginative routes by means of which, as an artist, he is developing his fantastic subject matter. The view of the Germans as deep thinkers that is expounded in the caffè greco may not be wholly serious on Hoffmann’s part (or, alternatively, and possibly more convincingly, may be an explicit recognition of the important influence that current German philosophy was having on contemporary literature), but whatever his reasons for framing the debate in terms of this opposition, it provides him with a pretext for some semiphilosophical theorizing that might otherwise be considered inappropriate in a work that calls itself a “capriccio.” The discussion on “Scherz” and “Ironie” presents the familiar premise of “Duplizität,” the two opposing levels of reality, the inner world of the mind and imagination, and the outer world of appearances. The spokesman, Reinhold, insists on the importance of the reflective inner life as the artist’s major source of strength, and avers that “deutscher Humor,” in drawing on this, strikes deeper roots than the superficial Italian variety (which is represented solely by the extreme example of the carnival). “Deutscher Humor” connects with fundamental principles and with the nature of life itself, for it is presented in Schellingian terms as “Die Sprache jenes Urbildes selbst, die aus unserem Innern heraustönt und den Gestus notwendig bedingt durch jenes im Innern liegende Prinzip der Ironie, so wie das in der Tiefe liegende Felsstück den darüber fortströmenden Bach zwingt, auf der Oberfläche kräuselnde Wellen zu schlagen” (HSW/NS-B, 247). In this capacity it connects with the principle of irony in its positive form; that is, the ability to draw back even from painful experiences and, in a spirit of amused detachment, to view things without exaggeration or excess. This ironic mode seems to emanate from the same region as the “Urbild” or primal vision of the thinker (or artist), namely from “dem Innern.” “Deutscher Humor,” then, implies a serious attitude towards the comic, whereas the Italian view of “Humor,” so it would appear, is one-dimensional and exclusively “possenhaft.” Reinhold also criticizes the latter for its heartlessness, its focus on ridicule and “Gelächter” directed at the foibles of one’s fellow human beings, even verging, in some of the carnival types and their antics, on an unbridled expression of violence and hatred. Reinhold insists that, by contrast with the Italian, the German ethos has a humane side, which he terms “Gemütlichkeit.25 Those who share an appreciation of the type of “Humor” he defines — like Celionati himself, who speaks German and was educated in Germany — are not necessarily “German,” for Hoffmann is addressing like-minded souls from wherever they are to

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be found; they form that community or brotherhood that he often invokes and to which he gives the name “Geistergemeinschaft” and “die unsichtbare Kirche.”26 Celionati’s own role is thus identified by the Germans with their own view, although it becomes ambivalent through his equivocal attitude towards the commedia, which does not fit the criteria of “deutscher Humor.” His means of reorientating Giglio from the superficiality and bombast of the roles he has been playing in the abbot’s tedious tragedies, and from being an actor whose self-consciousness is such that he cannot play any other role but himself, into a self-critical and self-aware individual who has come to reject the emptiness of his previous approach to life and the theater, has been the commedia, whose frivolity is the mirror image of the abbot’s Il moro bianco (The White Moor). But this is only one stage in a process that involves Giglio’s passage through the frivolities of the commedia to full “Erkenntnis.” This exposition of the contrasting ideas on “Humor” presented by Reinhold and Celionati respectively is followed directly by their allegorical transposition in the form of the interpolated Urdarquelle Märchen, where further points are made explicit. The process of drawing on the “innere geistige Kraft” contained within the myth produces a combination of ironic awareness and laughter, adding new practical possibilities for a resolution of the problems posed in the main action. Those like the errant Giglio can, its appears, after all, tap in to those inner resources of “Geist” that are latent and simply waiting to be activated, thereby achieving a higher level of insight and awareness and (in Giglio’s case), in more practical terms, a vastly improved level of his future performance as an actor once he has divested himself of the crippling obsession with his own empirical “Ich.” Finally, the discursive opening section of chapter 4 is strategically placed to provide a follow-up to the exposition of the theories of humor, irony, and allegory that have been outlined in such detail in the preceding chapter. Now the voice of the narrator-author provides a wider frame of reference as he launches into general reflections on creativity and the process by which the creative mind operates. This is done in a manner that immediately recalls passages in the Serapionsbrüder and elsewhere. A eulogy in praise of the human faculty of imagination (“der menschliche Geist [ist] selbst das allerwunderbarste Märchen”) suggests the limitless diversity of resources that repose within, greater, it seems, than even the solar system and the visible world around us. Imagery of a mine (“Grube”) so often applied by Hoffmann to express this vast capacity of the mind (“Geist”), together with its contents, the precious stones that fill it with brilliant light,27 is here reinforced by the general topographical motif of the glorious “Reich,” which contrasts with the limited confines of the physical world. The faculty of “erschauen,” familiar to us from the Serapionsbrüder and also the first Callot essay, signals the focus on these precious materials by creative minds, and the image of the mine is developed further by

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reference to the subsequent process of extracting and bringing these treasures up to the surface. This metaphor of the excavation and recovery of hidden treasures is one of which many creative artists are fond. But soon, in a visionary effusion, the narrator has returned to consider a more interesting aspect, namely the state of mind — a kind of waking dreamstate or reverie — that is most propitious for creative inspiration and that can serve almost as a compensation for all earthly woes: “den Traum, den wir durch das ganze Leben fortträumen, der oft die drückende Last des Irdischen auf seine Schwingen nimmt, vor dem jeder bittre Schmerz, jede trostlose Klage getäuschter Hoffnung verstummt, da er selbst, Strahl des Himmels in unserer Brust entglommen, mit der unendlichen Sehnsucht die Erfüllung verheißt” (HSW/NS-B, 830). Many other connections between the theories outlined in Prinzessin Brambilla and Hoffmann’s central theory of the Serapiontic Principle could be identified, but enough has been said to demonstrate the exceptionally wide range of reference to aesthetic issues that is incorporated in this work. In addition to the general question of artistic creativity, there is explicit analysis of the question of dualism/duplicity, which underlines all of Hoffmann’s work, and, connected to this, a detailed discussion of the principle of irony and its central importance as a possible antidote to the one-sidedness that is a familiar aspect of the conditio humana. Prinzessin Brambilla in short offers a comprehensive, if unsystematic, survey of Hoffmann’s “Poetics.”28 As well as adding to our knowledge of the Romantic program in general, these theoretical reference points underpin Hoffmann’s own particular brand of narrative fiction — indeed, they are being simultaneously put into practice and expounded. The self-irony encapsulated in the caffè greco discussions on issues and principles that Hoffmann identifies as central to the creative process can be read as a retrospective allusion to his penchant for demonstrating the theoretical and philosophical underpinning to his own ideas about art and artistic creativity that are subsumed under the umbrella of the Serapiontic Principle. What constitutes a development in Hoffmann’s oeuvre is the complete integration of theoretical and narrative presentation in one seamless whole. In this respect the formula is at the opposite end of the spectrum from Die Serapionsbrüder, the one integrated, the other disjoined, though the application of the principle itself is not, of course, affected by the different approach. Both are equally successful in terms of the need to incorporate critique and creativity; each represents Hoffmann’s Protean ability to ring the changes on his material. Drawing as it does on prose narrative, music, the visual arts, and the performing arts (both dance and theater), the tale Prinzessin Brambilla is, even by Hoffmann’s interdisciplinary standards, an artistic tour de force. Our understanding of it, I would suggest, is greatly enriched by our awareness of the principles on which his ingenuity and imagination are based and by means of which he is able to achieve his ends.

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Notes 1 On the occasion of his forty-fourth birthday Hoffmann was presented by his friend and fellow Serapionsbrüder, Johann Ferdinand Koreff, with a set of eight Callot etchings entitled Balli di Sfessania, featuring typical Carnival figures. These were reproduced in the first published edition of Prinzessin Brambilla, a practice that has been maintained in all good subsequent editions, as was obviously the author’s intention. 2

See Detlev Kremer, Romantische Metamorphosen: E. T. A. Hoffmanns Erzählungen (Stuttgart: Metzler, 1993), 326.

3

The term “Willkür” is reminiscent of Friedrich Schlegel’s various definitions of irony and Romantic Poetry and points to the philosophical and transcendental dimension that this important theorist uniquely pioneered among the Romantics. Schlegel’s view of irony is strongly tinged with the notion of polarity and is presented dialectically as “an alternation between self-creation and self-annihilation”; see Ernst Behler, German Romantic Literary Theory, Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1993, 141–53, here 149. 4

Peter von Matt, in Die Augen der Automaten: E. T. A. Hoffmanns Imaginationslehre als Prinzip seiner Erzählkunst (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1971), 170 talks of Hoffmann’s “Aufgabe, diese rezeptive Exaltation nicht nur zu erwecken, sondern auch vor Fehlgängen und irriger Ausrichtung zu bewahren. . . .”

5

See Behler, German Romantic Literary Theory, 151, who sees both possibilities in Schlegel’s various formulations. 6

G. H. Schubert, Die Symbolik des Traums (Bamberg: 1814), 30.

7

In her still helpful study, Die romantische Ironie in Theorie und Gestaltung, 2nd ed. (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1977), Ingrid Strohschneider-Kohrs distinguishes between Schubert’s conception of irony (and the notion of an ironic intelligence abroad in the natural world in the form of what Schubert calls “der versteckte Poet”) and Hoffmann’s thinking on the issue: “Unverkennbar überschreitet Hoffmann den allgemeinen Ironie-Gedanken Schuberts, wenn er betont, daß erst Bewußtsein und Verstand die Sprache des versteckten Poeten forme und objektiviere” (160). Hoffmann is likely to have turned to Schlegel’s more penetrating and original insights as his starting point, despite the fact that he clearly also knew Schubert’s reference and alluded to the striking phrase “der versteckte Poet in uns” in a letter to Hitzig, 2 Sept. 1814. BW I, 483, notes 10 and 11. The latter footnote also refers to Hoffmann’s diary entry from the end of August 1814 in which he transposes “versteckt” to “innere”: “Der innere Poet arbeitet und überflügelt den Criticus und den äußeren Bildner.” 8

This work can be analyzed only briefly here. For a more comprehensive analysis, see Ingrid Strohschneider-Kohrs, Die romantische Ironie, 362–424; also Kremer, Romantische Metamorphosen, 261–332, and Stefan Ringel, Realität und Einbildungskraft im Werk E. T. A. Hoffmanns (Cologne: Böhlau, 1997), 261–90. 9 The allegorical role of Queen Mystilis in the Urdarquelle myth is gradually clarified until finally she is transformed into a figure of gigantic proportions, poised in perfect equilibrium between the material and spiritual worlds, her feet firmly

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planted in the bed of the Urdarquelle while her head is in the heavens. She can also be regarded as a metamorphosed — or more highly “potentialized” — form of Giacinta; see Kremer, Romantische Metamorphosen, 286: “Der Magus Hermod steht zu seiner Prinzessin Mystilis in einem vergleichbaren Verhältnis wie der Autor Hoffmann zu seiner Prinzessin Brambilla/Prinzessin Brambilla.” 10

Cf. Novalis’s “blaue Blume” in Heinrich von Ofterdingen and also Ph. O. Runge’s influential sequence of paintings entitled “Der Morgen,” which prominently feature giant lilies. The exotic Oriental lotus flower may carry sexual overtones and associations with renewal. 11

See “The Märchen and the Serapiontic Principle,” chapter 10 in this volume.

12

Kremer, Romantische Metamorphosen, identifies the author with both Celionati und Ruffiamonte. Of Ruffiamonte: “Es handelt sich um einen Abgesandten, um eines der zahlenden Phantome des Autors Hoffmann und immer wenn er eine Seite in seinem großen Buch umschlägt dann — so läßt sich vermuten — beginnt ein neuer Abschnitt im Capriccio über die Prinzessin Brambilla,” 271. Of Celionati: “In der Figur des Scharlatans Celionati überlagern sich die Funktionen des Autors und des Lesers” (276). 13

“Es ist ein großer Unterschied, ob der Dichter zum Allgemeinen das Besondere sucht oder im Besonderen das Allgemeine schaut. Aus jener entsteht Allegorie, wo das Besondere nur als Beispiel, als Exempel des Allgemeinen gilt; die letztere aber ist eigentlich die Natur der Poesie; sie spricht ein Besonderes aus, ohne an’s Allgemeine zu denken oder darauf hinzuweisen” (Johann Wolfgang Goethe, Maximen und Reflexionen, in Werke: Weimarer Ausgabe, ed. Gustav von Loeper, Erich Schmidt, et al., four parts, 133 vols. in 143 (Weimar: Hermann Böhlau, 1887–1919), part 1, 422:146). 14 Tzvetan Todorov, “La poésie et l’allégorie,” in Introduction à la littérature fantastique (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1970), 63–79. 15

“Humor” here seems to be synonymous with irony, as Novalis had suggested in his interpretation of Schlegel’s theory: “Was Friedrich Schlegel als Ironie karakterisirt, ist . . . nichts anders als die Folge, der Charakter der Besonnenheit, der wahrhaften Gegenwart des Geistes. Schlegels Ironie scheint mir ächter Humor zu seyn,” (Novalis, Schriften, ed. Richard Samuel, with Hans-Joachim Mähl and Gerhard Schulz, [Stuttgart: W. Kohlhammer, 1965], 2:425). 16

See Kremer, Romantische Metamorphosen, 301. I disagree, however, with his view that Celionati’s disclaimer about allegory should be taken at face value, for the reasons suggested above.

17

See Schelling’s essay “Über Dante in philosophischer Beziehung” (1803), where he comments on Beatrice’s twofold allegorical status: first, in the narrower sense of representing theology and second, in the sense that she and other characters also have independent roles (“sie zählen zugleich für sich selbst, und treten als historische Personen ein, ohne deswegen Symbole zu sein.”) 18

See K. W. F. Solger, Vorlesungen über Ästhetik, ed. K. L. L. Heyse (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1962). For Solger the term has a positive meaning and is seen as a kind of revelation of the Beautiful.

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19 William Actander O’Brien, “E. T. A. Hoffmann’s Critique of Idealism,” Euphorion 83 (1989): 369–406. 20 Todorov, in “La poésie et l’allégorie,” 72, argues that nowadays “l’allégorie explicite est considerée comme un sous-littérature.” In works of fantasy (he cites here Hoffmann’s Die Abenteuer der Sylvesternacht) in which the allegory is not made explicit, it will preserve its mystery (74). 21 This is the second (modified) version of the Magus Hermod’s oracular and Fichtean pronouncement; see also HSW/NS-B, 864–65. 22 The terminology should not be pressed too far; it is possibly a parody (that is if “Nicht-Ich” is equated with “Phantom-Ich”). Stefan Ringel, in his Realität und Einbildungskraft im Werk E. T. A. Hoffmanns, 273, however, reads the Fichte reference on a more serious level: “Sobald das endliche Ich in der Lage ist, das eigene, höhere Ich im Nicht-Ich zu erkennen, findet es zur Einsicht in die ursprüngliche Einheit. Es wird wieder zum absoluten Ich.” One cannot help thinking that, given the general ridicule leveled against Fichte’s philosophy in the early nineteenth century (cf. Goethe’s Faust, Kleist’s Amphitryon, Jean Paul etc.), it seems unlikely that Hoffmann (of all writers) is keeping an altogether straight face here. 23

Klaus Deterding, Die Poetik der inneren und äußeren Welt bei E. T. A. Hoffmann (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 1991), 268, makes a useful distinction between “dualism” and “Duplizität”: “Duplizität” is “erkannter Dualismus.” 24

“Deutlicher noch als in anderen Erzählungen hat Hoffmann der Prinzessin Brambilla eine hermeneutische Leserführung eingeschrieben,” (Kremer, Romantische Metamorphosen, 276). This would appear to be a partial concession to readings such as that of Strohschneider-Kohrs, who shows how an aesthetic (“Kunstlehre”) is being systematically presented at every level of the work as well as being implemented by the form and presentation itself (Kohrs, Die romantische Ironie, 401).

25

We have here the most useful guide to the way Hoffmann is using the term “Gemütlichkeit.” The German artists see it in opposition to “das Possenhafte,” the aspect of the commedia that troubles them most and that produces “unheimliche Schauer.” The suggestion is that this humane, sociable quality might with profit be adopted in the commedia. Strohschneider-Kohrs prefers the term “Gemüthaftigkeit,” which, if indeed it exists, would certainly to modern ears sound less pejorative. The emphasis is on “Gemüt” in the sense of “heart” or “soul,” or mind in relation to feelings rather than intellect (cf. “gemütvoll”). 26

See above, p. 80.

27

Nearest to Hoffmann in time is Novalis’s Heinrich von Ofterdingen and the description of the hero’s descent into the recesses of his mind and imagination in the form of a mine, accompanied by his mentor, the old miner. 28 Hoffmann’s lack of a systematic form of exposition of his ideas might seem to resemble Friedrich Schlegel’s, see Behler, German Romantic Literary Theory, 152 who talks of “a type of fragmentary writing that does not necessarily have to break apart into splinters of thought, but can also manifest in more coherent texts . . . and still reveal a fragmentary, incomplete perspectivistic or asymmetric outlook.” However, Ingrid Strohschneider-Kohrs sees a much greater formal

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coherence and sums up the comprehensive nature of the presentation of key aesthetic principles in Prinzessin Brambilla as follows: “Das Wissen und Benennung von Grundbedingungen, Voraussetzungen und Prinzipien des Erzählwerks wird selber Fabel und Strukturbestandteil und bildet wesentich die Form des Einzelwerks mit heraus. Die künstlerische Ironie verschärft und outriert damit eine in der Erzählkunst immer schon angelegte Möglichkeit — sie gestaltet sie reflektierend in der Steigerung, ja Potenzierung ihres Grundprinzips,” (Die romantische Ironie, 422).

6: Epilogue: Des Vetters Eckfenster

T

HIS VERY LATE TALE,

written in 1822, only a few months before Hoffmann’s death, has had a particularly contradictory reception from commentators. Perhaps this is the result of the editorial inconvenience created by a text that was posthumously published and therefore often absent from editions, or else incorporated into the miscellaneous collection of “späte Prosa.” Such a detachment from any fixed moorings may have contributed to, or may have encouraged, readings of the work as a kind of “odd man out,” its late date giving room for speculations about its ground-breaking status as a forerunner of nineteenth-century “realist” prose narrative and thus a clear indication of new beginnings,1 or a development in Hoffmann’s own progress as a writer. However, as we shall see, this masterly tale actually consolidates the theoretical program (or what has been termed “die Poetologie des Schauens”) that Hoffmann had steadily been expounding alongside his literary works ever since the publication of the Fantasiestücke, that program for which the Serapiontic Principle serves as a convenient principal focus. Furthermore, the tale itself can be viewed as decidedly Serapiontic in the way in which it utilizes visual perceptions as a lever by means of which to present the reader with a highly poetic, non-material vision of life, albeit one tinged with sadness and regret.2 As with my study of Prinzessin Brambilla, where important poetological aspects are to be found embedded in the text itself rather than in the form of a clearly disjoined, authorially or narratorially sanctioned metatext, it will be necessary to examine these theoretical implications in context. Hoffmann’s presentation is such that literary and poetological aspects of the text are more closely interwoven in both these late works than hitherto. If indeed one were to talk of a development in Hoffmann’s late works such as Prinzessin Brambilla and Des Vetters Eckfenster, then it is this movement towards integration of the literary and the theoretical strands in his oeuvre that would seem to me far more aesthetically significant (and plausible) than intimations of a new “Biedermeier”-style realism. Throughout the discussions about the operation of the Serapiontic Principle, the faculty of perception (“Schauen”) had been a key element and had been carefully distinguished from mere “Sehen.” It was most clearly articulated in Lothar’s summarizing injunction to the members: “Jeder prüfe wohl, ob er auch wirklich das geschaut, was er zu verkünden unternommen, ehe er es wagt laut damit zu werden.” This becomes a regular criterion and point of reference in the course of the subsequent

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narratives. As we have been told, such a gaze penetrates the surface level, releasing the imaginative faculties and affording access, in the case of Callot the artist, too, to “dem ernsten tiefer eindringenden Beschauer” of “alle die geheimen Andeutungen, die unter dem Schleier der Skurrilität verborgen liegen.” It is this same faculty (“Schauen”) that the invalid writer is trying to develop in his cousin, and with some success.3 From simply viewing the marketplace from the corner window of his cousin’s apartment as a confusing jumble of shapes and colors, the younger man gradually starts to focus on particular individuals (“der brennende Punkt” that runs through the mass spectacle): “Gut, Vetter, das Fixieren des Blicks erzeugt das deutliche Schauen” (HSW/SW, 600), and later, after further practice: “Dein Blick schärft sich wie ich merke” (605). His cousin’s aim is quite precise: as a successful practicing writer he stresses the importance of developing “ein Auge, welches wirklich schaut,” emphasizing at the same time that such a trained faculty will apply as much to the visual as the verbal art forms (Callot, Chodowecki, and Hogarth, all masters of the genre piece, are cited as models). His goal is pedagogic, namely to inculcate “the first principles of art (“die Primizien der Kunst”) in his cousin. Perhaps he hopes that the latter will one day himself also become a successful writer. This mission has a negative as well as a positive side, however. In effect, the writer is making a virtue of necessity. Serious debilitating illness, involving loss of mobility in both arms and legs, has wreaked havoc with his own ability to practice the art that is the most important thing in his life. For while he is still able to respond creatively to the external stimulus of his surroundings — as is clearly evident from the brilliant flow of verbal vignettes that he constructs on the basis of his observations at the window — that is where the process abruptly comes to a halt. Whereas the first stage of internalization of images can still be achieved, the ability that he once possessed to recreate and fashion these into a communicable form — which probably calls for greater energy — is no longer possible. The text is quite specific here: “die schwerste Krankheit vermochte nicht den raschen Rädergang der Fantasie zu hemmen, der in seinem Innern fortarbeitete, stets Neues und Neues erzeugend” (HSW/SW, 597). The first stage in the process is still accessible, but the route whereby the initial image or idea can be fashioned and formed and thus delivered to the outside world is cut off by a basic inability to coordinate mind and body: “aber den Weg, den der Gedanke verfolgen mußte, um auf dem Papiere gestaltet zu erscheinen, hatte der böse Dämon der Krankheit versperrt.” As soon as he wishes to set pen to paper, his fingers do not work and, worse still, the flights of imagination that have been triggered lose all definition and are destroyed (“verstoben und verflogen”); they cannot any longer be externalized or communicated to others. Worst of all, the harmonious relationship of writer and the external world, his reciprocal response to the creative forces without (“das wirkende schaffende Leben”), rare enough in

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ordinary life, is broken: “Ich geb’s auf, das wirkende schaffende Leben, welches zur äußeren Form gestaltet aus mir selbst hinaustritt, sich mit der Welt befreundend” (HSW/SW, 598). This would seem to be a variant on Hoffmann’s long-established fascination with the mind-body question and the mutual dependency of both, which is so fully analyzed in the discussion arising out of the tale Der Einsiedler Serapion where the idea of physical limitation being imposed on human creativity is reluctantly conceded by Lothar.4 The writer compares his position with a painter who sits before a blank screen imagining he has completed a great work of art5 (to give the full interdisciplinary range of possibilities he might also have referred to a would-be composer such as “Ritter Gluck,” who has similar delusions about having completed the score of the opera “Armida.” This is not an accurate comparison, however, since the writer’s own failure is entirely due to physical causes and not to mental delusions (as is that of “jener alte, vom Wahnsinn zerrüttete Maler”). However, the end result, so far as artistic creativity is concerned, is identical, whether the causes of failure derive from mental or from physical sources. Unlike some of Hoffmann’s other artists, this writer is not shielded through madness and delusion; his tragedy is to be virtually cut off from his life’s source, but, simultaneously, to be possessed of all the analytical awareness to understand and express precisely what that loss entails. In presenting this situation fictionally in such detail, Hoffmann is rehearsing his own methods and applying the poetological principles on which his own work has been grounded. The more that is known and understood about the creative process, it seems, the more the sense of loss is felt and the deeper the feeling of resignation at no longer being able to participate in it. Not to be able, in particular, to complete in full the (Serapiontic) stages of processing the initial images once they have been internalized, nor to be able to shut off these “Primizien” or bring them forward, transformed and fashioned, to the next stage, from the depths of his being (“aus mir selbst”) and into the external world through the medium of the finished art work, is perceived as a terrible deprivation, though there are no signs of self-pity in the invalid. His cousin’s sensitive awareness of and concern for his dilemma drives this point home discreetly but persuasively. Some commentators have noted what they describe as a general vagueness in Hoffmann’s exposition of the central notion of “Schauen” in the discussions of the principle in Die Serapionsbrüder. Uwe Japp, for example, suggests that Hoffmann’s terminology is not always precise (in particular he queries the use of the term “geistiges Auge” and a vague reference to “das Bild, das ihm im Inneren aufgegangen,” terms that we have discussed above).6 If indeed the theoretical terminology lacks sharpness and inclines to the metaphorical, the same cannot be said of its practical application. For Des Vetters Eckfenster gives Hoffmann the opportunity once and for all to illustrate in considerable detail exactly how this process of internalization

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takes place. A succession of individual images, typically, show him once more reaching for models from the visual arts, a technique for which his prior mention of the three famous genre artists has prepared us. This succession is presented through a dialogue between writer and cousin, which is clearly separated from the frame introduction and conclusion in which the latter alone takes the part of narrator. The two contribute, either separately or jointly, to the production of around fifteen different “vignettes.” These cover all ages and social classes and range from seasoned market women and innocent young middle-class girls attended by “minders” (cooks, maids and so on) to actors, war veterans, and others whose origins are the subject of conjecture. The whole scene in the marketplace (it is the Gendarmemarkt and was literally a stone’s throw from the theater and from Hoffmann’s apartment in the Taubenstraße) is viewed, as it were, through a picture frame, in the form of a window.7 The illusory quality of the whole “presentation” is further underlined by the constant reference to the proximity of the theater (the blind veteran, for instance, is leaning his back “an die Mauer des Theaters”) as if to invite the reader to view the characters themselves as part of the dramatis personae of a theatrical performance. Such a performance, however, would be lacking in spoken dialogue: clearly no sounds reach the Eckfenster and the whole spectacle instead takes the form of an elaborate mime, in which physical appearance, dress, and gesture are minutely observed and become for the two spectators the major means of communication. This they have to interpret, using the writer’s knowledge of the then fashionable theory of “Physiognomik,” or character-reading on the basis of facial features (limited here, though, by distance, though they do have access to a “Fernglas”); inspired, imaginative guess-work is called on for the rest. There seems to be a deliberate order in the arrangement of the various vignettes: after presenting in sharply etched and entertaining detail the rich social mix presented in the market place, Hoffmann picks out two characters for special attention: the flower girl and the blind war veteran. The first of these allows him to play his favorite game of juxtaposing illusion and reality; the second provides an interesting parallel to the physical disablement of the writer, though it is left to the reader to make this connection, and the latter for his part seems unaware of any connection. The “lesendes Blumenmädchen” vignette is more complicated than the other examples, for it involves a narrative and flashback on the part of the writer to an earlier, “real” encounter he had had with the girl in his better days. That incident produces, retrospectively, a delightful element of humor and self-irony. The writer had been struck by the incongruity of a flower girl reading a book (it turns out to be a “Märchen,” not, as one might have supposed, a realistic novel). For a “belletristischen Schriftsteller” such a discovery is “irresistible.” Having a good sense of his own popularity and noting that she is totally entranced by her reading (“entrückt”), he

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immodestly surmises that it must be one of his own books that she is reading. When he discovers that this is indeed the case, and assuming that any young girl would be thrilled to meet the author of a book she is reading, he reveals himself as such. It is then that an impasse is reached: the girl is struck dumb and seems unable to comprehend the situation. Ruefully, the author concedes: “Der Begriff eines Schriftstellers, eines Dichters war ihr gänzlich fremd.” But he too has received a shock: his “verehrtes Publikum” bears him no respect and her monosyllabic responses to his questions about the work do not point to any great insight into its meaning (“Ih, mein lieber Herr, das ist ein gar schnakisches Buch”). The situational humor, just before he actually reveals himself as the author, is charming: she encourages him to read the book too, offering to take it back to the lending library so that it can be reissued. But this might give an author serious food for thought about the whole reception process and the level of understanding he can expect from his public. Certainly he can give himself no illusions on this score. This episode, as can be seen, is on an entirely different footing than the other vignettes. It raises fundamental questions about reading itself, about the future destination and reception of a work of art, indeed of the very tale we are reading. The fact that the girl is reading a “Märchen” by the writer may suggest that such fiction is simply regarded as escapist literature by the public, whereas as for Hoffmann, of course, it is a form of major importance. The author, with typically idealistic views of the role of literature as a means of education and of opening the eyes of the less privileged members of society, himself has a real shock when his own fantasy comes hard up against the sober reality: he had thought the girl was “strebend nach höherer Kultur des Geistes,” but it is not so. It is clear that he now finds revisiting the subject painful: “Nach den Blumen dort schau ich nicht gerne hin, lieber Vetter, es hat damit eine eigne Bewandtnis.” But he nevertheless gallantly narrates this story against himself with much selfirony, even making the point that for many the concept of an author is entirely irrelevant. This retrospective vignette provides the aesthetic, self-reflexive perspective which, in true Serapiontic fashion, Hoffmann continually brings to bear on his narratives; in this instance he superimposes a contrasting level of “reality” onto a “fictional” one (as so often, Lothar Köhn’s terminology of “Wirklichkeit” and “erzählte Realität” is apposite). This device immediately opens wider vistas to the reader, giving the lie (if this is needed) to the theory of Hoffmann’s new enthusiasm for a mimetic, realitybased aesthetic along Biedermeier lines. The use of the past tense throughout the narrative of the “Blumenmädchen” distances us from the immediate recording of details of the market scene, and thus too from the process of initiation into the art of observation that the writer has set up for his cousin. Indeed the “Blumenmädchen” herself does not provide a fresh

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vignette for the cousin’s developing talents as an author — he has only got eyes for a pretty girl (“ein Engelskind”) whom he had been following earlier and who has now arrived at the flower stall. He is only half listening to his writer-cousin’s narrative, and jokingly dismisses it as a deserved punishment for his vanity as author (“gestrafte Autoreitelkeit”) and, mockheroically, describes the incident as a “tragische Geschichte.” The other lengthy episode, concerning the war veteran, strikes a note of pathos as the cousins reflect on the miserable appearance and situation of this man who stands with his head uplifted and his back to the Theater Royal on the edge of the marketplace. It also raises the key issue of “Schauen.” Once more the writer is drawing on prior knowledge based on the veteran’s regular appearance on market days. The visiting cousin’s trite observation that blind army veterans are well looked after by the state is sharply refuted by his cousin, who knows a great deal more about this man’s situation, which is one of financial dependency — despite appearing to secure alms from passers-by — and serious exploitation by his employer, an unscrupulous market-woman (“eine große, robuste Frau”) who forces him to carry her baskets of supplies to the market. Here one’s gaze is directed at the unusual, the figure who stands out from the crowd, the outsider. Hoffmann was well aware of contemporary discussion about blindness, a topic that had been thoroughly investigated in the Enlightenment, especially in Diderot’s essays. Much speculation focuses in this discourse on the development of other compensatory faculties when a primary sense, such as vision or hearing, is cut off. The writer is obviously familiar with these theories, since he conjectures that the upwards tilt of the head, so familiar in the stance of blind persons, points to a desperate attempt to “erschauen”: “ein fortwährendes Streben . . ., etwas in der Nacht, die den Blinden umschließt, zu erschauen” (HSW/SW, 614). This idea of non-visual perception connects with Hoffmann’s general notion of “nach Innen schauen” as distinct from “Sehen,” but is now spelled out in even greater detail by the writer, who more closely identifies this vague “etwas” for which the blind man is seeking by defining it in religious terms, that is, as an effort to penetrate beyond human life to a transcendental plane: “Untergegangen ist für den Armen die Abendröte des Lebens, aber sein inneres Auge strebt schon das ewige Licht zu erblicken, das ihm in dem Jenseits voll Trost, Hoffnung und Seligkeit leuchtet” (HSW/SW, 614). This moving incident has another function within the story. It serves as an illustration of humanitarian acts of generosity on the part of the Berlin populace (as the writer puts it: “keiner verfehlt ihm ein Almosen zu reichen”) and younger man follows up this clue by immediately recording in quick succession a number of examples of this generosity ranging over a wide spectrum of society, as passers-by all press money into the veteran’s outstretched hand. His cousin’s appreciation of the Berliners’

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Hoffmann’s sketch of his “Neue Wohnung in der Taubenstraße,” Berlin (the so-called “Kunzscher Riss”) with Eckfenster. Staatsbibliothek Bamberg.

