Little Ernest, Great Ernst: The Trials and Tribulations of
E.T.A. Hoffmann in English, with especial reference to his Klein Zaches, genannt Zinnober*
*This is a slightly revised version of my Master’s
dissertation (1998). There is still
more work to be done, notably a passage on Odoevsky in the ‘
The
Bibliography 51
Poor Hoffmann.
When his first literary text, Ritter
Gluck, was published in the Allgemeine
Musikalische Zeitung on 15 February 1809, the editor, Friedrich Rochlitz,
made some alterations that the unhappy author had to accept. His greatest work, the Lebensansichten des Katers Murr, which
consists of two intertwining narratives, was published as two separate strands
in 1946, thereby nullifying the whole point of the novel; Murr is the
philistine counter to the artist Kreisler, and the experiences of the one find
their revealing reflection in the experiences of the other. And this is how he has suffered at the
hands of his fellow countrymen – to say nothing of how he has fared in other
countries, above all in
Few writers have provoked such a striking divergence
of critical opinions. In this
respect, Prinzessin Brambilla may be
considered his most representative work; opinions expressed about it rate it as
“one of the most baffling, most subtly intriguing, products of the creative
imagination”[5] and
consider it to be “the poetic expression for the betterment of mankind through
the influence of the arts,”[6]
whereas if I were to express my opinion, the terms used would be rather less
complimentary and decidedly more Anglo-Saxon. And this is just one of many diverse
texts. But this divergence at least
represents an improved understanding from that of the last century, when there
was a greater unity among those critics who passed comment; many of his
writings were dismissed as the hallucinogenic visions of a lunatic or a
drunkard. As a ‘character’ in
Longfellow’s Hyperion remarks in the
chapter that discusses Hoffmann: “he who drinks wine thinks wine.”[7] And as one critic memorably, if
inaccurately, remarked: “The dreams of dyspeptic lunacy can go no further....”[8] In this century, he has been subjected
to some interpretations that, if they had been written in his time and he had
read them, would have made him fling away his pen in disgust at the poverty of
his imagination and seek some new mode of artistic expression.
Yet this is the author who wrote arguably the greatest
German novel of the 19th century; who was one of the finest
exponents of the ‘Kunstmärchen’; who wrote a ghost story of the first rank; who
wrote one of the earliest detective stories; who introduced much that was new
to fiction, including the automaton/robot; who was one of the first “urban
masters”[9];
who was, arguably, the single most important factor in the popularisation of
the short story and the development of this genre as an art-form: in short, one
of the most talented, imaginative writers the world has seen.
Moreover, he was a talented composer, an able
caricaturist, and a superb music critic.
Yet multi-talented as he was – and there is occasionally a prejudice
against those who possess talent in more than one field, a reluctance to
recognise this ability, hence descriptions such as “the greatest dilettante of
them all”[10] – it
was in the realm of literature that he found his true means of expression. To suggest that it is fitting that his
name should nowadays be associated primarily with opera (through the medium of
Offenbach) because music was the major love of his life, or because opera is an
art-form “perfectly suited to explore the recesses of the subconscious mind”[11]
and more comfortable with the supernatural than literature, is to miss the
point and misinterpret his writings.
However, this area of his talent is not separate from the others; on the
contrary, his texts evoke the theatre, the studio and the concert-hall.
The man has suffered from defamation of character,
especially as a result of the biography written by his friend Hitzig in 1823,
for so long the only source for his life in Britain, whether directly or via
the media of Scott and Carlyle – but does that really explain the
misunderstanding and the lack of appreciation that have been the lot of
Hoffmann’s literary output in the English-speaking world? There were many unpleasant traits to the
characters of Dickens and Goethe, yet their status as artists was not affected;
with Byron, the myth did not only not harm the man, it was actually beneficial
to his standing and reputation. It
is the artist, not the personality, which forms the primary consideration:
Hoffmann’s biographers tended to look for the fantastic in the man because they
had seen it in his texts.
This dissertation will concentrate on the injustice
that has been done to the author E.T.A. Hoffmann in the English-speaking
world. Considering the humour that
abounds in his work; bearing in mind that he wrote an excellent ghost story – a
largely English genre – and a Gothic tale on the theme of the double, a theme
that proved popular in these shores, finding its most popular expression
through Robert Louis Stevenson and its greatest expression through James Hogg;
taking account of the eccentric characters he occasionally creates (Kreisler
and Krespel being the most memorable); and, above all, taking into
consideration his irony, one would have thought that he had much to recommend
him to an English audience.
Reference will be made to a wider sphere to illustrate the contention
that Hoffmann’s popularity or lack of popularity in a given land can often be
explained by a misunderstanding of what he actually wrote, and to serve as a
necessary basis for comparison; but English critics, and English translators,
form the core of this work.
The first half contains three major sections: how
Hoffmann has been translated by academics and writers; how he has been
translated for the public; and a theoretical section describing the methodology
behind the rendering of one of his best works given by this translator – a
rendering that forms what we may, with a slightly ironic smile, call the
greater half of this dissertation.
Mention is often made of the enormous influence
Hoffmann had on European literature.
Names such as Heine, Hauff, Storm, Kafka, Mann, Balzac, Merimée, Musset,
Nerval, Baudelaire, Flaubert, Dostoevski, Pushkin, Gogol, Turgenev, Gorki,
Dickens, Poe and Stevenson are reeled off, without any evidence being given to
support the claim. This question of
influence on writers and critics is the first to be considered; we will begin
with his native land.
In a sense, this is the most important country as
regards the reception of Hoffmann for this particular survey; it being the one
where public and critics alike could have access to the original texts, and
thus serving as a base for comparison with Russia, France and England, who were
largely dependent on translations.
In his homeland, the omens were not good. Although the literary critic was the
mouth-piece of the educated reading public in Hoffmann’s age, so that when the
former praise a writer, “we may be sure that he is popular at least with a
large section of the public” (and Hoffmann himself expressed his readiness in
the capacity of critic to voice the public opinion[12]),
yet his texts met with public enthusiasm and critical silence. So although, “In seiner Periode wurde er
viel gelesen,” as Heine informs us[13],
we may question the degree to which he was understood. Most of the leading literary
contemporaries who survived him, and who believed in the moral and edifying
purpose of literature, rejected him; and foremost among these figures was
Goethe. When he does actually
condescend to name Hoffmann, he groups him with authors such as Franz Horn and
Clauren[14]. His recommendation of Scott’s essay –
which will be dealt with later – did much to sully Hoffmann’s reputation in
His serious-minded colleagues were not in a position
to appreciate his talent for satire and burlesque; this is reflected in the
comments of Varnhagen von Ense, who claims that Hoffmann’s lack of
“Gefühls-Innigkeit” soon lead to the novelty wearing off: “Auch der
geistreichste Witz...verflüchtigt sich allzu bald.”[15] This lack of feeling, which amounted to
a perceived inability to sufficiently love his fellow man, was a common
criticism of Hoffmann[16];
yet this was the man who turned against Napoleon not from political
considerations or nationalist zeal, but because of the enormous human misery he
caused.
