THE TALES OF HOFFMANN (Les Contes d'Hoffmann)

One evening during the early years of the last century, a gay company of noisy young students were drinking together in Luther's famous wine-cellar at Nuremberg. They had come in for refreshment between the acts of the Opera which was being performed in the adjacent theatre; and all were merry and ready for any revel which might arise, with the exception of one of their number who sat apart, full of gloom and leaning his head upon his hand, lost to his surroundings in a deep reverie of sad thoughts.

This was Hoffmann, the poet and musician, a man somewhat older than the others—a man who, though blessed with handsome looks, exceptional grace of form and manner, and a fascinating charm of personality, was yet prone to frequent fits of despondency, from which his boon companions had the utmost difficulty in arousing him. Not even his greatest friend, Nicklaus, had the power to call up a smile to pierce through the dark clouds of these gloomy spells; and to no one had he yet related the story of the circumstances that had made him the victim of such an unhappy state of mind.

That he had suffered sorely from the onslaughts of more than one deep love-passion, they were well aware, and also suspected that he had been drawn into the meshes of some weird supernatural influence; but though Nicklaus could have enlightened them—knowing all the circumstances of his friend's life—the young students, in spite of their curiosity, refrained from asking questions which might lose them the friendship of one whom they loved dearly.
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This evening, however, to their surprise and pleasure, Hoffmann, on being rallied by his companions upon his unusually deep fit of gloom, suddenly roused himself, and offered to tell them the stories of his three unfortunate love episodes; and the students, abandoning the opera for that night, ordered in a fresh bowl of steaming punch and gathered round the handsome Hoffmann, eager to listen to the enthralling tales he had to tell.

In the first story, Hoffmann appeared as an impressionable and sensitive youth in the throes of a first boyish love-passion.

Having several times beheld the dainty form of a beautiful maiden standing at the windows of the house of Spallanzani, a famous physiologist, young Hoffmann became so fascinated by her fair looks that he fell in love with her, and eagerly sought an opportunity for declaring his passion; and, with this object in view, he offered himself as a pupil to the scientist, hoping thus to secure an introduction to the charming young lady whom he believed to be Spallanzani's child, since the latter talked continually of his wonderful "daughter," Olympia, speaking always in enthusiastic terms of her many graces, of her clever singing and dancing, and of the grand party he intended to give very shortly in honour of her coming-out.

Now, in reality, Olympia was not a human being at all, but merely a marvellously life-like automaton, made by Spallanzani, who had been assisted in the work by another scientist named Coppelius, a mysterious man who had gained a considerable reputation as a wizard and dabbler in the occult arts; but, seeing that young Hoffmann had no knowledge of the wonderful piece of mechanism they had contrived to make, but believed the latter to be indeed a real flesh-and-blood maiden, the pair conspired together to keep him in this belief, in order to retain him longer as a pupil, and also to amuse their friends at his expense.

Consequently, they would not permit Hoffmann any closer inspection of Olympia until the night of the party; and the magician, Coppelius, next informed the young man that his sight was bad, and sold to him a pair of specially prepared spectacles through which he knew that the automaton would appear to him to be indeed a living person.

Coppelius, seeing that a large fortune could probably be made by exhibiting the mechanical figure, now claimed a substantial share in the anticipated profits, he having made half of her body and supplied her with her beautiful eyes; so Spallanzani agreed to buy him out, and to that end gave him a draft on a Jew—knowing the latter to be bankrupt, but craftily concealing the fact from Coppelius, whom he believed was about to depart from the country, and, consequently, would not be likely to discover the fraud until many miles had separated them.

Coppelius, quite unsuspicious, accepted the false draft and departed; and on the same day Spallanzani gave his grand entertainment in honour of the coming-out of his beautiful "daughter."

When all the guests had arrived, the scientist produced the exquisitely made life-sized doll, dressed daintily in pretty girlish garments; and the automaton, having been wound up beforehand, was led round the ball-room by Spallanzani with great pride, and bowed to the guests, greeting them in clear, bell-like tones, and finally singing to them a fine operatic song, full of such finished trills and flourishes that the audience was astounded by the wonderful performance.

The visitors, of course, knew perfectly well that the figure was merely an automaton; but seeing that young Hoffmann—who was wearing the magic spectacles that caused the doll to appear to him more than ever to be a real human being—thought otherwise, they merrily conspired with Spallanzani to pretend that Olympia was indeed his daughter.

Becoming more and more enamoured of the pretty "maiden," as he gazed admiringly at her through his strange spectacles, Hoffmann was at last completely bewitched by her pink-and-white waxen beauty; and sitting down beside her, he took the first opportunity of their being alone to declare his passion for her, utterly regardless of her stolid attitude, stiff, jerky movements and mechanical replies of "Yes! Yes!" to all he said.

