Delphi collected works o.., p.78
Delphi Collected Works of E. T. A. Hoffmann (Illustrated), page 78
“Ferdinand. ‘Then what the opera-poet has to do is — to strive to attain the utmost simplicity, as far as the words are concerned; it will be enough to suggest the situation, in clear and forcible language.’
“Ludwig. ‘Exactly: because the composer has to draw his inspiration from the matter, the business and the situation — not from the words. And not only is imagery to be avoided, but everything in the shape of a reflection is a bugbear to the composer.’
“Ferdinand. ‘After what you have said, I can assure you it seems to be anything but an easy matter to write an opera text. Now, this indispensable simpleness of the language; I can’t say that I quite see how to — —’
“Ludwig. ‘How to accomplish it! No! You are so fond of painting with words, and so accustomed to it. But though Metastasio (as I think) has exemplified in his librettos how opera texts ought not to be written, there are quantities of Italian poems which are absolute models of words for music. For instance take the lines, known to the whole world, no doubt:
“Almen si non poss’ io
Seguir l’amato bene,
Affetti del cor mio
Seguite-lo per me!”
What can be simpler? Yet, in these few, unpretending words lies the suggestion, or indication, of love and sorrow which the composer comprehends, and can apply all the resources of musical expression to represent. The particular situation in which the words are to be sung will so stir his imagination that he will give the music the most individual character. And this is why you will often find that a poetical composer sets words that are wretched enough to admirable music. In such cases what inspired him was that the matter was genuinely suitable for opera; and as an instance I merely mention Mozart’s “Zauberfloete.”’
“Ferdinand was going to reply, when, outside the windows, down in the street, the drums were heard beating the générale. This seemed to wake him to the sense of present duty as with an electric shock. Ludwig shook him warmly by the hand.
“‘Ah, Ferdinand,’ he cried, ‘what is to become of Art in these terrible times? Won’t it die, like some delicate plant lifting its languid head towards the clouds beyond which the sun has disappeared? Ah! Where are the golden days when we were lads? All that is good is drowned and swept away by this torrent that whirls along, devastating the country. We see bleeding corpses, appearing by glimpses, carried along in its dark billows; and in the horror which seizes us, we slip and lose our footing, we have nothing to hold on to; our cry of terror dies away in the darksome air — victims of inappeasable anger, we sink to earth, and there is no hope of salvation.’ Ludwig paused, sunk in his thoughts.
“Ferdinand stood up, and put on his sword and helmet. He stood before Ludwig like the God of War armed for the fray. Ludwig looked up at him admiringly, and a glow came over Ferdinand’s face, and he said, in a calm and reassuring tone:
“‘Ludwig, what has happened to you? Has the dungeon air which you have been breathing here so long debilitated you, so that you are too sick and faint to feel the warm reviving breath of spring which is blowing, sweet and gentle, up there among the clouds as they glow with the rose tints of dawn? The children of Nature were abbrutized and sunk in sluggish inaction, careless of all her most precious gifts, and treading them into the mire. Then their angry mother awoke the Genius of War, who had long been sleeping in gardens heavy with the breath of flowers — and War came, like some Giant of Adamant, amongst these spoilt children, who, at the sound of his awful voice, which makes the hills tremble, fled to their mother’s arms for refuge, though they had forgotten her before. But with remembrance came gratitude. Nothing but strength brings success. The divine element radiates out from contest and striving as life does from death. Yes, Ludwig, a time is upon us which is pregnant with fate, and (as in the awful profundity of the ancient Sagas, which come rolling over to us like the mysterious muttering of distant thunder) we can trace, once more, distinctly, the voice of that Power which rules for Ever more. Nay, marching visibly into our lives, it awakes in us a faith which enables us to read the riddle of our Being. The morning light is breaking, and inspired Singers are soaring up in the sweet fresh morning air, proclaiming the advent of the Divine, and celebrating it with hymns of praise. The golden gates are open, and art and knowledge, in one united ray, are kindling that flame of sacred effort which makes all humanity one universal Church. Therefore lift up your eyes, dear friend. Courage — Confidence — Faith.’