Moreover, their perception of literature was too
limited to be able to appreciate him as a literary artist. Throughout most of the nineteenth
century, Hoffmann was regarded in
There was a revival of interest in the 1870s, yet this
was far from flattering; the reasons lay in a growing interest in the occult,
in the romantic view of the artistic genius produced by sickness now being
taken seriously, and in the pessimism inherent in the works of Wagner,
Schopenhauer and Nietzsche. There
is a hoffmannesque influence vaguely discernible in these three artists – the
sixteen-year-old Wagner, for example, was “on fire” with reading this author’s
musical works, at a time when he was ignored in his homeland; the atheist
Schopenhauer, who stood in such opposition to Hegel, would naturally be more of
a kindred spirit; and Nietzsche, like Wagner, was attracted to Hoffmann’s works
in his youth[20]. Yet, with a typical irony, by the time
we reach the greatest German writer of the 20th Century, who names
these three artists as belonging to the first rank of those whose work has had
a bearing on his, Hoffmann merely “spielt eine Rolle” along with the likes of
Tieck, Schlegel and Novalis[21].
The first land to be visited is that in which Hoffmann
enjoyed the greatest popularity. At
first, Fate seemed to be frowning on him once again. Madame de Staël’s De l’Allemagne, which had first aroused French interest in
Here we see the importance of translation; yet there
is occasionally a tremendous difference between Hoffmann’s text and the one
that was presented to the French public.
French translators sometimes concentrated on the actual story and then
told it in their own way. For
example, one (greatly abridged) translation of Klein Zaches begins in the following manner: “Au bord d’un champ de
genêts fleuris, que baigne, en fuyant vers le nord, l’eau rêveuse du Rhin, près
d’un village dont les toits épars s’enfoncent, comme des nids d’alouettes, sous
des massifs de verdure embaumée....”[22] A most charming picture. Unfortunately, the translator has taken
a wrong turning and ended up in the realm of rewriting. The short story generally known as Rat Krespel (it appears without a title
in Die Serapionsbrüder) provides
another interesting example of differing perceptions; it has also been called The Cremona Violin in
With many writers and critics, there is no thorough
knowledge of Hoffmann to be discerned – merely a vague connection. Hence Baudelaire could describe an
undeserving tale such as Chenevières’ Le
Diable aux îles as worthy of Hoffmann, purely because the latter’s name was
“a commonplace in discussions concerning the fantastic.”[23] Likewise, French critics could call Poe
– a writer who has always, for some inexplicable reason, been hugely overrated
– a “Hoffmann américain” and wheel out the trite old image: “les visions
d’Hoffmann ne lui appartiennent pas, c’est lui qui leur appartient.”[24]
Yet it is more than possible that Baudelaire
recognised the connection between colours, scents and sounds – his Fleurs du Mal contains some of the most
fragrant poems ever written – from Hoffmann. While he does resort to the unwelcome
metaphor of the German’s supernatural comic conceptions often resembling “à des
visions de l’ivresse,”[25]
he at least shows some understanding of the essential Hoffmann by discussing
him in his essay De l’essence du rire. The attention he directs on Prinzessin Brambilla reflects one of the
major reasons for Hoffmann’s popularity in
Hoffmann obviously exerted some influence on Nerval –
himself a largely neglected writer – because the latter translated his Abenteuer der Sylvesternacht in
1831. There are few greater
compliments that can be given an author than a translation of one of his texts;
Carlyle’s introduction to his German
Romance may be somewhat grudging in its praise (to say the least) but he
nevertheless took the trouble to translate one of Hoffmann’s tales – and he
possessed the judgement to select his finest story. A study of Nerval and his German
heritage considers Hoffmann to be “the ultimate source of the fantastic element
in Nerval’s stories,” but suggests that the differences between the two are
just as important as the similarities.[27]
If we turn our attention to Balzac: “Les balzaciens ne
s’accordent pas tout à fait sur l’importance d’Hoffmann pour Balzac”[28]. The French author certainly did not lend
any encouragement to the suggestion that he was influenced by this author; and
in his summary of Hoffmann’s reception in
The likes of Stendhal, Delacroix, de Musset and
Merimée were the members of a society including Dr Koreff, a friend of Hoffmann
who played a large part in publishing his works in
Gautier is the first author those studying Hoffmann’s
reception in
Yet Gautier’s was only one voice. Whereas an interest in Hoffmann’s texts
was sufficiently widespread in
It has been claimed that: “Of all German writers he
was the most thoroughly known in
Charles Passage has stated that the Hoffmann craze was
created by the public at large, and not by the critics or the
philosophers. Yet the German circle
in
Of the Russian authors named in the previous list we
may discount Turgenev, for want of evidence (Hoffmann is an author he simply
does not mention, nor do his works lead us to suppose that he would; there are
certain vague analogies, but they remind one of Greek art sooner than German
Romanticism), and Gorki. The latter
had read Hoffmann[40], but
does not mention him among the numerous influential authors in his How I Learnt to Write. His letters contain only a disparaging
reference to Gogol’s imitations of Hoffmann[41].
As concerns Pushkin, who was unfamiliar with German
literature in general, one critic has detected “a typological affinity” between
Don Juan and the Russian Master’s
late stories[42]; the
case is, however, not proven. While
Hoffmann sits back and listens to one of the most glorious of all operas, the
reader sits back and listens to the grating sound of a barrel being
scraped. Pushkin almost certainly
did read some of Hoffmann’s work – for example, his library contained the
French translation of Die Elixiere des
Teufels attributed to Spindler – but the tenuous connection between the two
is generally based on a perceived link between Spielerglück and The Queen of
Spades. This may be so; we
learn that, “According to a contemporary, Pushkin was very much interested in
Hoffmann around the time he worked on ‘Pikovaia dama.’”[43] But there is nothing in Pushkin’s later
work, or letters, or writings on literature, to suggest that this interest
lasted; and this particular tale has always been considered the ‘odd one out’
of his stories. It has even been
claimed that it was a parody of Hoffmann’s ‘diabolic’ tales.[44] He began to write The Lonely Cottage on Vasilevski Island, which has been linked to
Hoffmann’s posthumous Datura fastuosa
– but then abandoned it for another writer to complete.