So enraptured was he that he became entirely oblivious of his surroundings, continuing to pour forth tender love speeches into the unheeding ears of the pretty Olympia, to the great amusement of the other guests; and when his friend, Nicklaus, who was also present, tried to enlighten him as to the true state of affairs, he thrust him aside roughly, and devoted himself more assiduously than ever to the unresponsive doll.

When dancing began he immediately engaged her as his partner, lovingly encircling her slender waist with his ready arm; but the doll, having been overwound, now got out of control, and whirled the unfortunate Hoffmann round and round the room at so dizzy a pace that he at length fell to the ground in a swoon, Olympia spinning on alone until finally caught and placed in the laboratory once more.

At this moment, to the dismay of Spallanzani, the wizard, Coppelius, rushed into the house in a towering rage, having discovered the fraud which had been practised upon him and returned to wreak vengeance upon his false partner by destroying the mechanical doll; and hastening to the laboratory, he managed to break the wonderful automaton into little pieces before his brother scientist could prevent him.

Hoffmann awakened to his senses once more whilst the work of destruction was in progress; and his magic spectacles having been broken in his fall, he quickly realised, to his shame and mortification, that he had been in love with a mere lifeless doll, and had made himself a laughing-stock to all who had witnessed his folly. Full of confusion, he rushed from the room, amidst the derisive jeers of the amused guests; and thus ended his first adventure in the realms of Cupid.

A few years later, Hoffmann, now in the first flush of hot-blooded manhood, was to be found in Venice, where his ardent nature revelled in the joyous life of love and warmth to be enjoyed there and the glamour of beauty and sensuous pleasure that drew him so easily into its magic circle.

Both he and his friend, Nicklaus, were frequent visitors in the luxurious palace of the beautiful courtesan, Giulietta; for Hoffmann had conceived a violent passion for his lovely hostess, stubbornly refusing to believe evil of her, in spite of the warnings of the more prudent Nicklaus, who assured him that she had numerous other lovers and would certainly deceive and cast him aside in the end.

Giulietta, for her own ends, very willingly encouraged the advances of Hoffmann, graciously accepting his eager declarations of love, and even persuading him into the belief that she returned his passion; for the fair courtesan was in the power of a demon-magician calling himself Dapurtutto, who, by his arts, had obtained such mastery over her that at his command and under his influence she had already obtained for him the shadow of Schlemil, one of her lovers, and had now agreed to take the reflection of Hoffmann in a magic mirror he had given her for the purpose—for it was in this way that the demon secured the souls he coveted.

Giulietta therefore encouraged the enraptured Hoffmann to make love to her; and on one of his visits, after a passionately tender scene with him, she carelessly held up the magic mirror and asked him to gaze within it. Unsuspectingly, Hoffmann did so, wondering at the triumphant laugh with which Giulietta instantly withdrew the mirror; but when Dapurtutto presently appeared and placed another mirror before him, he was horrified to find that it gave back no reflection—a sure sign that magic was at work.

A feeling of uneasiness now came over Hoffmann, a feeling which deepened upon the entry of Schlemil, whom he instantly perceived to be his rival and predecessor in the affections of Giulietta; but the scheming courtesan still led her infatuated victim to believe that she loved him only by telling him to secure the key of her chamber from Schlemil, declaring that the latter had it in his keeping against her will.

She then left her two lovers together, with Dapurtutto; and Hoffmann immediately commanded his rival to give up the key of their hostess's chamber, and upon Schlemil refusing to do so, furiously challenged him to fight.

The sinister Dapurtutto offered his own sword to the unarmed Hoffmann, not wishing the duel to be delayed; and after a few passes with this uncanny weapon, feeling an evil influence enveloping him, Hoffmann, to his horror, stretched Schlemil dead at his feet.

For a few moments, Hoffmann remained staring at the dead body of his opponent in a half-dazed state; then, looking up, he saw that Dapurtutto had vanished, and that he was alone.

Then, presently, a gondola passed by the open balcony; and amongst its luxurious cushions lay the faithless Giulietta, already reclining in the arms of Dapurtutto, her new lover, and waving a mocking farewell to the deserted Hoffmann, who now at last realised that his love had been scorned, and that he himself had been the dupe of a fickle, unscrupulous courtesan.

Twice had Hoffmann passed through the fire of passion and been scorched by its flames; and he seemed fated never to be a happy lover, for in his third adventure—in which he experienced the deepest and only real love of his life—dire misfortune awaited him once more.