“Ferdinand clasped Ludwig’s hand; and in a few moments his charger was bearing him rapidly along with the troops moving on to the attack, the light and joy of battle on every brow.”
The friends were much affected by this; for each of them remembered days when the clutch of a hostile destiny was at his throat and all comfort or enjoyment in life seemed to be a thing of the past for ever. And then, after a time, the first rays of the beautiful Star of Hope began to pierce the clouds and rose higher and higher, reviving them, strengthening and invigorating them with newness of life. Then, in the gladsomeness of contest, everything stirred, and came into activity, shouting for joy. At last the grandest and most brilliant of victories rewarded their courage and constancy.
“Each of us,” said Lothair, “has said, within himself, very much what the Serapiontic Ferdinand said; and well is it for us that the menacing storms which thundered over our heads refreshed us, instead of annihilating us, and braced us like a fine sulphur bath. In fact, it seems to me that it is only now, and here among you, that I begin to feel quite strong and well, and to trace a fresh impulse to begin, now that the storms are over, to bestir myself again in the paths of literature and science. I know that Theodore is doing so right strenuously; he is devoting himself, as of old, to his music, although he is not neglecting literature neither, so that I am expecting him to astonish us, one of these days, with an opera altogether his own, both music and words. All that he has said about the impossibility of the same person writing the words and the music of an opera may be plausible enough, but it doesn’t convince me.”
“I don’t agree with you,” said Cyprian, “but I don’t see much use in continuing the discussion. It seems all the more a waste of time that if the thing were possible, which Theodore says it is not, he would be the first to set about doing it. It would be far better if he would open his piano and, as he has favoured us with so many interesting Stories, let us hear some of his Compositions.”
“Cyprian,” said Theodore, “is always accusing me of sticking too closely to established forms, and rejecting any poetry which cannot be fitted to some of them. This I do not admit, and I mean to prove what I say by producing some music of mine to words which require a setting differing from any of the hackneyed ‘forms’ in question. I mean the Night Hymn in Mueller the painter’s ‘Genofeva.’ All the sweet sadness, — the pain, longing, and sense of the supernatural, — of a heart torn by hopeless love are in the words of this beautiful poem. Moreover, as the verses have a certain touching flavour of the Antique, I have thought it better that the composition should be without any instrumental accompaniment, but for voices alone, in the style of old Alessandro Scarlatti, or the more modern Benedetto Marcello. I have done all the music for it in my head, but only the beginning of it has been written down as yet. If you haven’t quite forgotten all about singing, and, especially, if you still feel the benefit of our old practice at ‘reading invisible music,’ and can strike your notes correctly as of old, I should like that we sing what I have composed for thebe words.”
“Ah yes!” said Ottmar, “I remember about the ‘reading invisible music.’ You used to put your fingers on the notes of the chords without pressing them down, and each of us sang the notes of his part without previously hearing them on the instrument. People who didn’t notice the process of indicating the notes couldn’t imagine how we ‘improvised’ part-music so cleverly; and for those who possess the talent of being easily astonished, it really is a good and interesting musical trick. For my part, I still sing that mediocre, grumbling old baritone of mine, and have as little forgotten how to hit my note as Lothair, who can still, with his fine basso, lay firm foundations on which tenors like you and Cyprian can build skywards with security.”
“For Cyprian’s beautiful, delicate, tender tenor,” said Theodore, “this thing of mine is exactly suitable. Therefore I shall give him the first tenor part, and take the second myself. Ottmar, who was always very accurate in striking his note, shall take the first bass, and Lothair the second. Only, for Heaven’s sake, don’t thunder, but keep the whole thing soft and sostenuto, as the character of the composition requires.”
Theodore struck two or three introductory chords on the piano, and then the voices began, with long, sustained notes, in the key of A flat major:
“Beauteous Lover’s Star,
That gleamest far and far,
In pale blue vault of Heaven!