Passage draws a clear distinction between Dostoevski
and the so-called other Russian Hoffmannists: “His method of procedure...was a
multiplication, not a division.... They imitated, he created”.[45] This charge of imitation was aimed at,
among others, Gogol, whose first story about an artist (The Portrait) was criticised by the leading critic Belinsky for
“being too derivative of E.T.A. Hoffmann”[46],
and who later wrote The Nose, which
is closer to being a parody of Hoffmann.
There is a sense that this was a passing influence for Gogol; he writes
that reading this author gave him a “notion of a wondrous and fantastic
With Dostoevski there is a strong case for Hoffmann’s
influence. In 1838, he claimed to
have read all of the German author’s works; in his preface to Three Tales of Edgar Poe in ‘Time’
Magazine, January 1861, he not only praised the American, but also wrote that,
as an artist, “Hoffmann is immeasurably greater than Poe.”[48] This influence is evident in
Dostoevski’s work; there are so many parallels to be drawn that they cannot be
ascribed to mere coincidence.
Moreover, it was no passing phase, as had been the case with other
Russian writers, but lasted, in varying form, for most of his life. He possessed the insight to recognise Kater Murr as Hoffmann’s best
production; for once, we have an artistic genius, whose judgement can be relied
on, giving him the credit he deserves.
Yet his knowledge, we may safely assume, derived largely from
translations; his remark in a letter to his brother Mikhail that he had read
all of Hoffmann in Russian and German – that is, Kater Murr, which had not yet been translated[49]
– apart from indicating his (impatient) enthusiam for this author, suggests
that he would prefer to read the latter’s works in translation, if at all
possible. And it is worth making
the point that greatness can be recognised even in a bad translation; for
example, the translation of Mickiewicz’s Forefathers
by Count Potocki of Montalk[50]
may have caused the occasional cringe and squirm, but the quality of the
original was still somehow evident (in places). Likewise, with Hoffmann, not even Kent
and Knight – who produced the worst translations of his work into English I
have encountered – are able to totally extinguish the spark of greatness. This is extremely difficult to do.
The
The name of Poe has been especially
associated with Hoffmann. The
American has been given the credit and paid the critical attention that are due
to the German, even though it does not take a trained eye to observe that
Hoffmann’s “structural intricacy and moderated horror are seldom to be seen in
Poe’s work.”[51] Yet there is no evidence for influence
here, merely some affinities, and just as many differences. The fact that he never mentioned
Hoffmann’s name is not overly important in this case, for Poe tended to treat
those from whom he borrowed with silence or harsh criticism; but Poe’s
inability to either speak or read German is of greater import. What may at first appear to provide a
direct link must be considered against the available evidence; for example, his
use of the ‘Doppelgänger’ theme in William
Wilson was a borrowing from Washington Irving’s An Unwritten Drama of Lord Byron, not from Die Elixiere des Teufels.
He merely knew the plot summaries and biographical details provided by
Scott, Carlyle and Longfellow, on which he appears to have based the character
of Roderick Usher.[52] Despite this, there are courses in
Comparative Literature such as ‘Uncanny Stories: Poe and Hoffmann’; of course,
a writer does not have to have had a direct influence on another writer to make
comparison between the two possible or profitable. However, linking Hoffmann’s name with
Poe’s not only degrades the former’s literary style, but also directs attention
towards that aspect of his work that has already been accorded too much
notice. But those Germanists who
attempted to establish the link at the beginning of the twentieth century
probably meant well; they cannot be blamed for their eagerness to gain some
belated recognition for Hoffmann by citing him as a major influence on a famous
writer. Their efforts, though
inaccurate, at least brought attention to Hoffmann’s name. Hoffmann lacks the status of a Goethe or
a Pushkin, and his belonging to a non-Anglo-American culture means that he is most
likely to be studied in the English-speaking World is in a Comparative
Literature course. If we are going
to compare him with an American author, then why not select Nathaniel
The earliest translations in the U.S.A. were The Lost Reflection (Die Geschichte vom verlornen Spiegelbilde),
translated anonymously and published in 1826 in the [Boston] Athenaeum;
Holcraft's translation of Das Fräulein
von Scuderi, published in ‘Tales of Humour and Romance’ in New York and
Baltimore in 1829, and Gluck (Ritter Gluck) in the [Boston] American
Monthly Magazine in 1830. After
that, the occasional single translation would appear from time to time, such as
that of Spielerglück in the
Washington ‘Democratic Review’ (XVI) in 1845.[53] A table of the most reviewed/translated
German authors in the
The most popular tales in
There has always been a general ignorance
towards German literature in
The first of Hoffmann’s texts to be translated into
English was, unsurprisingly, Die Elixiere
des Teufels. [59] Just as Das Fräulein von Scuderi suited the tastes of the Russian and
French public, so this novel was considered to be of interest to a public with
a taste for Gothic horror. The year
of the translation – 1824 – saw the publication of James Hogg’s Private Memoirs and Confessions of a
Justified Sinner, which also treated the ‘Doppelgänger’ theme. There may be, at first sight, a link
with Robert Louis Stevenson; but Hoffmann is an author he neither analyses nor
mentions, whereas this text of Hogg’s had always “haunted and puzzled”[60]
him.
With a confidence unwarranted by available evidence,
Una Pope-Hennessy claims that Dickens “had certainly read Hoffmann’s ‘Tales’”,
and in support of this contention she mentions his friend Carlyle always talking
about German literature and the common theme, shared by Der Goldne Topf and A
Christmas Carol, of a door-knocker transforming into a face[61]. It is true that Dickens’ Christmas Books remind one of Nußknacker und Mausekönig and Meister Floh; but it is still “not easy
to establish any direct connections between Dickens and German Romanticism.”[62] All we can say is that Hoffmann
anticipated Dickens in this respect, as he anticipated so many authors in so
many fields, and that, ironically, it was Dickens’ popularisation of Christmas
that gave Hoffmann his greatest success in
If we attempt to present a cogent argument for
influence on any British writers during this period, the name most likely to be
forwarded is that of George Meredith; likewise, the name of William Gilmore
Simms would represent the
Before moving on to the British critics and public, we
must pause to elucidate a certain fact.