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“Mildtätigkeit” is reinforced by his awareness that they have not always enjoyed such a reputation, and this enables Hoffmann to develop another important theme with which we are familiar from Die Serapionsbrüder, namely, the signs of a regeneration and stabilization of society in post1815 Europe after the long and destructive wars against Napoleon that had ravaged Prussia more than any other German land.8 The writer discerns in the “Volk” “eine merkwürdige Veränderung,” a new vigor and recovery of “den Geist . . ., der bald wie eine gewaltsam zusammengedrückte Spiralfeder mit erneuter Kraft emporsprang” (HSW/SW, 619). More specifically, he identifies this in the mores of the populace, observing a greater observance of law and order but also more refinement in manners, possibly, as his choice of the word “Courtoisie” suggests, the result of contact with French manners, even down to the lower strata of society: “so wirst du selbst unter gemeinen Mägden und Tagelöhnern ein Streben nach einer gewissen Courtoisie bemerken, das ganz ergötzlich ist” (619). This enlightened enthusiasm about the changes in society that have taken place since the war reflects an indomitable optimism on the part of the invalid writer, given that his own personal circumstances and prospects are so dismal. And they contrast with his own rueful resignation and melancholy about his situation (“ich geb’s auf”). It seems that being drawn outwards to view the spectacle of humanity at large as represented by the market, which he finally interprets as a symbol of life in its broadest aspects (“dieser Markt ist auch jetzt ein treues Abbild des ewig wechselnden Lebens,” 497), does at least act as an antidote to melancholia and works against self-pity or bitterness. In this respect his sadness at his truncated participation in the creative process is slightly offset by exposure to life itself, warts and all. For the vignettes of the market place are not idealized: pettiness, greed, and spite are in evidence in the portrayal of the characters as well as the more noble impulses of generosity. And the tale itself is interwoven with tragedy, renunciation, resignation, as well as joie de vivre, generosity, and good humor. This perception of the wholeness of life, of “Ernst” as well as “Scherz,” is in the eye of the beholder and principally that of the reflective and experienced writer. At every point one is tempted to make the connection between this character and Hoffmann himself, while realizing the limitations of such a view.9 The facts are clear enough. The locality is described in minute detail: without any doubt the perspective of the “Eckfenster” is that of Hoffmann’s own apartment in the Taubenstraße. His own drawing of the area and its buildings10 contains all the material one could wish to underline the point. The rest comes from the final letters and biographical accounts of Hoffmann’s last months as he lay there paralyzed, and like his character, unable to write down his ideas on paper. But there the similarities end. For, in a final creative burst that produced this very tale, among a handful of others, Hoffmann was able to dictate to his friend Hitzig the entire work. In other

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words, the Serapiontic Principle did not abandon him as it did his invalid writer, and the entire process could still be carried through intact. Some might say that it had never been better exemplified than here: Hoffmann is able to draw on the most unpropitious source material, namely physical debility and failing powers, and, making a virtue of necessity, to shape it into a perfectly composed narrative in which the reader is indeed transposed from a world of sheer physical limitation to the highest realms of the human spirit. This is done in full knowledge (“Erkenntnis”) of the dichotomy between mind and body and with the ironic detachment that is a hallmark of the Serapiontic Principle.

Notes 1

Exponents of this view include Fritz Martini, “Die Märchendichtungen E. T. A. Hoffmanns,” Der Deutschunterricht 7 (1955): 59, and Lothar Köhn, Vieldeutige Welt: Studien zur Struktur der Erzählungen E. T. A. Hoffmanns und zur Entwicklung seines Werkes Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1966), 220. It has recently been questioned by Peter von Matt, Die Augen der Automaten, (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1971), 34, n., and Detlev Kremer, E. T. A. Hoffmann: Erzählungen und Romane (Berlin: E. Schmidt, 1999), 181. In his wide-ranging essay “Romantische Aufklärung zu E. T. A. Hoffmanns Wissenschaftspoetik,” in Aufklärung als Form, ed. Helmut Schmidt und Helmut Schneider (Würzburg: Königshausen und Neumann, 1997), Gerhard Neumann does not refute the signs of “realism” and compares Hoffmann’s text in this respect with Arnim’s Die Majoratsherrn and Tieck’s Liebeszauber, while at the same time treating what he sees as evidence of such a “realistic” tendency in Hoffmann’s tale as part of the “Duplizität des Realen,” and arguing that Hoffmann’s text exhibits two forms of “realism.” An interesting comment on the text comes from Walter Benjamin, who finds it to be “einen der frühesten Versuche. . . . das Straßenbild der größeren Stadt aufzufassen” and connects it to “das Biedermeier”; see Walter Benjamin, Gesammelte Schriften, vol. 1. 2, ed. Rolf Tiedemann and Hermann Schweppenhäuser (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1980), 628–29. 2

Wulf Segebrecht’s theory that Hoffmann is adopting “neue Perspektive” and moving away from his earlier adherence to both Callot and the Serapiontic (Segebrecht, Heterogenität und Integration: Studien zu Leben, Werk und Wirkung E. T. A. Hoffmanns (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 1996), 130) seems to be in conflict with his earlier view (Segebrecht, Autobiographie und Dichtung: Eine Studie zum Werk E. T. A. Hoffmanns (Stuttgart: Metzler, 1967), 123). The view of Hoffmann’s tale as an example of “Biedermeier” realism would hardly have commanded so much respect had it not been suggested by Walter Benjamin. 3

Detlev Kremer, E. T. A. Hoffmann: Erzählungen und Romane, 198, reads the writer-character’s role rather differently, regarding him as a kind of alter ego of the author (“die Aufspaltung des Autors in zwei Figuren . . . aus dem Dialog wird so eine Art Selbstgespräch.” Peter von Matt, in Die Augen der Automaten, (32) plays down the extent to which the writer is physically weakened, viewing his exposition

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of his position as illustrative of a general breakdown in the creative process itself (possibly, though he does not suggest this, a kind of “writer’s block”). 4 Cf. the image of “Einschachtelung” to convey the interdependence of “Geist” and “Körper,” in chapter 2 in this volume, “Der Einsiedler Serapion.” 5

This is generally regarded as an intertextual reference to “Der Artushof”; see Matt, Die Augen der Automaten, 31. In neither the case of the painter nor that of the composer figure is the comparison apt, in that they have never been successful artists. Uwe Japp, “Das serapiontische Prinzip,” in E. T. A. Hoffmann: Text ⫹ Kritik, ed. H. L. Arnold (Munich: Text ⫹ Kritik, 1992), 68.

6

7

See illustration, pp. 112–13. “Rahmenschau” as a literary device was immensely popular in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. See August Langen, Anschauungsformen in der deutschen Dichtung des 18. Jahrhunderts: Rahmenschau und Rationalismus (Jena: 1934; repr. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1965). 8 This might almost seem like a confirmation of the expectations expressed about the post-war future in the rousing speech of Ferdinand in “Der Dichter und der Komponist”; see chapter 3 in this volume. 9 See Kremer, E. T. A. Hoffmann: Erzählungen und Romane, 199: “Daß es E. T. A. Hoffmann zur Zeit des Diktats der Erzählung genau so ging, sollte nicht dahingehend mißverstanden werden, als handle es sich nur um eine biographsiche Selbstspiegelung.” 10 Hoffmann’s own sketch of his apartment (complete with “Eckfenster”) and its surroundings, in the form of a large lithographic reproduction (figure 3), was appended to the first published edition of his works and folded in between pages 200 and 201 of Des Vetters Eckfenster, having been, according to the editor, “mitgeteilt von E. T. A. Hoffmann.” See E. T. A. Hoffmanns Erzählungen aus seinen letzten Lebensjahren: Sein Leben und Nachlaß, 5 vols., ed. Micheline Hoffmann, née Rohrer [Hoffmann’s widow] vol. 3, Leben und Nachlaß, part 1, (Stuttgart: Fr. Brodhag’sche Buchhandlung, 1839). This was a revised version of the first edition and was overseen by Hoffmann’s friend Julius Hitzig, his widow’s name being mentioned as an act of courtesy.

Part 2

7: Frame Narrative and the Serapiontic Principle The Frame

H

OFFMANN’S DEVELOPMENT OF

the well-established German tradition of frame narrative takes the form to new heights, though this has scarcely been noted, so much has the attention of commentators been fixed on the individual tales in the collection. The starting point for Goethe’s pioneering frame-narrative Unterhaltungen deutscher Ausgewanderten, had been recent history, that is, the forced expulsion of German communities resident on the left bank of the Rhine during the Revolutionary Wars with France. Likewise Hoffmann, now writing at a later phase in the Napoleonic saga, makes several allusions to the recent war and its conclusion (his character Cyprian had fought in the campaign and, like Hoffmann himself, had witnessed the bombardment of Dresden), but in these changed circumstances his political stance is distinctly upbeat by comparison. There are several important references to the final stages of the struggle (The Battle of the Nations) but also optimism about the new spirit of regeneration in a war-torn land that was now at peace again. Hoffmann’s idea of creating a frame in which to situate his tales, most of which had previously been published in literary journals, dates from early 1818, and as we have already seen, the model of Tieck’s Phantasus suggested itself first to Hoffmann himself and then to his publisher, Reimer (whose house had published volumes of the Tieck work between 1812 and 1816), once the search for a suitable “Einkleidung” for the collection of tales was on. But it was clear from the start (and with a writer of Hoffmann’s originality and inventiveness it was inevitable) that Tieck’s diffuse frame structure, while diplomatically earning praise from Hoffmann (see his “Vorrede” to the Serapionsbrüder), would only be used as a starting point. In particular, the characters in his own frame, while here and there respectfully bearing the name of Tieck’s personae (for example, Lothar and Theodor), were bound to be fashioned into distinct individuals rather than simply taking on the role of mouthpieces. And, of course, the opportunity that the frame afforded to develop and expound a coherent theoretical program was Hoffmann’s own; the somewhat random theoretical observations by Tieck’s frame characters, though doubtless serving as a model, were hardly comparable.

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Hoffmann had played a leading part in a literary society or club, the “Seraphinenorden,” in the early years following his return to Berlin in 1814; the identities of the members of that group, many of whom were leading Romantic writers, are well documented:1 Chamisso, Contessa, and Hoffmann’s friend Hitzig formed a core of four, and other literary friends, like Fouqué, made occasional appearances, while the physician and writer, David Koreff, and Ludwig Devrient, the actor and boon companion of Hoffmann, joined later, supposedly changing the character and tone of the society as well as the venues for meetings. In the earlier phase (1814) these social and literary soirées had often taken place in a member’s home (for example, Contessa’s or Hitzig’s) and occasionally in wine bars and inns. Latterly, they would almost invariably be located in the famous wine bar Lutter & Wegner (which exists to this day). This clear evidence of there having been a model for his band of frame characters certainly helps to explain the development of Hoffmann’s project, in which the initial Tieck model blends happily with recollections of the proceedings of the erstwhile real life Seraphinenorden. The coalescence of fictional and factual is typical of Hoffmann’s creative methods, and the distancing effect of time — with his new Serapionsbrüder project Hoffmann was now looking back from 1818 — could only be conducive to further imaginative transformations. The Seraphinenorden had broken up for a number of reasons — absences like Chamisso’s journey round the world, possibly different attitudes towards the group’s objectives on the part of the newcomers, and not least Hoffmann’s increasingly heavy burden of legal duties as his talents became evident to his superiors in the Supreme Court and he rapidly advanced up the hierarchy.2 In 1818 he was looking back to what in retrospect appeared to him as an artistically rich and intellectually fruitful period, and drawing from this source material, which was ripe for his artistic pen. But the most original addition to this mélange would be the intellectual and artistic exchanges that could be accommodated within the compass of the frame structure and that would find their raison d’être in the Serapiontic Principle. Such a cohesive structural element has no counterpart in Tieck’s accompanying dialogue to his diffuse collection of “Märchen,” tales, and even complete dramas. Hoffmann’s immediate triggers and source material for the narrative aspect of his frame derive, first, from his reading up of accounts concerning “Heilige, Märtyrer und Einsiedler,” presumably with an eye to an introductory section that would set up the terms of reference for his artistic program and, second, from the happy coincidence that the reunion he held for the original Seraphinenbrüder to celebrate Chamisso’s return from his forty-month journey — a reunion financed by an advance Hoffmann had received from his publisher for the first two volumes of his new work — turned out to have been scheduled for the name day of Saint Serapion. As we have seen above, this was the point when the real

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brotherhood was transformed into the fictitious one. This glimpse of the genesis of the frame provides insights into the way in which, as a writer, Hoffmann utilizes real and imaginary material. It could almost be described as a practical implementation of the Serapiontic Principle itself: the writer’s practice in setting about the business of creating a fictional frame is echoed when the frame includes discussion of that very process. There is a remarkable coincidence between actual and fictionalized — or self-conscious — realization of the creative process itself. But to demonstrate that close relationship between the empirical and fictional levels is a very different thing from establishing a biographical link between author and characters. Prompted by Hitzig’s identification of the Serapionsbrüder with members of the Seraphinenorden (for example, Theodor as Hoffmann, Cyprian and Lothar as aspects of Hoffmann, Ottmar as Hitzig and so on), there have been various speculations along similar lines and many attempts to identify “the friends pictured within.” And it might be argued that it is significant that, as in the real-world equivalent, there are four “core” members and that these are later — as in Die Serapionsbrüder — joined by another two, and that the Brotherhood starts to break asunder, and even the Serapiontic Principle comes into question, thereafter. The reductive implications of such attempts to equate life and art are all too obvious, however, and in Hoffmann’s case become fairly meaningless the more one examines the characters, their degree of fictionality, and the effect of their interaction on the structure of the entire work.

The Membership of the Serapionsbund Four “core” members, then, are involved in setting up the brotherhood and the principle on which they propose to base their tales and that they propose to utilize as the basis of their artistic critiques: Lothar, Cyprian, Theodor, and Ottmar. Since Hoffmann had not originally envisaged writing more than two volumes (that is, Bände, each with two “sections” or “Abschnitte”), it was probably not part of his original strategy to bring in the two latecomers, Vincenz and Sylvester (or, for that matter, reproduce the four-plus-two arrangement in which the original Seraphinenorden existed). We shall see in later chapters that the extension of the membership is very likely the result of the perceived need for variety and new perspectives on the business of writing tales: in other words, a self-critical awareness on Hoffmann’s part based on the experience of the first two volumes. There is also an occasional element of opportunism about these changes. Lothar assumes the role of chairman and chief adjudicator and it appears that, as is appropriate for one who carries extra responsibilities, he is tacitly allowed some leeway since, among the founding members, he contributes the fewest tales (that is, four). The lion’s share is equally

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divided between Theodor and Cyprian (eight each), while Ottmar contributes five. The newcomers can supply only four between them: Sylvester taking three and the lazy Vincenz a mere one. The discussions that follow the narrations, especially in the first two volumes, tend to involve all four members, who give their views in turn, the “author” of the particular tale himself intervening here and there to defend or explain a point. Transitions between narrations and the introductions to individual tales are more haphazard and sometimes fairly brief. Exceptions to this pattern are the narrator’s introductions to each of the eight “Abschnitte,” which are sometimes quite substantial and provide information about the comings and goings, and even the health, of individual members (insofar as this has bearing on the group dynamic). In all these, however, little attention is given to personal or domestic details: the characters, highly individualized as they are, are presented to the reader exclusively as creative artists through their literary efforts and as critics through their contributions to debate and discussion. That, of course, does not preclude a considerable degree of self-revelation. The abjuring of trivial topics of conversation and the exclusive focus on the essential business of storytelling is an important principle that is laid down at the outset. It derives from a distinction that the members agree to draw between what purports to be a serious literary society and one based merely on “Geselligkeit,” a coded signal for philistinism, which was rife in Germany at this time and most evident in the “Teegesellschaften,” much satirized by Hoffmann, and frequented by social climbers. This was an issue with which Heine would also deal a year or two later in the “Buch der Lieder” (adding a note of sexual innuendo). Thus when one member starts to talk about the weather and another tells a story about a fellow member’s relationship with a lady, Lothar lays down the law and issues reprimands. This focus on essentials, which derives from the need to relate much of the discussion to the implications and applicability of the Serapiontic Principle, draws the collection of tales together.3 Within the collection as a whole, other unifying devices are at work. There is a tacit agreement, which becomes consolidated into a “rule,” that each session (which, from the reader’s point of view, constitutes an “Abschnitt”) should be arranged in such a way as to effect a transition of mood from the serious to the more lighthearted, thus promoting a sense of harmony and resolution whenever the group disperses. It is also specified that after two sessions (for the reader this means one “Band” or volume), the evening should end with a Märchen. Hoffmann had difficulty following his own characters’ strictly observed rules and, as a result of time restraints, failed to deliver the required Märchen at the end of volume 3. He conveniently manages to lay the blame on his dilatory character, Vincenz, who is unable to produce this Märchen until the very last volume. It is notable that Lothar himself — the most critical and analytically

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minded member — is entrusted with supplying two of the three Märchen (Nußknacker und Mäusekönig and Das fremde Kind), the Märchen being a form to which Hoffmann attached the greatest importance. Another means by which harmony and resolution can be achieved has already been noted: Der Dichter und der Komponist raises issues on which consensus among the group is lacking even after a narrative-debate (intended as an illustration) and a thorough discussion following it, so it is followed by a musical performance that restores the sense of unity. On another occasion, however, when there is a debate about the controversial dramatist Zacharias Werner, as if to emphasize that even the powerful medium of music cannot always be expected to perform miracles, the group performance of an extempore piece fails to have a cathartic effect. The members disperse in a mood which is “mehr gewaltsam aufgeregt zu toller Lust, als im innern wahrhaft gemütlich froh” (HSW/SB, 4:7); for this “terzetto buffo” they had taken the equivalent of the telephone directory — namely, an operatic reference work to set to music! Other instances where Hoffmann seems to have hoisted himself on his own petard are breaches of the strict observance of the Serapiontic Principle that the group members have bound themselves to follow. Once more for practical reasons — his heavy burden of professional legal work and a concurrent heavy program of literary writing (for example, Kater Murr, Klein Zaches, and so on) — and in order to satisfy the insatiable demands of his publisher for ever more volumes of Die Serapionsbrüder from 1819–20, Hoffmann found he could not deliver in sufficient quantity the necessary high-quality tales demanded by his own principle. He therefore introduces the slightly maverick character Vincenz, as a means of relaxing the “rule” that had been central to the principle, namely that the material must not be based on personal experience, arguing for the permission to include a series of anecdotes to fill out the final (fourth) volume. Vincenz is presented as a kind of Mephistophelian clown, who questions the validity of the principle at various points, though instead of managing to dent its importance, like Mephisto he simply reinforces its positive qualities, by stimulating his colleagues to rush to its defense with ever stronger restatements of the program.

The Characters The internal dynamics within the group are carefully calibrated. Lothar’s main significance is as formulator and exponent, particularly through his Märchen, of the Serapiontic Principle. He is a difficult character, who tends initially to adopt a negative position, but can be won round — once he has had the time to consider new evidence — to a new and positive position.

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His strongly expressed emotional reactions are often only later followed by firm and well-grounded resolve, based on more mature reflection and evidence. This is especially clear in his approach toward the establishment of the principle. Once he has clear the major issues and set out the literary program, his skepticism about forming a brotherhood disappears; indeed it polarizes into a tenacious belief in its vital importance, as he restates and reformulates it at various subsequent points. When in the fifth Abschnitt a low point is reached and he fears and anticipates the break-up of the brotherhood, his degree of commitment is reflected in the metaphor he uses to suggest the fundamental importance of the Serapiontic Principle, which he compares to a foundation supporting a building: “Dem Cyprian verdanken wir den Grundstein des heiligen Serapion, auf den wir ein Gebäude stützten, das für das Leben gebaut schien und zusammenstürzte in wenig Monden” (HSW/SB, 619–20). His vulnerability to the prospect of change and his melancholy vision of a future without this supporting prop that has been so carefully built up points to an insecure and idealistic temperament that will not be able to come to terms easily with the removal of what has clearly become one of the mainstays of his life and something in which he has invested much emotional and mental energy. Other members of the brotherhood are aware of Lothar’s black moods and have developed strategies for dealing with them. Vincenz counteracts his “Ernst” with a flippant, lighthearted approach. Ottmar jollies him along, comparing him to Hamlet and using an amusing image to reinforce the point that one cannot allow oneself to be blown off course when the going gets difficult: “Der Mensch darf nicht bei jeder leisesten unsanften Berührung die Fühlhörner einziehen, wie ein schüchternes überempfindliches Käferlein” (HSW/SB, 620). Theodor too, at this point having just emerged from a serious illness, as he states with his “Geist” und “Gemüt” strengthened, is in no mood to throw in the towel: “Aus meiner eigenen Brust weht der bebende Hauch der Natur, es ist mir, als schwämme ich, aller Last entnommen, in dem herrlichen Himmelsblau, das über uns sich wölbt” (HSW/SB, 622). Like many convalescents Theodor attributes his recovery to the workings of a higher power — in this case one that operates very much on Schellingian lines: “In der Tat man muß so krank gewesen sein als ich, um dieses Gefühls fähig zu werden, das Geist und Gemüt stärkend die eigentliche Lebensarznei scheint, welche die ewige Macht, der waltende Weltgeist uns selbst unmittelbar spendet” (SB/HSW, 622). It is tempting to link this “illness” with Hoffmann’s own serious illness in 1819, the year in which the first two volumes of Die Serapionsbrüder were published, but more relevant, I believe, is the fact that Hoffmann exploits this caesura in the meetings of the group to introduce a kind of crisis point in the frame discussion and to promote a reflective mood about the mutability of all human constructs and all literary and artistic programs, a point that is most keenly felt by Lothar. However, despite all pessimism, Lothar

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expresses unreserved admiration for his friend Theodor’s resilience and demonstration of the sheer power of mind over matter. Theodor and Lothar often take different sides on issues and more than any other pair they are sparring partners: Theodor is not a control freak and his attitude is more laissez-faire than Lothar’s. But neither is his commitment to the principle in question, and he develops its range of reference specifically to include the world of the Supernatural and the otherworldly, employing the metaphor of the “Himmelsleiter” (with its biblical overtones) to describe the process whereby the modern writer of Märchen can create an imaginative structure whose foundations are firmly fixed on terra firma, carrying both the artist and his audience securely to regions which, though hitherto uncharted, become completely integrated into the fabric of their lives: Ich meine, das die Basis der Himmelsleiter, auf der man hinaufsteigen will in höhere Regionen, befestigt sein müsse im Leben, so daß jeder nachzusteigen vermag. Befindet er sich dann immer höher und höher hinaufzuklettern, in einem fantastischen Zauberreich, so wird er glauben, dies Reich gehöre auch noch in sein Leben hinein, und sei eigentlich der wunderbar herrlichste Teil desselben. Es ist ihm der schöne prächtige Blumengarten vor dem Tore, in dem er an seinem hohen Ergötzen lustwandeln kann, hat er sich nur entschlossen, die düsteren Mauern der Stadt zu verlassen. (HSW/SB, 721)

This new variant on the Serapiontic Principle suggests, through the double imagery of the ladder that provides an ascent heavenwards and the town gateway that opens out onto the inviting prospect of a flowery landscape, the idea of passage from one sphere to another and the means of gaining access to a superior position on a scale. At a later point Theodor, along with Lothar, will take this idea in a different direction, by extending the range of application of the principle to manifestations of the Supernatural, in the form of “das Grauenhafte.” This extension, Theodor avers, needs no apology, as it is a much favored and much exploited form with the greatest of writers, including Shakespeare. Tieck, Hoffmann’s own model, is also cited as a contemporary practitioner of note, whose Märchen are anything but comfortable and indeed invoke “eiskalte Todesschauer” and “tiefste Entsetzen” and yet exercise a powerful effect on the reader or audience in the same way as tragic or sublime enactments will do:4 Wir wissen ja alle, wie wunderbar die größten Dichter vermöge jener Hebel [that is: “die Hebel der Furcht, des Grauens, des Entsetzens”] das menschliche Gemüt in seinem tiefsten Innern zu bewegen wußten . . . Die Idee dieses Märchens [Tieck’s Liebeszauber] muß in jeder Brust eiskalte Todesschauer, ja der Schluß das tiefste Entsetzen erregen, und doch sind die Farben so glücklich gemischt, daß trotz alles Grauens und Entsetzens uns

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doch der geheimnisvolle Zauberreiz des Tragischen befängt, dem wir uns willig und gern hingeben. (HSW/SB, 1118)

In this formulation of the sublime-horrific, the idea of intensification implicit in the term “Potenzierung” is explicitly conveyed by Lothar’s original image of the lever (“jener Hebel”), which Theodor sees as a major tool in the hands of the poet and a means of creating powerful aesthetic effects. The Serapiontic Principle is thereby extended to include in its scope the lofty dimension of the sublime (and by implication is also extended to literary forms other than narrative, for example, tragic drama). But en route the discussion also focuses on a masterwork of prose, Kleist’s Das Bettelweib von Locarno, which Hoffmann, his critical faculties already well attuned to appraising the works of others from his long experience of writing reviews of new music for the Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung, is the first contemporary writer of eminence to fully appreciate.5 Building on Theodor’s insights, Lothar leads the discussion through a succinct and analytical résumé of Kleist’s brilliant handling of the supernatural material, and the means whereby he is able to produce spinechilling effects with a minimum of description, entirely through his choice of words: Kleist wußte in jenen Farbentopf nicht allein einzutunken, sondern auch die Farben mit der Kraft und Genialität des vollendeten Meisters auftragend wie lebendiges Bild zu schaffen wie keiner. (HSW/SB, 1119)

Cyprian’s contribution to the theory of the Serapiontic Principle focuses on the presentation of the otherworldly in the creative arts, and in particular on that aspect that involves religious or spiritual experience (dubbed by Lothar “mystische Schwärmerei”). While Lothar and Cyprian spar regularly on such topics, Lothar freely concedes the importance of Cyprian’s contribution to the debate. After all, Cyprian’s tale, Der Einsiedler Serapion, once fully expounded, serves as a point of reference for all members of the group, and while it is left to Lothar to extrapolate from it the essential points, both Cyprian and his fellow members are agreed about the ambiguous status of the central figure, the hermit. The idée fixe, bordering on insanity, that this character displays and that manifests itself in an excess of spirituality and a disregard for the physical constraints of life, is an important reminder to the reader of the extreme but very real dangers that lurk in the artistic disposition, and that so frequently appear as themes in Hoffmann’s writings (for example, Cardillac, Rat Krespel, Kreisler). Cyprian’s emphasis on spirituality — albeit of a more muted variety — finds expression, as was noted above, in his own fervent reference to the otherworldliness of great music as practiced by “eine wunderbare Geistergemeinschaft” in Alte und neue Kirchenmusik:

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Throughout Die Serapionsbrüder Cyprian can be also depended on as a critic for his sensitive, well-grounded opinions, openness of mind, and critical insights into the tales and topics discussed. Thus he defends the character of Elis Fröhbom in Theodor’s tale Die Bergwerke zu Falun against the more pragmatic Ottmar’s criticisms, by explaining the hero’s introverted and problematic character in terms of his vulnerability to hostile external forces, as a victim to the “Nachtseite der Natur” and the forces of darkness that have entered his psyche and have torn him asunder (“mit sich entzweit”). Cyprian’s natural inclination towards the influence of higher powers — both malevolent and benign — on human life reflects the view that the relationship of the human and the natural worlds is preordained and characterized by a degree of reciprocity: “das große unwandelbare Lebensprinzip der Natur” (HSW/SB, 263). Like Hoffmann, he has clearly read his Schubert and/or his Schelling and, it would appear, become a disciple of “Naturphilosophie.” Cyprian also contributes to the adoption of the principle of intensification (“Potenzierung”), or attainment of higher levels of expressiveness in art through a process that has been applied to music and words and that, as I suggested above, is implicit in much of the debate regarding the Serapiontic Principle. He applies the principle to the phenomenon of “magnetism” (⫽ hypnosis) in the context of the mind-body question and, in this respect, like his character the Einsiedler, comes out strongly in favor of the notion of the superiority of mind over matter. He uses the familiar idea of “Potenzierung,” in this connection, citing “die potenzierte Kraft des psychischen Prinzips,” and also talks of “die geistige Potenz.” His particular penchant for the occult finds expression in the final (that is, fourth) volume. Not only does he contribute two ghost stories (Erscheinungen and Vampirismus) but he also plays an important part in the extended discussion of the dramas and of the personality of Zacharias Werner (HSW/SB, 850), producing a résumé of the plot of Das Kreuz an der Ostsee in which he identifies so closely with Werner’s grandiose presentation of the theme of the decline of paganism and the emergence of Christianity in Prussia that he literally turns pale. Other examples in which Hoffmann draws attention to Cyprian’s physical reactions to his inner mental state could be cited; presumably Hoffmann wishes to demonstrate the close connection between mind and body through a character for whom this is a matter of no small importance. For Cyprian, Werner’s dramas bear comparison with those of Shakespeare and represent the highest pinnacle of tragic drama in modern times. However, the consensus view of the Serapionsbrüder seems to be that their attempts to convey sublime grandeur are disturbingly mixed in with crass effects and the works as a whole are thereby flawed. The fourth founding member, Ottmar, is perhaps the most shadowy. But once more he upholds the Serapiontic Principle staunchly and is very keen to emphasize the need to set up a new literary program in a postwar

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period of renewal and regeneration. He is not allocated any of the most famous tales and contributes fewer than his fellow founding members. His role within the frame as a whole is mainly that of a practical, no-nonsense individual who seems to be a foil for the bolder, more imaginative spirits like Theodor and Cyprian; occasionally he is allocated points that had been made in reviews of Hoffmann’s works. His other role is as devil’s advocate: a slightly pedantic critic who misses the sheer quality and even the true “Serapiontic” features of some of the tales, thereby forcing his fellow members to express the positive aspects more strongly. He disapproves, for example, of Lothar’s Märchen Nußknacker und Mausekönig and Theodor’s Die Bergwerke zu Falun, in the latter case expressing a preference for the source material, namely the anecdote in Schubert’s account — based on a true story — that describes the sensational discovery of Elis’s perfectly preserved body. His claim as guardian of the principle is twofold: first, his insistence on the enforcement of the practice within the collection and the tales themselves of combining serious and comic effects (“Ernst und Scherz”). In this role he adds further weight to Vincenz’s championship of this particular feature of the principle (it is possibly the only feature about which Vincenz enthuses). Second, Ottmar shows a strong interest in the role of the occult within the Serapiontic process, in particular identifying “die potenzierte Kraft des psychischen Prozesses” as a literary device and noting approvingly both the therapeutic applications of Mesmerism and its potential as a Serapiontic theme in literature: “weil er uns in unseren serapionistischen Versuchen sehr oft als tüchtiger Hebel dienen kann, unbekannte geheimnisvolle Krâfte in Bewegung zu setzen.” As already suggested, Vincenz is the clown figure who is introduced in volume 2, chapter 4, ostensibly to liven things up, to be provocative (he makes the occasional joke about the group’s “sacred cow,” namely, the Serapiontic Principle) but, as was already noted, also to serve a useful purpose for his author by his sheer dilatoriness. Sylvester, who joins at the same time, is contrasted with Vincenz and tends not to play a dominant part in the discussions. But his usefulness, as I see it, is to give completeness to the range of literary forms to which the Serapiontic Principle can be applied. Theodor is a composer of opera and we hear about his achievement indirectly, when it is mentioned that one of his works has been performed and that he is on the look out for a libretto for another. Sylvester represents the performing arts specifically through the important genre of drama and theater, which otherwise would not be covered. The successful performance of one of his works on the Berlin stage leads to an animated discussion about the theater among the members, which extends into opera. He also makes an important contribution to the discussion about the most suitable environment and stimulus for creative work, contrasting the urban and rural in their respective roles as triggers for the artist. He himself alternates deliberately between the respective attractions of rural

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solitude and urban stimulus and excitement, the city offering a rich variety of attractions such as gatherings of fellow artists and opportunities for attending high-class performances of musical works (Sylvester, for example, had attended a live performance of Beethoven’s new “Mass in C”) and exhibitions of contemporary art (he has viewed and admired pictures by Kolbe at an exhibition, and one of his tales, Meister Martin der Küfner owes its inspiration to this). His ambivalent position as one caught between attraction and repulsion towards the ever-encroaching urbanization of nineteenth-century life reflects the equally ambivalent relationship of many a modern artist and creative individual towards his surroundings: So bedenke ich, daß, ist auch das ewige rastlose Gewühl, die leere Geschäftigkeit der großen Stadt meinem ganzen innern Wesen zuwider, ich doch auch dagegen, will ich als Dichter und Schriftsteller bestehen mancher Anregung bedarf, die ich nur hier finde. Jene Erzählung, die ich für gut halte, wäre nimmermehr entstanden, hätte ich nicht Kolbes Bild auf der Kunstausstellung geschaut, und hätte ich nachher mich nicht der Muße des Landlebens hingegeben. (HSW/SB, 486)

Sylvester’s approach to the problem is to have short bouts of immersion in city life to spark his inspiration, followed by longer periods of withdrawal to rural solitude and contemplation in which to attend to the matter of developing this initial impulse and clothing the initially inchoate image in suitable materials. This closely follows the pattern laid down for the Serapiontic Principle, whereby the initial trigger to creativity is received from without and is followed by “inneres Schauen,” the process of internalization or withdrawal into the reflective state. Perhaps, however, his is an extreme case of separating the two stages, which not all creative artists would require (not even Hoffmann himself, as we observe from the genesis of Der goldene Topf (see below, chapter 11, “The Wider Critique”) but it also reminds us of the even more drastic separation that the Einsiedler Serapion imposed upon himself, to the point of denying altogether the need for contact with “das ewige rastlose Gewühl.”

