The golden pot, p.13
The Golden Pot, page 13
Then the Archivarius Lindhorst tapped softly on my shoulder and whispered, “Be still, be still, my fine friend! Don’t be so upset! Were you not yourself just transported to Atlantis, and do you not yourself at least possess a goodly domain as the poetic estate of your spirit? Is Anselmus’s blessed state anything other than a life enshrined in poesy, revealed in the sacred harmony of all being as the most profound secret of nature?”
Skip Notes
*1 Das Lincke’sche Bad (Lincke’s Bathhouse) was a popular inn in a garden setting, with summer theater and concert hall, as well as one of the first open-air pools, in Dresden, in Hoffmann’s day.
*2 One of Hoffmann’s literary alter egos and pen names.
The Automaton
1814
The Talking Turk made quite a splash, indeed he became the talk of the town. Young and old, high society and the hoi polloi, all came in droves, from morning to night, to hear the oracular pronouncements whispered to the curious by the stiff lips of that wondrous living-dead figure. In fact, the entire configuration of the automaton was such – there being general consensus that its artistry was far superior to that of similar trick gimmicks often shown at trade and county fairs – that everyone was drawn to it. In the middle of a room of moderate size containing only the necessary equipment sat the life-sized, well-proportioned figure, dressed in fine and tasteful Turkish garb, on a low, three-legged settee. The artist would shove this back on request to dispel any suspicion of contact with the floor.
The Turk’s left hand lay relaxed on a knee, the right hand resting on a little freestanding table. The entire figure was, as previously mentioned, well-proportioned, but what stood out as particularly remarkable was the head; a truly oriental, intelligent-looking physiognomy made the whole thing look far more alive than even those wax figures made to resemble the animated faces of noted individuals. The figure was surrounded by a light parapet that prevented visitors from coming too close, for only those who sought to satisfy their curiosity as to the overall structure – insofar as its creator allowed this to be seen without revealing its secret – and those posing questions were accorded the privilege. If, as was customarily the case, you whispered a question into the Turk’s right ear, he first turned his eyes, then his entire head, in the direction of the one asking, and believing in the actuality of the breath that emanated from his mouth, you were likewise inclined to believe that the answer really did come from inside the figure.
Once several questions had been posed, the creator inserted a key into the figure’s left side, and cranked up the clockwork with considerable creaking. At this point, upon the spectator’s request, he also lifted a hatch, within which you beheld a gear box with cogs that did not seem to have any effect on fomenting the automaton’s speech, and yet by all appearances occupied so much space that it would have been impossible to hide a person, even if he were smaller than the famous dwarf August who crawled out of a pie crust. Aside from the movement of the head that occurred each time just prior to the answer, the Turk sometimes also raised his right arm and either waved a finger in warning or with a wave of his entire hand dismissed the question. If this happened, then only the repeated urging of the asker might elicit a rather ambiguous or petulant response. All this clockwork might presumably be connected to the movement of the head and arm, even if, here too, the intercession of a thinking person seemed all the more likely. The spectator ran himself ragged with conjectures as to the source of the wondrous message, closely examining walls, an adjoining room, the apparatus, all to no avail. The more they were examined by the Argus-eyes of the most skillful mechanics, the more the figure and its creator felt under observation, and the more uninhibited its comportment became. The creator spoke and joked with spectators in the most distant corners of the room, and let his mechanical creation make its movements and answer questions, as if it were a freestanding, independent being that required no contact with him. Indeed, he could not refrain from breaking into a markedly ironic chuckle when, after circling the tripod and banging on the table, going so far as to lift the figure closer to the light and peering into its core with spectacles and a magnifying glass, expert mechanics swore that the devil alone could make sense of the wondrously intricate clockwork. All attempts at an explanation were for naught, and the hypothesis that the breath emanating from the figure’s mouth could be produced by hidden valves, and that the creator himself as a wily ventriloquist gave the answers, was instantly refuted, when at the selfsame instant the Turk offered an answer to a question posed by a spectator, the creator conversed loudly and distinctly with the very same spectator.