It is not the existence of Hoffmann’s influence that has been called
into question; it is rather the nature of this influence, and the reason why
his name was invoked. The fact that
he was mentioned and his influence stated whenever an author wrote a text that
contained a ‘supernatural’ element is, in a way, a compliment; it suggests that
he was the master of a particular genre.
However, this is a genre that has seldom been taken seriously – despite
the fact that the likes of M.R. James and Sheridan Le Fanu write in an
excellent style, which can seldom be claimed for those who indulge in other
‘patronised’ genres such as fantasy and science fiction – and it only forms one
aspect of Hoffmann’s literary output.
His use of the supernatural was, indeed, considered to be detrimental to
his serious intentions.
In
Sir Walter Scott had the major influence on Hoffmann’s
reception in
It is amazing to consider just how influential Scott’s
essay was, even though he discusses only one of Hoffmann’s texts – Das Majorat – in any real depth.[67] He really was not sufficiently
acquainted with this author to comment on his work. His translation of passages from Das Majorat also differs from the
original in certain respects, such as the description of the
Scott’s was a general ignorance; it led Blackwood’s
Magazine to describe Hoffmann’s work as the most popular of the “light reading”[68]
from
The short story writer often finds himself prone to
inaccurate evaluation; for example, one of the greatest of all, Guy de
Maupassant, was held in low esteem in the United States because a number of
stories of mediocre quality, for which he did not bear the responsibility of
author, nevertheless crept into the first edition of his complete works in 1903
and the mistake was not noticed until 1949. Hoffmann’s works generally appeared in anonymous
translation in various periodical or anthologies – there was, and has been, no
complete translation into English – sometimes with rather unappetising titles
such as Strange Stories (1855) or Weird Tales (1885). It is difficult to build up a reputation
when one’s work appears in this way; if a collected edition of an author’s
works appears – even if the translations are pitifully poor, as was the case
with Thomas Mann’s entry into the English-speaking world – then the author
attracts attention. Readers feel
that they have all of him at their fingertips and that they know what to make
of him. With no knowledge of the
original language, the reader tends to place his trust in the translator and
assume that the latter knows what he is talking about; translating the complete
works of a prolific author is a monumental task, and it is difficult to
conceive that a translator who dedicates so much time and energy to one author
may not be totally familiar with that writer’s oeuvre and style.
When Hoffmann’s style was eventually given serious consideration, it was in several instances found wanting: “His literary technique was not always equal to the demands he made of it, nor was his vocabulary always adequate to the depiction of the so-called abnormal psychological states...he wanted to portray.”[71] This is reminiscent of a judgement on his opera Undine: “He lacked the technique...to raise the execution to the level of the conception.”[72] The phrase has a nice ring, and may well apply to his musical efforts; but as far as literature is concerned, his technique is, in most instances, an ideal means of executing his ideas. Exceptions are Meister Floh, where approaching death meant that some loose ends were left untied, and some themes were not developed as profitably as could have been the case; and Prinzessin Brambilla, which has its moments – which could have been one of his major achievements – but which simply does not work.
It has been claimed that Hoffmann did not
probe these “abnormal” states with a sufficient depth; however, his depictions
were based on knowledge available at that time: “it was his habit to do careful
research, especially on symptomology, before writing any of his stories about
madmen.”[73] Expecting him to not only introduce
these themes into fiction but also to provide a detailed analysis is demanding
too much; literature and medicine may both have their roots in observation, but
there comes a time when specialisation demands the parting of the two. In the field of psychology, Hoffmann was
“a well informed layman”[74];
the specialist very seldom makes a good artist. It was Hoffmann’s task to portray the
nature of society, not the so-called ‘logic’ that lies behind it; if his work
is confusing, this is because the subject-matter is by its very nature
confusing. He is dealing with
complex themes that, having no answers, provoke discussion; and it is the
treatment of these themes that is of the essence. It is ironic that, as Heine tells us
with a slight smile, the opinion should have been expressed that the judgement
of his works was the business not of the critic but of the physician[75];
in hindsight, this may appear to be a pertinent suggestion.
Hoffmann’s status as a pioneer has been hinted at in
this study. He was the first person
to introduce certain themes to fiction – such as the somnambulistic side to
mesmerism – and he was aware of the novelty. He wrote about the themes that
preoccupied the society of his day, a society being swayed by the theories of
Mesmer and Swedenborg; the influence of Gotthilf Heinrich Schubert’s Symbolik des Traumes (1814) and his Ansichten von der Nachtseite der
Naturwissenschaft (1808-9), with its discussion of such topics as animal
magnetism, somnambulism and hypnotism, cannot be exaggerated. A critical appraisal of the author
should also bear in mind the background to the early stage of Hoffmann’s
writing career; namely, the Napoleonic Wars. This was the age of gunpowder, an age
when the operation performed most commonly by an army surgeon was the removal
from a soldier’s flesh of pieces of broken bone and teeth that had belonged to
those standing beside him. After
viewing the battlefield before
The ‘dark side’ of Hoffmann’s writings – we may date
this around 1815/16 – needs to be considered in this context. His rediscovery in this century is
largely attributable to the World Wars, and to the movement away from a
supernatural world of external forces to an irrational world of the individual
mind; some elements of his work that were considered to be mere novelty have
taken on a deeper and darker resonance with the events of the twentieth
century. He was both trapped in his
time and ahead of his time; and it was a long, long while before time could
catch up.
Even in 1982, R.J. Hollingdale was writing that Hoffmann was “a 2-sided, schizophrenic kind of man.”[77] It is time the tiresome cliché of the contrast between a professional career and an artistic life were laid to rest: “In all three cases [Eichendorff, Novalis and Hoffmann] the writers derived a great deal of satisfaction from their professional activities, and the evidence suggests a fruitful interaction between their professional lives and their literary works.”[78] Hoffmann’s literary work does not contrast with his legal career; it often reflects it.[79] Artists do, after all, generally need to live in society to stimulate their imagination; with Hoffmann, imagination is dependent on received reality to create reality. In Der Goldne Topf the reader almost has the feeling that reality is a crime he did not see being committed, and all he can do is rely on the conflicting – and sometimes self-contradictory – evidence of others. There is no suspension of disbelief; the reader does not know what to believe. He swims in a sea of uncertainty, but this sea has a solid bottom: art.