Group Dynamics On his own evidence Hoffmann was much impressed by Tieck’s Phantasus and the latter’s incorporation of literary topics (for example, the Märchen) into the collection of prose and drama that makes up this extensive work. One conspicuous difference between Hoffmann’s and Tieck’s handling of material of this kind in the frame discussion is Hoffmann’s integration of the critique and discussion of the individual tales into the composition as a whole. This makes the frame discussion resemble a form of practical criticism, especially in the more highly organized first two volumes. But even

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here — as to a greater extent in the more loosely structured final two volumes — the individual analyses open out onto wider vistas. Most obviously, they are linked to the Serapiontic Principle, which itself, as we have seen, incorporates a many-stranded program explicitly grounded in the discourse of contemporary philosophy, drawing both on Fichtean solipsism and Schellingian “Naturphilosophie.” In short, Hoffmann is presenting an aesthetic rather than a random assortment of points, and in this respect has developed the Tieck model considerably. This greater coherence in the patterning of the ideas and analysis also extends to the discussions themselves, which normally are anything but vague and unstructured; indeed they have a “Konsequenz” and sometimes a clear outcome, which may take the form of consensus or agreement. Typically, there will be a general airing of views, often a clash or collision of viewpoints, interspersed with defense of his position by the author-narrator of the tale, who may develop further points of relevance or refer to other works for comparison, including his own. In all these stages the members are supposed to hold in their minds the agreed criteria of the principle as laid down in the first section, though, unsurprisingly, that in itself is subject to different interpretations and emphasis when the members are faced with the task of matching it against the evidence of a particular tale. The final stage in what are usually short, concise contributions to the debate will often take the form of a decision or judgment that finds general acceptance. In this process, however, the opinions of all the four (or six) voices are not always equally apportioned. Lothar — and to a lesser extent Theodor — takes a commanding position (I have compared the former to a chairman but if that is apt, then he is one who does not always get his own way). A brief examination of a few key examples will serve to illustrate the dynamic aspect of the frame discussions. The first is already familiar and concerns the long process leading up to the exposition of the principle, punctuated by general discussion, narrative (Der Einsiedler Serapion), further discussion, a second narrative (Rat Krespel) further comment, and finally consensus and agreement about setting up a literary society, with the Serapiontic Principle as its main terms of reference (HSW/SB, 23–71). Although Lothar’s role, as I have already mentioned, is of primary importance in reaching this point, the final formulation is not achieved by a straightforward process. Starting at loggerheads with his friends, Lothar at first plays the part of devil’s advocate, as a skeptic who fears that such a venture will be unable to avoid the pitfalls of philistinism or the ossification that generally reigns in such societies. It is the eloquence of his three friends, Theodor, Ottmar, and Cyprian that leads Lothar away from his somber, unreceptive mood, and from his deepseated anxieties about the mutability of all things and the changes that have already overtaken their group after a long period of separation. At the

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early stage in this process of persuasion and after the narration of the key tale Der Einsiedler Serapion, Lothar plays no part, but, doubtless, is listening to and assimilating the arguments in the debate among his friends. At this point the tale has been subject to many negative reactions from the receivers: “Angst und Entsetzen” (Theodor), “etwas Uberspanntes” (Ottmar), and even Cyprian, the narrator’s, own (latter-day) reluctance to identify with his eccentric, or insane, character. All this adds up to a powerful battery of adverse criticism towards the story of the hermit, though not one of total rejection, as the emphasis gradually shifts from horror at the character’s mental extremism and divorcement from reality to an appreciation of his abundance of imagination and creativity. This in turn leads to a reappraisal of the Serapion tale, which is guided now by Theodor’s new emphasis on art and creativity and his development of the theme of the artist in narrating his tale Rat Krespel. The ensuing discussion is led by Lothar, who now comes out of the closet and assimilates both the Einsiedler material and that deriving from this second tale, so that the extreme, absolutist stance represented by the hermit himself (with its Fichtean overtones) is juxtaposed with the dualistic position achieved by Lothar’s more Schellingian insight into the problems raised by the relationship of “Geist” and “Natur.” A complex consensus, therefore, is reached, in which ultimately both these seemingly opposed positions can be kept open, the one expressing the absolutist and transcendental tendencies in art and life, the other the oppositional relationship between subject and object. This kind of “polyphonic” consensus, of which so many commentators speak, does not, however, show so clearly in the subsequent discussions, which could basically be described as applications of the principle as formulated by Lothar and confirmed and extended by the others (for example, Theodor). The debate on the relationship between words and music (see Der Dichter und der Komponist), for instance, exists within both the narrative and the flanking discussion sections, and no true consensus is reached in either. The former ends at an unresolved impasse as Ferdinand and Ludwig, after much to-ing and fro-ing beg to differ on which artist in the collaboration should give ground to the other, the scales being weighted more heavily against Ferdinand the writer. Though he finally puts a good face on it and makes a resoundingly patriotic speech, this does nothing to settle the problems raised about which art form should take the leading role. The outer frame takes up this unresolved problem and at first reinforces it, Lothar and Cyprian, the wordsmiths, both in search of composers of libretti, initially taking up an oppositional stance towards Theodor the musician. Later — after the narration — Cyprian moves position, though not by resolving the argument (which seems unresolvable) but by suggesting a way to achieve a consensus by nonverbal means, namely through the performance of a part-song composed by Theodor to

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a poem by Maler Müller. This nineteenth-century rendition is in the polyphonic style of Palestrina, in which each of the four singers sings a stanza of equal length, and all four combine in a chorus at the beginning and end of the piece. When words fail and consensus is impossible, it seems, harmony (and a quasi-Palestrinian polyphony) can serve a restorative function. Two examples exist of a multi-stranded discussion on the topic of the Märchen genre and its relationship to the principle. The first is motivated by the narration of Nußknacker und Mausekönig, the second by that of Die Brautwahl (SB/HSW, 719–22), a hybrid tale that Hoffmann clearly does not regard as a Märchen but that hovers on the verge of the genre through its juxtaposition of supernatural happenings with very down-to-earth characters in a down-to-earth urban setting. In the first the author-narrator, Lothar, tries to defend his Märchen presentation of Nußknacker und Mausekönig as a serious tale that children are well able to understand, while Ottmar and Cyprian voice concerns about its “ironischer Ton.” Lothar clearly takes these criticisms (some of which had been expressed in reviews) seriously, rates the Märchen less highly than Der goldene Topf, and concedes that the work does not conform to Tieck’s strictures in the Phantasus — so much so that he resolves to write another in which he will address children and will luxuriate “weniger in fantastischer Übermut” (this will be Das fremde Kind). Thus a movement of minds and a final consensus is achieved, which demonstrates the value of practical criticism (as well as Hoffmann’s attentive attitude towards reviews). The second discussion, following Die Brautwahl opens out more obviously onto the issue of the Serapiontic Principle and its connection with the Märchen genre. The argument ranges over older models such as the Arabian Nights, asking the question whether these can be of use to the modern writer. Applying a major defining feature of the principle, namely, the requirement that the fantastic must always be tethered in the real world, Theodor feels that the Oriental model is too remote in its settings and characters to qualify. This point of view is refuted by Ottmar, who makes the point that these very characters in the Arabian Nights — artisans, tradesmen, tailors, and so on — are often people of modest social status and thence very much accessible to the modern reader. He thinks that this imparts to the tales a universal quality that can indeed be of value in the present-day world. The upshot of the discussion is a consensus about Lothar’s inclusive proposition that the modern Märchen must mediate between the real and the ideal worlds and that the Arabian Nights can conform to this stipulation and still serve as an inspiration. Both these examples show that Lothar, in his chairman-like role, preserves an open mind and is influenced here by the weight of the collective arguments, even in areas where he — the chief practitioner of the Märchen — has considerably more experience than his colleagues.

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Finally, a glance at the brief section that serves as an epilogue to the entire collection (HSW/SB, 1197–99) shows Hoffmann reducing the number of voices by half — to Lothar, Theodor, and Ottmar. The absence of Cyprian, who had played a big part in narrative and discussion is puzzling; less so that of Sylvester and Vincenz, who, as we saw, were more like “Hilfskonstruktionen” brought in to fill in some gaps in the range and expertise of the brotherhood. It seems that the Serapionsbund is breaking down visibly. In this nostalgic and valedictory conclusion each of the remaining members selects one salient feature of the principle that he feels has contributed to the value and success of the enterprise. Interestingly, it is Theodor, not Lothar, who has the last word. For his part Lothar picks out as the important Serapiontic feature that of resolution, the structural arrangement that had enabled the dark moods produced by tales that emphasized the “Nachtseite der Natur” to give way to bright hopeful ones (the Märchen, as we have seen, play an important part in contributing to this transition from “Ernst” to “Scherz,” which Hoffmann had tried to maintain within the individual volumes). Ottmar singles out the quality of cool reflection, “Besonnenheit,” that aspect of creativity that is a necessary accompaniment to all expressions of fantasy and that, in the creative process, constitutes the stage that follows on from the enthusiasm, even exaltation, that may overtake the writer when he experiences the first thrill of inspiration. Finally, Theodor testifies to the importance of a genuine commitment to the task of creative writing and the sociability and sense of communality with like-minded spirits (there are echoes here of the notion of the “Geistergemeinschaft”), which, to his mind, had been a guiding principle. The purposefulness of the frame discussion has served to reinforce this very constructive message, but the conclusions, typically, leave open some issues that have defied resolution and underline the ephemeral, fragile nature of the whole enterprise, a feature that it shares with the human condition. The last thing Hoffmann would wish for is to have laid down a dogmatic rule book engraved in stone, though given the trouble he has taken to air his views and the range and quality of the critique it would be surprising if he had not meant to add to the enjoyment and stimulate the critical acumen of his readership.

Notes 1 Friedrich Schnapp, “Der Seraphinenorden und die Serapionsbrüder E. T. A. Hoffmanns,” Literaturwissenschaftliches Jahrbuch der Görres-Gesellschaft, new series 3(1962): 99–112. 2 See Ulrich Mückenberger, “Phantasie und Gerechtigkeitssinn: Der Dichter und Jurist E. T. A. Hoffmann,” Neue Rundschau 100(1989): 163–86.

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3 See Georg Ellinger, E. T. A. Hoffmann: Sein Leben und seine Werke (Hamburg and Leipzig: L. Voss, 1894), 145. 4 Note that Hoffmann himself does not use the term “Märchen” for his works in this mode. He therefore draws a clear distinction between the benign and the terrifying manifestations of “higher” or supernatural powers. 5

Hoffmann’s admiration for his fellow Prussian is well documented. The Serapionsbrüder also express high praise for Michael Kohlhaas; see HSW/SB, 639.

8: From Visual to Verbal: Three Serapiontic Tales Introduction

A

HOFFMANN DERIVES from many sources. The origins of a process that he sometimes metaphorically terms “kindling” (“entzünden”), and the spark that ignites the imaginative faculties, may be traced to random associations formed between things seen and things interpreted, visual perceptions and mental transformations. As we have observed, the supremacy of visual perception in Hoffmann’s time is rapidly being challenged by other faculties that are less easy to identify precisely — hence Hoffmann’s portmanteau term “inneres Schauen” to describe the one to which he attaches special importance, a term that makes it clear that his aesthetic aim has to be distinguished from mimesis. One of the most interesting features of this approach is the fact that everything observed — the entire world, whether in the raw state or “gedeutet” — is a candidate for further transformation, and that this principle applies as much to artworks created by others, which themselves may have been the finished product of similar transformations, as it does to straightforward, unprocessed material. In order to make his position abundantly clear, Hoffmann himself will regularly point the reader in the direction of his source material, whether this be an anecdote by G. H. Schubert (as in the case of Die Bergwerke zu Falun) or, as in the case of the three tales from the Serapionsbrüder that are based on contemporary paintings, by giving details in two of the three cases about the date and place of the exhibitions in Berlin at which the works were displayed, the names of the artists, and their titles. There is nothing extraordinary to a modern reader about the transposition of works from one genre into another; the advent of film has made the adaptation of novels and short stories, for instance, a commonplace practice. In Hoffmann’s day, however, movement between genres was less common, and to some extent he is pioneering this extension of the range of source material for the tales into uncharted realms, and at the same time self-consciously drawing attention to the new aesthetic possibilities that this affords.1 As was seen above, the Jacques Callot preface to the Fantasiestücke sets out a Romantic program for the literary arts that is based on principles derived from the work of a seventeenth-century graphic artist and that demonstrates the ease by means of which there can be transposition from RTISTIC INSPIRATION FOR

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a visually to a verbally based art form. To establish the now much-developed program, based on the Serapiontic Principle in the Serapionsbrüder, and include its connection with the visual arts, Hoffmann is drawing this time on the work of contemporary German artists. The first of these is Karl Wilhelm Kolbe (1781–1853), a student of the famous virtuoso print artist Daniel Chodowiecki (1726–1801), and at the time a leading representative of Romantic painting, whose reputation has nowadays fallen by the wayside in favor of his more genial contemporaries, Ph. O. Runge and C. D. Friedrich. Two Kolbe paintings inspire tales: Ottmar’s Doge und Dogaresse and Sylvester’s Meister Martin der Küfner und seine Gesellen. A painting by the second artist, Johann Erdmann Hummel (1769–1852), is the inspiration for Theodor’s tale, Die Fermate. All these works had been seen by Hoffmann at exhibitions in the Berlin Gallery. To enhance the significance of the art works and prepare the ground for a detailed examination of the processes by means of which the pictorial work can metamorphose into a narrative, Hoffmann is able to draw on a specialized literary form fashionable at the time, the gallery dialogue.2 The popularity of this form in Germany harks back to the influential salons associated with Diderot several decades earlier. It reflects the new function of art galleries in Germany, many of them originally private or royal collections that were now made available to the general public and that became a meeting place for cultured citizens and travelers. The German Romantics were to cultivate this form extensively, starting with the Frühromantik (A. W. Schlegel and Caroline Schlegel, “Die Gemälde,” published in the Athenäum, 1799) and, more famously, the witty piece by Clemens Brentano and Achim von Arnim (published in the Berliner Abendblätter 3) apropos Caspar David Friedrich’s “Mönch am Meer,” a painting from the royal collection, which caused a sensation when it was first exhibited at the Berlin Royal Academy in 1810; even more famously, Brentano’s and Arnim’s dialogue sparked off a counter-piece from the editor himself, Heinrich von Kleist, namely “Empfindungen vor Friedrichs Landschaft,” which, however, pointedly divests itself of the original dialogue form.4 These examples could be viewed, perhaps, as early forms of art criticism, but Hoffmann has more ambitious ideas: for him the exposition of the creative process of transposition from one medium to another, itself an extension of the Serapiontic Principle, is more significant than any critique or appraisal of the art works themselves.

Doge und Dogaresse Among the following three examples of transposition from the visual to the verbal medium, Doge und Dogaresse, a tale which in itself is not one of Hoffmann’s most remarkable, is given added significance by its being

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Doge und Dogaresse. Copy of oil painting by K. W. Kolbe. Staatsbibliothek Bamberg. enclosed within a complex inner frame, complete with a second narrator, who adds another level of fictionality. The first narrator, Ottmar, introduces his tale by giving a brief description of the subject matter of Kolbe’s painting on which the tale is based, focusing on the main figures, the old Doge, the young woman, two retainers, and a young man, all grouped before the glittering spectacle of Venetian palaces and towers that line the Grand Canal. Numerous flotillas on the waters point to the preparations for an important forthcoming ceremony: as we learn, it is the symbolic marriage of the Doge of Venice to the sea. Ottmar’s introductory description inevitably becomes in itself an interpretation. Especially his character summary of the Doge is double-edged, as he points to his “sonderbare gemischte Züge, die bald auf Kraft, bald auf Schwäche, bald auf Stolz und Übermut, bald auf Gutmütigkeit deuten” (HSW/SB, 429). This mysterious formulation — which shows Ottmar sharing the puzzlement exhibited by the gallery audience towards the picture — immediately whets the reader’s appetite for more information. An important adjunct to the interpretation of the picture, one on which Ottmar also comments, is an inscription written into the frame,5 a four-line verse in the form of an elegiac lament, pointing to the incompatibility between the Doge and the young woman whom we presume to be his wife, and presaging some disastrous sequel.6 The key point in the verse is the allusion to the Doge’s marriage with the sea, the cause of the celebrations depicted in the

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background, for this immediately throws into question the status of his real marriage. From the outset, Hoffmann is presenting both the picture and its frame, the visual and the verbal, as one meaningful unit, which serves as a kind of overture to the tale which will follow. The verbal “clue” that is offered could be said almost to invite a response in kind, and provides an elegant transition between the picture and the tale. Building on the resources of the gallery dialogue, Hoffmann can present a couple of individual gallery viewers, cognoscenti, who tire of the idle chatter of the crowd, and are suddenly joined by a mysterious stranger of noble appearance and with a painter’s cloak draped over his shoulders. This individual, as it turns out, is intimately connected with the subject depicted in the painting. The tale that he proceeds to narrate is a re-creation of a series of pseudo-historical events that fit the situation depicted in the picture. We shall have occasion to draw attention again to the fact that in working this material the narrator proposes to carry out to the letter the process of internalization (“erschauen”) associated with the Serapiontic technique. In its transposed narrative version the picture acquires various complex strands. In particular Hoffmann imposes on it a German-Italian plot, echoing his own personal fascination with this theme. Into an authentic Italian milieu (and Hoffmann researched both the historical and topographical background for the tale meticulously) his narrator inserts an invented German character, Antonio Dalbirger, whose own story provides love interest and intrigue as he plots to elope with the Doge’s young wife — once his playmate in Germany — but only manages to achieve with her a union in death under the waves off the coast of Venice. In a postscript Ottmar resumes his role as frame narrator, taking over from the mysterious stranger who had been responsible for creating the tale, and bringing the two gallery friends and the reader back to the starting point, that is, the picture itself. As a result of its “narrative realization,” the reception process has now altered and the two cognoscenti are aware of new dimensions to the picture. Details that they had not noticed in the depiction of the two main figures emerge sharply: to the observers the old Doge’s rich apparel now appears as a sign of excessive vanity (“in törichtem Prunk und faselnder Eitelkeit,” 482), while the Dogaressa presents a picture of tragic melancholy (“wie die Schatten eines unbekannten, nur geahnten Schmerzes,” 482). The elements themselves now seem threatening, as storm clouds, previously unnoticed, are discerned on the horizon (“aus dem fernen Meer, aus den duftigen Wolken, die San Marco einhüllten, schien die feindliche Macht Tod und Verderben zu drohen” [HSW/SB, 482]). This new, “enhanced” reading of the situation depicted — entailing switches of focus from picture to tale and from tale to picture — produces in the two viewers a “more profound” insight into its meaning (a “tiefere Bedeutung,” 482). The carryover of impressions from the narrative to the picture identify the factor that brings them most closely

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together aesthetically, namely, the mixed feelings of pain and pleasure, the bitter-sweet quality that features in so many of Hoffmann’s literary works and that, as the cognoscenti testify, can in certain circumstances apply also to the visual arts: “Die tiefere Bedeutung des anmutigen Bildes ging ihnen klar auf aber auch alle Wehmut der Liebesgeschichte . . . kehrte sooft sie das Bild auch noch anblicken mochten, wieder und erfüllte ihr innerstes Gemüt mit süßem Schauern” (482). In all this it seems that the full expressive power of the visual source can be fully realized by an imaginative reconstruction in narrative form. This raises questions about the status of the two respective art forms and the treatment of the same theme in each. For if the “meaning” of the picture is enhanced (“potenziert”) by its being juxtaposed with the tale, surely that suggests the superiority of the latter as an expressive art form. Similar problems had arisen from the coming together of literary and musical forms in Der Dichter und der Komponist and the argument about status that was sparked off by the insistence of each of the respective practitioners, the poet and the composer, that his art form should play the leading role in the alliance. Might it not seem that in this example too Hoffmann is utilizing the pictorial medium as a starting point only, and focusing on an ambiguity in the picture that does not relate to any of its painterly or technical features, but rather to matters touching on the human relations and human psychology of the figures depicted, matters, in short, that are, more properly, at the very center of literary concerns? The bittersweet quality that Hoffmann regards as such an important feature of the narrative replaces the mystery and uncertainty that had been foremost in the original painting. Arguably, this feature could have been left implicit and the viewer (like Hoffmann) encouraged to make his own speculations, or alternatively to concentrate on more technical aspects of the painting itself. But Kolbe himself, it seems, had pointed the way to a narrative transposition by having recourse to the verbal clue contained within the pictorial frame. This gives Hoffmann more than a head start in his enterprise! What, then, of the role of the second narrator? Why cannot Ottmar — who himself has done all the spadework in researching the historical and topographical material, to the point where, as Lothar puts it, he became “fed up” while engaged in writing it (“ließ es sich aber sauer werden,” 482) — join his two cognoscenti and present the narrative as his own work, which it effectively is within the terms of the fictional framework? Instead, we have as narrator and creator of the tale a substitute figure, an exotic stranger who looms up in the art gallery: “Von den Freunden unbemerkt hatte sich hinter ihnen ein Mann hingestellt von hohem edlen Anssehn, den grauen Mantel malerisch über die Schulter geworfen, das Bild mit funkelnden Augen betrachtend” (HSW/SB, 430). This description reminds one of the “alter Maler” in Die Elixiere des Teufels, who looms up equally suddenly and who, like this figure, is a kind of “revenant” and

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sage who makes important general observations.7 In this case the masterful figure identifies himself as a historian, and the subject on which he professes himself to be an authority is authenticity in the recovery and representation of past events. However, it is made quite clear that this “authenticity” has more to do with poetry and, specifically, with the Serapiontic program: “denn anders mag ich nicht von Dingen reden, die mir so lebendig vor Augen stehen, als habe ich selbst erschaut.” The suggestion is that in creating a historically based narrative, such a “redendes Gespenst” is not concerned with the mere reproduction of facts but rather with an imaginative or poetic recreation of these. That is what lies behind the remark, at first sight astonishing, of this timeless figure, that Kolbe, the painter, had, without realizing it, created a visual scene involving historical figures with such a degree of conviction and vividness that they assume the same (or similar) level of authenticity or verisimilitude as historical events: Es ist ein eignes Geheimnis, daß in dem Gemüt des Künstlers oft ein Bild aufgeht, dessen Gestalten, zuvor unkennbare körperlose im leeren Luftraum treibende Nebel, eben in dem Gemüte des Künstlers erst sich zum Leben zu formen und ihre Heimat zu finden scheinen. Und plötzlich verknüpft sich das Bild mit der Vergangenheit oder auch wohl mit der Zukunft, und stellt nur dar, was wirklich geschah oder geschehen wird. (HSW/SB, 430–31)

There are overtones here of the debate in Der Einsiedler Serapion regarding the imaginative suspension of the boundaries of time and space during the creative process.8 Even more striking is the formulation that in this case Kolbe, the painter, was probably unaware of the precise identities of the figures depicted: “Kolbe mag vielleicht selbst noch nicht wissen, daß er auf dem Bilde dort, niemanden anders darstellte als den Dogen Marino Falieri und seine Gattin Annunziata” (431). Hoffmann is here, it seems to me, underlining a point emphasized elsewhere in the frame discussion relating to the use of historical sources, and the liberty that the poet may take in applying them as a starting point for imaginative re-creations of an event or period.9 This is what might be termed “die Poetisierung des Historischen.” Such historical material is often used in the Serapionsbrüder collection, as we shall see again in Das Fräulein von Scuderi; like everything else, it is grist to Hoffmann’s mill and an excellent jumping-off point for the kind of imaginative transformation associated with the Serapiontic Principle. However, I believe it is important to distinguish Hoffmann’s utilization of such material from what Kremer terms “eine starke Tendenz zur Historisierung,”10 an approach that aims for historical accuracy, and local and period “color,” and which is a feature of the general movement towards realism in nineteenth-century literature that we identify with the period broadly described as “Restauration” and that is associated with late Romanticism. It is misleading to associate the

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process that Hoffmann describes, which is the imaginative transformation of the bare facts and the achievement of “Wahrscheinlichkeit,” with such forms of realism (for which the term “Biedermeier” is sometimes also used pejoratively).11 Hoffmann’s mouthpiece, the mysterious stranger, is careful to match his case for historical reconstruction with the full imaginative resources associated with the Serapiontic Principle. In this case the historical material provides an interesting subtheme, but the creative heart of the story derives from the challenge involved in the process of transposition from the visual to the verbal medium and from the relationship of the historical facticity of the source material to its imaginative, poetic possibilities.

Meister Martin der Küfner The second Kolbe picture (originally entitled “Die Böttcherwerkstatt”) reveals further variations on this theme. It presents a typical nineteenthcentury variant on the genre picture, beloved of seventeenth-century artists, here a scene described in pictorial detail depicting the coopering process (the fashioning of wine barrels), and featuring a master cooper, two apprentices, a young woman, and an couple of small children playing with hoops in the workshop. However, the narrator, unlike the one in Doge und Dogaresse, does not immediately describe or interpret the picture — though some details (such as the children playing with hoops in the foreground) will occur in the tale itself, and it will make an important appearance at the very end. From the reader’s point of view, therefore, Sylvester’s narrative is a less self-conscious type of transposition, and it does not bring the idea of its own provenance so obtrusively to one’s notice. That point is addressed instead, however, at the close of the narration in the context of the frame dialogue and the ensuing discussion. For in this tale Hoffmann has other purposes in mind than immediately drawing attention to the mechanics of the process of transposition. Sylvester appeals instead to the reader (as if he, or Hoffmann, has forgotten that it is being delivered orally to the members of the Serapionsbund),12 enjoining him to participate in his nostalgic evocation of the charms of Olde Nuremberg (rather like a parody of the style of Tieck’s and Wackenroder’s “Klosterbruder”). It is appropriate that Sylvester should strike this note since, before launching into his narration, he had almost immediately revealed his conservative hankerings for past cultural glories (in that particular case “alte Kirchenmusik” and the Latin text of the Mass). From there to “altdeutsche Kunst” is but a short step. The picture conjured up in the description of Nuremberg is presented in two installments. The first features an interior, the second an exterior vignette, but this scene painting has little in common with that depicted in Kolbe’s picture, which is down to earth, emphasizing honest toil on the part of the coopers as they

Disclaimer: Some images in the printed version of this book are not available for inclusion in the eBook. To view the image on this page please refer to the printed version of this book.

Meister Martin und seine Gesellen von E. T. A. Hoffmann, etching by H. Schmidt after a painting by K. W. Kolbe. Courtesy of Staatsbibliothek Bamberg, sign. L.g.d.20 g/29a.