Despite the figure’s tasteful outfit and the inscrutable mystery of its entire makeup, the public’s interest in it would have soon waned if its creator had not managed to attract attention in another way. This added interest lay in the nature of the answers given by the Turk, that each time tended with deep insight into the individuality of the questioner, sometimes full of a dry wit, sometimes rather vulgar and droll, and then again spirited and incisive, and painfully on the mark. The questioner was often startled by a quizzical peek into the future explicable only from the standpoint of the questioner’s own soul-searching self-examination. The mystery was, moreover, all the more enigmatic in that, while the questions were posed in German, the Turk often replied in a foreign tongue known to the questioner, and all agreed that it would hardly have been possible to formulate such a succinct and apt response in such few words in any other language. In short, every day brought word of new quick-witted, trenchant responses by the wise Talking Turk, and every evening a heated discussion as to which was more amazing, the enigmatic similarity between the figure and a living human persona, or rather the insight into the individuality of the questioner, and the uncommon brilliance of the answers.
Two academic friends, Ludwig and Ferdinand found themselves a part of just such a discussion. Both friends were compelled to admit, to their great shame, that they had not yet visited the Turk, despite the fact that fashion, so to speak, compelled a visit so as to be in the know about the miraculous answers to the many captious questions.
“I have a profound aversion,” said Ludwig, “to all these figures that not only emulate the human mien, but also mimic human comportment, these veritable statues of a living death or a still life. From early childhood I fled in tears when I was taken to a wax museum, and to this day I cannot enter such a display without being gripped by an uncanny feeling of dread. I’m inclined to cry out, in Macbeth’s words, ‘Thou hast no speculation in those eyes / Which thou dost glare with!’ when I perceive all the vacant, dead, glassy looks of wax sovereigns, famous heroes and infamous murderers, and villains directed at me. I am convinced that the vast majority of people feel much the same way, if not to the same degree of repulsion, since most people tend to whisper in wax museums; you seldom hear a loudly uttered word. Such decorum is not the consequence of reverence for the lofty personages depicted, but rather the effect of the uncanny, the grisly, that compels a stunned pianissimo from the spectator. The movements of lifeless figures that mimic the human have an altogether sinister effect on me, and I am absolutely convinced that the lingering memory of your wondrous, quick-witted Turk with his rolling eyes, turning head, and lifted arms, like some necromantic monster, would hound me in sleepless nights. Which is why I prefer not to pay him a visit, but would rather hear secondhand all the witty and astute things he says to this or that questioner.”
“As you must know,” Ferdinand affirmed, “everything you just said concerning the exceptional mimicking of the human, of the living-dead quality of wax figures, echoes my own sentiments to a T. In the case of mechanical automatons, however, it’s really a matter of the manner in which the creator seizes the thing. One of the most accomplished automatons I ever saw is Enslen’s The Voltigeur;[*1] as truly impressive as I found its vigorous movements, the effect of its suddenly remaining seated on a tightrope and the friendly nod of its head struck me as particularly bizarre: no doubt no one else was gripped by that sense of dread that such figures easily engender in extremely excitable individuals. In the case of our Talking Turk, I believe there is another explanation. Based on the description of those who have seen him, the appearance of this well-put-together, dignified figure plays a strictly secondary role, and his eye rolling and head turning surely serve only to effectively deflect our attention, to take our eyes off the actual key to his secret functioning. It is perfectly possible – perhaps, based on empirical evidence, even certain – that a breath should waft from the Turk’s mouth; we cannot, however, necessarily conclude from this that said breath is stirred by the spoken words. There is no doubt whatsoever that a human being is capable, via some hidden and unknown acoustic and optical mechanical contrivance, to establish a connection with the questioner such that it sees him, hears him, and can whisper answers. The fact that no one, not even one of our most skilled mechanics, has yet hit on the slightest clue as to how this connection is facilitated proves that the creator’s device must have been very cleverly conceived, and so, from this standpoint, his creation merits the closest attention. What seems all the more remarkable and really fascinates me is the intellectual insight of the human being behind it all, seemingly enabling the Talking Turk to delve into the psychic depths of the questioner – there is often such profound insight and at the same time such an eerie interplay of lightness and darkness in the answers as to approach an ‘oracular’ pronouncement, in the strictest sense of the word. Many friends who have witnessed it themselves have told me such astounding accounts in this regard that I admit to being intrigued, and I can no longer withstand the urge to put the wondrous seer of the unknown to the test myself. I have decided to go there tomorrow morning, and am herewith most cordially inviting you, dear Ludwig, to set aside all your dread of living dolls and accompany me.”