Much criticism may concern matters the author was not
aware of or did not (at least consciously) intend; after all, the author does
not complete a successful literary work, but rather gives it life. In the case of Der Sandmann, the terminology of a 20th Century science
(pseudo-science, call it what you will) has been applied to an early 19th
Century story. But the fact remains
that anyone who reads this story today will be approaching it through the
medium of a 20th century mind; being aware of the historical
background is important in that it prevents us from making rash or
unjustifiable assumptions, but this does not mean that we have to judge the
work from the viewpoint of a world patently different from ours. If the text suggests something new to
us, the mere fact that it does so is important. We cannot know the author, any more than
we can know another human being; it is no coincidence that in Kater Murr, the autobiography forms a
seamless whole whereas the biography is composed of fragments. Moreover, texts such as Der Sandmann and Der Goldne Topf, with their multiple perspectives, seem startlingly
modern, despite their period flavour.
The views on Hoffmann, like those on almost any other
author, have reflected the time (and place) in which they were formulated;
after nineteenth century prudery, a strong enthusiasm was expressed between the
wars; after being praised by Communist Eastern Europe for his skill as a
satirist, he is now lauded in the West for the reflection of the “cool,
sceptical, ‘centreless’ modern age”[80]
that is seen in his work. But the
conclusions we draw have to be based on, and justified by, the text; and much
of the critical apparatus surrounding Hoffmann is not. We have several critics interpreting stories
in the way they have decided that they want to interpret them. It is true that Hoffmann’s works are
open to many kinds of interpretation because of their multivalence; but an idea
that suggests itself in a critic’s mind and may perhaps find some substantiation
in one of his texts is too often forced to apply to his general oeuvre – an
application which is entirely inappropriate. For example, McGlathery, who is good at
summarising source material on Hoffmann but struggles somewhat with
(applicable) original thought, uses the unwelcome terms “subconscious sexual
guilt” and “sexual sublimation fantasies” with disturbing readiness; and his
analysis of Klein Zaches, genannt
Zinnober is, quite simply, pathetic.
I was completely unable to recognise this text from this summary. The critic must remember that, in a
reversal of normal practice, he has to take as well as give.
This critical attention generally belongs to the last
thirty years. Das Fräulein von Scuderi tells us volumes about attitudes to Hoffmann;
in 1969, a critic could write that this text had been “admired very frequently,
but seldom interpreted and examined in any systematic way.”[81] In 1975, in the preface to her Optical Motifs in the Works of E.T.A.
Hoffmann, J.K. Holbeche wrote: “In the long history of Hoffmann
scholarship, very little has been written on this subject.”[82] Yet this is one of the first themes that
springs to mind on reading such texts as Der
Sandmann, Klein Zaches, Meister Floh and Der Goldne Topf! How
could the critics have been so blind?
Perhaps one could assert that they were unable to see the wood for the
trees. It cannot be denied that the
first of these works is the one to have attracted the most – and the harshest –
criticism; and the influence of Freud has been great and not altogether
healthy. Although his mistakes have
been pointed out – his connecting Nathanael’s obsession with eyes to fear of
castration leaves one wondering just who is the gibbering maniac – he has
nonetheless directed much Hoffmann criticism onto one of the author’s least
representative texts. This writer
does have a dark side; whereas he throws in a cliché to describe beauty, he
takes pains over – and displays a real aptitude for – the portrayal of the ugly
and the grotesque. But even in this,
the darkest of his tales, there is humour, albeit of a very black nature.
It seems that, after decades of not taking Hoffmann
seriously, critics began to take him too seriously. For example, it has become quite
conventional to make comparisons between Hoffmann and Thomas Mann; the former
was to a certain extent “the originator of the Künstlernovelle” that Mann
cultivated[83]; he
gave the theme of the artist in society “a depth and intensity that we do not
meet again until Thomas Mann.”[84] Hoffmann’s style is excellent, as a
means to an end; it serves his purpose as no other style would do. But whereas Mann is a consummate artist,
this title cannot be claimed for Ernst Theodor Amadeus. He does not have Mann’s precision. And there are no prizes for realising
that the quote in the following paragraph could not possibly be more apt for
one of these authors or more inappropriate to the other.
In Tristram
Shandy, at the beginning of Chapter XI, we read: “Writing, when properly
managed ... is but another name for conversation.” Herein lies the central issue regarding
Hoffmann’s reception: the relationship between the oral and the written. One almost has the impression that Hoffmann
has not been taken seriously because he does not indulge in lengthy
descriptions of character; as with his drawings, so a few bold strokes
suffice. He is generally acclaimed
for the influence he had on the development of the short story as a literary
genre – the impression being that it later found perfection with the likes of
Flaubert, Zola and Maupassant: on this point, I shall only say that Madame Bovary is the greatest short
story I have never read. Indeed, he
may have suffered from the influence he exerted; it is often difficult to
appreciate pioneers from distant times, for one usually discovers them after
having familiarised oneself with the works of those who developed that which
this originator pioneered. It is
just as easy to place limitations on what constitutes a ‘good’ short story as
it is to restrict the range of language that produces ‘good’ English when one
is writing a translation; it is vital that the critic keep an open mind and
judge different authors by differing criteria. His habitual usage of several different
themes in one story has also caused consternation; it is very difficult to find
a centre from which to begin critical analysis. Moreover, this multivalence is a
reflection on his own lifestyle, and it is very unlikely that a critic should
be found who could approach Hoffmann’s works from the same angles as the author
himself.
But, more than anything, it is the perception of
Hoffmann the tale-teller, rather than Hoffmann the artist, that is responsible
for the continued critical neglect in
Consideration of the public perception of Hoffmann in
the English-speaking world now leads us to examine the most important medium:
the translator.
It is no secret that Hoffmann has suffered at the
hands of English translators; even in a general reference work we find mention
of “the tales which have been translated, sometimes several times (often
badly).”[85] They have faithfully rendered his
ignorance of the English language, often making a Zaches out of a Zinnober.
Yet despite this recognition, it is very difficult to
find Klein Zaches in English
translation; Rat Krespel, Der Sandmann and Das Fräulein von Scuderi can be found in various short story or
novella anthologies, and the Nußknacker
has reared his oversized head on many occasions, especially in recent years;
but poor little Zaches has – quite inexplicably – been overlooked.