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go about their work (a toil which, it seems, is about to be alleviated by the administration of some refreshments by the young Rosa but to a bystander). To a modern viewer the picture could perhaps seem to lack charm but to have, by way of compensation, a kind of vigor and crude energy. Instead of this scene, Sylvester gives us a stylized narrative description of a typical family interior, but devoid of human beings, emphasizing the museum-like display of objects and artifacts, which have been carefully selected almost on the basis of their instantly recognizable characteristic qualities: the family Bible, the home-spun tapestry, and so on. Some commentators have complained about the lack of vivid detail and the use of trite adjectives (“fromm,” “reich,” “bunt,” “köstlich,” and so on), seeing this as a deficiency in Hoffmann’s technique, but that would be to misunderstand his purpose. It is precisely the stereotypical features that he wishes to bring out; his “picture” of Nuremberg is not meant to be photographic but draws out its essential qualities — as viewed though self-conscious nineteenthcentury eyes and perceptions of this world as a kind of reverse-idyll (or “eine rückgewandte Utopie”).13 At the same time there is an awareness of the artificiality of such images, and despite the emotionalism of Sylvester’s appeal to nostalgic feelings and reminders of the irretrievable loss of these past emblems of a more stable, less problematic world at a point in time when Germany was poised on the verge of industrialization, here the slight distancing in his technique conveys an unmistakable dash of irony. That impression is reinforced by the awareness that the image conjured up is but a “süßer Traum,” which immediately points to its transience. But the involvement with the reader in this process of induction to Nuremberg is not without some compensations. Most important, the effort involved in attaining it, including first-hand experience and familiarity with pictorial representations in the works of the Old Masters, can help in the process of reconstructing the particular historical complexion of those far away times: “Und nun verstehst du erst den tiefen Sinn ihrer [der alten Meister] Werke, denn du lebst in ihrer Zeit und hast die Zeit begriffen, welche Meister und Werk erzeugen konnte” (HSW/SB, 502). But all the time there is this sense of double vision: in transposing oneself into the spirit of a past age, one is aware that it is past and can never be recovered. The noise and bustle of nineteenth-century urban life soon reasserts itself (“die holde Traumgestalt . . . auf lichten Morgenwolken scheu entflieht vor dem polternden Treiben des Tages und du, brennende Tränen im Auge, dem immer mehr verbleichenden Schimmer nachschauest,” 502). To some extent the deficit felt in the first image of Nuremberg projected in Sylvester’s narrative — the museum-like family interior — can be compensated for by pictorial representations by Old Masters. None are mentioned specifically, but Dürer’s name occurs in the second installment of the presentation. This section consists of exteriors, topographical details, again carefully selected for their almost formulaic familiarity as

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landmarks: the fountain at the marketplace, the cemetery at St. Sebald, Dürer’s house near the Town Hall — it is rather like a guidebook of leading sights, all outstanding in their contribution to the prestige of Nuremberg’s reputation in the public consciousness. Sylvester’s carefully arranged details and evocation of the past remains, however, at the level of a series of vignettes: “Manches Bild des tüchtigen Bürgerlebens zu jener Zeit, wo Kunst und Handwerk sich in wackerm Treiben die Hände boten, stieg hell empor und prägte sich ein dem Gemüt mit besonderer Lust und Heiterkeit,” (503). The fact that Hoffmann seems to be prescribing reactions such as “Behaglichkeit” and “Gemütlichkeit”14 as appropriate responses to the ensuing narrative strikes a discordant note with many present-day commentators, but once more, to take that view is to fall into the trap of literalism and to ignore the Serapiontic distancing and irony. The tone struck in this introduction is fulsome, even slightly patronizing in its expectations of reader-response, but deliberately so, since once more Hoffmann is bringing into play a set of assumptions about present-day perspectives on the past and setting them sharply against a tale that turns out to be anything but a reinforcement of a bourgeois idyll. The historical past can never be restored — it is subject to “das ewig rollende Rad der Zeit” (HSW/SB, 502) — and thus invokes melancholy. It can only be “recovered” through the application of imagination and by means of artistic processes (specifically those outlined in connection with the Serapiontic Principle), and when this happens the only compensation for the reader is an aesthetic enjoyment compounded of bitter-sweet emotions: “tiefe Sehnsucht, welche mit süßem Schauern deine Brust durchbebt,” (502). Hoffmann’s ironic purpose and awareness of disparities between idyll and reality, art and life, are as clearly evident as they are elsewhere. Far from himself adopting a “Biedermeier” perspective, it seems to me, through his narrator figure he is setting up such a perspective, while simultaneously demonstrating its limited horizons, just as his narrators sometimes adopt clichés in landscape descriptions or present stereotypical characters in his Märchen. There is little difference between the technique used in Meister Martin to evoke Olde Nuremberg and those of his mannered evocation of, say, the commedia dell’arte world in Prinzessin Brambilla, or of the fantasy world of childhood in Nußknacker und Mäusekönig. All of them function selfconsciously as theatrical sets. When we examine the style and presentation adopted in the main narrative, the use of chapter headings, interpolated songs and rhymes, and linguistic archaisms immediately stand out. Chapter headings are common in Hoffmann’s work15 and normally are reserved for longish narratives, mostly Marchen, but almost exclusively in humorous or ironic vein (thus, for example, they are used in Der goldene Topf but not in Der Sandmann). They can, as here, impart a mock-heroic tone: “Wie Herr Martin zum Kerzenmeister erwählt wurde und sich dafür bedankte” strikes a pompous note, the

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expression of thanks just a shade incongruous in its triviality. Even when the content of the chapter headings does not suggest any ironic incongruity, phrases like “und was sich darauf weiter begab” carry overtones of parody of older forms of narrative. Other archaisms include the text of Reinhold’s song (“wo steht das Brünnelein”), which pays lip service to medieval forms (“Da kunt/Ihr fröhlich schaun”) or the traditional inscription hanging over the door of Meister Martin’s house (“Wer treten wil die Stiegen hinein/Dem sollen die Schuhe fein sauber seyn/Oder vorhero streiffen ab,/Daß man nit drüber zu klagen hab”). Most extravagant of all, however is the description of Rosa, Meister Martin’s daughter, which adopts so many superlatives that the narrator feels moved to make a personal address to the reader. To cap his verbal description he also needs reinforcement from the visual arts and makes a significant allusion to a well-known source: the Nazarene painter Cornelius’s illustrations to Goethe’s Faust.16 This enables him to present Rosa as a Gretchen figure: “so wie in Cornelius’ Zeichnungen zu Goethes gewaltigen Faust Margarethe anzuschauen ist, als sie diese Worte spricht, so mochte auch wohl Rosa anzusehen sein, wenn sie in frommer züchtiger Scheu übermütigen Bewerbungen auszuweichen sich gedrungen fühlte” (508). This narratorial intrusion once more jolts the reader back to nineteenth-century perspectives and above all to the reception of the latemedieval world in the contemporary nineteenth-century art world in Germany (and doubly so, that is, both Goethe’s and Cornelius’s). The narrative in Meister Martin is spaced out and might strike a modern reader as being on the self-indulgent side. It dwells lovingly in the early stages on the scenes of Meister Martin’s hospitality (special emphasis being laid on the excellent hocks which “in den Gläsern perlten” and the material opulence of the “burgerlich” surroundings). But the pace quickens a little when it switches to the main story line, that is the arrival on the scene of the two hopeful suitors for Rosa’s hand, Reinhold and Friedrich, Since her grandmother’s prophecy is interpreted (wrongly, as is often the case in a fairy tale) to mean that she can only marry a master cooper, both young men are prepared to learn coopering and sacrifice their true métiers (Reinhold, who is really of noble birth, is a painter of German origin, like a Nazarene, but trained in Italy; Friedrich had been apprenticed to a silversmith in Nuremberg). While competing for Rosa’s hand in their apprenticeship to her father, they both strive to satisfy him in the coopering business, but nonetheless manage to maintain a close and ideal friendship. Conrad, a third suitor of mysterious origin, also appears on the scene and all three are on constant parade and competition in the presence of Rosa: the new recruit displaying his chivalric skills in jousting, while Friedrich and Reinhold strive to satisfy the rigorous rules of the Meistersinger in performance of their songs. Underlying these pastiche-like episodes, however, a more serious theme emerges. Reinhold, the Italian-trained painter, has been secretly

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completing a masterpiece in the form of a portrait of Rosa, and his growing involvement in this enterprise is in inverse proportion to his interest in the coopering business. Is this a rift between “Handwerk” and “Kunst,” art forms that the narrator had informed us went hand in hand in Olde Nuremberg (“sich in wackerem Treiben die Hände boten”)? We now hear that, as a celebrated painter who had originally despised the work of his fellow Germans and built up a reputation in Italy, Reinhold had returned home to Nuremberg in order to study the German masters, having been inspired by the sight of a Dürer painting of the Madonna. His return to Nuremberg is fueled by a mission to participate in a German school of painting, and that leads him to the Gretchen-like Muse figure of Rosa. Here a typical Pygmalion-like confusion has been created by the striking similarity between his Madonna-like portrait and Rosa herself: “oft war . . . mir zumute, als sei Rosa nun das Bild, das Bild aber die wirkliche Rosa.”17 Having now through his own re-creation of Rosa in pictorial terms become aware of this artistic “Täuschung” (an example of “Erkenntnis der Duplizitat des Seins”?) he is able to renounce all desire to possess the original. This realization sparks off a similar process in Friedrich, who feels an overpowering urge to return to his silversmith origins,18 a craft in which he experiences infinitely more satisfaction than he can ever expect to do in completing a giant wine barrel for the Bishop of Bamberg: “Er wußte es nun, daß er untergehen werde in Schmach bei einem Handwerk, das seinem von der Kunst ganz erfüllten Gemüt von Grund aus widerstrebte” (HSW/SB, 559) and “Ich kann nicht mehr arbeiten im schnöden Handwerk, da es mich hinzieht zu meiner herrlichen Kunst mit unwiderstehlicher Gewalt” (HSW/SB, 561). His creation of an intricate goblet in which the features of the beloved can be engraved is clearly meant to equate to Reinhold’s portrait.19 Neither artist can be satisfied with a craft like coopering, which offers no such opportunity for transforming a human source of inspiration, a muse figure, into art. The final denouement greatly resembles a fairy tale, and it is achieved by the unraveling of the meaning of a mysterious prophecy. If love and art must remain separate for the idealistic painter, Reinhold, a happier solution is found for the silversmith and craftsman, Friedrich. Meister Martin’s two fellow masters, Paumgartner and Holzschauer, intervene on Friedrich’s side. The latter is his former master in the silversmith workshop, who takes him on again and presents Meister Martin with the wondrous goblet that has been wrought there. Its figurations and motifs are such that a reinterpretation of Rosa’s grandmother’s prophetic verse can now be made and the terms laid down for her marriage can be seen to apply after all, not to the coopering business and its barrels, but to the product of the silversmith’s art, that is, the goblet, its motifs, and its usage. A nice final touch and rounding off occurs when Reinhold appears as a guest at the wedding of Rosa and his friend Friedrich, bearing as a wedding present a new picture he has created,

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which is clearly a replica of Kolbe’s “Böttcherwerkstatt” (except for Conrad, who had not appeared in that picture): “. . . ein großes Bild in einem prächtigen goldnen Rahmen . . ., das den Meister Martin in seiner Werkstatt mit seinen Gesellen Reinhold, Friedrich und Conrad darstellte, wie sie an dem großen Faß arbeiten und die holde Rosa eben hineinschreitet. Alles geriet in Erstaunen über die Wahrheit, über die Farbenpracht des Kunstwerks” (HSW/SB, 567).20 How is this to be construed? The two artists, Friedrich and Reinhold, had found the coopering work frustrating and unfulfilling; both had returned to their artistically more satisfying professions. By comparison Meister Martin and his world had not been seen to offer compensations and Hoffmann provides no engaging features in his character that might gain the sympathy of the reader, nor does he seem to inspire affection in his apprentices. Where art is concerned he scores very poorly; he tells Friedrich that he could not even make it as a Meistersinger, as a really gifted guildsman would have done. He — and his craft — come across as dull, unexciting, and mediocre (except for his taste in wine) and Hoffmann cannot be said to be making the case for this kind of philistine “Gemütlichkeit” any more than he does in the case of Registrator Heerbrand and Konrektor Paulmann. It seems ironic, then, that Friedrich should be saddled with a wedding present that will remind him of wasted effort spent in a pursuit to which he was not temperamentally suited, but which he simply adopted in order to get the girl he loves. Is Reinhold rubbing this point in? Or celebrating his friend’s ability successfully to achieve a balance between his life (and personal happiness) and his art, which he himself has elected to forego? The narrative has returned at this conclusion to its pictorial source, moving back from the verbal to the visual. But the perspective of a hermetic, museum-like Olde Nuremberg is deliberately shattered by the juxtaposition of the narrative with a picture that most of Hoffmann’s readers would have realized was of their own age, not that of the Dürer period.21 The subjective overlay in our perception of the past, it seems, is unavoidable, and so too is the blurring of fact and fiction. Despite its almost uniformly negative reception since the nineteenth century and complaints about its simplistic adoption of Biedermeier values, this tale has a deceptive quality and reveals the self-conscious artist, Hoffmann, reflecting on the relationship between historical and poetic authenticity. In the place of a complete recovery of the past, he offers an approach similar to that which he presents through the forms of myth or Märchen. And as with those familiar modes of narrative in his works, the invented story line in Meister Martin traces a pseudo-allegorical theme of a kind familiar to us from those sources, namely, the pursuit of the imaginative life in art, and the false twists and turns to which the creative mind lies open in its interaction with the real world.

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The frame dialogue, of course, does not raise issues of this kind; nor can it, by virtue of its own time-restricted horizons. There is general agreement that the tale does conform to basic Serapiontic principles but, as is not unusual, consensus is broken by the one dissenting voice, that of Lothar. His first objection seems on the face of it reasonable: the eponymous hero is too closely modeled on his visual counterpart in the picture. This means that the Serapiontic process of transformation has not fully taken place. As for the other characters, it is conceded that they are “eine feine Gallerie anderer Gemälde” and presented in vivid colors (“mit lebhaften Farben,” 568) but the effect is, as with the visual arts, a static one, and the dynamic quality demanded in both narrative and dramatic form (as Sylvester, the dramatist, of all people should know), is lacking. Lothar’s criticism is, significantly, focused chiefly on formal matters. His other objection is interesting in the light of the theme of nineteenth-century taste in the arts that was raised above. He singles out for criticism the comparatively unimportant character, Conrad, as a typical swash-buckling pseudo-chivalric figure reminiscent of contemporary “gothic” fiction, the “Ritterromane”: “ein Gemisch von Tölpelei, Galanterie, Barbarei und Empfindsamkeit” (568). That ironic distancing seems to reinforce the significance of other examples of nineteenth-century overlay to which Hoffmann draws our attention in Meister Martin der Küfner.

Die Fermate Die Fermate, the third tale based on a contemporary picture (whose original title was “Gesellschaft in einer italienischen Lokanda”), involves a different artist, Johann Erdmann Hummel (1769–1852). Hoffmann must have seen it at the Berliner “Kunstausstellung” in the autumn of 1814, as his narrator, Theodor, obligingly gives us these details in the first sentence. Standing in the “outer frame,” Theodor immediately presents his audience of Serapionsbrüder (who may or may not also have seen it) with a description of the work that amounts to a highly personal interpretation of the scene depicted. One notes that, in all three of the cases of transposition from the visual to the verbal medium we have examined so far, Hoffmann is attracted to paintings that involve groups of characters: these are, obviously, the most likely candidates for an easy transposition into the narrative medium. In this case the audience may be puzzled by the assurance with which Theodor is able to give a precise identity to each figure and to elaborate on the situation, but this is a deliberate ploy on the author’s part to prepare the ground for an unraveling through narrative. In Doge und Dogaresse the inherent contrast between the old Doge and his young wife is the natural focus of attention for a writer who is transposing a picture into a narrative, and in providing the (verbal) clue in the frame, the artist

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Gesellschaft in einer Römischen Locanda (Die Fermate). Oil painting by J. E. Hummel, by kind permission of the Neue Pinakothek Munich, inv. no. 9263. aids in this process. The general situation of tension and potential conflict can, on this basis, be developed into a specific and complex narrative. In Meister Martin the focus in the picture comes on the central figure, the younger apprentice cooper who is completing the large barrel under scrutiny from the two men; rather than producing tension, this scene might come across as a celebration of honest toil and applied skill, However, it could be construed differently; it could suggest a love interest and the possibility of social inequalities; the lack of direct involvement on the part of the onlookers and the fact that the incoming tray of refreshments only contains one glass could, to some minds, suggest a rather pointed class difference, and, to politically and socially minded latter-day commentators, even exploitation of honest toil. In Die Fermate the title points to a highly charged “pregnant moment” in music: the climactic point at which the conductor and orchestra (or accompanist) pause (normally on the dominant chord); this may enable the soloist among other possibilities

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to perform or extemporize a trill “out of time” on the chord before its final resolution in the tonic.22 Because of the element of improvisation involved, the precise moment at which resolution takes place is a matter of intuitive rapport between the conductor and the soloist. It is always an exciting moment for a listener, whose emotions can be stretched to the limit, only to be assuaged and restored to the equilibrium state upon the harmonic resolution. However, there is nothing in Hummel’s delightful picture that points in the direction of a failed resolution, nor, interestingly, does Theodor impose such an interpretation immediately.23 Instead he lingers on the sense of drawn-out tension that this device produces, dramatizing the role of the conductor, an Italian abbot, and presenting the moment of high tension before the resolution through his gestures: Mit aufgehobener Batutta paßt er auf den Moment, wenn Signora die Kadenz, in der sie mit himmelswärts gerichtetem Blick begriffen, endigen wird im langen Trillo, dann schlägt er nieder und die Chitarristin greift keck den Dominanten-Akkord.- Der Abbate ist voll Bewunderung — voll seligen Genusses — und dabei ängstlich gespannt. — Nicht um der Welt willen möchte er den richtigen Niederschlag verpassen. Kaum wagt er zu atmen. Jedem Bienchen, jedem Mücklein möchte er Maul und Flügel verbinden, damit nichts sumse. (SB/HSW, 71–72)

One senses that any interruption at this crucial moment may be disastrous and that everything is poised on a knife’s edge: the conductor’s baton is raised, the prima donna’s head slightly tilted as she trills away, and the guitarist has paused and is looking over to the singer for the cue to enter with the final chord. The innkeeper is a slightly awkward figure: can he be aware of the significance of the fermata and keep still? Theodor’s initial colorful introduction for the benefit of his friends focuses on the climactic moment itself, leaving open at this stage the possible follow-up. Such an approach still defers to the self-containment and integrity characteristic of the visual medium, which can suggest to the viewer a whole range of meanings but whose business it is to “freeze” the moment, without drawing attention explicitly to anterior or posterior events. But his presentation does imply already the specific performance of a fermata. What Hoffmann does with this material is to subtly suggest that there is more here than meets the eye and to create the expectation that the mysteries inherent in the situation Theodor has presented are going to be clarified. This is the point where the visual will be turned into a truly verbal presentation. He will build up an imaginative sequence of events leading up to and following on from that frozen “moment,” thus transforming it, in Serapiontic fashion, into the a full-scale prose narrative. In the process of doing so he will also give the reader an insight into how this is being achieved, step by step. Skilful artist that he is, Hoffmann will reveal the connections between this narrative sequence and the picture only gradually. Using the gallery

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dialogue to create a second frame, he introduces as Theodor’s interlocutor, Eduard, whose contributions to art criticism as such may lack acuity, but whose reactions to the picture nevertheless also reveal some tendencies towards converting its visual appeal into a literary theme. His appreciation of the atmosphere of conviviality suggested by the fruit and wine on the table of the arbor in which the characters are placed, and especially his enthusiastic response to the associations with Italy that this conveys, trigger that potent and eternally fruitful theme for the German creative artist, whether poet, painter, or composer, “Sehnsucht nach dem Süden” and the cultural contrast between Germany and Italy: “Dem herrlichen Bilde, der Kunst, dem heitern Italia, wo hoch die Lebenslust aufglüht, zu Ehren, laß uns hingehen und eine Flasche italienischen Weins ausstechen” (HSW/SB, 72). Eduard testifies to experiencing a kind of inspiration, and an enhanced understanding of the picture: “je mehr mich der höchst vortreffliche Abbate belustigt, desto freier und stärker tritt mir das Ganze ins wirklich rege Leben” (72). This, it is suggested, can possibly be further fostered by the two friends repairing forthwith to an nearby Italian restaurant and surrendering to the illusion of Southern warmth and hedonism exuded by the picture. Already the pictorial image is on its way to being appropriated by the narrative and there is a sense of creative anticipation, although typically at this stage in the process the inspiration takes a vague and unfocused form: “Nein, diese Anregung darf nicht verhauchen in der kalten nüchternen Luft, die uns hier umweht” (72). Theodor’s own response to the picture on the occasion of his first seeing it in the gallery is complex: he is taciturn, “still und in sich gekehrt” (72) to the point where Eduard thinks he has not found it stimulating. However, it comes to light that the reverse is true and that the picture has in fact had an overpowering effect because of associations and memories it has triggered and the fact that the situation and characters it depicts correlate with two “scenes” from Theodor’s own life. On the basis of these complex strands of memory he will narrate the circumstances leading up to and beyond the moment. On one level — the level of what Lothar Köhn has helpfully called “Rahmenwirklichkeit”24 — this could be regarded as providing an insight into the functioning of memory in the reconstruction of someone’s past. But at another — that of “erzählte Realität” — this almost archaeological recovery process can be regarded as a metaphor for the functioning of the creative process itself. Later, when the frame dialogue resumes and the Serapionsbrüder deliver their collective verdict on Theodor’s tale and deliberate on its Serapiontic status, doubts will be raised about the nature of the treatment of the starting material. The fact that the teller of the tale is so closely involved at a personal level with the material makes it seem as if the normal Serapiontic process of transformation and “inneres Schauen” have been replaced by personal reminiscences, suggesting a replication of “real” events and characters whom the teller has

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merely “mit leiblichen Augen geschaut,” (92). This would fall completely foul of the basic rules. Of course, this is an ironic game that Hoffmann can play with his reader, who is fully apprised of all aspects of the Serapiontic Principle and who is expected to read from “Rahmenwirklichkeit” to an overarching “Realität.” The telltale sign here is that despite the technical disqualification the members agree to allow the tale to pass as Serapiontic: “und sie daher des Serapionsklubs nicht ganz unwürdig zu nennen sei.” The same double standard of judgment had been applied to Meister Martin, possibly with a shade more justification. Two themes run through Theodor’s tale: one, by far the lesser, is subsumed into the larger, familiar one of German-Italian cultural relations, which had already been sounded by Eduard; the other is the pattern of his own development as an artist. This is to be discerned in the description of his solid but unexciting musical training in a provincial town (based, as has been suggested, on Hoffmann’s own in Königsberg) and the coup de foudre provided by two visiting Italian singers, Lauretta and Theresina, who introduce him not only to new-style Italian music but also, with their coquettish blandishments and rivalry, simultaneously exert a strong erotic appeal. The raw provincial ingenu is easily manipulated by the pair, who know exactly how to flatter him so that he can be useful as an accompanist and even compose pieces especially for them. Their explosive effect on small-town musical life is deliciously portrayed, but the chief beneficiary is Theodor himself, for whom a completely new musical life is opened up. It is a tangible example of the fruitful encounter of Italian and German musical culture, and immediately shows in Theodor’s new style of composition: “Ich schreibe unbekümmert um kontrapunktische Künste, allerlei Kanzonetten und Arien” (83). The business of composing to the requirements of an Italian muse (or muses) opens up completely new possibilities in composition (although the vanity and showy performing style favored by the soprano, Lauretta, is less to his liking than that of the more seriousminded alto, Theresina). In a benefit concert for the two singers on tour, Lauretta’s over-indulgent trills draw the musical ire of Theodor, who is accompanying them. It is here that we have the second iteration of Hummel’s picture, now for the first time transposed into a situation where the fermata goes badly wrong. On this occasion Lauretta’s cadenza trill reaches preposterous length and proportions: “bunte krause Rouladen, ein ganzes Solfeggio,” (83). It seems to the young German musician that the musical side of the performance is being seriously compromised. As Lauretta draws a deep breath before attacking the final section of the trill, a demon within Theodor provokes him, as he is directing from the keyboard, to bring in the orchestra for the concluding tonic chord before the singer has finished her fermata: “Der Satan regierte mich, nieder schlug ich mit beiden Händen den Akkord, das Orchestere folgte, geschehen war es um Laurettas Triller”

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(HSW/SB, 83). Needless to say, this particular and disastrous execution of a fermata, together with the ensuing recriminations, spells the end of this musical relationship between the accompanist-composer and the two singers. The third and final iteration is set at a considerable remove in time (fourteen years) when Theodor’s perspective on life and art have changed radically and he is now a well-established composer. The account of his meeting up in a Locanda near Rome with what he assures his audience are the original two Italian singers, who are performing a canzone and being conducted by an abbot, presents the reader with an extraordinary coincidence. This is compounded by the fact that the soprano is once more engaged in a fermata trill (“in einer bunten krausen Fermate begriffen,” 88) and once more foiled in her self-indulgent decorative flourishes by the premature intervention of the conductor (who admits after the fiasco: “ich schnitt ihr den Trillo ab,” 89). Another remarkable feature of this incident is the perspective from which Theodor perceives it, for this is very different from that of a gallery observer. In fact he hears rather than sees the performance, as he has arrived on horseback and is being served with a drink of “noble wine” (88), positioned behind the Locanda at a point that can just be discerned in the far background of Hummel’s picture. Hoffmann has picked up this tiny pictorial detail and placed Theodor in the scene as auditor of the musical performance (which is a work by Anfossi known to Hoffmann).25 The reunion that follows furnishes insights that Theodor, as he presents it as part of his tale, is now able to bring to the matter of his erstwhile musical and amorous involvement with the two prima donnas. All this is made explicit in the resumed post-gallery discussion between Eduard and Theodor; they can now evaluate the significance of the affair in terms of the course of Theodor’s development as a musician. Now it is clear to him that the eruption of Lauretta and Theresina onto the provincial scene some years before had had a galvanizing effect on his musical education, extending his horizons and bringing about an awakening of his dormant imaginative powers that otherwise might not have taken place. The episode had in fact precipitated him into his chosen vocation as a composer and musician: “Der im Ton lebende Geist sprach und das war das Schöpfungswort, welches urplötzlich den ihm verwandten im Innern ruhenden Geist weckte” (HSW/SB, 91). Theodor in other words, can now see the role of the two siren figures as muses on his path to a non-material approach to musical composition. And in retrospect he can distinguish clearly between the lowly earthbound qualities that the pair may have exhibited and this higher level of creative artistry. The distinction between eros and art is crucial, as Eduard recognizes when he observes that it is painful to retrace one’s steps and confront a ghost from the past: “die . . . die mit geheimnisvoller Kraft seine innere Musik zu entzünden wußte,” (92). This echoes the requirement of recognizing the “Duplizität

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des Seins” as Lothar had prescribed it in his initial formulation of the Serapiontic Principle. And of courses the principle itself is continually being exemplified by Hoffmann’s thematization of the workings of the creative process in the conversion from picture to narrative that is at the heart of Theodor’s tale. Despite the general neglect of this tale in the critical literature, Wulf Segebrecht’s excellent commentary rightly stresses its virtuoso quality as a work that articulates “auf höchst kunstvolle Weise” material that was beyond the remit of the original artist who created the picture. As Segebrecht pithily puts it, Hoffmann’s starting point is the picture, its theme is music, and its interpretation becomes “Poesie.”26 To which I would add two points: first, that the theme of memory that is built in to Theodor’s process of reconstruction of the past is itself a symbol to denote the creative process itself and second, that the processes involved in the transposition from the pictorial to the literary medium via the theme of music are paradigmatic for the operation of the Serapiontic Principle in the genesis of a work of art.

Notes 1 See Detlef Kremer, E. T. A. Hoffmann: Erzählungen und Romane (Berlin: Erich Schmidt, 1999), who (rather wordily) describes this process as “eine ausgeprägte selbstreflexive Spiegelung des metamorphotischen oder anamorphotischen Übersetzens von pikturaler Räumlichkeit in einen literarischen Prozess,” (168). See also Gerhard Neumann, “Romantische Aufklärung: Zu E. T. A. Hoffmanns Wissenschaftspoetik,” in Aufklärung als Form, ed. Helmut Schmied and Helmut J. Schneider (Würzburg: Königshausen und Neumann, 1997), 143, who had adopted the term “Anamorphose” two years previously. 2

See Theodore Ziolkowski, “The Museum: Temple of Art,” in German Romanticism and its Institutions (Princeton: Princeton UP, 1990) 309–77; see also Ziolkowski, “The Gallery Dialogue as Genre,” in German Romanticism and Its Institutions (Princeton: Princeton UP, 1990), 355–72.

3

Berliner Abendblätter, 13 October 1810; for the complete text of Brentano’s and Arnim’s dialogue, see Clemens Brentano, Gesammelte Schriften (Frankfurt am Main: 1852), 4:250–59. 4

See H. M. Brown, Heinrich von Kleist: The Ambiguity of Art and the Necessity of Form (Oxford: Oxford UP, 1998), 85–86. 5

The annexation of the frame itself as a semantic ingredient and component in the composition of a picture is a particularly Romantic innovation and much favored by artists like Ph. O. Runge (“Der Morgen”) and Caspar David Friedrich (the “Tetschener Altar”) whose frame caused a controversy in the art world of the day. 6

Ah senza amare/Andare sul mare/Col sposo del mare/Non puo consolare” (When the loveless go out on the sea with the mate of the sea they bring their distress). The picture (together with its frame) is itself lost, but was known and available to the editor von Maassen, to whose edition we owe the transposition of

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the words of this inscription. See E. T. A. Hoffmann, Sämtliche Werke, historischkritische Ausgabe mit Erläuterungen, Anmerkungen und Lesarten von Carl Georg von Maassen (Munich and Leipzig: Georg Müller, 1908–28), vols. 1–4 and 6–10. Despite von Maassen’s heroic efforts to complete vol. 5 (the Erläuterungen to Die Serapionsbrüder), this particular text seems to have presented too great a challenge to its (sole) editor. However, his pioneering historical-critical edition is still valuable for his introduction to vol. 6, the one completed volume of Die Serapionsbrüder. On von Maassen, see Cornelia Töpelmann, “Die bibliophile Sammlung Carl Georg von Maassens,” Imprimatur, NF 16(2001): 122–33. 7

He describes himself as a “redende Gespenst der Vorzeit.” His costume suggests that he might belong to the period of the scene depicted in the picture and therefore be an eye-witness to the events he recounts. 8

See chapter 2 in this volume, “Der Einsiedler Serapion.” Ariosto, according to the hermit, had denied this possibility, insisting on the distinction between “poetic” and “historical” truth. 9

See discussion on historical sources and chronicles, HSW/SB, 622–25.

10

See Kremer, “Die historisiernden Erzählungen der Serapionsbrüder,” in E. T. A. Hoffmann: Erzählungen und Romane, 164–70. 11

See discussion of Des Vetters Eckfenster in chapter 6 of this volume.

12

The tale did, of course, start life in a literary journal.

13

See B. Feldges and U. Stadler, E. T. A. Hoffmann: Epoche — Werk — Wirkung, (Munich: C. H. Beck, 1986), 175. 14

The word “Gemütlichkeit,” as ever, is used ambiguously throughout Hoffmann’s works and in a much more positive sense than nowadays. See chapter 5 in this volume, “Prinzessin Brambilla” (n. 25). 15

See Ingrid Strohschneider-Kohrs, Die romantische Ironie in Theorie und Gestaltung, 2nd ed. (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1977), 382, where she comments on Hoffmann’s use of this narrative device in his Märchen; as I shall suggest, Meister Martin, surprisingly, itself contains Märchen elements. 16 The Faust illustrations were published in 1816; Hoffmann is referring to the incident when Gretchen, on leaving church, is accosted by Faust, who offers to accompany her home (v. 2607). 17 A similar motif occurs in Die Elixiere des Teufels, where Medardus and his ancestors continually confuse pictorial images of saints with real women, for example, Aurelie and Rosalia. 18 The point has not always been taken by commentators that the craft of silversmith was very highly regarded in Dürer’s day and that he himself was trained as a goldsmith. 19

The difference in size of the artifacts — the gross barrel and the tiny goblet — underlines the contrast ironically. 20

For a fascinating account of Hoffmann's relationship to the two pictures executed by Kolbe on the Meister Martin theme and the recent discovery of the original version, see Klaus Türk, “E. T. A. Hoffmann: Meister Martin der Küfner und seine Gesellen,” E. T. A. Hoffmann-Jahrbuch 11 (2003): 134–37. The engraving by H. Schmidt reproduced on p. 142 above alone features Rosa and this was the

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version Hoffmann used as an illustration for the first edition of Die Serapionsbrüder. It is unclear whether Kolbe recreated the scene at Hoffmann's behest or after having read his tale. 21 Kolbe added the date “1568” to his initials, referring to a significant year in the annals of Nuremberg craftsmanship. 22 Chords of the diminished and dominant seventh were regarded as controversial dissonances in the harmonic language of Hoffmann’s day (he himself used the phrase “Dolchstiche der Septime” to describe the latter in Kater Murr). See Werner Keil, “E. T. A. Hoffmanns Beitrag zur Entstehung der musikalischen Romantik,” ETAHJb 1 (1992): 119ff. 23

Hummel did not even supply the title “Die Fermate” himself, which was only introduced later. His own title was simply “Gesellschaft in einer italienischen Lokanda” (HSW/SB, 1289). 24

Lothar Köhn, Vieldeutige Welt: Studien zur Struktur der Erzählungen E. T. A. Hoffmanns und zur Entwicklung seines Werkes (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1966). 25 Pasquale Anfossi (1727–97) was an opera composer, known for his long drawnout finales. 26

Wulf Segebrecht, “Stellenkommentar” (HSW/SB, 1292).