As much as Ludwig bristled, after several other friends beseeched him not to exclude himself from the amusing expedition, and to accompany them tomorrow morning to get to the bottom of the secret of the miraculous Turk, he was ultimately obliged to give in so as not to be taken for a crank.
Ludwig and Ferdinand did indeed go with a group of merry youths, who got together for that express purpose. Although the Turk was undeniably decked out in Oriental splendor and, as already mentioned, had a most becoming head, upon entering the exhibition space Ludwig was struck by a sense that the whole thing was rather droll, and when finally the device’s creator stuck a key into his side and the wheels began to whir, it all seemed to him so insipid and outdated that he could not help but cry out, “I do say, my dear fellows, we may have roast meat in our belly, but His Excellency the Turk has the entire gizmo, roasting spit and all!”
Everyone laughed, and the creator, who did not seem to appreciate the joke, immediately closed off the cogwheels to further viewing. Whether the jovial mood of the merry gents displeased the wise Turk, or the morning did not find him in a good mood, his answers – even to some downright witty, spirited questions – all remained uninteresting and flat; Ludwig, in particular, had the misfortune that his questions were never understood and elicited altogether skewed replies. The dissatisfied friends were about to skip out on the automaton and his creator, when Ferdinand spoke up. “I dare say, gentlemen, none of you are overly impressed by the Talking Turk, but perhaps it was our fault; perhaps our questions were not up to snuff. The fact that he should now turn his head and raise his hand,” (which the figure did indeed do) “appears to confirm my supposition! I can’t say why, but I am inclined to pose another question which, if on the mark, should restore the automaton’s honor.” Ferdinand stepped up to the figure and whispered a few words into its ear; the Turk raised an arm, indicating that he refused to reply, but when Ferdinand would not let up, the Turk turned his head to him.
Ludwig noticed how Ferdinand suddenly turned pale, but after several seconds of silence asked another question, and immediately received an answer. With a forced smile, Ferdinand addressed his friends. “Gentlemen, I can assure you that, at least for me, the Turk has upheld his honor; so that the oracle can remain mysteriously oracular, however, please spare me from revealing what I asked and what he answered.”
As much as Ferdinand took pains to hide his upset, his troubled state of mind was all too apparent in his strained effort to appear cheerful and nonchalant, and had the Turk given them the most wondrous, apt answers, his friends would not have been gripped by the peculiar, almost chilling feeling evoked by Ferdinand’s evident tension. His prior mask of mirth had vanished, and in lieu of his ordinarily loquacious conversational manner he now spoke only a word or two here and there, and parted from the others in a moody silence.
“Dear friend,” Ferdinand began as soon as he found himself alone again with Ludwig, “I cannot hide the fact from you that the Turk touched me in my heart of hearts, indeed that he cut me to the quick with his words, so much so that I won’t be able to get over the pain until death brings the fulfillment of the terrible oracular pronouncement.”