There is a translation by Charles E. Passage, dating
from 1971[94];
although I composed my first draft without consulting this work, I flicked
through it during the process of revision.
I was interested in discovering how he had coped with certain issues
that were as yet unresolved. There
was, for example, the question of titles; however, the Fräulein von Rosenschön/Rosengrünschön occasionally kept her German
names, but on other occasions became “Rosefair” or “Rosegreenfair.” And, of course, there was the title,
given here as “Little Zaches, surnamed Zinnober,” with a footnote explaining
that the word Zinnober meant
‘cinnabar.’ There was no reference
to the fact that Zinnober also means ‘nonsense, rubbish’ or the irony of
characters saying that Zaches adopted this “noble-sounding name.” I delayed the explanation of Zinnober
until its first appearance in the actual story; this seemed to be a more
effective device than appending a footnote/an endnote to the title.
The comparison of a couple of sentences in Passage’s
translations with my renditions encouraged me that I was on the right
track. If we take the very
beginning of the tale:
“Not far from a pleasant village close by the roadside, there lay a poor tattered woman stretched out on the ground that was hot from the sun’s glow....”[95]
I do not like the “that was...” at all; it reminds me
of compositions by those who are still at a beginner’s stage of written
English, such as young children and our mobile-phone generation. I could question the occasional choice
of vocabulary – “sun’s glow” seems rather tepid – but it is above all the
structure, the style, which I find to be at fault. The pace is too fast. In the following example, the tone of
the original is not conveyed:
“The lady with the weak nerves was sitting at the tea-table enjoying sundry zwiebacks which she was dipping in rum and was assuring people that spirits menaced by hostile powers were thereby restored, and that after panic followed yearning hope.”[96]
This is a rather watered-down version of what Hoffmann
wrote; I feel that my rendition captures the energy and humour of the original
by means of the structure and vocabulary (for example: “tucking into” for
“genoß”, which means ‘to eat/drink’ and ‘to enjoy’ – hence in this instance ‘to
eat with relish’, although this can sound slightly misleading!).
I did, however, make a point of researching how
Hoffmann’s other tales had been translated – again, after the first draft was
complete – in the hope that I could thereby avoid falling into the same
traps. The general impression
formed was that Hoffmann had suffered the fate of many German authors and been
translated into an English that was perceived to be good, written English but
did not actually bear any hallmarks of the author’s individuality.
The major role in this section will be played by
Ritchie Robertson, the translator of Tales
of Hoffmann for the World’s Classics.[97] He has produced the best modern English
translations of Hoffmann. His
selection has been labelled “unexceptionable” and the same authority considers
the translations “excellent.”[98] They have much to commend them, but I
must take exception to his selection, for it includes two of the three longer
Märchen (Meister Floh and Prinzessin Brambilla), omitting the best
of all (poor little Zaches!).
There is another noticeable omission in Professor
Robertson’s translation of Des Vetters
Eckfenster, although it would be unfair to blame this on the translator: a
whole page is left out (“Aber jeder der treu verbundenen Quatuours... sein
ganzes Wesen recht gut dazu paßt”, II:318-9).† This section completes a story – which
Robertson begins but leaves unfinished, and the result is awkward and
confusing. There are other, shorter
omissions (“mit dem seligen Lächeln des wonnerfüllten Autors” [II:313] and
“hochstehende, starke Augenbrauen” [II:316]) in this story; and two pages, and
a paragraph, have been omitted from Meister
Floh (II:158-60, 152). Going to
the other extreme, he occasionally commits the cardinal sin of adding an
unnecessary explanation: “on other days beside market-days” (387) for “an
andern Tagen” (II:312).
The translation of Meister
Floh contains two basic mistakes, presumably the result of a rapidly
approaching deadline: “Ich bin ja deine Aline, die dich lieben wird” (II:223)
becomes: “Why, I’m you’re Aline, and you will love me” (309). And by confusing the characters Pepusch
and Peregrinus, he has the latter taking part in a scuffle and then leaving
“since it was clear that his help was not needed on the battlefield” (347):
which does not make sense, unless of course it was his unconscious double who
participated... In fairness, I was
guilty of the same error when composing my translation, so Professor Robertson
is not the only creator of doppelgängers!
My major complaint is this: the likes of Professor
Robertson may have an excellent command of the German and English languages,
and an expert knowledge of literature, and an admirable literary style, but
they do not attempt to convey the particular style of the author they are
translating. This question of style
is all-important; it colours the text.
Ignore it, and you produce a drawing instead of a painting. Let us look at some examples, beginning
with a sentence from Des Vetters
Eckfenster.
“So kam es, daß er mir allerlei anmutigen Geschichten erzählte, die er, des mannigfachen Wehs, das er duldete, unerachtet, ersonnen.” (II:301-2)
“Thus it was that he would tell me all manner of charming stories, which he had invented in spite of the many and various pains he was enduring.” (p. 377)
Hoffmann did not have to write this sentence in such a
clausal, slow, hesitating style; the German language does allow other
possibilities. He had a reason, and
that reason is obvious: the style reflects the content of the sentence, the
pain and the suffering of the uncle.
Robertson’s version is rather bright and breezy; too easy, too
fast. It is merely a translation of
the content; he is, to a large degree, a prisoner of the stiffness of English
syntax. Likewise, we can see in the
following example how the relation between style and content – the expression
of movement and a nervous agitation – has been lost: “Ich war wie festgebannt an
die Stelle – ich trippelte hin und her; was mag das Mädchen lesen?” / “I was
unable to leave the spot, where I shifted nervously from one foot to the other,
wondering what the girl was reading” (II:313 / 387).
There are certain passages written in the following
style: “...aber sie schlägt die Augen verschämt nieder – jeder ihrer Schritte
ist furchtsam – wankend – schüchtern hält sie sich an ihre Begleiterin – ich
verfolge sie...”( II:309). In this
instance, this continues for half a page.