9: The “Nachtseite der Natur” and the Serapiontic Principle Introduction

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topical issues such as magnetism and somnambulism play an important part in Hoffmann’s thinking, and link up with the fundamental mind-body question that was being formulated at the time in terms of the relationship between “Geist” and “Natur.” Hoffmann had followed debates about these topics in contemporary thinking at a theoretical level, in the writings of Schelling and Schubert, and at a more practical, psychological level in the influential treatises of Reil and Pinel. His close personal acquaintance with the influential medical director of the Bamberg hospital, Adalbert Friedrich Marcus, suggests that he had plenty of direct access to authoritative sources of information, and enough certainly to have formed his own opinions.1 After the carefully planned first volume of the Serapionsbrüder tales, themes relating to the Occult occur more and more frequently: the third “Abschnitt” for example, contains two such tales (Die Automate and the untitled Eine Spukgeschichte) as well as an introduction to this entire section in which there is lengthy discussion about the Occult among the members of the Bund; this is then followed by two anecdotes by Theodor that are presented as illustrations. Hoffmann clearly intends — in his typically undogmatic way — to provide his readers with an introduction to these topics as preparation for the subsequent tales in the collection that will draw on these areas to which Schubert had given the useful portmanteau term “Die Nachtseite der Natur.” Hoffmann seems particularly anxious to present a wide cross-section of opinion and a thorough discussion on what was clearly a controversial topic. Reviewing the entire range of tales in the Serapionsbrüder that feature the Occult and the Supernatural, one is aware of two different forms in which supra-rational, or inexplicable, happenings are described. To the first category belong, in addition to the two mentioned above, Der unheimliche Gast, Der Baron von B., Erscheinungen, and Vampirismus. Die Bergwerke zu Falun presents the Supernatural in the form of a dream-world in which the hero’s experiences take on the quality of hallucinations, while Das Fräulein von Scuderi also reveals an exploration of the darker, destructive forces that take hold of the mind, this time that of the creative artist; to this a kind of “therapy” through a kindly human agency is applied, albeit

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unsuccessfully. Such tales, according to the frame characters, evoke “Grausen und Entsetzen,” and are to be distinguished from the second category, which is represented by the three designated Märchen in the collection: Nußknacker und Mäusekönig, Das fremde Kind, and Die Königsbraut. These too draw on the magical and mysterious but are presented in such a way that the reader is prepared and willing to suspend disbelief, to enter into the conventions of the form and contemplate the prospects of the resolution of conflicts and uncertainties that are such a predominant feature of the Märchen tradition. The first category may tend to be more interpretatively ambiguous than the second, the boundaries between real and unreal more fluid, and inexplicable incidents may invite, but not permit, explanations. Needless to say, however, the two categories are not always kept entirely distinct; both destructive and benign aspects of the Supernatural exist in all the Märchen, presenting conflicts which, in these particular cases, may achieve different degrees of resolution. Hoffmann’s detailed introduction of the theme of the Occult in the third “Abschnitt” gives the reader useful background insights into the disturbing themes that will form an important part of this strain in his fiction. In earlier times this was the only side of his work that attracted the attention of his broad readership, and it would define his image for over one hundred years. Above all it charts areas that display human beings in vulnerable situations and open to forces beyond their control; it considers the possibility that they may be guided or manipulated by other, often unscrupulous, human agencies or by higher powers, and in general leaves ambiguous any definitive view of whether the destructive elements derive from within or without. The popular topic of “magnetism” (by which is usually meant hypnosis) serves as an example. The proposed introduction to the group of Serapionsbrüder of a new member, Vinzenz, is opportune at this point, since he is described as “der eifrigste Verfechter des Magnetismus” and deemed to have a special insight into the depths of the human mind, thanks to his “hellen Blick” (315). In the discussions of cataleptic, hypnotic, and somnambulistic states, attention is given to the ethical issues involved in medical experimentation with human subjects, the group members being more favorably inclined to genuinely therapeutic applications and distrustful of random interventions of a sensationalist or voyeuristic nature. In all this discussion emphasis is laid on the mindbody question, and manifestations of the unconscious are seen by some as the surrender “des eigenen Ichs” to an alien “geistiges Prinzip” (319), thus throwing into uncertainty the much-vaunted superiority of mind over body that had been constantly emphasized in earlier discussions, for instance, in Der Einsiedler Serapion. But there is also much uncertainty and even inconsistency in the attitudes of the members, as can be seen from the skeptical Lothar’s disapproval of “magnetism” in theory while, as Theodor points out, when himself in some physical straits, he was not averse to

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trying out self-hypnosis. It might be expected that members of the group would warm in principle to a process in which the imaginative, creative side of the mind, or “Geist,” is given access to higher or spiritual levels of experience. This, after all, is at the heart of the Serapiontic Principle. The dream state, of which somnambulism, as they see it, is an extreme form, is immediately fruitful to the artist, and yet this manifestation of what is termed “potenzierte Geist” will generally be based on a pathological condition, some “krankhafter Zustand des Körpers” (318). Thus Lothar has reluctantly to concede, in theory, the value of such a state of heightened perception (“das willkürliche Hervorrufen jenes potenzierten Seelenzustandes,” 319). But at the same time he admits to considerable anxiety about the possible danger of interfering with complex, illunderstood psychological processes. He believes, it seems, in the powers of magnetism but is strongly against the idea of intervention and, as his friends assert, would never permit his own ganglia to be manipulated. Such ambivalent views as Lothar’s must have been widespread at a time when the craze for séances and for medical experimentation was at its height, much as in our own time the ethical implications of medical advances are a source of divided opinion and debate. Theodor’s skepticism is also fully aired, and is well-illustrated by his two anecdotes, the first describing a bogus séance featuring an amateur “Magnetiseur” and “eine feine Dame,” who appears to go into an everdeeper trance, reaching the “fifth stage,” only to quickly return to consciousness when the hypnotist proposes to burn the soles of her feet. His skepticism is reinforced by a reputable medical expert, who confirms that the “Erweckung jener Naturkraft” is a most dangerous experiment and should be reserved for responsible doctors who can take a professional distance on the matter and are not prone to “Selbsttäuschung,” selfdeception (327). Theodor’s second anecdote features just such an example of a responsible application of hypnosis to physical symptoms that seem to defy explanation. His case involves a peasant girl who seems to be suffering from an extreme form of what at the time (for want of a better term) was called asthenia, a kind of general lassitude. There is general consensus among Lothar, Theodor, and Ottmar, who testify to the ambiguity of the phenomenon and are disposed to caution. Cyprian, however, who is constantly teased by Lothar for his “mystische Schwärmerei” and is more inclined than the others to enthuse unreservedly about “die potenzierte Kraft des psychischen Princips,” seems to approve of unrestricted access to supra-rational phenomena, since this puts human beings in touch with the mysterious forces governing the universe, which he defines as “das große unwandelbare Lebensprinzip der Natur” (HSW/SB, 318).2 At the conclusion of the discussion, and irritated by the negative tenor of the preceding exchange among his colleagues, he urges a change of topic and the narration of a new tale.

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But general consensus among all four members involved is reached in one sense and in terms defined by Ottmar, and it is here that the connection with the Serapiontic Principle is made explicit. Even if the group members have misgivings at various levels about the possible misapplication of hypnosis and such techniques, they are unanimous in believing that the subject of the Occult offers a plethora of potential themes for the artist, which is an interesting distinction: “Doch wollen wir nicht vergessen, daß wir dem Magnetismus schon deshalb nicht ganz abhold sein können, weil er uns in unseren serapiontischen Versuchen sehr oft als tüchtiger Hebel dienen kann, unbekannte geheimnisvolle Kräfte in Bewegung zu setzen” (HSW/SB, 331). In other words the artist’s repertoire can be immensely enriched by his tapping into themes related to the unconscious, although caution is advised in real-life contexts. Furthermore — and here a link is established with the double aspect of the Occult, that is, the sinister and the benign — Ottmar cites an example of how this applies to Lothar’s own narrative practice when he had brought into play the force of the “Hebel” in creating his Märchen Nußknacker und Mausekönig. In this work, as he puts it, the child Marie — dreaming of her Christmas toys in front of the glass case — is “nichts anders als eine kleine Somnambule” (HSW/SB, 274).

Die Bergwerke zu Falun Both the tales to be considered here that present supernatural forces in their malevolent form are based on firm documentary source material. On this carefully researched base Hoffmann builds, in true Serapiontic fashion, a fantastic structure. The juxtaposition of real and fantastic in Die Bergwerke zu Falun is skillfully organized to create the kind of horrific effects that he had so admired in Kleist’s Das Bettelweib in Locarno and that were mentioned above. The tale has several sources: a five-volume account of travel in Sweden (by J. F. L. Hausmann) and one by Ernst Moritz Arndt provided him with topographical details as well as information about mining. This latter motif is supplemented by a literary source, Novalis’s Heinrich von Ofterdingen, where, in the “Bergmann” episode, the hero encounters an old miner and is initiated into an underworld that exerts a strong fascination on him. Onto these sources Hoffmann has grafted a sensational account by G. H. Schubert in his Ansichten von der Nachtseite der Natur of the discovery by his fiancée of the perfectly preserved corpse of a young miner who had died 50 years previously (this theme had already been used by J. P. Hebel and Achim von Arnim). This forms an extraordinary climax to his tale. In its bare bones Schubert’s account is shocking: the appearance of the young man’s body in the fullness of youth is transformed into the horror of its disintegration as soon as

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it is exposed to the air. Opinions about this ending among the members of the group differ greatly. Provocatively, Ottmar argues that Schubert’s bald account makes a greater impression than Theodor’s carefully composed narrative. That would seem to be a most unserapiontic response, as Theodor confirms: “Ich flehe unsern Patron den Einsiedler Serapion an, daß er mich in Schutz nehme, denn wahrlich, mir ging nun einmal die Geschichte von dem Bergmann mit den lebendigsten Farben gerade so auf wie ich sie erzählt habe.” And surely one would agree that, building on these bare bones in Schubert’s account, Hoffmann has transformed and deepened the sensational event so that the background to the young man’s premature death is reconstructed and a sense of the mysterious workings of malign forces is created through the subplot concerning the Mephistophelian figure of Torbern, the tempter. In fact Hoffmann has retained the shock effect of the discovery of Elis Fröbom’s body at the end, even developed its significance considerably by producing a sequence of events leading up to it, and also taken the event itself a stage further in that the shock experienced by the reader is paralleled by that of Elis’s fiancée, Ulla, who expires with grief and is then buried alongside Elis in the nearby churchyard. Placed in the context of the deliberate and relentless unfolding of the antecedents to this denouement and the forces of destruction to which the hero falls victim, together with the rich texture of character and situation that is built in to the story line, any suggestion of sensationalism — which is not entirely lacking in Schubert’s account — is tempered. While startling, the final revelation seems yet to form a fitting climax and conclusion to the events in the tale and to maximize its intensity. The tale’s significance is indeed given added depth from Hoffmann’s imaginative reconstruction and the build-up of the narrative to its horrific conclusion. He has added a complex psychological dimension to its texture, focusing attention on the obsessive nature of the main character, Elis Fröbom — a figure who has haunted German literature in later times (see Hofmannsthal’s drama based on Hoffmann’s tale and Georg Trakl’s poem “Elis”). This introspective character is obsessed by the death of his mother, and is prey to depression and despondency. He is dissatisfied with his life as a seaman, and is looking for a new start. Just when he has reached his lowest ebb, he is accosted by the Mephistophelian Torbern, who appears in the guise of an old miner and paints an alluring picture of the mysterious underworld of the mines (copper and lead), which produce curious fossils and minerals. He urges Elis to renounce the world of daylight in favor of this dark kingdom. The temptation is underlined by an elaborate symbolism that is presented in the form of a dream. It features a subterranean world full of exotic plants in fossilized forms, imagery that is not without erotic overtones, for this alternative world is presided over by an overwhelmingly beautiful and powerful female figure, the queen. A tug-ofwar ensues in Elis’s mind between his allegiance to his mother (who is

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identified with the “Oberwelt”) and the masterful, erotically compelling figure of the queen. It is a battle that will never be resolved during his life. The compulsion to follow the allure of the world of darkness and its presiding monarch proves too strong — a situation reminiscent of the compulsive tendencies evident in a number of Hoffmann’s characters, for example Nathanael in Der Sandmann and Medardus in Die Elixiere des Teufels. As though driven by external forces (“von unbekannter Macht getrieben”) he determines to settle in the mining town of Falun, there to spend his life in the mysterious depths that have captured his imagination. At one and the same time repelled and attracted by the dark world, he quickly finds success and favor with the mine-owner, and is promised the man’s daughter, Ulla, in marriage. But the marriage is blighted by his strange compulsion on his wedding day to descend into the depths of the mine, where he once more has contact with the satanic Bergmann, and again is reminded of his loyalty to the queen (we find here a familiar pattern in Hoffmann’s works — a male character torn between the rival attractions of two contrasting types of women, for example, Anselmus’s oscillation between Veronika and Serpentina in Der goldene Topf, Nathanael’s between Klara and Olimpia, Medardus’s between Aurelie and Euphemie). Elis’s pretext for making the descent at this crucial point is that he wishes to present his bride with a slab of almandine, a precious stone, with his life’s history inscribed on it. However, he never returns from this mission: a fall of rocks engulfs him. The striking and horrific ending culminates in the scene already mentioned, in which Elis’s body crumbles to dust before Ulla’s eyes when she embraces him. The frame discussion, as we saw, produces polarized reactions from the group, and Ottmar and Theodor spar on the issue of the Serapiontic status of the tale. The others make additional points. Cyprian (the expert on the Occult and the Supernatural) is the most perceptive in his assessment. The others criticize the detailed descriptions of the mine and the processes of mining (for which Hoffmann had used authentic Swedish sources). Cyprian, as we might expect by now, is alert to the question of “Zerrissenheit” and the problems of the divided personality: “wie oft stellten Dichter Menschen, welche auf irgendeine entsetzliche Weise untergehen, als im ganzen Leben mit sich entzweit, als von unbekannten finstern Mächten befangen dar” (240). And he develops the point, suggesting that such psychological types can be identified in real life too: “Ich habe Menschen gekannt, die sich plötzlich im ganzen Wesen veränderten, die entweder in sich hinein erstarrten oder wie von bösen Mächten rastlos verfolgt, in steter Unruhe umhergetrieben wurden und die bald dieses, bald jenes entsetzliche Ereignis aus dem Leben fortriß” (HSW/SB, 240). The entire setting of the mine as the scene of Elis’s temptation and destruction lends itself readily to its interpretation in modern terms as a mindscape, possibly with Freudian overtones, in which the inward-looking,

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self-absorbed individual and his self-destructive tendencies are externalized through the operation of forces within and without. Typically, Hoffmann leaves it open as to how far such individuals are responsible for their own undoing and how far there really are hostile forces lurking and ready to destroy vulnerable minds. Added to this, one could point to the clear mother-fixation and the traumatic effects of Elis’s separation from a much loved parent at an impressionable point in his youth. All in all, Hoffmann has performed a highly imaginative and thoroughly Serapiontic feat in grafting this complex, modern-looking psychological scenario onto Schubert’s bald account. The reservations expressed by some members of the group stem from the alarm that they may feel in the face of matters such as disturbed or obsessional personalities (Der Einsiedler Serapion and Rat Krespel had produced similar reactions). Their critical stance may well be colored by their own repression on such matters. Certainly the criteria that had been used in connection with “magnetism” as a theme with Serapiontic potential have been amply borne out in this tale that so brilliantly analyzes the effect of “unbekannte geheimnsvolle Kräfte” on the mind of a vulnerable individual.

Das Fräulein von Scuderi Unlike Die Bergwerke zu Falun, Das Fräulein von Scuderi earns unanimous praise from the Serapionsbrüder: “Man nannte sie deshalb wahrhaft serapiontisch, weil sie auf geschichtlichen Grund gebaut, doch hinaufsteige ins Fantastische” (853). Perhaps to an even greater degree than with Die Bergwerke, Hoffmann had made use of a range of documentary sources and, as is often his wont, is at some pains to inform his readers precisely about these: first, at the point when Sylvester, the narrator, is introducing his tale, we are informed that he has employed Voltaire’s Siècle de Louis XIV, then, after the narration is complete, Sylvester discloses the identity of another major source, which, it is believed, was Hoffmann’s chief inspiration and on which he drew for several of his other tales, including Meister Martin, namely, Wagenseil’s Chronik von Nürnberg. As Theodor points out, to locate source material referring to an obscure seventeenth-century French poetess in a German chronicle is an extremely lucky break for Sylvester. Sylvester for his part points out apropos this source that the twoline epigram (“Un amant qui craint les voleurs/ N’est pas digne d’amour” [a lover who fears thieves is not worthy of love]) that plays such a crucial part in the plot of his tale is authentic and that it was used by the poetess and had been: “beinahe auf denselben Anlaß, wie ich es erzählt, gesprochen worden”(SB/HSW, 854). Hoffmann’s almost obsessive insistence on drawing his readers’ attention to his source material is in itself a reflection of his devotion to the

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Serapiontic Principle. The need to make a distinction between the imaginative and the plagiaristic use of sources in fiction and the employment of historical source material as a firm basis on which to build an imaginative and wholly original construct is of primary importance to his aesthetic program. To avoid confusion on this matter, it is clearly best to show all the workings behind the tale, tracing it back to its origins. The reader can then concentrate on and enjoy the creative resourcefulness that the author has brought to bear on his material and avoid going on the hunt for sources himself. Hoffmann’s intention — which shines through many of his expositions of the principle — is to educate the reader to follow him into the realms of the imagination rather than getting bogged down in pedantic detail. The frame clearly also offers an excellent means of achieving this end. However, the popular view of this story — which enjoyed huge acclaim from the moment of its first publication and earned for Hoffmann a much appreciated gift of fifty bottles of the finest Rhine wine from his publisher — tends to draw the reader away from a view of it as an imaginative tale in which he is being hoisted into higher realms of fantasy. This is because, sources or no sources, it has been seen as a forerunner of one of the most persistently popular forms of modern fiction, the detective story: “die erste Kriminalgeschichte von Rang.”3 As is well-known, this genre is rooted in the world of cause and effect and, in its distinctive structure as a “whodunit,” it conforms to principles of rationality more than, possibly, any other branch of fiction. The detective story (or “Krimi”) is essentially concerned with problem-solving and, at the end of the day, all mysteries, red herrings, and seeming incongruities are subjected to the cold eye of logic. Additionally, it produces as its main character the stereotypical problem-solver, an individual who, by definition, stands outside the normal institutional agencies for crime-solving (which have generally proved inadequate). This lynchpin character may vary from the (male) amateur or gentleman detective (Sherlock Holmes, Lord Peter Wimsey) to — in more recent times — female equivalents (which have developed over time from Agatha Christie’s genteel Miss Marple to the feisty Lindsay Gordon of Val McDermid). A feature of virtually all these characters is their possession of some psychological trait of eccentricity, which often is of advantage to them over their competitors in the law-enforcement sectors: Miss Marple’s apparent dottiness, Inspector Morse’s melancholy and fondness for the music of Wagner, George Smiley’s self-deprecation and low-key appearance all spring to mind. Hoffmann’s “pioneering” female equivalent, “Das Fräulein von Scuderi” (Mlle. Madaleine de Scudéry [1607–1701]), shares the eccentric quality of these stereotypes. The highly cultivated, précieuse, aristocratic court poetess presents an incongruous image alongside the violence and hysteria on the streets of Paris that Hoffmann so carefully described in the opening pages of the tale, and the brutality of the measures being taken. For at the behest of the king (Louis XIV), a special body

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(which is later compared to the Inquisition), the “Chambre Ardente,” is set up, presided over by la Régnie, who has been given the task of getting to the bottom of the spate of poisonings and murders, which so far have resisted detection: “Der König . . . ernannte einen eigenen Gerichtshof, dem er ausschließlich die Untersuchung und Bestrafung dieser heimlichen Verbrechen übertrug” (HSW/SB, 788). Ironically, far from becoming an instrument of the law, this body itself becomes an instrument of terror (it is not difficult to imagine that Hoffmann is here inferring a parallel with the lawlessness associated with the Terror during the recent French Revolution): “Gewiß ist es, daß blinder Eifer den Präsidenten, la Régnie zu Gewaltstreichen und Grausamkeiten verleitete” (789). Continued lack of success in catching the perpetrators of the newest wave of robberies with violence involving jewelry leaves room for an amateur detective, certainly. Scuderi, however, is drawn into the fray entirely for personal reasons: first, she is disconcerted by the abuse of her famous couplet by the perpetrators, with its trite message that lovers should stand their ground in the face of all danger, which is interpreted as a justification for violence; second, she has a close family involvement with the accused perpetrator of Cardillac’s murder, Olivier Brusson, whom she believes, instinctively, to be innocent. I shall return to the matter of how far Scuderi’s achievements to secure justice and truth in these difficult circumstances can be attributed to her forensic skills and how far other factors are involved. For the tale does not focus just on this sympathetically drawn, clear-thinking champion of young love and fair play, to whose character Hoffmann had been attracted in Wagenseil’s Chronicle. It includes a subplot that Hoffmann grafts onto his source material (based on a character he has himself created, René Cardillac, the other artist in the tale), which deals with a criminal who is an undisputed genius in his particular art form of jewelry-making, not only in Paris but beyond. Hoffmann is probing here into the darkest, most obsessive side of the creative artist’s psyche. For Cardillac is a Pygmalion-like creator who falls so much in love with his creations (and the motif of jewelry, as we find in the tale of his mother’s obsession, has strong links with the erotic and the forbidden) that he is driven to repossess them with violence from his clients. Clearly, this demonic trait is a foil for the well-bred, mannered, but routineand convention-ridden art works of a courtly society of which Scuderi is a representative. But the empty, witty badinage of such a society — in which the king’s mistress, Madame de Maintenon, reduces all serious discussion to flippancy and innuendo — though it seems to affect the depth of Scuderi’s art, does not fit her character completely. She undergoes a crisis surprising in its intensity and reminiscent of that of a Kleistian character whose instinctive “Gefühl” is at loggerheads with events unfolding around her. Someone who has hitherto been living in a protected environment, shielded from all the unpleasant aspects of life, and believing optimistically

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and naively in the goodness of man, is suddenly pitchforked into a chaotic world. Her protégé, Olivier Brusson, in whose truthfulness and innocence she believes, stands accused, and all the evidence seems to point to his guilt: “[Die Scuderi] verzweifelte an aller Wahrheit. Ganz zerrissen im Innern, entzweit mit allem Irdischen, wünschte die Scuderi nicht mehr in einer Welt voll höllischen Truges zu leben” (HSW/SB, 818). Fate, it appears, has destroyed “das schöne Bild, das ihr im Leben geleuchtet.” Now the demonic side of life — which her opposite number, Cardillac, inhabits through his art — is clear to her and seems capable of destroying her. Once the reader has focused on these two contrasting figures whom Hoffmann is placing at the forefront of the tale, and who are both aware of the operation of malevolent forces at work in the world, his concern about the causal aspects in terms of the mechanics of plot ceases to be of primary importance.4 The sense of mystery and terror that had been so prominent in the earlier part is replaced by our fascination with the interplay of these two characters as artists and human beings. The Brusson subplot, which will not be fully resolved until a late deus ex machina confession by Graf Miossens that he was responsible for the killing of Cardillac, is only important in the sense that its solution remains a pressing matter for the main character and a test of her belief in “Wahrheit.” The most telling and vivid scene — full of dramatic verve and brio — occurs towards the end, when the elderly poetess appears before the king to intercede on behalf of Brusson. Clad in her best attire, all in black silk, and embellished with Cardillac’s jewelry (which she had told Maintenon she would never wear), she cuts a distinctly queenly figure. It is she who possesses true “Majestät” and before whom all the courtiers fall back in awe: “Alles wich scheu zur Seite, und als sie nun eintritt, stand der König ganz verwundert auf und kam ihr entgegen” (HSW/SB, 847). Whether Scuderi intends her studied appearance to suggest the idea that she had enjoyed some kind of special relationship with Cardillac, as the king’s rather tasteless joke suggests (“seht . . . wie unsere schöne Braut um ihren Bräutigam trauert,” 847), she enters into the spirit of banter with some self-irony, presumably to humor the capricious monarch. Her real artistry, however, consists in the verbal dexterity (comparable to that of a skilful barrister) and the sense of the dramatic with which she conveys to the king all the facts about Cardillac’s murder, of which she is now fully informed. There is still something to be fought for, despite all the unraveling, because of the arbitrary nature of the judicial system — which can only be replaced by an act of grace (“Gnade”) on the part of the absolute monarch. Scuderi’s rhetoric, together with her suitably obsequious gestures, reach their target and all is saved. But only on a whim, for the king’s favor is captured by the resemblance of Madelon, Brusson’s inamorata (whom Scuderi has thoughtfully brought along as a witness) to one of the king’s previous mistresses: “Der König schwelgt in den süßesten Erinnerungen.”

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Scuderi’s great and glorious moment has no counterpart for her opposite number, Cardillac, who is dispatched early in the tale and about whose background and activities we hear almost entirely through third persons and in the form of reports. For this narrative is unusual within Hoffmann’s oeuvre and is possibly more indebted to the style of Heinrich von Kleist, whom he much admired, than any other.5 It plunges, as Kleist’s often do, in medias res with the dramatic and mysterious break-in to Scuderi’s house by Olivier as he tries to deliver Cardillac’s present of jewelry to her. Then, in a series of reconstructions, we are taken through the events leading up to that point: the violence on the streets of Paris and elsewhere caused by the mysterious poisonings, and the retaliatory measures taken. Interpolated reports and narratives follow (for example, Desgrais and La Régnie) with some direct dialogue. This exposition section, unusually for Hoffmann, occupies fully one quarter of the entire text. At the point of resumption the plot is moved forward by Scuderi’s receiving news that her innocent couplet, taken out of context, has fueled and strengthened the resolve of the miscreants. That gives a new twist to her own involvement as a responsible citizen. A number of crucial scenes, often containing direct speech, carry the tale forward: Scuderi and Maintenon meet with Cardillac; later Scuderi tries to persuade him to take back the jewels, only to find, in a melodramatic scene, that he has been murdered. A remarkable feature in all this is that Cardillac, arguably the most interesting character of them all, rarely appears in person in the tale. To gain an impression of him and to try and understand his motivation we are dependent entirely on third parties and reportage. This greatly adds to the sense of mystery that Hoffmann has been cultivating. The most illuminating example is his confession to Olivier about his obsession and the self-analysis that accompanies it. We had been told of the paradox of his personality. Like Michael Kohlhaas6 he is described by the narrator as a model citizen (“der rechtlichste Ehrenmann”). But he also has deceptive, deep-set green eyes that might betray “Tücke und Bosheit.” Olivier talks of the secrets “des verruchtesten und zugleich unglücklichsten aller Menschen.” In his important confession to Olivier, Cardillac frequently presents himself as one driven by an evil fate, a “böser Stern” (831), and his compulsion to steal and kill as an inborn impulse; “eine Periode, in der der angeborene Trieb . . . mit Gewalt empordrang und mit Macht wuchs” (833) as if this is something altogether outside the realm of his control. As an explanation for his deviant behavior he points to the prenatal influence on his mother of a strikingly handsome cavalier who had sexual designs on her but whose evil intent was foiled by her suddenly seizing his bejeweled chain, which mysteriously led to his dropping dead on the spot. On little medical evidence Cardillac attributes his own obsession with jewelry entirely to this prenatal source: “Mein böser Stern was aufgegangen und hatte den Funken hinabgeschossen, der in mir eine der seltsamsten und verderblichesten Leidenschaften entzündet”

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(832).7 This disturbing insight into Cardillac’s psyche is a matter about which the reader is left to speculate. One can certainly agree with the Serapionsbrüders’ verdict once one has sorted out the different strands of this complex tale and seen where Hoffmann is placing the emphasis. The detective-story analogy has only been of limited usefulness, its range of reference restricted to plot movement rather than the more substantial issues relating to the two artist characters and most particularly the issue of “Zerrissenheit,” which is at the root of Cardillac’s behavior and which, for a brief moment, even Scuderi herself succumbs to. These are the important added ingredients by means of which Hoffmann has raised his tale — Serapiontically — from the prosaic level of historical reportage with overtones of a detective story to one that offers a disturbing glimpse of demonic possession, the operation of malevolent powers, and the vulnerability of the artistic temperament, issues that do not yield to any clear-cut explanation.

Notes 1

Additional sources mentioned by Hoffmann’s characters include Ernst Daniel August Bartels, Gründzüge einer Physiologie und Physik des animalischen Magnetismus (Frankfurt am Main: 1812) and Carl Alexander Ferdinand Kluge, Versuch des animalischen Magnetismus als Heilmittel (Berlin: 1811). 2

The term “unwandelbar” is a variant on the more familiar “immer waltender Weltgeist” and may have Schellingian overtones. 3

W. Müller-Seidel, “Nachwort to E. T. A. Hoffmann, Die Serapionsbrüder” (Darmstadt: Winkler Verlag/Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1978), 1014. 4 Die Kunst der Scuderi und ihre Existenz als Künstlerin werden . . . nicht nur am Ende der Erzählung bedeutsam, sie spielen durchgehend eine so wichtige Rolle, daß man von der Erzählung als einer Künstlergeschichte sogar mit mehr Recht sprechen kann also von einer Kriminal- bzw. Detektivgeschichte” (Wulf Segebrecht, “Kommentar,” HSW/SB, 1515). 5

See Lothar Pikulik, “Das Verbrechen aus Obsession: E. T. A. Hoffmann: “Das Fräulein von Scuderi,” in Deutsche Novellen, ed. W. Freund (Munich: Fink, 1993), 47. Pikulik is aware of the echoes of Kleist’s Michael Kohlhaas. 6

Hoffmann refers to this Kleist tale in the Serapionsbrüder discussion (HSW/SB 638–39). 7

It has been suggested that the notion of prenatal influence was much discussed in medical circles in Hoffmann’s day. A possible source might have been the work of Johann Theodor Pyl, Aufsätze und Beobachtungen aus der gerichtlichen Arzneiwissenschaft, 8 vols. (Berlin: 1783–93). The idea of hereditary influence as a determining force is also suggested in Die Elixiere des Teufels.

10: The Märchen and the Serapiontic Principle Introduction

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OFFMANN’S SERAPIONSBRÜDER ARE in agreement about the general suitability of the Supernatural — whether malign or benign — as material for the imaginative processing of sense data, which is a characteristic feature of the Serapiontic principle in art, while being sharply divided on the question of the extent to which malign forces can be in control of human destiny. This distinction between the different functions of the Supernatural was, of course, also discernible right from the start of the Serapionsbrüder collection in the members’ various interpretations of the complex signals emanating from the Einsiedler tale, in which the hermit’s success as a teller of tales was bought at the price of recognition or acceptance of the fundamental dichotomies that characterize human life. The tales associated with the “Nachtseite” featured, through their main characters Elis and Cardillac, the tortured psychology of characters whose subconscious urges — triggered by external circumstances — would dominate their lives and in each case lead to their destruction, albeit in Das Fräulein von Scuderi the misery of Cardillac’s situation is partially counterbalanced by the reassuring image of the court poetess. This character, the précieuse Mlle de Scudéry, is treated sympathetically, though not without irony, and reveals courage and resourcefulness in helping, at one level of the tale, to bring about a happy end culminating in the union of the young lovers. As for the Märchen, Hoffmann makes it clear from the frame discussions that he is working with a form that is well-established in the Romantic tradition but that he intends to develop very much in the spirit of the Serapiontic program. This means that he can allude to and treat its conventions playfully in the knowledge that the reader comes to the tale with a set of prior expectations. It is noticeable that in Die Serapionsbrüder he reserves the Märchen entirely for explorations of the benign side of the Supernatural; indeed, it is usually presented as a force for positive transformation and reserved for situations in which the characters are ultimately extricated from dilemmas, as it were, by magic. Its other role is an allegorical one1 in which it may represent or reinforce certain values — all of them identified with the creative spirit — that have been endangered and require reinstatement (for example, freedom of the imagination, the need to look beyond appearances, the importance of the retention of a childlike

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disposition in adult life, and so on). Hoffmann, on balance, would seem to be more optimistic about the chances of benign forces prevailing over the malevolent — at least in the context of art, for, as we have previously noted, his original intention in the Serapionsbrüder collection was that each of the four volumes should conclude with a Märchen and that any dissonances created among the group by a particular tale narrated in the course of the evening could thereby be harmoniously resolved. These tales share the characteristic chapter headings that Hoffmann adopts for all of his Märchen. Lothar’s register what is going to happen at a basic level in a particular section of the Märchen, much in the style of a “Volksmärchen,” but sometimes slipping in an editorial coloring, normally in ironical or humorous vein. Vincenz’s, by contrast, are quirkier and more self-conscious, in tune with his character. The first and final chapter headings of Die Königsbraut, for instance, register a subjective response to the subject matter. We are told to expect that “alles Erstaunliche und höchst Wunderbare” (1138) will be presented in an “agreeable” manner and, finally, that the last chapter will be the most edifying (“erbaulichste”) of all — a spelling-out of the allegorical implications within the tale, a device that could equally well have been presented through subsequent discussion among the members of the group. Here the ironic voice is evident, reflecting the self-consciousness that makes the Kunstmärchen differ so substantially from its folk counterpart. The two Märchen attributed to Lothar — whose views carry special authority in his role as leader of the group — are accompanied by substantial discussions.2 Topics raised include the question of narrative perspective in the Märchen and, by implication, the role and status of the form. Several members are troubled by the fact that an adult perspective is often imposed on a simple, naive form, this being made particularly manifest through irony. The need to clarify this point is especially important in view of the centrality of the Märchen form throughout Hoffmann’s works and his continued exploitation of it in late examples such as Klein Zaches, Meister Floh, and Prinzessin Brambilla. The programmatic role of the frame discussion as a means of setting out Hoffmann’s position on the Märchen within Romanticism is also important. He is clearly aware of the canonical significance of the form and takes this opportunity to add his own distinctive voice to the current ideas that had been proposed, such as those of Novalis (“Das Märchen ist gleichsam der Kanon der Poesie”) to which Tieck had added some points in his Phantasus to which Hoffmann alludes.3 Disarmingly, Hoffmann invites comparisons to be drawn between different Märchen, not only within the Serapionsbrüder (Das fremde Kind is explicitly compared with Nußknacker und Mäusekönig); with considerable self-irony he refers to his Märchen Der goldene Topf and its “author” without name and thus extends the range of the comparison by including the evidence from the Fantasiestücke in the discussions of the

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Serapionsbrüder. Here we have an example of Hoffmann’s almost unstoppable appetite for analysis and critique, which he applies retrospectively even to his own earlier creations. Humor is another important ingredient of his Märchen program. The relaxed and detached state of mind engendered in the listener or reader by the witty and humorous narrative voice, together with the expectations inherent in the Märchen form that all will end in a harmonious resolution, acquire an important structural function within the collection as a whole through the strategic placing of the Märchen at the end of the books, which we have already noted. Finally, and importantly, the discussion gives members an opportunity to comment on and analyze the operation of the Serapiontic Principle with specific reference to the Märchen at the point of intersection between the real and the fantastic worlds and as a thematization of the workings of the creative process itself. In the critical frame discussion, therefore, a fairly comprehensive, up-to-date coverage of leading aspects of Märchen theory and practice is offered to the reader — mainly by three members, Lothar, Theodor, and Ottmar.