Hoffmann's ardent nature had deepened and matured with advancing years, as the follies and fancies of early youth dropped away from him; and when, some years after the Venice episode, he fell in love with Antonia, the lovely but frail daughter of Councillor Crespel, his passion was so strong and overwhelming that every fibre of his being thrilled in his beloved one's presence, and when parted from her the whole world seemed empty.

To his joy, Antonia returned his love; and the pair plighted their troth, against the wishes of Crespel, who, though anxious to secure his daughter's happiness, yet feared that the excitement of so passionate a love would have a disastrous effect upon her delicate health. For Antonia had inherited from her dead mother a glorious gift of song, together with a strong consumptive tendency; and Hoffmann, not knowing of the latter weakness, encouraged the beautiful girl to sing more than was good for her, since he took the greatest delight in her rich voice.

Crespel, therefore, endeavoured to keep the ardent lover away from the house; and having occasion to be absent for a few hours one day, he gave strict instructions to his servant, Franz, not to admit Hoffmann, should he happen to call.

Old Franz, however, was deaf, and misunderstood the words of his master; and, consequently, when Hoffmann presently arrived at the door, eagerly inquiring for Antonia, he admitted him with a smile of welcome, saying that his young mistress would be delighted to receive him.

Next moment, the lovers were in each other's arms; and after some happy talk together, Hoffmann persuaded Antonia to sing to him once again, and the latter, though telling him that her father had forbidden her to use her voice so frequently, gladly agreed to his request, since singing was her greatest delight. During the song, however, she was attacked by a sudden fit of coughing and weakness, which greatly alarmed Hoffmann; and she had only just recovered herself, when the pair were further startled by hearing the opening of the street door and thus learning that Crespel had returned.

Hoffmann, not wishing to distress Antonia by an angry scene between her father and himself, quickly concealed himself behind a thick curtain, hoping to make his escape when a favourable opportunity should occur. Antonia retired into an adjoining apartment; and no sooner had Councillor Crespel entered the room in which Hoffmann was concealed, than he was followed by a tall sinister-looking man whom he knew under the name of Dr Mirakel, and whom he hated and distrusted, and was, moreover, mortally afraid of, since he believed him to have been the cause of his wife's early death, and suspected him now to have designs upon the life of his delicate daughter.

This mysterious Dr Mirakel was, in reality, the evil genius of Hoffmann—a demon who had dogged his path throughout his three love-adventures, first as Coppelius, secondly as Dapurtutto, and now as Mirakel—and from the angry scene that followed between the visitor and Crespel, the concealed lover learned, to his grief, the terrible news that his beloved Antonia had a fatal disease, and that her death might be hastened by the exercise of her wonderful gift of song.

When Crespel finally succeeded in driving Mirakel away from his presence, and had himself retired to another room, the lovers met together once more; and upon Hoffmann now earnestly entreating Antonia to sing no more, she tearfully promised to obey his wishes.

Hoffmann then departed to seek the harassed Crespel to gain his approval and confidence; and no sooner had Antonia been left alone for a moment than the evil Dr Mirakel returned, and representing himself as the friend of her parents, began to chide her for not making more use of her exquisite voice.

On learning that her father and lover had both made her promise not to sing on account of her weak health, the wily demon, not to be outdone, resorted to supernatural means in order to gain his ends; and bidding Antonia gaze upon her mother's portrait which hung upon the wall, he invoked the spirit of the dead woman, whom he caused to speak from the picture and persuade the girl that she was doing grievous wrong by not making use of the precious gift that had been so divinely bestowed upon her.

As her mother's portrait resumed its normal aspect once more, and the sinister Mirakel vanished from the room, Antonia, feeling that she had thus mysteriously received a heavenly command to use her precious gift of song, at once began to sing, quite forgetful of her promise to refrain from such exertion; and her rich voice rose in an exquisite song, the clear bell-like notes ringing through the house in a glorious outburst of passionate feeling such as she had never given vent to before.

But the effort and unusual exertion were too much for her frail strength to bear; and as Crespel and Hoffmann rushed into the room, attracted by the sound of her wonderful singing, she fell, exhausted to the ground, and, a few moments later, breathed her last in the arms of her grief-stricken lover.

Such were the adventures of the ever-thwarted, ill-fated Hoffmann in his search for the happiness of love; and as the recital of them came to an end, the unhappy hero buried his head in his hands, and once more plunged in his accustomed deep gloom.

The merry students, however, determined not to allow him to fall back into melancholy that night, at least; and after thanking him for the stories he had related, and commiserating with him in his misfortunes, they called for yet another bowl of punch, which Hoffmann, grateful for their sympathy, now gladly joined them in draining to the bottom.