Robertson employs short sentences, which produces the impression of
prepared speech, rather than current, broken yet continuous observation. The translation is never really allowed
to flow like the original: in constructions such as “daß sie ihn liebe, ja, daß
sie es gar nicht sagen könne, wie so sehr, wie so über...”( II:285 / 363) the
semi-colon appears like a conscientious customs officer to slow down the
journey. Of course, it must be
borne in mind that this punctuation mark is more frequently employed in English
than in German, and you do occasionally have to use it when translating
Hoffmann, even though it very seldom appears in his work; but it should be used
sparingly. The frequency of commas
also occasions an ‘and’ at times in English; but if a character cries out,
“Dieser Rock wird passen, wird allen Zauber lösen!” (I:230), then in such an
instance the replacement of the comma is not necessary. The exclamation mark must on occasion be
replaced by a question mark; if it is omitted – as from, for example, “die
Knaben...konnten sich oft eines lauten Ausrufs der Freude und der Verwunderung
nicht erwehren!” (II:156) – then the authorial voice is changed. This voice is also altered by
rearranging the order of adjectives: “Dies freilich etwas rauhe, aber doch freundschaftliche
Billett” (I:141) becomes “This friendly, though rather crusty note” – which
suggests a different reaction.
The strong oral element in Hoffmann’s style has been
lost. Moreover, this element is
particularly noticeable in Des Vetters
Eckfenster because, like all of his last tales, it was dictated. Is there any reason why a translation of
“Nimm mein Glas, nimm mein Glas, Vetter!” (II:309) or “Sieh, sieh, Vetter!”
(II:325) should not retain the repetition of the exhortation? Why “und sucht und sucht” (II:321) and
“endlich, endlich” (II:322) should be translated as “but cannot find” (394) and
“at long last” (395) respectively?
Why “wählt und wählt, feilscht und feilscht” (II:311) becomes “always
chooses and haggles” (385)?
Repetition is one of the hallmarks of Hoffmann’s style – especially when
his characters are speaking. Its
relevance is explained by its particularly vocal quality, by its being a
perfect vehicle for stress and intonation: “Hier, mein süßer Engel, hier steht
der Autor des Buchs” (II:313).
Moreover, several phrases – such as mention of flashing, or electrical
charges – have the same effect on each occasion on which they occur; they serve
as a pointer that we are about to enter a magical realm. And the language of certain phrases –
“wie vom Blitze getroffen,” “zur Bildsäule erstarrt,” which are repeated to the
point where they may be considered hackneyed – is relevant by being
“inextricably bound up with contemporary psychological explanations for the
consciousness of a character.”[99]
Hoffmann also often uses litotes; yet “nicht geringen”
(II:313) and “keine geringe” (II:322) are translated as “considerable” (395),
and “und nicht ohne Grund” (II:171) becomes “with good reason” (264). Yet these are cases in which the double
negative construction is perfectly acceptable in English. It is a question of tone – as, indeed,
is the usage of indirect speech.
This indicates an authorial distance from the conversation, and this
distance often results in ironic humour: a device quite common among English
authors. So I do not entirely
understand why Professor Robertson has, on several occasions (292, 333),
negated this device by using direct speech. Those passages in Klein Zaches that use indirect speech – notably the early stage of
the conversation between Prosper Alpanus and Fräulein von Rosenschön – find an
accurate reflection in the translation to follow. The omission of this technique would
have made no more sense than the omission of the humorous summaries at the
beginning of each chapter.
There is the question of vocabulary: “Fratze,”
(II:303) an informal word, becomes “physiognomy” (379); “Gaumenkitzler”
(II:318, ‘palate-ticklers’) develops into “culinary artists” (392); and
“belacht” (II:324) wakes up to find itself meaning “recall...mirthfully”
(397). “Nimm, geneigter Leser!” (19†) dons a change of tone and becomes: “Be
so good, dear reader, as to accept....” (98). I have a fairly extensive vocabulary,
but there is a time and a place for everything; and a text in which frequent use
is made of the endings –lein and –chen is not the correct place for
formality. Yet it could be
justified if Professor Robertson were consistent; however, he goes to the other
extreme, translating “Ariadnefaden” (II:241) as “clue” (324).
On several occasions the English is simply weaker than
the German: “weak voice” (256) is a colourless rendition of “ersterbender
Stimme” (II:162). “Life’s sun”
(394) misses the poetry of “die Abendröte des Lebens” (II:321). When Frau Tyß “erfreute” her husband
with a son (II:146), this verb became “presented” (243). The frequently employed –sten ending is omitted:
“entsetzlichsten” (II:329) becomes frightful (401), “schneidendsten” (II:323)
becomes “strong” (396), and so on.
And although Robertson mentions “the extraordinary incident of Coppelius
unscrewing the child’s limbs” in his introduction, he translates this as
“dislocated my hands and feet” (90-1).
There is also a passivity, a lack of animation: the
image of a “feine Batisttuch...sich mit dem Obst befreunden” (II:315) is
rendered as “survive contact with” (389); “ein beißiger Haushund” (302) is
tamed to “a watch-dog that might well bite” (II:378); saying that the author’s
literary vanity “awoke” (387) does not convey the movement of “regte sich”
(II:313); “impassively” (383) is a rather lazy translation of “Ohne sonderlich
eine Miene zu verziehen” (II:308); “das kleinste Fünkchen...in dir glüht”
(II:304) loses its verb with “you haven’t the tiniest spark” (380); and the
passive is employed to dilute “den Weg...hatte der Böse Dämon der Krankheit
versperrt” (II:302) down to “the path...had been blocked by the evil demon of
illness” (277). I made a point of
using verbs – especially transitive verbs – as often as was justifiable;
Fenollosa’s essay on the Chinese written language as a medium for poetry sprang
to mind, for it drew my attention to Shakespeare’s frequent use of transitive
verbs. The transitive use of words
which are now intransitive verbs or nouns – for example, ‘disaster’ – leads to
very powerful language; and I wanted the language of my translation to contain
the power and the vigour of the original.
Klein Zaches is Hoffmann’s
most exuberant work. Perhaps
writing: “it serves no other purpose than to be joyous and to make joyous”[100]
is going a little far, for there is more to this Märchen than that, such as: an
ironic reflection on the rewarding of merit; a satirical treatment of
enlightened despotism; the recurring theme in Hoffmann of the importance of
external appearance; the incongruence between inner visions and external
reality, Schein and Sein; the critical juxtaposition of the human world and the
animal world; and an approach to pathos when Rosabelverde makes a speech at the
bedside of dead little Zaches. But
humour is, without doubt, the overriding feature; it is the tone in which these
themes are treated, as for example when Zaches is mistaken for a howling
monkey. Whereas conflict and
duality – Bürger/artist, man/animal, body/mind, thought/speech, knowledge of
others/knowledge of self – permeate Hoffmann’s texts, and he resorts to the use
of irony to accept, by the time of his later texts there is a perceptible
shift. The humour is more genial
and more humane; and in Klein Zaches,
seemingly more than in any other work, he is laughing at himself.