Nußknacker und Mausekönig Posterity would seem to have passed its verdict on the Märchen in the Serapionsbrüder, privileging Nußknacker und Mäusekönig and virtually ignoring the others. This overwhelming vote of confidence does not, however, conform to that delivered by the members of the group, who on the whole criticize its ironic tone and compare it adversely with Der goldene Topf. To what extent the high reputation enjoyed by the Märchen today has to do with Tchaikovsky’s perennially famous ballet rather than with any true appreciation of its literary excellence is a moot point. Identifying the “Serapiontic” features in all three tales and comparing their function as Märchen alongside the points raised in the frame discussions can at least help to focus attention on the literary rather than the visual qualities of this text, though it has to be said that Hoffmann himself set the ball rolling away from its literary features by producing six highly expressive drawings to illustrate the original version of Nußknacker und Mausekönig. The Märchen started as an occasional piece, a tale written by him as a Christmas present for the children of his friend Julius Hitzig.4 It is not unlikely that Hoffmann identified with his character Drosselmeier (who, like Hoffmann at the time of writing, is an “Obergerichtsrat”), a physically grotesque but benign wizard figure whose role resembles those of other Hoffmann characters (such as Archivarius Lindhorst and Celionati) who act as masters of ceremonies. This is a kind of parallel role to that of the artist-creator, who here seems to overlap with the teller of the tale. Like other Kunstmärchen this one still retains a few of the basic conventions of the simpler folk form,

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for example, in its acceptance of the principle according to which the human and the non-human world of plants, animals, and inanimate objects are subject to transformations, so that a nutcracker, for instance, can be translated into a handsome prince, or a beautiful princess can turn into an ugly deformed creature with a white beard. However, it is in the narrative perspective that the skill and artistry of Hoffmann the writer is fully displayed, an aspect that finds no adequate counterpart in the ballet version. For part of the narrative we are invited to view the magical events from the perspective of the imaginative child Marie; but for the main narration, the scene setting and unfolding of the narrative, we have a typically intrusive narrator, who also relates directly to his readership, both adults and children (he even addresses the children, Marie and Fritz, from time to time), and who moves the narrative backwards and forwards between the real and the fantastic worlds. The setting of the tale is very precisely described, being anchored in the well-furnished drawing room of a comfortably placed professional middle-class family. This will provide Hoffmann with his familiar solid foundation on which, in true Serapiontic fashion, he can set down the “Himmelsleiter” whose rungs lead up to the higher levels of fantasy. However, the timing of events, Christmas Eve, and the various preparations and sense of anticipation that these entail, permit the narrator to draw on an atmosphere of heightened tension bordering on the sinister, at this point entering into the minds of the children, whose excitement at the prospect of new toys, special food, and all the excitements of Christmas can scarcely be contained, yet is mixed with feelings of terror as they wait expectantly in a darkened room. This tension reaches a climax as Marie is allowed by her mother to stay on transfixed and daydreaming in front of the glass cupboard containing its special toys, which are connected with the mysterious figure of Drosselmeier, a family friend and her godfather, with whom the child has an ambiguous love-hate relationship. For on the one hand, he constructs the most original toys for her and her brother, such as a miniature castle complete with revolving figures, but on the other he is physically repulsive and pulls grotesque faces that frighten her. The gazing child falls asleep in front of the cupboard and has an elaborate dream based on her observations and imaginings in front of the case of toys, but instead of announcing this prosaic fact the narrator presents the contents of her dream as part of the Märchen narrative. It is a description of a battle5 between an army of mice, led by a seven-headed mouse-king, and the toys, including a nutcracker — a Christmas present from her father — that has caught Marie’s attention. This battle is described in technical terms (for example, “herausdebouchiert,” “en quarré plain”) that would not be out of place in a military manual, such as Clausewitz’s famous Vom Krieg, but seem unlikely to be available to a seven-year-old girl. The point of intersection between the dream world and reality comes when Marie tries to

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intervene to assist the nutcracker and feels pain because in doing so she has broken the glass and cut herself. Narrator and narrative move firmly back to the everyday world and to a description of Marie’s illness and convalescence after a considerable loss of blood.6 But a visit from Drosselmeier confuses her; he had played an important part in her dream battle and had been linked in her mind to the sinister aspects and connected with the figure of an owl that adorns the top of a clock in the drawing room. This sinister persona gives way to a benign force as Drosselmeier proceeds to tell Marie a tale — it is really a Märchen within the larger Märchen entitled “Das Märchen von der harten Nuß.” This interpolation carefully parallels the larger Märchen and is presented in three installments, presumably a concession to the limited attention span of young listeners. It is different again in tone from what has gone before, being stamped with the personality of its teller, Drosselmeier, its grotesque features, however, inclining more to the comic than (as the account of Marie’s dream had been) the terrifying mode. For in this development of the tale of the vicious seven-headed mouse-king, the crime of his descendant, Frau Mauserinks, is to eat the bacon that is an important ingredient in the king’s favorite delicacy, Leberwurst, despite the invention and application of a mouse-trap by an ancestor of Drosselmeier’s. A major outcome of the ensuing warfare turns out much more happily than in the earlier dream version. The beautiful princess, transformed, as is common in the Märchen world, into an ugly, deformed creature, is set the task of eating the kernel of the hardest nut ever known (called Krakatuk) which must be cracked and presented to her by a beardless young man of unsullied reputation. This task will be entrusted to the young Drosselmeier, who duly returns to the court after a fifteen-year search, cracks the nut, and restores the princess to full beauty. But this is at some personal cost, since the still venomous Frau Mauserinks uses comparable powers, which turn the young hopeful into an ugly nutcracker. Now the hero is set the task of exterminating the Mauserinks clan and attracting the love of a girl despite all his deformities, whereupon he will regain his dashing good looks. This final twist to the Märchen has direct bearing on the outcome of the main story line. In essence, the injunction to show love and steadfastness to fellow creatures, however ugly, has been allegorically spelled out and the trials successfully overcome. The small Marie, using her “inner eye” and imagination, can distinguish true beauty of mind within an seemingly ugly exterior, a distinction that can also be applied to godfather Drosselmeier himself, Because of her steadfastness and imagination she is able to bring about the transformation of the nutcracker into a dashing prince whenever she switches into dream mode and travels to the realm of the “Puppenreich,” a Konditorei-Paradise, which he inhabits.

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Disclaimer: Some images in the printed version of this book are not available for inclusion in the eBook. To view the image on this page please refer to the printed version of this book.

Hoffmann’s sketch for Das fremde Kind, by kind permission of Staatsbibliothek Bamberg.

The finale of Nußknacker und Mäusekönig brings the reader back to earth with a bump as Marie awakens in her bed and her prosaic mother tells her: “du hast einen langen sehr schönen Traum gehabt, liebe Marie, aber schlag das alles nur aus dem Sinn” (301–2).7 However, no real end-point is reached, since a trophy of the final battle in the form of the toy version of the Mouse-King’s seven-headed crown carries over into (fictional) reality and Marie plights her troth to Drosselmeier’s young nephew in front of the glass case (that is to say, precisely at the point of intersection between the real and the fantastic worlds). This could be interpreted as a symbolic gesture to underline the extent to which she is expected to continue in her adult life to harness her powers of imagination to the task of distinguishing between what is true and false, as she had done intuitively as a child but, given the relic of the crown, possibly at the same time a reminder that sources of opposition will always be lying in wait.

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Das fremde Kind The suitability of the Märchen as an exemplary form to accommodate the Serapiontic Principle is fully evident in this second example, which appropriately concludes the second volume of the Serapionsbrüder. Like Nußknacker und Mausekönig it touches on the mysterious workings of the imagination and the paradox that the naive spontaneous relationship of the child’s mind to the world of magic that it can so naturally evoke, when described from the sophisticated standpoint of an adult narrator will necessarily acquire meaning and be subjected to interpretation rather than existing as pure narrative. In the process it will, furthermore, become allegorical, or ironical, suggesting to the reader that “Duplizität des Seins” that Lothar had identified as a major feature of the principle and whose philosophical origins Hoffmann had located in Schelling’s Naturphilosophie. The limpid style of Das fremde Kind could at first sight deceive, recapturing as it does liberally the directness and simplicity of speech forms typical of young children. That register is sharply contrasted with the voice of the narrator, who demonstrates his omniscience by hinting, at an early stage in the narrative, for example, at the deeper level of involvement in the supernatural events on the part of the father of the children. “Weder die Frau von Brakel noch die Kinder wußten, was der Herr von Brakel mit diesen Worten eigentlich sagen wollte” (HSW/SB, 584). In fact this hint throws once more into relief the dichotomy between child and adult, since we are informed later that the father himself had had similar confrontations with the Supernatural at roughly he same age as his children have reached, but that these had been almost completely suppressed thereafter in his adult life. And in addition the narrator will throw out further hints to the reader by adding little touches that color his narrative; for example, the use of the adjective “vornehm” in a chapter heading to describe the visit from the family’s awful relations, a reference to social position that will receive more underlining throughout that chapter as the contrast between the two families is presented in terms of one between artificiality and artlessness in manners, behavior, and values. The entire episode of the visit in fact presents a detailed mise en scène that is based on solid social foundations: the laid-back unpretentious lifestyle of the genuine but déclassé aristocrat, Thaddäus von Brakel and his wife and two children on the one hand, living in a simple house at the edge of a wood, contrasts with the pretentious manners of his cousin, who has inherited the family title and fortunes and brings with him a like-minded snobbish entourage of wife and children. The narrator’s lack of impartiality can perhaps also be detected in the way he emphasizes how the visiting children reel off lists of useless facts that they have committed to memory and to which the adults attach the label of “Wissenschaften,” marking this

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particular type of aristocratic education as immediately identifiable with inflexible “Aufklärung” principles. The mechanical toys with which Christlieb and Felix are presented by their cousins — and of which they will soon tire — are clearly to be seen as manifestations of the same unnatural and unfulfilling approach to life that is imposed on children and their upbringing. By such means the narrator is pointing his reader towards the terms of reference in what is to become an allegorical fairy tale. The theme of conflict between two “principles” on which the tale is structured is already set out in this realistic vignette of the meeting between the two families, and this, in true Serapiontic fashion, will serve as a jumping-off point for the increasingly fantastic episodes that follow. These start with the first encounter with “das fremde Kind” in the wood, followed by elaborations on the children’s reactions and their utter rejection of the mechanical toys, which they throw away in favor of the child’s alternative, less tangible, offerings, namely, access to a wondrous world of nature: “Ihr seid ja beide ganz umgeben von dem herrlichsten Spielzeuge, das man nur sehen kann” (586), including an ability to defy gravity: “Die Kinder schwebten im leichten Fluge durch Wald und Flur” (587); in short, by using their imagination they can be directed towards what the child calls “meine lieben Luftschlösser” (592). The allegorical significance of this alternative to the dingy “Aufklärung” modalities and its meanness of spirit becomes ever clearer. The rich alternative world is identified in various ways, such as, for example, a canopy of flowers, or again a royal palace and kingdom in the clouds that is only accessible through flight. This realm is presided over by a benign queen, but as always in these situations she has as an antipodal equivalent, “ein fremder Geist,” named Pepasilio, whose real identity is “der finstere murrische Gnomenkönig” and who later metamorphoses into “eine ungeheuere Fliege.” This is a manifestation of a hostile force that had succeeded in inveigling himself into the queen’s court, there to wreak havoc. The ensuing disruption of what had unmistakably been a Golden Age is attributed entirely to what is clearly the spirit of Aufklärung (“er behauptete, er sei ein großer Gelehrter, er wisse mehr und würde größere Dinge bewirken als alle übrige” [597]). We have here a variant on the equally allegorical adaptation of the Genesis story as outlined in Der goldene Topf.8 As with that Märchen and also Nußknacker und Mäusekönig the story switches back and forth between the fantasy and the real worlds, between the wood and the family house, but more and more these two worlds take on similar features, since parallel conflicts between the benign and the hostile principles can be discerned in each realm. Eventually a crisis point is reached in the household. In a last-ditch attempt to gain ascendancy over the children, who have resolutely withstood all pressures, including the reappearance of the “entsetzlicher Spuk” (as they describe the hated mechanical toys, which

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had been thrown away, but which, as if self-propelled, reappear to haunt them), the “böser Geist” insinuates himself into their home in the form of the children’s Hofmeister, or private tutor, Magister Tinte, but eventually comes to blows with the children’s father, who has finally woken up to the damaging effects of what clearly amounts to an attempt to indoctrinate his children through rationalist pedagogic methods. The Märchen does not have an unequivocally happy end, since the father has received some deadly blow while swatting the giant fly. Before his death — which will lead to the eviction of the family from their tied cottage on the estate — he confesses his own allegiance in childhood to the “fremdes Kind,” which he appeared to have subsequently forgotten or suppressed from his memory, but to whose allegiance he now strongly encourages his children to remain steadfast. The child itself is finally evoked in a kind of glorified form that touches even the formerly skeptical Mother, who confesses to having seen the transfigured image of her children in a dream and now believes in their “Märchen” concerning the child: “Die Frau von Brakel richtete sich nun auch langsam empor und sprach: “Kinder! Ich habe euch im Traum gesehen, wie ihr wie in lauter funkelndem Golde standet und dieser Anblick hat mich auf wunderbare Weise erfreut und getröstet” (HSW/SB, 615). The fleeting appearances of the child, as we can now see, suggest an all-enveloping, benevolent presence, but one whose physical appearance can only be triggered by the intermittent imaginative intuitions, or “Ahnungen” of gifted humans. Its location and identity in the minds of the little boy and girl who see it, respectively, as a male and a female figure, makes clear the personal and subjective nature of its origins. This allegorical denouement is very much in line with the notions of creativity embodied in the Serapiontic Principle, according to which the “lever” or kindling spark has to be operated within the context of a reality that is often hostile to such flights and whose deeper significance can be elicited only with effort and imagination. It is clear that at another level the allegorical meaning can be broadened to include the creative process in general and the difficulty in adult life of recapturing that easy relationship with the sources of inspiration that is a feature of childhood. Much of the debate about this tale in the frame discussion focuses on the question of whether it succeeds as a Kindermärchen. A similar debate had been sparked off by Nußknacker und Mäusekönig, which the members regard as a “Gegenstück” and which they now use as a measuring rod for comparison. Hoffmann commented that Das fremde Kind had struck readers as “wunderbar kindlich und fromm”9 — not necessarily agreeing with this view, as he himself more guardedly estimated it to be “reiner, kindlicher” than its counterpart. That view is echoed by Ottmar: “ein reineres Kindermärchen als dein Nußknacker” (615), while Cyprian prefers “Märchen für kleine und große Kinder” to the term “Kindermärchen.” The

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contemporary reviewer Konrad Schwenck (1823) was closer to the mark in describing it as “eine ironische Allegorie” which of course points away completely from the genre of the “Kindermärchen” as represented by the Grimm brothers. The way the tale operates as an allegory on two levels, that of the simple childhood narrative and the allegorical meaning, is perhaps best summed up by Vincenz, when he presents as a variant to Cyprian’s formulation the phrase “Märchen für Kinder und für die, die es nicht sind” (615) since this points to its suitability for both adults and children and implies the inclusion of the self-conscious level of irony and allegory. It is interesting that all three of Hoffmann’s Märchen discussed in this chapter — Der goldene Topf, Nußknacker und Mausekönig, and Das fremde Kind — share as an underlying theme the power and centrality of the imagination. In fact, building on his inheritance from Tieck’s Phantasus, Hoffmann has developed the Märchen form into a prime means of defining and analyzing the mysterious workings of the creative faculty, a constant source of fascination for him. In the latter two cases the Märchen enables him to highlight two issues: first, the specific dangers that lurk in an age dominated by the rational and the pragmatic, such as the Aufklärung (whose influence, it seems, still looms large in the early 1800s) and, more generally, the obstacles that appear in the process of transition from childhood to adult life and that disrupt the continuation of the paradigmatic status and centrality that the faculty of imagination enjoys in childhood. The Serapiontic Principle as a narrative procedure involving both spontaneity and self-consciousness in the creation of a sophisticated artistic product lends itself particularly well to such a development of the scope of the Märchen. The openness of the “Geist” in responding to a broad range of stimuli in the world around is fundamental if there is to be that spark or trigger that leads on to the creation of what “das fremde Kind” (which is surely the embodiment of the faculty of imagination) describes as castles in the air. To complain of a lack of psychological realism or about the stylization of Das fremde Kind or the “kitschy” descriptions of the natural world is to apply the wrong critical yardsticks. Hoffmann’s contemporaries were closer to understanding his intentions. The modern reader would be well advised not to ignore Hoffmann’s aims in using the Märchen form as an allegorical tool (in the positive sense of the word) or his “Serapiontic” method of constructing a fantastic edifice on what is a very down-to-earth, unpretentious foundation in domestic life.

Die Königsbraut: The Final Märchen A certain degree of expectation accompanies this, the final Märchen and conclusion to the whole collection, since Vinzenz — to say nothing of its

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creator, Hoffmann — had experienced difficulties and delays in producing it and attention had been drawn to this fact on several occasions (it should really have concluded the third volume but Hoffmann could not meet his publisher’s time-table and so he conveniently attributed blame for this to his character!). When the Märchen is finally delivered some might be inclined to view it as a damp squib: far-fetched, wordy, and long-winded, and lacking the engaging mixture of humor and profundity that characterizes Nußknacker und Mäusekönig and also, though to a lesser extent perhaps, Das fremde Kind. Is this the result of a more labored approach on Hoffmann’s part to the handling of the Kunstmärchen form? The work testifies to his stupendously wide range of source material, from the obscure “cabbalistic” literature of Gabalis, through Voltaire (Candide) Tieck (Der Runenberg) to Walter Scott (Guy Mannering or the Astrologer) with many other names besides dropped en passant (including those of Calderón and Molinos). These are widely scattered over the tale but none is probed deeply or is sufficient to provide a clear foundation on which to erect the “edifice of the fantastic” or the “Himmelsleiter” that is de rigeur in Hoffmann’s quintessentially Serapiontic Kunstmärchen. The short shrift with which the work is received by the members of the brotherhood and their move to more general topics of discussion as Hoffmann draws the threads of the whole collection together may point to a downgrading of Die Königsbraut as a Märchen, though it is conceded to have been helpful in lightening the spirits of the group, which had been becoming over-serious. Various features give the reader the impression that we are dealing with a different type of Märchen — a feature that, in itself, would not necessarily point to a falling-off in quality — one that, one might argue, is bound to stand out from the others because of the stress that has been laid on its narrator, the scurrilous and sardonic latecomer, Vincenz. At the literal level the detailed chapter headings convey the usual moral aspect that is built in to the Volksmärchen and taken over, in adapted forms, by its sophisticated cousin, the Kunstmärchen; that is, the pattern of the good triumphing over the bad and all ending happily ever after. But here this feature in itself is treated with ruthless self-irony, to the extent that these headings virtually become a kind of oblique substitute for the group appraisals. Thus we read in the sixth chapter heading: “welches das letzte und zugleich das erbaulichste ist von allen.” In fact all six chapter headings focus self-consciously on some aspect of the style and content of the Märchen form itself: the reader is promised in the first that the content to be delivered shall be “alles Erstaunliche und höchst Wunderbare” and furthermore it is presumed that the style of the delivery will be congenial (“auf eine angenehme Weise”), an amusing pre-judgment of the situation. The narrator’s pedantic voice insists further on picking out the main aspects of the second chapter as if slavishly following a blueprint for writing

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Märchen (“welches andere lesenswerte Dinge enthält, ohne die das versprochene Märchen nicht bestehen kann”), while for the fifth we are informed in mock heroic vein “von einer fürchterlichen Katastrophe”; and finally, as already noted, we are told that the last chapter will be the most edifying (“erbaulichst”) of all. But possibly the most devastatingly ironical tag is the one applied to the work as a whole, which is described as “ein nach der Natur entworfenes Märchen,” which implies a feature of the genre that would normally be taken for granted, for what, after all, would be the point of one that was not based on natural foundations? The enigmatic nature of this particular appraisal will be examined further below. In general these ironical and highly self-conscious, manipulative directives to the reader about expectations and responses to the work stand comparison with the “Spruchbänder” of a Brecht drama (or of a “Hauspostille”). So is Hoffmann in this, his final Märchen of the collection, adopting an even more manipulative narrative stance than we have come to expect from him by now? And for what purpose? We had seen in the other two Märchen that the child’s perspective on reality and its imaginative transformations loomed large but were contrasted with those of the adult observer. The child-adult dichotomy is not an issue at all in Die Königsbraut; indeed the high degree of irony that immediately confronts the reader on the page points away from all naivety or spontaneity. The general garrulousness of the narrator throughout reinforces this impression of playful complicity, as do his jokey invitations to his reader to join him as an almost voyeuristic observer of the weird goings-on in Dapsul von Zabeltau’s and his daughter Ännchen’s household arrangements. Indeed, the creative and imaginative faculties are not invoked thematically in this Märchen. The starting point is the eccentric, obsessive lifestyles of these two individuals (it is intriguing that as in Das fremde Kind we are dealing with a déclassé aristocratic — and, as it turns out, dysfunctional — family, but one consisting of only two people (“ein ererbtes ärmliches Besitztum”). The father is virtually a recluse who spends his days in a ruined tower on his decaying property, engaged in dabbling in “die geheimen Wissenschaften,” the details of which are not divulged but seem focused on astrological observations based on the writings of mystics. He is a man of few words, without a shred of practicality, preferring his own company in the tower and communicating with all, including his daughter, by means of a speaking tube. Little wonder that the daughter has polarized into ultrapracticality, having turned herself into an expert in horticulture and animal husbandry. She has developed these skills to the point where they have taken over her entire life, leaving little time for the search for a soul mate who might provide her with an escape from this dull, ritualistic routine, which is based on maximizing the vegetable yields — except in the (unsuitable) form of a mad, infatuated student poet, Amandus von Nebelstern. Amandus regards himself as a genius and woos Ännchen with

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atrocious sonnets to which she replies in kind (Hoffmann’s parodies have been linked to those he concocted for Kater Murr, which explore a similar repertoire of clichés). From this brief summary it can be seen that the “reality” occupied by father and daughter (and also her lover) is of a problematic nature. Its common feature is its unnaturalness: the father’s manic pursuit of the occult “Wissenschaften,” the daughter’s overzealous attempts to regiment the vegetable and animal worlds within the confines of her garden and her own poor powers of communication, and the poet-lover’s vapid, cliché-ridden verse. Hoffmann’s typical Märchen (and Serapiontic) device of overturning the given situation and opening up new vistas for the imagination does not operate in the manner previously explored, which depends on characters in the first place being either themselves children with wide-open minds, or else childlike and impressionable adults (that is, like Anselmus) possessed of a “kindliches Gemüt”). In Die Königsbraut, however, father and daughter seem fixed in mental grooves.10 The event that throws their world into chaos revolves around the discovery by Ännchen when she is digging in the garden one day of a beautiful topaz ring through which a carrot has grown. The motif suggests a parody of the “Karfunkelmotiv,” a motif much beloved of Romantic writers such as Tieck (Der Runenberg), who often draw the inorganic world of nature into their worldview by featuring the magic properties of precious stones. The juxtaposition of the beauty of the artifact and the crudity of the carrot is richly suggestive. Its effect on the father is dramatic: he interprets the find as a sign of the working of higher powers, in particular of the operation of “Elementargeister,” (that is, spirits of earth, air, fire, and water), specifically here the intervention of a gnome (an earth spirit) to claim Ännchen as his bride. This prophecy is almost fulfilled when the gnome king (who is basically a carrot and is given the Linnean appellation of Daucus Carota) duly appears in person, complete with a vast entourage of animated vegetables, and encamp on Ännchen’s prize vegetable garden, from which vantage point he intends to conduct his campaign of serious wooing. Opinions at first seem to differ on the crucial point as to whether the gnome king is benevolent or malevolent, and Dapsul von Zabelthau, drawing on current Romantic theories derived from (popularized) versions of Schelling’s “Naturphilosophie,” theorizes about his “höhere Natur,” but later, when Daucus Carota’s true intentions come to light, switches to seeing him as an imposter, while Ännchen herself becomes enamored of the idea of attaining the status of a queen and writes to her former lover, Amandus, of her changed affections, dismissing him for ever in favor of Daucus Carota. The truth comes out when Ännchen is subjected to a hideous transformation in the form of a “Gnomenkönigin,” presumably instigated by the Gnomenkönig: “viel dicker war Ännchens Kopf geworden und safrangelb ihre Haut, so daß sie jetzt schon hinlänglich garstig erschien” (HSW/SB, 1186–87). Her father, showing unusual presence

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of mind, plans to get rid of the scourge of the vegetable hordes and their obnoxious monarch by putting them all into cooking pots and boiling them up — but led by the king Carota, who prizes the pan lid open, they escape, having first almost succeeded in retaliating by trying to cook their host, Dapsul, himself. The effect of this upheaval could be described as a raising of consciousness on the part of father and daughter and a return to their fold of the original suitor, the poet Amandus. It is as if the shock of it all has brought the family to their senses. The poet too seems somehow to have become enlightened: he rejects his pompous poetry and his “poetic deliriums” and decides to model his writing in future on the great classics instead, which can only, one would imagine, reap benefits. The transformations and denouements in this tale are, according to several members of the Serapionsbrüder, lacking in invention (“Erfindung”), and admittedly there is an arbitrariness about the movement of the plot that reminds one of the caprices (or “arabesques”) so much vaunted by Friedrich Schlegel. It is not beyond the bounds of probability that Hoffmann is deliberately trying out a different approach to the Märchen and is even mindful of the theories of Schlegel and Novalis here, according to which “Willkür” is a key element, but however that may be, the Märchen is riotously funny with many delicious and witty touches, and one can well understand why, in an essay entitled “De l’Essence du rire,” Baudelaire, a well-informed Hoffmann admirer, could regard Die Königsbraut, along with Prinzessin Brambilla, as examples of “comique absolu.” The physical descriptions of the carrot king, half human, half vegetable are sharply vivid and reminiscent of Callot’s art of the grotesque as presented in Jacques Callot: “Denn außerdem, daß er keine volle drei Fuß maß, so bestand auch der dritte Teil dieses kleinen Körpers aus dem offenbar zu großen dicken Kopfe, dem übrigens eine tüchtige lang gebogene Nase, sowie ein Paar große kugelrund hervorquellende Augen keine üble Zierde war. Da der Leib auch etwas lang, so blieben für die Füßchen nur etwa vier Zoll übrig” (HSW/SB, 1161). It is surely remarkable that in the ensuing frame discussion not one member of the brotherhood mentions the Serapiontic Principle. For, as with the Callot example, operating on its two levels of the real and the fantastic-grotesque, the Märchen would surely satisfy the criteria. Furthermore, viewed strategically, from the perspective of its position within the final book, and by virtue of its sheer frivolity, it does at least act as a counter-balancing element to the almost uniformly dark tales that have made up this final section. And that too was always regarded as a desirable goal for each evening’s program of storytelling. Lothar can round off the collection by making this point: “Gut ist es aber, daß wir aus dem graulichen Dunkel in das wir, selbst weiß ich nicht wie hineingerieten, uns wieder hinausgerettet haben in den klaren heitern Tag” (HSW/SB, 1198).

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And Theodor has the last word, a summing up of the joint endeavors of the group and the totality of their achievement in terms of the program they have set themselves and have fulfilled: Frei überließen wir uns dem Spiel unserer Launen, den Eingebungen unserer Fantasie. Jeder sprach wie es ihm im Innersten recht aufgegangen war, ohne seine Gedanken für etwas ganz Besonderes und Außerordentliches zu halten oder dafür ausgeben zu wollen, wohl wissend, daß das erste Bedingnis alles Dichtens und Trachtens eben jene gemütliche Anspruchlosigkeit ist, die allein das Herz zu erwärmen, den Geist wohltuend anzuregen vermag. (HSW/SB, 1199)

This brings the wheel full cycle and terminates the collection on a note of harmony for the achievement as a whole, tinctured with the sadness of imminent parting and the prospect of permanent closure. It would have been incongruous for Hoffmann to have turned Vincenz into a spokesman for the Serapiontic Principle, which, as we saw earlier, he was prone to mock. Instead his Märchen presents us with the ironic situation of an a narrator who is ironizing the very form that has been a lynchpin, and an author who is prepared to laugh at his own pet ideas, even prepared to travesty Schelling’s Naturphilosophie — the foundation for his own poetics — in the words of Dapsul von Zabelthau, when defining what the narrator terms “das gnomische Prinzip”: Was das Gemüse betrifft, meine liebe Tochter, so weiß ich längst, daß die diesjährige Zusammenwirkung der Gestirne solchen Früchten besonders günstig ist und der irdische Mensch wird Kohl und Radiese und Kopfsalat genießen, damit der Erdstoff sich mehre und er das Feuer des Weltgeistes aushalte wie ein gut gekneteter Topf. (SB/HSW, 1146)

Notes 1

See Ingrid Strohschneider-Kohrs, Die romantische Ironie in Theorie und Gestaltung, 2nd ed. (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1977), 350 (apropos Der goldene Topf): “Hier geschieht eine Selbst-Spiegelung von Dichtung und Poesie in einer Dichtung, die ihre Aussage und Darstellung, reflektierend und gestaltend, ineins bindet. Die Aussage, die Reflexion, die Allegorie: sie weisen zurück in das Märchengeschehen, und sie verweisen zugleich auf einen allgemeinen, übergreifenden Sinn von Poesie.” 2

This applies also to Lothar’s Die Brautwahl, which bears some resemblance to the Märchen form. 3 See Manfred Frank, ed., Ludwig Tiecks Phantasus, vol. 6 of Ludwig Tieck, Schriften (Frankfurt am Main: DKV, 1985), frame discussion 105–8 and commentary, 1243–44. 4 See Die Serapionsbrüder in HSW, 1341. Hitzig reported that his children were especially delighted “unter ihren Namen zu erscheinen.”