Ludwig regarded his friend with a look of total surprise and dismay, but Ferdinand continued: “I now see that the invisible being that mysteriously communicates with us through the Turk has potent powers at his disposal, that penetrate our innermost thoughts with a magical force; it may well be that by some strange sway he can clearly and distinctly predict the future fomented by the mystical connection between our inner selves and the world around us, and thus knows all that will befall us in days to come, just as there are people endowed with the unfortunate visionary ability to foretell death at a given time.”
“You must have posed a most peculiar question,” Ludwig replied, “but perhaps you yourself put too much store in the oracle’s ambiguous answer, reading too much into what the capricious play of chance may have coincidentally appeared to reveal as penetrating and pertinent, and thus ascribe a mystical perspicacity to the altogether ingenious person who expresses himself through the Turk.”
“In your reference to so-called chance,” Ferdinand objected, “you have just now contradicted a contention on which we always agreed in the past. But in order to lay it all on the line so that you may grasp my profound upset and distress at what I heard today, I must tell you something about my earlier life that I have kept from you until now. Many years have passed since I returned to B—— from my late father’s East Prussian estates. In K—— I met with several young Courlanders who likewise sought to make their way to B——; we journeyed together in three horse-drawn postal coaches. As you can well imagine, since we were all of an age bursting with a frenzy of expectations, and riding out into the world fitted with purses to meet our needs, our lust for life brimmed over with an unchecked exuberance. The wildest whims were jubilantly realized, and I can still remember that we plundered Madame Postmaster’s store of provisions in M——, where we stopped at noon. Her protestations notwithstanding, we paraded with our booty up and down before the storehouse, smoking up a storm, in full view of the crowd until, summoned by a merry blast of the postal horn, we drove off again.
“In the giddiest of moods, we pulled in to D—— where we resolved to spend a few days to take a turn in the lovely surroundings. Every morning we went on a merry expedition; once we climbed the slopes of the Karlsberg and roamed around in the vicinity until late that evening, and when we got back to the inn we were welcomed by a lovely punch we’d ordered that morning, and which, drained by galivanting around in the salt sea air, we dispatched with pleasure. Without being really drunk, the pulse in my veins pumped and thumped, and my blood ran like a burst of flames, sparking all my synapses. And when at last I made it back to my room, I flung myself on my bed; but despite my fatigue, my sleep was not much more than a dreamy half slumber in which I remained aware of everything going on around me. It seemed to me as if I heard a muffled whisper in the room next door, and I finally deciphered a manly voice that said: ‘Sleep then if you must, but be ready at the appointed hour.’ A door was opened and shut, whereupon a deep silence set in, soon interrupted by a few quiet chords played on a pianoforte.
“You know, my dear Ludwig, what magic there is in musical notes resounding in the still of the night. That’s just the way it was, as if some spirit voice were speaking to me in those chords. I completely surrendered myself to that pleasant impression, convinced that it would lead to a pleasant follow-up, a fantasia or some charming piece of music, but imagine my state of mind when the divine voice of a woman sang the following words in a heart-stirring melody:
Mio ben ricordati
s’avvien ch’io mora,
quanto quest’ anima
fedel t’amo.
Lo se pur amano
le fredde ceneri
nel urna ancora
t’adorerò![*2]
“How can I begin to describe the mix of emotions of that never-before-experienced, never anticipated feeling stirred up in me by those long, drawn-out, now surging, now fading notes! When that altogether strange melody, like nothing I’d ever heard before – oh, it was the deep, blissful melancholy of fervent love itself – when she cooed her lovely canto in simple melismata, now soaring high so that each note tinkled like a crystal bell, now sinking low so that it seemed to die out in the muffled sobs of desperate lamentation, it felt as if a nameless rapture quivered through my innermost self, rendering me breathless, as the pain of that endless longing contracted spasmodically in my chest, and I myself dissolved in nameless, heavenly bliss. I did not dare budge; all of me, my soul, my entire disposition spilled into my hearing. The string of notes had long since gone silent when a burst of tears finally gave vent to the surge of emotion that threatened to do me in.
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