To thee, this night, our hearts make prayer;
Oh! aid us in our fond despair!
To Love — to Love alone our souls are given.”
The two Tenors now went on, in duet; key of F minor:
“Oh! calm and holy night!
Those glowing worlds of light —
Heaven’s eyes — begin to tread their mystic measure.
Soar high, like sweet bells far-off chime,
Night Hymn of Love, in silv’ry rhyme —
Beat at Heaven’s gate, in rhythmic, pulsant measure.”
At the words “soar high,” etc., the music had gone into the key of D flat major, and now Lothair and Ottmar came in, in B flat minor:
“Oh! saintly souls above,
That burn in holy love,
With heart and tongue all pure from earthly tainting,
Drop down some balm on this poor heart,
Which fails, and droops, in bitter smart,
Contending here — in conflict well-nigh fainting.”
Then, finally, the four voices ended in F major:
“Knock, knock, and soon the angel’s voice will say,
‘The gates are open! enter in for aye!’”
All of them — Lothair, Ottmar, and Cyprian — felt much affected by Theodore’s lovely music, which was in the simple, serious style of the early masters. The tears came to their eyes. They embraced the clever composer; they pressed him to their hearts. The clocks tolled midnight.
“Blessed be our reunion!” cried Lothair. “Oh! glorious Serapion Brotherhood, which binds us with an eternal chain! May it ever keep green and flourish! As we have done to-night, we will continue to refresh and vivify our minds in the paths of literature and art; and our next care will be to assemble again here at our Theodore’s, at the same time in the evening, this day week.”
SECTION II.
SEVEN O’CLOCK STRUCK. Theodore was expecting his friends impatiently. At last Ottmar came in.
“Leander has just been with me,” he said; “that was what detained me. I told him how sorry I was that I was called away by a pressing engagement. He insisted on walking with me as far as the place I was going to, but I slipped away from him in the dark — not without some difficulty. I know he knew quite well I was coming here, and wanted to come too.”
“And you haven’t brought him?” said Theodore. “He would have been most welcome.”
“No, no,” said Ottmar, “that would never have answered at all. In the first place, I don’t consider that I have any right to bring in a stranger — or, if Leander is not exactly a stranger, any fifth person whatever — without the unanimous consent of the Serapion Brethren. Besides, rather an unfortunate thing happened with regard to Leander, through Lothair’s fault. Lothair told him about our delightful Serapion Brotherhood, in his usual enthusiastic style. He talked hyperbolically of the admirable tendency of the Serapiontic principle, and asseverated nothing less than that we meant — keeping that principle constantly in view — to incite each other to undertake all sorts of interesting and important work. On that, Leander said that an opportunity of associating himself in this way with literary people was what it had long been his most ardent desire to meet with, and that he hoped, if we would admit him to our order, to prove himself a highly meritorious brother of it. He added that he had a great many things in petto, and as he said so, he made an involuntary movement of his hand towards one of his coat pockets. It was stuffed to fatness; and, to my alarm, I saw that the other pocket was so too; they were both distended with manuscripts, and papers of an alarming aspect were sticking out of his breast pocket as well.”
Here Ottmar was interrupted by the somewhat boisterous entry of Lothair, who was followed by Cyprian.
“A certain little storm cloud,” said Theodore, “has been forming, rather threateningly, in the atmosphere of this Serapion Brotherhood of ours. However, Ottmar has managed to dispel it cleverly. Leander wanted to come bothering us, and stuck to poor Ottmar like grim death, till he managed to give him the slip in the dark.”
“Why didn’t he bring him?” asked Lothair. “He’s a witty, clever, intelligent fellow: I can’t think of a more eligible member of our society.”