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5 Hoffmann was congratulated on his knowledge of military maneuvers by the great hero of the Napoleonic Wars, Graf Neidhardt von Gneisenau; see his letter to Hippel (15 Dec. 1817, HSW vol. 6, 130): “Gneisenau sagte mir, daß in mir ein FeldherrnTalent stecke, da ich die gewaltige Schlacht so gut geordnet und Nußknackers Verlieren vorzüglich von der Eroberung der auf Mamas Fußbank schlecht postirter Batterie abhängig gemacht.” 6 Much has been made of the blood motif, Marie’s “initiation” being read as her progress towards sexual maturity. Even the “hard nut Kratakuk” has been subjected to a Freudian interpretation; G. Neumann comments: “Das vom Paten erzählte Märchen vom harten Nuß, stellt ein Erlösungsritual in den Mittelpunkt, das zugleich auf die Initiation des Mädchens in die Geschlechterrolle hinweist” (“Puppe und Automat: Inszenierte Kindheit in E. T. A. Hoffmanns Socialisationsmärchen Nußknacker und Mäusekönig,” in Jugend — Ein romantisches Konzept? ed. G. Oesterle [Würzburg: Königshausen und Neumann, 1997], 135–60; here, 147). 7 Surely there is an echo here of Novalis’s Heinrich von Ofterdingen, when Heinrich’s mother dismisses his dreams in prosaic terms: “Lieber Heinrich . . . du hast dich gewiß auf den Rücken gelegt” (Heinrich von Ofterdingen, ed. Paul Kluckhohn [Stuttgart: Port Verlag, 1949], 25). 8

“Der Geist schaute auf das Wasser,” 3rd Vigilie, HSW/FS, 244.

9

Letter to Hippel, 15 Dec. 1817, HSW vol. 6, 130.

10

This seems to me to be comparable with the “Starre” in which Peregrinus Tyss is caught up in Meister Floh.

11: The Serapiontic Principle: The Wider Critique Introduction

T

SERAPIONTIC PRINCIPLE has revealed itself to be a multifaceted concept, some of its strands opening out onto issues of a general aesthetic nature, others generating specific narrative techniques. Lothar’s broadly grounded “Erkenntnis der Duplizität,” for example, rooted philosophically as it is in a primary dualism between subject and object, leads directly, through the Serapiontic artist’s “Erkenntnis” of this dual state of affairs to his adoption of an ironic stance (what Hoffmann himself termed “eine durchgehaltene Ironie1). Whether in a humorous or a more serious vein, this is a hallmark of virtually all Hoffmann’s literary oeuvre. Once more deriving from this fundamental dichotomy and starting point for his “poetology,” the creative “directive” suggested by the “Himmelsleiter” metaphor determines a pattern of two contrasting levels — earthbound and heavenbound, the one giving access to the other — over which the Serapiontic artist can range, thus potentially covering the entire scale of human experience. Hoffmann is the only Romantic artist who insists on treating both these levels evenhandedly. Scrupulous attention to his source material, to the vivid presentation of character traits and personal mannerisms (though not, however, pictorial description) together with an unerring ability to bring the two levels into a convincing juxtaposition is, in his finest works, so perfectly matched that the higher world of fantasy actually gains credibility from its relationship to the lower level and the reader has no problem in suspending disbelief. It remains, finally, to test out the operation of the principle in two of Hoffmann’s finest tales, Der goldene Topf and Der Sandmann, both of which antedate the Serapionsbrüder collection and the formulation of the principle. The framework technique has been seen to fully support both the presentation and application of the principle in Die Serapionsbrüder. How does it fare in these different narrative situations in which the opportunity for an all-embracing irony or a “polyphonic” perspectivism might seem not to exist? For, as we have seen, in the Fantasiestücke and Nachtstücke only a vestigial frame exists, implied by the character of the traveling enthusiast. A brief examination of both these masterpieces — which makes no claim to be a definitive interpretation of either — is particularly appropriate in that, respectively, they serve as paradigmatic examples of the two opposing HE

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aspects of the Supernatural, the benign and the destructive, that were considered in separate chapters above. It has, moreover, been suggested that they stand in a polar relationship to one another.2

Der goldene Topf Hoffmann’s most famous Märchen is one of his earliest works, and its genesis follows in copybook fashion the various phases of the Serapiontic creative process as outlined in the Serapionsbrüder. It was certainly begun in Bamberg, as we know from his detailed correspondence with his friend Kunz, owner of the extensive lending library, claimed to be the largest of its kind in Bavaria, that furnished Hoffmann during his unsettled Bamberg years with a steady supply of books, some old, some new, and in various languages. It seems likely that the initial kindling (“entzünden”) of his inspiration — a phase which, as he would later describe, is marked by the focus on a compelling, but as yet indistinct image — was, as so often with Hoffmann, sparked by his reading of a book from Kunz’s library, one by James Beresford, which features a gauche young man who gets into comic scrapes — a forerunner of Anselmus.3 An early plan was duly followed after some delay by the next stage in the creative process, namely, the refining, amplifying, developing, and connecting of these first vague beginnings to the requirements of a story line, and the disciplined drawing out and shaping of the literary possibilities of the material.4 In the Serapionsbrüder Hoffmann’s frame characters will from time to time enlarge on the specific conditions in which creativity flourishes; in one case (see above, p. 129) Sylvester suggests that this part of the process can most successfully be carried out in a different environment, far from the excitement and stimulus of boon companions or indeed any social setting typical of an urban environment, whether a wine house or an art gallery. Sylvester goes so far as to record that for him the most effective policy for the completion of a creative project is to move from the frenetic urban scene to the seclusion of the countryside. In the case of Der goldene Topf the gap in the “processing” procedure was matched by a more dramatic contrast with Hoffmann’s normal surroundings. While living in Dresden at the time of its serious bombardment, he records that the creative urge came upon him to the extent that he was able to shut out the noise and terrifying circumstances of his “trübe Umgebung” and retreat into his own alternative private world, by settling down to complete a first draft of the tale.5 Total concentration and immersion in writing on this project could, it seems, be facilitated by the most unpropitious, even anarchic circumstances, and mind could triumph over physical discomfort and limitations. Thus far the genesis of the work follows the general pattern of the creative process outlined later by Hoffmann through his frame characters in

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the Serapionsbrüder and implicit in the Serapiontic Principle itself. However, there are obvious differences in the reception process of this first Märchen and that of the later Serapionsbrüder. For we are reduced to one highly manipulative narrator-figure instead of the “polyphonic” multiperspectival role of the frame narrative. This means that instead of the empirical reader being confronted by a group of frame characters who stand between him and the author, each individually usurping the reader’s normal position of being “first on the scene,” in Der goldene Topf this narrator sets up — and actively engages with — a fictitious reader, cajoles and bullies him, now flattering him and assuming his erudition and sophistication, now attributing to him ideas or interpretations of the events in the narrative by planting his own readings in his mind. Much attention has been paid to this narrator’s seeming change of tack in the final Vigilie and his apparent loss of confidence in his own ability to control the narrative or bring it to a satisfactory conclusion.6 This has been interpreted as a typical example of deconstructive manipulation on Hoffmann’s part, introduced deliberately to throw doubt on the validity of the whole Märchen sequence, the Creation myth, the struggle over and recovery of the golden pot and the reactivation of its potency in the form of the imagination and higher calling to poetry of Anselmus, whose development as a poet has been a theme throughout. But one could equally well read this piece of narratorial intrusion in terms of Friedrich Schlegel’s theory of irony, according to which, as has been pointed out,7 the constant alternation of self-creation and selfannihilation, enthusiasm and skepticism, that is its central feature, does not cease or become resolved on one of these two positions. Thus the conclusion of Hoffmann’s Märchen on a note of self-irony on the part of the narrator does not signal closure, but rather a temporary stopping point. Hoffmann, the author, could surely, if pressed, invoke the wider context implied by the “immer waltende Weltgeist.” But to pursue these philosophical niceties further would have been misguided. The tongue-in-cheek humor suggested by the narrator’s intrusion, with its understatement and bathos, cannot go unnoticed (though it often seems to be endangered by a plethora of theorizing on the part of commentators). However, the text scarcely requires this kind of apologia in any case, as a careful reading will reveal. Yes, the narrator is forced back eventually to his normal life, his “Dachstübchen” — but, as the Archivarius points out, thanks to his own good offices and after a visit to his stimulating “Palmgarten” following Anselmus’s footsteps, the narrator too has been privileged to visit Atlantis and has been presented with some real estate — not a “Rittergut,” to be sure, like his character, but nevertheless “einen artigen Meierhof.” The tale in fact ends on a light-hearted note, as both the self-pitying narrator and his character have been rewarded for embracing “das Leben in der Poesie, der sich der heilige Einklang aller Wesen als tiefstes Geheimnis der Natur offenbaret” (HSW/FS, 321).8

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Bringing the Serapiontic Principle into proximity with Der goldene Topf highlights another major issue, namely, Hoffmann’s use of allegory. He employs allegory — which by definition implies two levels of presentation and permits irony — more clearly, perhaps, than any other device, as we have seen, in order to express the dual-stranded implications of the Serapiontic Principle. This has already been seen in connection with Prinzessin Brambilla where Celionati, the Italian Germanophile, and Reinhold, who is part of the German community of artists in Rome, clash on the status of allegory, the first approving, the second disapproving of it (see above, chapter 5, “Prinzessin Brambilla”). I have argued above that Hoffmann is playing with the different definitions of allegory that were evident at the time and have suggested that he favors it not as a reductive “key” but something closer to a symbolic extension of the idea of two parallel but interconnected worlds, an idea that forms the basis of his Weltanschauung and its debt to Naturphilosophie. In Der goldene Topf there are several layers of fabricated, mythical interpolations, and it is these which can be accorded allegorical meaning in Hoffmann’s positive sense: the first focuses on the family story and relationships of Serpentina, the green snake, the Archivarius Lindhorst, and the Salamander (there are echoes here of theories of “Elementargeister” deriving from such sources as Paracelsus and Gabalis). The second projects us even further back in the Märchen scale of time to the origins of the world, and is heavily indebted to motifs deriving from the Naturphilosophie of Schelling and his popularizer Schubert; it presents an account of the Creation in solemn biblical language reminiscent of Genesis and is recounted by the Archivarius. The third, which can also be linked to Naturphilosophie, relates to the ongoing “Weltprozess,”9 the meaning of which can be elucidated through the interpretation of the hieroglyphs in Lindhorst’s manuscript collection (essentially this rather academic study parallels Hoffmann’s own tendency to search for a philosophical underpinning for his theories). This layer is presented as a battle between the “gute und böse Prinzipien,” which is played out in struggles to gain Anselmus’s allegiance by the respective sources of the Supernatural — the black variety (represented by the Doppelgänger witch and the Apfelweib) and the white (represented by the Doppelgänger Archivarius Lindhorst and Salamander). Finally, after the resolution of these conflicts, the reader is granted a glimpse of the mythical realm of Atlantis, whose allegorical meaning is made explicit by its being described by Archivarius Lindorst as the “Land der Poesie,” complete with topographical features (for example, Anselmus’s manor).10 The meaning of the other allegorical interpolations emerges alongside the progression or quest of the main figure, Anselmus, whose divided state and confusion of allegiance between the mundane and the poetic parallels the Archivarius’s fall from paradise, a serious lapse that he is now, in a state of growing self-awareness (“Erkenntnis”), attempting

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to make good in the hope of returning to a higher estate. Chief of his various strategies to achieve this is the recruitment of Anselmus, the budding poet, to assist with the transcription and interpretation of the manuscript collection, the repository of higher mysteries. Lindhorst’s grand plan includes marrying Anselmus to his daughter Serpentina, once he has achieved full status and gained the golden pot. In its allegorical conversion of these various myths, the Classical, the Oriental, and those based on contemporary Naturphilosophie, the Märchen draws most heavily on current ideas about creativity and the relationship between “Geist” and “Natur” derived mainly from Hoffmann’s reading of Schelling11 and Schubert,12 connecting these up with Anselmus’s progression toward the ultimate goal, the attainment of an artist’s paradise. It is impossible to disentangle Hoffmann’s debt to these twin sources, though many individual motifs have been traced to Schubert’s door (for example, the “Feuerlilie” and “Phosphorus”), since the Schubert borrowings themselves are often underpinned by the philosophical premises on which Schelling’s Naturphilosophie is based, and, as we know, Hoffmann had taken the trouble to read Schelling’s key texts systematically before proceeding to his reading of Schubert. His skill in weaving together all these mythical strands and at the same time developing and gently drawing out interconnections between them and the main narrative line is a truly original contribution to the development of the Märchen genre in German literature and its symbiotic relationship with allegory. Goethe’s Märchen (1795), which Hoffmann certainly knew and from which he had borrowed the motif of the green snakes, although fascinating, presents an almost impenetrable aspect to the reader by contrast. Its hermetic figures and motifs — which could be described as the opposite of allegorical since, like Kafka’s parables, they do not open out onto any identifiable system of thought or any clear reference point — might almost seem to reflect Goethe’s determination not to write anything that might be remotely interpreted as allegorical (in his own narrower sense of the term). Novalis’s achievement with Klingsohr’s Märchen in Heinrich von Ofterdingen bears closer comparison with Hoffmann’s. Like Hoffmann’s the work owes a debt to the ideas taken from contemporary philosophy (especially that of Fichte), but while poetically rich, it does not present the two main levels on which it operates, that is the “Zuhause” and the world of Arcturus, the empirical/prosaic and the ideal/fantastic, with an equal sharpness of focus.13 These two Märchen do share the idea of the triadic “Geschichtsbild” mentioned in chapter 2, “Der Einsiedler Serapion,” and the notion of a general progression of mankind from the Golden Age to the return to paradise via the fallen state (which Novalis explicitly links to the Aufklärung). In the case of Der goldene Topf, however, much attendant detail is supplied through the various sub-myths and, above all, by the juxtaposition throughout of two contrasting levels of reality, which gives

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substance to the nature of the poet-hero’s quest, and its starting and finishing points. As we have seen, the Märchen is a key form in Hoffmann’s armory for putting into practice his theory of the Serapiontic Principle as formulated in the Serapionsbrüder. The new, self-conscious structure (“ein Märchen aus der neuen Zeit”) that Der goldene Topf incorporates reflects Hoffmann’s desire to create two distinct, equally credible levels, or parallel worlds, between which the major protagonist moves and whose interdependence is crucial. This dualism of outlook suggests that any Hoffmann Märchen will display in abundance Serapiontic features, as outlined in Lothar’s formulation, and almost inevitably will incorporate an allegorical level. Der goldene Topf is no exception, but more than that it could be said to exemplify all the best features that the Serapiontic program can bring out. For quality does not go unnoticed among the Serapionsbrüder and not all Serapiontic writing will automatically reach the same heights. For the Serapiontic Principle to work most effectively several criteria must be met: above all, the transitions between the lower and higher levels must in no way be contrived or obvious. The reader must be able to “suspend disbelief.” Der goldene Topf fulfils this requirement brilliantly and in such a way that, while Hoffmann normally keeps the two levels quite distinct from one another, sometimes for comic purposes he will carry over a character’s day-dreaming fantasy into the real world. For example, Veronika’s vision of Anselmus as Hofrat in their “spießbürgerlich” married state is transposed to the sight of the real-life-student Anselmus, who suddenly appears, as she believes “transformed” (HSW/SB, 260). Additionally, it is imperative that the allegorical meaning that underpins the Märchen structure should not obtrude, or have the unfortunate effect often associated with allegory of reducing the meaning of the work as a whole to the level of a bare formula.14 In this respect too Hoffmann’s first Märchen scores highly, being greatly helped by the subtle, allusive way in which the separate strands, at first dispersed, finally run together to form one unifying principle, which, based on the interaction of benign and negative forces in the natural world (that is, as a manifestation of the “Weltgeist”), provides a suitable context into which the hero’s own struggles and progression can be positioned. It is no coincidence that Der goldene Topf is constantly held up in the discussions of the members of Serapionsbund as a shining example by which to measure their own three Märchen specimens. Of these Nußknacker und Mäusekönig would also pass the Serapiontic test with flying colors — criticism by the group members is confined to what has been described as the obtrusive, disjunctive presentation of the interpolated subMärchen, “Vom harten Nuß,” which is set apart typographically from the main narrative, making it seem superimposed. In the case of Das fremde Kind Hoffmann succeeds in presenting an effective contrast between the

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circumstances of the children’s family and the wild untamed world of the forest, presenting the latter as a kind of natural adventure playground for the children. It is perhaps the appearance of the magical child, the source of the family’s salvation from a dreary and limited existence, that is less well motivated, making it appear as a kind of deus ex machina although it is clearly identified with the natural world. Finally, Die Königsbraut, as suggested above, also has awkward transitions, and the all-important force for change and transformation, an indispensable feature of the Märchen and here represented by the appearance of the carrot-hordes, while amusing, is a bolt from the blue. But it was also suggested that the jerkiness and arbitrariness might be deliberate on Hoffmann’s part and that he might have been experimenting with the idea of “Willkür,” a more capricious or whimsical treatment of the form that had been emphasized so much in the theories of Novalis and Friedrich Schlegel. To draw a general conclusion from the above, it appears that any diminution of the degree of (artistic) integration between the main narrative and allegory (such as is created, for instance, by subheadings) tends to reinforce the reader’s impression that the “two worlds” are not parallel and instead are being arbitrarily yoked together, in this way tilting the delicate balance of the allegory form somewhat towards didactic contrivance and “over-determination.” To make these criticisms is not original, since they are nearly all implied by one or other of the Serapionsbrüder as they apply the Serapiontic Principle as a tool of criticism to particular tales. An exception here is the theme of allegory itself, which, having been implicit all along in Hoffmann’s literary practice of the Märchen, only becomes a major subject of reflection and analysis in Prinzessin Brambilla. The general usefulness and relevance of these other critiques presented by the frame characters is beyond doubt. One suspects that it is Hoffmann’s intention that his readers should adopt, or at least consider, them when assessing his works.

Der Sandmann At various points we have noted the potential confusion of the thematic and the literary aspects of the principle, the What and the How, the creative and the critical. In the Serapionsbrüder Hoffmann ostensibly tries to separate the theory from the practice to a certain extent15 and calls on a number of critical perspectives, using his external “polyphonic” technique extensively throughout this collection. In Der Sandmann, (as in Der goldene Topf) he clearly has to internalize and integrate the narrative voices, which are fewer in number. By far the most important of these voices is the narrator’s; others who are presented via this figure include the vox populi, that is, anonymous voices presumably selected from the circle of friends of

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Clara and Nathanael on the basis of their opposing positions towards particular issues involving the two lovers. This seemingly neutral device may be a tactic on the narrator’s part not to show his own hand and thereby deliberately to create ambiguity. In addition, by means of his startling opening gambit of confronting us with three letters before he himself gets going with the job of telling the tale, the narrator permits the reader to evaluate the views of the two main protagonists, Nathanael and Clara, as it were, uncensored. Thus armed, we can more confidently adjudge the judgments of others. What links the tale most clearly to Hoffmann’s other work and especially the Serapiontic Principle is its thematic link with the paradigmatic tale Der Einsiedler Serapion. The bringing together of the themes of madness, creativity, and the artistic temperament in the two works draws in each case on the basic intellectual frame that Hoffmann had derived from contemporary idealistic philosophy. This philosophy was fascinated by the questions relating to mind, and by the possibility of absolute (or transcendental) freedom, issues that became transposed by poets (such as Coleridge and Novalis) from the philosophical to the aesthetic realm, the faculty of “imagination” being substituted for “mind.” The strong contemporary interest in abnormal states of mind, as we have seen, was of particular interest in this debate. What is different in Der Sandmann, however, is that all the attendant material and background to the madness of Nathanael, including, most importantly, details of his family relationships and childhood, are presented to the reader, not exactly as a clinical case history in Freudian mode, but in sufficient depth and detail for the reader to make the connection, if he is so minded, between these adverse circumstances and the disastrous outcome. The emphasis here is decidedly on the psychology rather than on Naturphilosophie. Nathanael’s case would come under the heading of Schubert’s “Nachtseite der Natur” and as such provide Serapiontic possibilities, in that the tortured self-projections of Nathanael and the nightmarish distortions of reality that rack him present a theme of a kind that the brotherhood had noted as potentially fruitful as a lever for setting in motion “unbekannte geheimnisvolle Kräfte.”16 The parallel worlds noted in the other sources of Serapiontic creation, such as Der goldene Topf, however, are not evident, and there is no mythical equivalent to the world of Nathanael’s tortured imagination, only hallucinatory and nightmarish visions. Unlike the Einsiedler, who has created an alternative world to suits his own requirements, Nathanael is no recluse who has opted out of normal life and into an alternative life-style, but a young student, a member of a university community who enjoys good social relations with his professor, who has warm relations with his family (mother and brother), and in short would have excellent prospects — were it not the case that he is still dominated by an idée fixe dating from childhood. Both hermit and student have artistic aspirations, the former being an

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accomplished writer of tales, the latter author of a prolific, though as yet unpublished and possibly immature output of literary works in diverse genres. In their relationship to the world at large they share, however, an inability to recognize the limits between their over-luxuriant imaginations and the empirical realities that, as we have seen from Die Serapionsbrüder, are part of the human condition.17 Hoffmann turns this excessive trait in Nathanael very occasionally to humorous effect, as, for example, in the scene where the latter interprets as enthusiasm the automaton Olimpia’s mechanical reaction (“Ja, ja”) to his reading from one of his literary works. The anchor point in normality and clear-mindedness and the individual who more than any other character can analyze and understand the processes of Nathanael’s mind and diagnose his problems is Clara, but despite all her efforts he refuses to accept her commonsense arguments (just as Cyprian fails with the hermit), and after two brief remissions he soon relapses completely. The few humorous moments (created by the incongruity of Nathanael’s obsession with and effusions over Olimpia’s imagined animation in the face of the mechanical monotony of her movements, which is clear to everybody else) are counteracted by the sense of stark inevitability, which the reader senses by such portents as Nathanael’s biographical poem anticipating his loss of Clara and his own destruction at the hands of Coppelius — a self-fulfilling prophesy. The endangered artist, Graf P. (alias the hermit Serapion) had escaped the humiliation of being shut up in an asylum because of the liberal attitude of his doctors, for as a recluse his refusal to recognize the limits of time and space could do no harm to anybody but himself, and he lived out his life in tranquillity, completely without any sense that he is being pursued by the equivalent of the Furies. The basic instability in Nathanael’s condition is rooted in the obsessions he has carried with him from childhood and can be traced back to the “Sandmann” incident. This means that at any given point in time it only requires one chance external trigger — for example, Clara’s blunt rejection of his grim, prophetic poem or the distorted image of her that he imagines he sees when he looks through the eyeglass — for him to tip over into total madness. The same instability is apparent in Cardillac in Das Fräulein von Scuderi, who, like Nathanael, makes definite but futile attempts to curb his obsessive compulsion, acquired, it appears, prenatally, to repossess his jewelry with violence, and in Elis Fröbohm in Die Bergwerke au Falun, who, in the grip of a powerfully repressed subconscious and a mother fixation, struggles unsuccessfully between his allegiance to the underworld queen and mother-figure and Ulla, his fiancée. While the Märchen Der goldene Topf cannot establish a completely stable foundation for the future of the poet-hero Anselmus, it does offer intermittent access to the delights of a higher poetic world, an enhancement of everyday reality, and a source of aspiration. In addition, by also implying the

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triadic “Geschichtsbild” in the interpolated myths and the Schellingian possibility of a benign direction to the workings of the “Weltgeist,” arising from the interaction of benevolent and destructive principles, that tenuous harmony achieved by the poet can be placed within a wider frame of reference. But the dark world of Der Sandmann and other works in which the Supernatural is associated with the “Nachseite der Natur” illustrate how at the other end of the spectrum the human mind can lose its bearings and self-destruct. This contrasting position of Hoffmann’s has been described as “der negative Doppelgänger des Dichters.”18 The basic duality within the artistic psyche and the two contrasting positions that are explored in these two works are well served by Hoffmann’s virtuoso application of his Serapiontic method, though in Der Sandmann it has to be radically modified in view of the fatalistic19 obsession of the main protagonist, whose (serapiontically) imaginative faculties and ingenuity are channeled into the process of building up more and more distorted images on the basis of the one all-embracing childhood tale of the Sandman. For here the benign figures — in the form of Nathanael’s student friends and Clara — are powerless to halt the process of his self-destruction, and there is no comparable master-figure, as is customary elsewhere, who might help to place the contrasting levels of reality within the protagonist’s sights as equally powerful forces, and thus lead him to “Erkenntnis,” as Lindhorst does Anselmus and Celionati Giglio. Even more significantly, there is hardly any sign of enlivening humor or irony in Der Sandmann that might lessen the sense of horror which is created. The uniformity of focus on the obsessional strikes the reader with a terrifying power, and the action unfolds with a sense of tragic inevitability. This is not a common strain in Hoffmann’s fiction (Die Bergwerke zu Falun is possibly the nearest equivalent). It could be suggested that the claustrophobic nature of the presentation is pointing away from the Serapiontic model towards a strain of “gothic” fiction. Even the novel that Hoffmann was already engaged in writing, Die Elixiere des Teufels, which gives possibly the fullest expression to this same “gothic” strain, suggests a measure of resolution for the tortured hero — who is also the victim of predetermination — through the agency of art. The task Medardus is set by his prior, Pater Leonardus, namely, that of writing his autobiography, at least seems to bring him peace of mind (“Heiterkeit”) and thus ultimately, through this process of creative reconstruction, serves a therapeutic function unavailable to Nathanael.

Notes 1 2

See Hoffmann’s letter to Kunz, 4 March 1814, HSW vol. 6, 18.

See S. S. Prawer, “Hoffmann’s Uncanny Guest: A reading of Der Sandmann,” German Life and Letters 18(1964/65): 297–308.

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3 See HSW/FS, 756; James Beresford (1764–1840), The Miseries of Human Life; Or the Groans of Samuel Sensitive and Timothy Testy (London: 1806). 4 In the letter to Kunz of 19 August 1813, HSW vol. 1, 302. Hoffmann describes the first, somewhat crude, plan, according to which the object that would later be transformed into the golden pot containing Serpentina’s dowry and given full Märchen status started life as a lowly “Nachttopf,” a motif that was common in French fairy tales, especially “contes licencieux” and also occurs in Wieland’s Geschichte des Prinzen Biribinker. See HSW/FS, 756–57. 5

“In keiner als in dieser düstern verhängnisvollen Zeit, wo man seine Existenz von Tage zu Tage fristet und ihrer froh wird, hat mich das Schreiben so angesprochen — es ist, als schlösse ich mir ein wunderbares Reich auf, das aus meinem Innern hervorgehend und sich gestaltend mich dem Drange des Äußern entrückte” (19 Aug. 1813, HSW vol. 1, 301). 6 See Roland Heine, Transzendentalpoesie: Studien zu Friedrich Schlegel, Novalis und E. T. A. Hoffmann (Bonn: Bouvier, 1974), who gives a survey of the problems raised by the narrator’s so-called “Erzählaporie,” his seeming incapacity, that is, to present in detail Anselmus’s final admission into the transcendental realm of Atlantis, the “Land der Poesie.” Heine reads the ending as a change of emphasis from the “Was der Darstellung” (i.e. the poetic epiphany) to “Das Wie des Darstellens,” the formal problem (i.e. the narrator’s hesitations regarding the business of bringing the tale to a conclusion), However, he jumps to the conclusion that the switch of direction and “skepticism” that is suddenly expressed by the narrator persona somehow invalidates all that has gone before: “Der offene Schluß des Märchen bedeutet daher einerseits die Zurücknahme des Dargestellten in die künstlerische Autonomie des Darstellens (Schlegels transzendentalpoetisches Prinzip der Selbstvernichtung)” (196–97). As we have already seen (see discussion of Prinzessin Brambilla above, chapter 5) the overlaps between Schlegel’s and Hoffmann’s ideas on irony are often striking. However, Heine’s one-sided interpretation of Schlegel’s “dialectical” approach is not apt here: “Die transzendentalpoetische Fragestellung, die das inhaltliche Problem dem formalen dialektisch zuordnet, wird im doppelten Sinne durch eine Eingrenzung auf den Bereich der Kunst beantwortet.” There is no question of one side of the dialectic (i.e. content) being subjected to the other (form): for Hoffmann the two cannot be separated and form one seamless whole. Heine’s study would have benefited from a wider range of reference, that is, inclusion of the Serapionsbrüder discussions and the Serapiontic Principle as well as an extension of the philosophical horizons beyond Novalis and Friedrich Schlegel. Other, more basic, reasons (see below) suggest that this reading is not only misguided but inaccurate. 7

See above, chapter 5, and Ernst Behler, German Romantic Literary Criticism (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1993), 134; Behler points to the “constant alteration of self-creation and self-annihilation” in Schlegel’s theory of irony. 8

This formulation spells out the idea of reciprocity between “Geist” and “Natur,” derived from Schelling’s Naturphilosophie, which has been a thread running consistently through the length and breadth of Hoffmann’s work. Nowhere is it more evident than in Der goldene Topf, which was written around the time of Hoffmann’s intensive study of the works of Schelling and Schubert (see above, chapter 2, “Der Einsiedler Serapion”).

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9 Hoffmann refers throughout his works to the “immerwaltender Weltgeist” (and similar phrases), a concept that derives from the idea of Emanation expounded in Schelling’s “Weltseele”; see Wilhelm Ettelt, “Philosophische Motive im dichterischen Werk E. T. A. Hoffmanns,” Mitteilungen der Hoffmann-Gesellschaft 25 (1979): 31–45, esp. 40–41. Ettelt notes Hoffmann’s substitution of “Weltgeist” for “Weltseele.” See also the discussion on “Der Einsiedler Serapion,” chapter 2 in this volume. 10 This imagery performs the same function as that of the motif of the “Reich” used elsewhere by Hoffmann to express the “home” of the imagination. 11

Schelling, “Von der Weltseele,” 1798.

12

The timing of Hoffmann’s initial reading of Schelling and Schubert and his writing of Der goldene Topf is very close: all within the same year, 1813; see “Der Einsiedler Serapion,” chapter 2 in this volume. 13

See Todorov’s various criteria for allegory, “La poésie et l’allegorie,” in Introduction à la littérature fantastique (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1970), 63–79, and Ingrid Strohschneider-Kohrs, Die romantische Ironiein Theorie und Gestaltung, 2nd ed. (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1977), 350–51 and discussion above, chapter 5. 14

Compare the distinction made above (chapter 5) apropos Prinzessin Brambilla between “over-” and “under-stated” allegory. 15

As was already noted, however, the frame has its own fictional dimension.

16

See discussion in “The ‘Nachtseite der Natur,’ ” chapter 9 in this volume.

17

Nathanael’s solipsistic self-absorption (like that of the Einsiedler) has been linked to Fichtean Ich-philosophy, but if this is Hoffmann’s intention then that can scarcely be described as a liberating force. 18

F. A. Kittler, “ ‘Das Phantom unseres Ich’ und die Literaturpsychologie: E. T. A. Hoffmann — Freud — Lacan,” in Urszenen, ed. F. A. Kittler and H. Turk (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1977). 19

See Lothar Pikulik, “Das Verbrechen aus Obsession: E. T. A. Hoffmann: ‘Das Fräulein von Scuderi,’ ” in Deutsche Novellen, ed. W. Freund (Munich: Fink, 1989), who identifies this fatalistic streak in Hoffmann’s work but regards it as the more derivative side of his work, reflecting popular literary trends of the day: “Ins Anonyme hüllt Hoffmann das Wunderbare, und vage aus dem kosmischen Überbau oder dem seelischen Untergrund wirken läßt er es, wenn er die irdische Welt einer nicht weiter charakterisierten fremden oder feindlichen Macht oder dem ewigen Verhängnis, wie es bei ihm häufig heißt, aussetzt. Bei diesem Model ist er am wenigsten originell. Hier knüpft er an die tradition des Schicksals- und Sternenglauben an, an fatalistische Vorstellungen, die in älteste Zeit zurückreichten” (28). The strength of Der Sandmann, however, is surely the fact that the fatalism is internalized and clearly motivated.

Conclusion

T

HE ABOVE INVESTIGATION OF Hoffmann’s ideas on aesthetics and their application to his own works has suggested a rather different image of the writer from that to which we are accustomed. We have been able first to identify a persistent undercurrent of reference to the fundamental issues that were being discussed by thinkers of the day, especially the relationship between “Geist” and “Natur.” Far from mere name-dropping — which has hitherto mostly served as an explanation for this phenomenon — Hoffmann consistently annexes this intellectual framework, which hinges for him on the centrality of the faculty of imagination, to his more practical concerns and applications of the creative process and its reception. The Serapiontic Principle is the chief unifying factor that brings together the more abstract and theoretical and the genial and inspirational aspects in this process. As we have seen, it is itself a multifaceted notion composed of various strands and developed continuously over the entire breadth of Hoffmann’s career as a prose writer from the Fantasiestücke to Des Vetters Eckfenster, and it reaches a point of particular intensification, clarity, and elucidation in Die Serapionsbrüder. As a point of intersection between the general and the particular the principle serves, as I have demonstrated, to draw together the many and various insights that have for too long made Hoffmann’s efforts at theorizing appear to be haphazard. Hoffmann’s constant, almost obsessive revisiting of the themes of imagination and creativity links him with the English Romantics such as Wordsworth and Coleridge. It reveals a writer who is drawn simultaneously to critical self-reflection as well as to the genial and spontaneous side of creativity. Whereas for many of his generation (for example, Friedrich Schlegel) these seemingly contradictory impulses manifested themselves in an uneasy relationship between critical analysis and imaginative writing (see Schlegel’s Lucinde), Hoffmann uniquely and boldly finds the artistic means of enabling these two contrasting principles to coexist peacefully and to shed light on one another. His (seemingly opportunistic) creation of the giant framework in Die Serapionsbrüder and its ingenious application to the narratives in the collection is ample testimony of the importance Hoffmann attaches to his ambitious program. An appreciation of his achievement here can enable the reader better to understand his narrative aims in general and provides a bridge between his earlier and later narrative output. This has been especially apparent in the case of Prinzessin Brambilla and Des Vetters Eckfenster.

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The recognition of such a unifying principle in no way implies a bland uniformity in Hoffmann’s praxis. His thematic range extends, as we have seen, from the lighthearted to the sinister, the two modes sometimes being combined within one work (for example, Das Fräulein von Scuderi). More familiarly, in the Serapionsbrüder collection, most especially in the first two books, they are presented as a progression from the one mode to the other. The underlying premises and thought structures, which, as I have demonstrated, he derives from contemporary philosophy, seem, in Hoffmann’s interpretation, to be predicated on a fundamentally dualistic, but basically unstable, dynamic world process. This instability lends itself to a highly imaginative and differentiated exploration of problems involving both the aspiration towards as well as the loss of an original harmony. Hoffmann’s awareness of current theories relating to sense perception and its relation to mind (“Geist”) promote an often profound awareness of the dichotomies and psychological confusions to which the human mind, and especially that of the artist, is exposed. In giving expression to these disturbing insights Hoffmann’s self-conscious awareness of the claims of “inner” and “outer” levels of reality in his fictional work is normally mitigated by the faculty of irony. This is possibly a self-defensive strategy, but is certainly aided by the writer’s ability to view the world from a detached standpoint, an ability that derives from an awareness and acceptance of its janus-faced, often contradictory complexion. It has been instructive to note the respective impressions on the reader created by the two tales in which the horrific features appear in seemingly unmitigated form: Der Sandmann and Die Bergwerke zu Falun. In both cases that ironic perspective is lacking, or more precisely, in the case of the latter, it is not integral to the tale itself, and can only be partially supplied through the retrospective debate on the tale’s merits by the Serapionsbrüder. Der Sandmann stands alone, ungarnished by any Serapiontic frame perspective, though not entirely devoid of a self-conscious narrative voice, albeit one which whose neutrality may have the effect of intensifying the horror. But the iconic status of this narrative for modern readers, much influenced as they have been by Freud’s analysis, should not obscure the fact that the exceptionally dark and powerful vision it presents of mental disintegration represents but one pole in Hoffmann’s thinking. More familiarly, throughout his oeuvre this negative focus is counteracted by a complex perspective in which the two-sidedness, that “Erkenntnis der Duplizität” that is at the heart of the Serapiontic Principle, prevails. We have seen how closely Hoffmann’s narrative practice is molded to meet the demands of his thought process. One can cite here the evidence of his development of the Märchen form to unprecedented levels of virtuosity and as, among other purposes, a vehicle for advancing his triadic “Geschichtsbild.” Or again, his development of frame narrative to a point of innovative complexity without parallel in German literature, as a device

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that not only provides the intellectual underpinning for his developing ideas about the creative process but also their practical implementation in the form of literary criticism. I have shown how, deriving from the same conceptual base, in Prinzessin Brambilla Hoffmann develops, and through a mouthpiece figure defends, the concept of allegory as a literary device in the Märchen, giving it a rationale and respectability that Goethe’s more negative interpretation had not permitted. Another of Hoffmann’s major innovations is his inventive interdisciplinary approach to artistic creation, which, I have argued, is a logical extension of his theory of the Serapiontic. The two essays on music highlight the processes involved in the transformation from the verbal into the musical medium, touching at various points on theories of perception. Elsewhere in the Serapionsbrüder collection the focus is put on the transformation of the visual into the verbal, whether through a deliberate emphasis on a verbal clue (for example, the picture frame in Doge und Dogaresse); a historically resonant image prompted by what is virtually a genre picture (Meister Martin), which sharpens the viewer’s awareness of the contrast between past and present; or, as in Die Fermate, the singling out of the pregnant moment in a pictorial depiction (which the observing writer chooses to interpret as the execution of a cadential fermata), which stimulates the writer’s imagination and his desire to explore its dramatic/literary implications. The framework for these particular tales, particularly the last-mentioned, merges conveniently with the gallery dialogue and once more shows Hoffmann’s virtuosity and originality in his handling of this popular Romantic device. It has therefore been possible to demonstrate Hoffmann’s chameleonlike ability to develop and extend an entirely new range of possibilities for prose narrative and give the lie to the commonly held view that the short story or tale is a trivial form, greatly inferior to the novel. The stigma attaching to the word “tale” in particular has possibly been reinforced by the domination in the English tradition of the larger prose form, and also by the knowledge that the origin of many of Hoffmann own works in this genre can often be traced to their initial appearance in journals. I have tried to divest Hoffmann of such associations. It is only comparatively recently that his great compatriot, Heinrich von Kleist, whose Erzählungen Hoffmann held in enormous regard and for one of which, as I have demonstrated above, he produced a brilliant analysis, has come to be regarded primarily as a master of the short prose narrative and only secondarily as a dramatist. Hoffmann’s narrative genius by contrast has been under-explored. As I have argued, this is largely because (unlike Kleist) Hoffmann has developed elaborate self-reflexive devices both within and without his narrative collections. It is true that the complex, ironic perspectivism of his fiction has now attracted more attention, but the equally important use of

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the framework device in particular, which is surely a spectacular example of this self-reflexivity, has still not been fully appreciated. Hoffmann cannot be accused of not having made his position clear, however, nor of having failed to supply his readers with countless clues as to how he would like his tales to be read. The apparently modest format of these short narratives and Märchen belies the sophistication of the literary apparatus that has been erected around and within them and with which they interact to produce a complex effect. Of course many of the tales can be read at the more straightforward level of individual narrative. But that approach has led to concentration on a very narrow range of exemplary texts that can be regarded without further enquiry or explanation as “a good read” and no more. A reductive canon of four or five “tales” does Hoffmann no justice. An appreciation of his greatest qualities can only be achieved if the reader is prepared to be guided in the art of reading a Hoffmann text in context and in the round, allowing the writer occasionally to lead him into his workshop to share his insight into and fascination with the various processes and stages by means of which the finished work has come into being. As I have demonstrated, the thematization of this complex aspect of creativity is one of Hoffmann’s constant preoccupations.

Select Bibliography Editions of Hoffmann’s Works Die Serapionsbrüder: Gesammelte Erzählungen und Märchen. 4 vols. Berlin: Reimer, 1819–21. Aus E. T. A. Hoffmanns Leben und Nachlaß. Edited by Julius Eduard Hitzig. 2 vols. Berlin: 1823. Erzählungen aus seinen letzten Lebensjahren: Sein Leben und Nachlaß in fünf Bänden. Edited by Micheline Hoffmann, geb. Rohrer. Stuttgart: 1839. Sämtliche Werke. Historisch-kritische Ausgabe. Edited by Carl Georg von Maassen. Munich and Leipzig: Georg Müller, 1908–28 [incomplete: vols. 1–4, 6–10. Vol. 5: Die Serapionsbrüder 1 lacking]. Werke. Edited by Georg Ellinger. 5 vols. Berlin-Leipzig-Vienna-Stuttgart, 1912. E. T. A. Hoffmann im persönlichen und brieflichen Verkehr: Sein Briefwechsel und die Erinnerung seiner Bekannten gesammelt und erläutert. Edited by Hans von Müller. Berlin: Gebrüder Paetel, 1912. Sämtliche Werke. 5 vols. (Based on von Maassen and Ellinger’s outstanding editions.) Edited by W. Müller-Seidel and W. Segebrecht. Munich: Winkler, 1960–65. Briefwechsel. Edited by Hans von Müller and Friedrich Schnapp. 3 vols. Munich: Winkler, 1967–69. Tagebücher. Nach der Ausgabe Hans von Müllers mit Erläuterungen herausgegeben von Friedrich Schnapp. Munich: Winkler, 1971. Sämtliche Werke in sechs Bänden. Edited by Wulf Segebrecht and Hartmut Steinecke, with Gerhard Allroggen and others. Frankfurt am Main: Deutscher Klassiker Verlag, 1985–2003.

Other Primary Texts Pinel, Ph. Abhandlung über Geistesverwirrungen oder Manie. Aus dem Französischen übersetzt und mit Anmerkungen versehen von Michael Wagner. Vienna: 1801.

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Reil, Johann Christian, Rhapsodien über die Anwendung der psychischen Curmethode auf Geisteszerrrüttung. Halle: 1803. ———. “Von den Geisteszerrüttungen: Imagination, Gedächtnis, Dichtungsvermögen.” In Fieberhafte Nervenkrankheiten, vol. 4 of Über die Erkenntnis und Cur der Fieber. Halle: 1802. Ritter, J. W. Fragmente aus dem Nachlasse eines jungen Physikers. Heidelberg: 1810. Schelling, Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph von. Sämtliche Werke. Edited by K. F. A. Schelling. Section 1, vols. 1–10; section 2, vols. 1–4. Stuttgart: 1856–61. ———. Von der Weltseele: Eine Hypothese der höheren Physik zur Erklärung des allgemeinen Organismus. Hamburg: 1798. ———. Ausgewählte Schriften. Edited by M. Frank. 6 vols. Stuttgart: 1985. ———. Werke. Edited by Manfred Durner (with Walter Schieche). Stuttgart: Frommann-Holzboog, 1994. Schröter, Manfred, ed. Schellings Werke. Nach der Originalausgabe in neuer Anordnung. 12 vols. Munich: Beck, 1956–62. Schubert, G. H. Ansichten von der Nachtseite der Naturwissenschaft. Dresden: 1808. ———. Die Symbolik des Traums. Bamberg: 1814. Solger, Karl Wilhelm Ferdinand. Vorlesungen über Ästhetik. Ed. K. W. L. Heyse. Reprint, Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1962.

Secondary Literature Auhuber, Friedhelm. In einem fernen dunklen Spiegel: E. T. A. Hoffmanns Poetisierung der Medizin. Opladen: Westdeutscher Verlag, 1986. ———. Hochgebietende Vernunft, mißtönend wie verstimmte Glocken: E. T. A. Hoffmann und die Psychologie seiner Zeit. Nürnberg: Ellipse Verlag, 1996. Benjamin, Walter. Gesammelte Schriften. Vol. 1.2. Edited by Rolf Tiedemann and Hermann Schweppenhäuser. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1980. Bergström, Stefan. Between Real and Unreal: A Thematic Study of E. T. A. Hoffmann’s “Die Serapionsbrüder.” New York: Peter Lang, 2000. Bowie, Andrew. Schelling and Modern European Philosophy: An Introduction. London: Routledge, 1993. Deterding, Klaus. Die Poetik der inneren und äußeren Welt bei E. T. A. Hoffmann. Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 1991. Dieterle, Bernard. Erzählte Bilder: Zum narrativen Umgang mit Gemälden. Marburg: 1988.

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Eilert, Heidi. Theater in der Erzählkunst: Eine Studie zum Werk E. T. A. Hoffmanns. Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1977. Elling, Barbara. Leserintergration im Werk E. T. A. Hoffmanns. Berne and Stuttgart: Paul Haupt, 1973. Ellinger, Georg. E. T. A. Hoffmann: Sein Leben und seine Werke. Hamburg and Leipzig: L. Voss, 1894. Ettelt, Wilhelm. “Philosophische Motive im dichterischen Werk E. T. A. Hoffmanns.” MHG 25 (1979): 31–45. Feldges, Brigitte, and Ulrich Stadler. E. T. A. Hoffmann: Epoche — Werk — Wirkung. Munich: Beck, 1986. Frank, Manfred. Eine Einführung in Schellings Philosophie. Frankfurt: 1985. Heine, Roland. Transzendentalpoesie: Studien zu Friedrich Schlegel, Novalis und E. T. A. Hoffmann. Bonn: Bouvier, 1974. Hewett-Thayer, H. W. Hoffmann, Author of the Tales. Princeton: Princeton UP, 1948. Japp, Uwe. “Das serapiontische Prinzip.” In E. T. A. Hoffmann, edited by H. L. Arnold, 63–76. Munich: Text ⫹ Kritik, 1992. Jost, Walter. Von Ludwig Tieck zu E. T. A. Hoffmann: Studien zur Entwicklungsgeschichte des romantischen Subjektivismus. Frankfurt am Main, 1921; reprint Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1969. Köhn, Lothar. Vieldeutige Welt. Studien zur Struktur der Erzählungen E. T. A. Hoffmanns und zur Entwicklung seines Werkes. Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1966. Konow, Petra Liedke. “E. T. A. Hoffmanns Rahmenzyklus Die Serapionsbrüder: Eine Analyse unter zeichen- und kommunikationstheoretischen Aspekten.” Ph.D. diss., U of California, Los Angeles, 1991. ———. “Sich hineinschwingen in die Werkstatt des Autors: Ästhetische Rekurrenzphänomene in E. T. A. Hoffmanns Rahmenzyklus Die Serapionsbrüder.” E. T. A. Hoffmann-Jahrbuch 2 (1994): 57–68. Kremer, Detlev. Romantische Metamorphosen: E. T. A. Hoffmanns Erzählungen. Stuttgart: Metzler, 1993. ———. E. T. A. Hoffmann: Erzählungen und Romane. Hamburg: E. Schmidt, 1999. Küchler, Petra. Sakellarien: Implosion des Bewußtseins; Allegorie und Mythos in E. T. A. Hoffmanns Märchenerzählungen. Berne: Peter Lang, 1989. Liebrand, Claudia. Aporie des Kunstmythos. Freiburg im Breisgau: Rombach, 1996. Matt, Peter von, Die Augen der Automaten: E. T. A. Hoffmanns Imaginationslehre als Prinzip einer Erzählkunst. Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1971. Momberger, Manfred. Sonne und Punsch: Die Dissemination des romantischen Kunstbegriffs bei E. T. A. Hoffmann. Munich: Fink, 1984.

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267–90. Sonderband to Deutsche Vierteljahrsschrift für Literaturwissenschaft und Geistesgeschichte. Stuttgart, 1978. Stephan, Dieter. Das Problem des novellistischen Rahmenzyklus. Diss., Göttingen, 1960. Strohschneider-Kohrs, Ingrid. Die romantische Ironie in Theorie und Gestaltung. 2nd ed. Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1977. Todorov, Tvetan. “La poésie et l’allégorie.” In Introduction à la littérature fantastique, 63–79. Paris: Editions du Seuil, 1970. Utz, Peter. Das Auge und das Ohr im Text: Literarische Sinneswahrnehmung in der Goethezeit. Munich: Fink, 1990. Vietta, Silvio. “Romantikparodie und Realitätsbegriff im Erzählwerk E. T. A. Hoffmanns.” Zeitschrift für deutsche Philologie 100 (1981): 575–91. Winter, Ilse. Untersuchungen zum serapiontischen Prinzip E. T. A. Hoffmanns. The Hague: Mouton, 1976. Wührl, Paul-Wolfgang. Das deutsche Kunstmärchen: Geschichte, Botschaft und Erzählstruktur. Heidelberg: Quelle und Meyer, 1984. ———. E. T. A. Hoffmanns “Der goldene Topf.” Die Utopie einer ästhetischen Existenz. Paderborn, Munich, Vienna, Zurich: F. Schöningh, 1988. Zimmermann, Hans Dieter. “Der Mann leidet an einem chronischen Dualismus: Zu E. T. A. Hoffmanns Capriccio Prinzessin Brambilla.” In E. T. A. Hoffmann: Text ⫹ Kritik, edited by H. L. Arnold, 97–111. Sonderband, Munich: Text ⫹Kritik, 1992.

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———. E. T. A. Hoffmann als Komponist: Studien zur Kompositionstechnik an ausgewählten Werken. Wiesbaden: Breitkopf und Härtel, 1986. Lichtenhahn, Ernst. “Zur Idee des goldenen Zeitalters in der Musikanschauung E. T. A. Hoffmanns.” In Romantik in Deutschland, edited by R. Brinkmann, 502–20. Sonderband to Deutsche Vierteljahrsschrift für Literaturwissenschaft und Geistesgeschichte. Stuttgart, 1978. Müller-Sievers, Helmut. “Verstimmung: E. T. A. Hoffmann und die Trivialisierung der Musik.” Deutsche Vierteljahrsschrift für Literaturwissenschaft und Geistesgeschichte 63 (1989): 98–119. Rohr, Judith. E. T. A. Hoffmanns Theorie des musikalischen Dramas: Untersuchungen zum musikalischen Romantikbegriff im Umkreis der Leipziger Allgemeinen Musikalischen Zeitung. Baden-Baden: V. Koerner, 1985. Rüdiger, Wolfgang. Musik und Wirklichkeit bei E. T. A. Hoffmann: Zur Entstehung einer Musikanschauung in der Romantik. Pfaffenweiler: 1989. Schnapp, Friedrich. Aufzeichnungen seiner Freunde und Bekannten. Munich: Winkler, 1974. ———, ed. Der Musiker E. T. A. Hoffmann. Ein Dokumentenband. Hildesheim: Gerstenberg, 1981. Setzer, Matthias. Wirklichkeitsentgrenzung und musikalische Poetologie. Frankfurt am Main: R. G. Fischer, 1988.

Index Adler, J., 9, 53 n. 5, 55 n. 23, 56 n. 29 allegory: Goethe’s definition of, 103 n. 13; Todorov’s definition of, 103 n. 14 Anfossi, P., 153, 156 n. 25 Arabian Nights, 132 Ariosto, L., 54 n. 22 Arndt, E. M., 160 Arnim, Achim von, 16, 54, 115, 136, 154, 160 Aufklärung, 17 n. 31, 87 Bach, J. S., 30 n. 2, 80, 81, 89 n. 20 Barthes, R., 4 Baudelaire, Charles, 13, 182 Beethoven, Ludwig van, works by: Mass in C op.86, 73–75, 78, 83, 86, 87 nn. 6–8, 88, 129; Mass in D (“Missa Solemnis”) op.123, 17 n. 6, 81, 91 n. 33; Symphony no.5 in C Minor op.67, 22 Behler, E., 15 n. 16, 30 n. 3, 54 n. 22, 55 nn. 3, 5, 104 n. 28 Beresford, J., 186, 195 n. 3 Brentano, Clemens, 16 n. 26, 54 n. 20, 154 n. 3 Brown, H. M., 32 n. 17, 69 n. 4, 154 n. 4 Brühl, Graf von, 70 nn. 11, 16 Caldara, A., 74, 87 n. 5 Calderon de la Barca, P., 60, 165 Callot, J., 21–33, 42, 44, 60, 63, 92–93, 102, 102 n. 1, 107, 115 n. 2, 182

Chamisso, A. von, journey round the world, 8, 120; and the Seraphinenorden, 8, 120 Charlton, D., 66, 67, 71 n. 23, 88 n. 9 Chodowiecki, D., 107, 136 Coleridge, S. T., ix, 43, 55 n. 27, 192, 197 Conrady, K., 53 n. 5 Contessa, K. W., 120 Croce, B., 54 Dahlhaus, C., 14 n. 3, 70 n. 17, 90 nn. 22, 30 Dante Alighiere, 40, 55 n. 22, 103 n. 17 Derrida, J., 4 Devrient, L., 120 Diderot, Denis, 17 n. 32, 111, 136 Dobat, K-D., 55 n. 30, 89 n. 17 Dyck, M., 53 n. 10 Eagleton, T., 15 n. 9 “eingeschachte(l)t,” 50, 56 n. 38 Einsiedler motif, 9, 54 n. 20 Ellinger, G., 120 n. 3 Fichte, J. G., 5, 34, 39, 49, 52, 55 n. 30, 56 n. 39, 98, 104 n. 21, 130, 131, 189, 196 n. 17 Fink, G-L., 54 n. 20 Fitzell, J., 54 n. 20 Fouqué, F. de la Motte, 31 n. 13, 58, 60, 63, 64, 69 nn. 5, 6, 70 n. 11, 120 framework technique, 11, 51, 99, 185 Frank M., 17 n. 34, 88 n. 16, 183 n. 3

208




INDEX

Friedrich, C. D., 56 n. 33, 136, 154 n. 5 Gabalis, comte de, 179, 188 “gallery dialogue,” 2, 122, 138, 154 n. 2, 185 Geck, M., 81, 88 n. 9, 90 nn. 27, 28 Geist: “Auge des Geists,” 16 nn. 17, 28; Geist/Natur, 36–42, 49, 51, 77; “geistige Potenz,” 127, 159; “höheres geistiges Prinzip,” 52 n. 2; “romantisch,” 28 “Gemütlichkeit,” 55 n. 29, 99, 104 n. 25, 144, 147, 155 n. 14 “Gesamtkunstwerk,” 12 Gluck, C. W. Ritter von, 57, 62, 63 Goethe, J. W. von, critique of Hoffmann, 15 n. 7; Goethe and Schelling, 53 n. 5 Goethe, J. W. von, works by: Egmont, 1; Einfache Nachahmung der Natur, Manier, Stil, 29; Faust, 74, 89; Märchen, 189; Unterhaltungen deutscher Ausgewanderten, 21; Von deutscher Baukunst, 88 n. 13, 89 Görres, J., 16 n. 26 Goya, Francisco de, 28 Gozzi, C., 62, 71 n. 18 grotesque, 25, 26, 27, 29, 45, 171, 173, 182 Grünewald Matthias, 27 Handel, G. F., 80, 103 n. 12 Hardy, B., 14 n. 5 Haydn, Joseph, 75, 80, 82 Haydn, Michael, 81 Heine, R., 195 n. 6 Herder, J. G., 17 n. 37 Hindemith, P., on libretti, 66, 71 n. 22 Hindemith, P., works by: Die Harmonie der Welt, 90 n. 22

Hitzig, J., 15 n. 7, 16 n. 22, 59, 63, 69 nn. 5, 6, 114, 116 n. 10, 120, 121, 171, 183 n. 4 Hoffmann E. T. A., as jurist, 8, 16 n. 21; and the Seraphinenorden, 8, 9, 88 n. 15, 120, 121; and the wars of liberation, 8; witnesses bombardment of Dresden and battlefield nearby (“Die Vision auf dem Schlachtfeld bei Dresden”), 71 n. 20 Hoffmann, E. T. A, works by: Die Elixiere des Teufels, 7, 34, 37, 52 n. 3, 56 n. 34, 139, 155, 162, 168 n. 7, 194 Fantasiestücke: Märchen form of, 132, 170, 176; and the Serapiontic Principle, 188, 193 Die Abenteuer der Silvesternacht, 22 Don Juan, 7 Der goldene Topf, creation myth of, 95 Jacques Callot, 5, 7, 21–30 Kreisleriana, 13, 22, 31 n. 6, 33, 58 Der Magnetiseur, 17 n. 33 Ritter Gluck, 7, 108 Lebensansichten des Katers Murr, 48, 56 n. 39, 123, 156 n. 22, 181 Nachtstücke, 14, 185 Der Sandmann, 4, 14, 34, 37, 144, 162, 185, 191–94, 196 n. 19, 198 Operas: Die Maske, 66 Undine, 12, 35, 58, 59, 60, 63, 67, 69 n. 7, 70 n. 11 Prinzessin Brambilla, 7, 13, 31 n. 15, 37, 56 n. 39, 86, 92–103, 102 n. 1, 104 n. 24, 106, 144, 170, 182, 191, 197, 199

INDEX

Die Serapionsbrüder: Alte und neue Kirchenmusik, 15 n. 10, 54 n. 14, 71 n. 19, 72–86, 89 n. 18, 126 Die Bergwerke zu Falun, 16 n. 17, 37, 127, 135, 157, 160–63, 194, 198 Die Brautwahl, 132, 183 n. 2 Der Dichter und der Komponist, 43–55, 72, 73, 79, 82, 83, 116 n. 8, 123 Doge und Dogaresse, 136–41, 148, 199 Der Einsiedler Serapion, 19–37 Die Fermate, 45, 46, 122, 148–54 Das Fräulein von Scuderi, 140, 157, 163–68, 169, 179, 196 n. 19 Das fremde Kind, ix, 10, 123, 132, 158, 170, 175–78, 179, 180, 190 Die Königsbraut, ix, 16 n. 17, 158, 170, 178–83, 191 Meister Martin der Küfner, 129, 136, 141–48, 152, 155 n. 15, 163, 199 Nußknacker und Mausekönig, 4, 123, 128, 132, 144, 158, 160, 170, 171–74, 175, 176, 177, 178, 179, 184 n. 6, 190 Rat Krespel, 33, 37, 42, 44–46, 48, 58, 126, 130, 131, 163 Hofmannsthal, H. von, 161; and libretti, 57 Hogarth, W., 25, 26, 107 Holbein, F. von, 60 Horn, E., 54 n. 21, 55 n. 24 Hummel, J., 136, 148, 150, 152, 153, 156 n. 23 irony, 4, 6, 15 n. 16, 25, 26, 29, 51, 54 n. 22, 92–93, 98, 99, 100,




209

101, 102 n. 3; and allegory, 96; and Novalis, 103; and romanticism, 102 n. 3; and Friedrich Schlegel, 187; self-irony, 101, 109, 166, 170, 179 Japp, U., 6, 10, 14 n. 2, 108 Kafka, F., and parable form, 189 Kant, Immanuel, 5, 11, 34, 40, 53, 70, 90 n. 24 Kittler, W., 196 n. 18 Kleist, Heinrich von, Hoffmann’s admiration for, 160, 165, 167, 168 n. 5, 199 Kleist, Heinrich von, works by: Amphitryon, 104 n. 22; Das Bettelweib von Locarno, 136; Empfindungen vor Friedrichs Landschaft, 122 Köhn, L., 110, 115 n. 1, 151 Kolbe, K. W., 129, 136, 137, 139, 140, 141, 147 Konow, P., 15 n. 12, 56 n. 35 Koreff, David, 102 n. 1, 120 Kremer, D., 4, 15 n. 8, 102 n. 2, 103 n. 9, 104 n. 24, 115 n. 1, 116 n. 9, 154 n. 1, 155 n. 10 Kunz, K. F., 30 n. 1, 31 nn. 7–9, 195 n. 4 Langen, A., 116 n. 7 Lessing, G. E., 16 n. 29 Lichtenberg, G. C., 2 Maassen, C. G. von, 154 n. 6 Mähl, H-J., 53 n. 9, 103 n. 15 “Manier,” 21, 28, 29, 30 n. 1, 32 n. 17 Marcus, A., 53 n. 4, 157 Martini, F, 115 n. 1 Matt, P. von, 15 n. 11, 102 n. 4, 115 n. 1, 116 n. 5 McDermid, V., 164

210




INDEX

“Metastasian” opera, 64 Mozart, W. A., 30 n. 2, 62, 63, 80, 82, 89 n. 18 Mückenberger, U., 16 n. 21, 133 n. 2 Müller, F., (“Maler”), 68, 71 n. 24, 132 Müller-Seidel, W., 16 n. 18, 168 n. 3 Myth(ology), 37, 41, 51, 95, 96, 97–98, 100, 102 n. 9, 147, 188–89, 192, 194

Prawer, S. S., 23, 24, 29, 31 n. 10, 194 n. 2

Neumann, G., 12, 17 n. 31, 115 n. 1, 154 n. 1, 170 n. 6 Novalis (Friedrich von Hardenberg), ix, 2, 28, 31 n. 11, 34, 39, 53 n. 9, 103 n. 10, 170, 182, 191, 192 Novalis (Friedrich von Hardenberg), works by: “Die Christenheit oder Europa,” 36, 68; Heinrich von Ofterdingen, 104 n. 27, 160, 184 n. 7, 189; Die Lehrlinge zu Sais, 31 n. 16

Schelling, F. W., “Naturphilosophie,” 34, 35, 49, 94, 127, 130, 175, 181, 183, 188, 189, 195 n. 8 Schelling, F. W., works by: Erster Entwurf eines Systems der Naturphilosophie, 34; Ideen zu einer Philosophie der Natur, 54 n. 11; Über Dante in philosophischer Beziehung, 103 n. 17; Von der Weltseele, 34, 56, 196 Schikaneder, E., 59 Schiller, F. von, works by: Über die Ästhetische Erziehung des Menschen, 11, 16 n. 30, 26, 36, 70 n. 17 Schlegel, A. W., 90 n. 22, 136 Schlegel, F., 2, 6, 15 n. 16, 30 n. 3, 51, 94, 102 n. 3, 103 n. 15, 104 n. 28, 182, 187, 191 Schnapp, F., 31 n. 7, 133 n. 1 Schubert, G. H., works by: Ansichten über die Nachtseite der Naturwissenschaften, 34, 35, 160; Die Symbolik des Traums, 53 n. 2, 54 nn. 12, 13, 56 n. 40, 102 n. 6 Scott, Sir Walter, critique of Hoffmann, 15 n. 7 Scott, Sir Walter, works by: Guy Mannering, 179 Segebrecht, W., 53 n. 4, 56 n. 38, 115 n. 2, 154

O’Brien, W. A., 104 n. 19 Offenbach, Jacques, 8 opera buffa, 62 opera seria, 62 Palestrina, 15 n. 10, 74, 76–82, 87 n. 5, 88 n. 12, 89 n. 20 Palestrina, works by: Missa Papae Marcelli, 78–79 Paul, Jean (Richter), 21, 23, 31 n. 7, 70 n. 12 Petrarch, 40 Pfotenhauer, H., 14 n. 1 Pikulik, L., 16 n. 22, 168 n. 5, 196 n. 19, 214 Pinel, Ph., 54 n. 18 “polyphonic narrative,” 4, 5, 15 n. 6, 187, 191 Potenzierung, 36, 71 n. 19, 85, 105 n. 28, 126, 127

Reil, J. C., 17 n. 37, 43, 54 n. 18, 157 Reimer, 58, 119 Ritter, J. W., 17 n. 31, 34, 90 n. 23 Rochlitz, F., 69 n. 1, 73 Runge, Ph. O., 103 n. 10, 136, 154 n. 5 Rusack, H., 71 n. 18

INDEX

Seraphinenorden, 8, 9, 88 n. 15, 120, 121, 133 n. 1 Solomon, R., 53 n. 3 Spontini, G., 45, 69 n. 6, 70 n. 14 Strauss, R., 57 Strohschneider-Kohrs, I., 102 n. 7, 104 n. 24, 155 n. 15, 182 n. 13, 183 n. 1 Synesthesia, 13 Thalmann, M., 16 n. 24 Tieck, Ludwig, works by: Herzensergießungen eines kunstliebenden Klosterbruders (with W. A. Wackenroder), 54 n. 20, 87 n. 3, 141; Liebeszauber, 125; Phantasus, 7, 10, 21, 119, 130, 132, 183 n. 3; Der Runenberg, 179, 181 Todorov, T., 97, 103 n. 14, 104 n. 20, 196 n. 13




211

Töpelmann, C., 155 n. 6 Trakl, G., 161 Trowell, B., 71 n. 25 “der versteckte Poet,” 56 n. 40, 94, 102 n. 7 Vietta, S., 55 nn. 23, 30 Wagenseil, J. C., 163, 165 Wagner, Richard, 12, 14 n. 3, 57, 164 Warrack, J., 69 nn. 1, 2, 7 Weber, C. M. von, 57, 69 nn. 1, 7, 70 n. 11 Weltgeist (“der waltende”), 82, 86, 124, 168 n. 2, 183, 187, 190, 194, 196 n. 9 Wolf Christa, 3, 4, 14 n. 5 Wordsworth, William, 197