“How exactly like you that is,” said Ottmar: “you are always the same old Lothair; always changing your mind; always a member of the opposition. If I had brought him, you would have been the very first to find fault with me most bitterly. You say Leander is intelligent, clever, and witty. Very well; so he is — all that and more. Everything he writes has a roundness and a finish which evinces soundness of criticism and clearness of judgment; but, in the first place, I don’t believe there is a man on this earth who is so absolutely devoid of any trace of the Serapiontic principle. Everything he writes he has most maturely thought out, weighed, and considered in all its aspects, but never really seen. His reasoning faculty does not control his imagination; it puts itself in its place. Then he delights in a wordy prolixity which is unendurable to the hearer, if not to the reader; works of his which one must admit to possess plenty of talent and interest, are tedious beyond expression when he reads them aloud.”
“There is a curious question there, connected with reading aloud; I mean as to things adapted for reading aloud,” said Cyprian; “it seems as if not only the most vivid life were essential to them, but that they should be restricted to a certain definite length.”
“The reason, I think,” said Theodore, “is that the reader must not declaim; experience tells us that that is unendurable; he ought merely to slightly indicate the various feelings that arise in the course of the action, preserving a quiet tone; and this tone, after a time, produces an irresistibly narcotic effect.”
“What I think,” said Ottmar, “is, that a story or poem, to be adapted for reading aloud, ought to approach very closely to the dramatic, or be dramatic altogether; but then again, why is it that most comedies and tragedies are unsatisfactory when read aloud? — that is, become boring and wearisome?”
“Just because they are quite undramatic, said Lothair; “or because too much has been left for the effect of the action of the actors on the stage; or because the poem is so weak and feeble in itself that it does not call up before the listener’s mind any picture in clear, distinct colours, and with living figures, except with the help of the actors and the stage. However, we are losing sight of Leander, as to whom I maintain, notwithstanding what Ottmar says to the contrary, that he well deserves to be admitted to our circle.”
“Well and good,” said Ottmar, “but please to remember what your own experience has been of him already; how he once dogged and pursued you wherever you went, with a fat — fat dramatic poem; how you always managed to give him the slip, till he asked you and me to a splendid dinner, with grand cuisine and first-rate wines, so that we might swallow the poem, thus washed down, like a dose of medicine; how I endured two acts of it like a man, and was screwing up my courage for a third, when you lost patience, and got up, declaring that you were suddenly taken very unwell, and left poor Leander in the lurch, wines, dinner, and all. Recollect how he came to your house once when you had several people with you; how he now and then rustled papers in his pockets, looking from one to the other with sly, crafty glances, in hopes that somebody would say, ‘You’ve brought something good, haven’t you, dear Leander?’ How you privately implored us all, for God’s sake, to take no notice whatever of this menacing rustling, but to hold our tongues. Remember how you used to liken old Leander — with a tragedy always in his breast pocket, always armed and eager for the fray — to Meros creeping to slay the tyrant, with a dagger in his breast; how once, when you were obliged to ask him to dinner, he came with a great fat manuscript in his hand, so that our hearts sunk within us; how he then announced, with the sweetest smiles, that he could only stay for an hour or so, because he had promised to go to Madame So-and-so’s to tea, and to read her his last epic poem in twelve cantos; how we then breathed freely again, like men relieved from a terrible burden; and when he went away all cried, with one voice, ‘Oh, poor Madame So-and-so! — what an unfortunate woman!’”
“Stop, stop, Ottmar,” said Lothair; “what you say is all true enough, of course, but nothing of that sort could take place amongst Serapion Brethren. We form a strongly organized opposition to everything that is not in harmony with our fundamental principle, and I would give odds that Leander conforms to our rule.”
“Don’t imagine anything of the kind, dear Lothair,” said Ottmar. “Leander has a fault which many conceited writers have in common with him — he won’t listen; and, just for that reason, he always wants to be the person who reads or speaks. He would always be trying to occupy the whole of our evenings with his own interminable compositions; he would take our efforts to obviate this in the worst possible part, and, consequently, mar the whole of our enjoyment: he even spoke to-day of works to be undertaken in common; and with that idea in his head he would torture us terribly.”
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