The first decision made was that the whole story would
be translated. The initial unit of
translation was the story itself; I believe that if a prose work is worth the
effort and dedication that translation require, then it should be reproduced in
its entirety. I would make
exceptions as concerns texts in general – the ‘Walpurgnisnachtstraum’ sequence
in Faust is the locus classicus of
passages that blink nervously under the translator’s hovering axe – but these
are exceptions to the rule. The one
temptation was to omit the Ptolomäus Philadelphus episode; although it bears
traces of typical Hoffmann – bringing a man who died in 246 B.C. into the
contemporary world, placing a biblical quotation in the mouth of the Egyptian
King who was famous for having had the Old Testament translated into Greek, and
criticising the social customs of the author’s environment by the established
device of a letter from a travelling foreigner – it seems to me to be the
weakest element in the story. It is
not fully integrated, but shows signs of that same looseness that disfigures Prinzessin Brambilla. But I am as reluctant to edit as I am
eager to translate.
In his introduction to the Tales of Hoffmann, R.J. Hollingdale claimed that, “for a story to
produce, in modern English, the effect intended by the author, some speeding up
and tightening up was called for.”[101] But his argument that the idiom of
Hoffmann’s age is not the idiom of today is inadequate; the texts of some
writers become dated in a way that the texts of other writers do not. We may compare Goethe with Schiller, or
Hoffmann with Sir Walter Scott. The
Scottish novelist makes very turgid reading nowadays; Hoffmann does not. There is nothing slow about his work;
there is no need to reduce the atmospheric second sentence of Das Majorat from 77 to 60 words. Nor is it necessary, or indeed
desirable, to translate: “‘Was’, fiel der Großonkel ihm in die Rede, den Pelz
weit auseinanderschlagend und beide Arme in die Seiten stemmend, ‘was, die
Fenster...’” as: “‘What!’ my great-uncle interposed, ‘What! The windows....’”[102] Hoffmann, like Dickens, gives his
characters stage directions – the importance of his theatrical background must
be recognised; the short story was still in an embryonic stage of development,
and sometimes tended (as with Hoffmann) to be infused with a theatrical vigour,
with soliloquies and dialogues rather than a silent novelistic reflection. If these directions are omitted, some of
the energy of the original is lost.
The author was adamant that his texts should be delivered exactly as he
had written them – we read in his letters “No changes in my manuscript!”, “[he
assumes that] there will be no changes
made aside from those I made myself”[103]
– and editing is not, in normal circumstances, the task of the translator. The one exception is reserved for
obvious mistakes – such as the occasion in Das
Öde Haus when he has Franz, instead of Lelio, beginning to speak after
Franz has stopped talking[104],
which is really taking the doppelgänger theme too far...
The translation procedure began with a first draft;
continued with research; and then concluded with a sentence-for-sentence
comparison of the draft with the original and the subsequent revisions. It must be emphasised that the draft was
revised with the original at the translator’s side; one sometimes has the
impression that a translator has changed his first draft without reference to
the original, which can lead to quite noticeable departures from the author’s
style. These departures can creep
in surreptitiously. It is a mistake
for the translator to place himself in the position of reader as regards his
own text. Of course, momentum was
gathered during the act of translation, so that the later chapters required little
change, whereas the beginning of the text occasioned heavy revision.
First of all, there was the question of the
title. This text is commonly
referred to as “Little Zaches, called Cinnabar.” In fact, ‘Zaches’ is often retained
while ‘Zinnober’ is translated into the target language: hence Piccolo Zaches detto Cinabro; hence
‘Klein Zach’ becomes ‘M. Cinabre’ in the Contes
d’Hoffmann.[105] I do not see why ‘Zinnober’ should be
translated just because there is an equivalent word in English; I prefer to retain
it and use an endnote. Even if I
had reverted to ‘Cinnabar’, I would have had to use an endnote to explain the
humour inherent in the ambiguity of the German word. I did not consider it important to
translate “genannt” literally; the names in this Märchen are of no over-riding
importance – indeed, many were lifted straight from Johann Georg Zimmermann’s Über die Einsamkeit (1784) – but have
been retained in the translation because of their sound: “Mosch Terpin” and “Prosper Alpanus”
have an almost Dickensian joy.
“Little Zaches, Great Zinnober” seemed appropriate.
This was not one of the most difficult of
translations. Even at his most
complex, Hoffmann is not an author to frighten the translator away – as is Jean
Paul, for example – and Klein Zaches
is one of his most stylistically simple tales. Moreover, I had the advantage of
translating into English; while other languages may demonstrate what the
English language is incapable of (for example, the Swedish use of ‘sin’ and
‘hans’ to avoid that ambiguity of ‘his’ which often makes the insertion of ‘the
latter’ or ‘the former’ necessary; the use of accents on Icelandic vowels,
which greatly facilitates pronunciation; et cetera), they also serve to
highlight the wealth of this language: the richness of vowel sounds; the
extensive vocabulary; the flexibility of the syntax; and so on. German is one of the easier languages
for the native English speaker to translate from, as the likes of David Luke
have shown. The most contentious
issue, as concerns the German language, is probably the sentence structure; a
disregard for this sentence structure invariably leads to a bad translation:
step forward, Helen Lowe-Porter. I
translate sentence for sentence as far as possible; I will let Hoffmann tell
the story at his particular pace(s), because he is a better storyteller than I
am. When he writes in a slow,
cramped style – as at the beginning of the final chapter, to reflect the
melancholy that is constricting the author’s breast – then I will write in such
a style. When he writes at a
breathless pace – as when the lovers are reunited towards the end of Chapter
Eight – then the translation shall reflect this. My ultimate loyalty lies to the
original; after all, I am writing a translation, and for a text to be judged as
a translation it has to be compared with the original. Loyalty does not, of course, entail
writing a text that reads very badly, for I am writing for those who do not
know German; but all that is required is the application of a little common
sense. Lowe-Porter may claim that
she followed the spirit first, then the letter “‘so far as might be’”[106];
however, it is through his use of the letter that the artist creates the
spirit. Dr Robertson’s translations
read very well – better than other English translations of Hoffmann – but it is
possible to produce a version that is truer to the author, that manipulates
language in the same way that he does whenever this manipulation has the same
effect in the target language as it had in the source language, and yet still
reads well.
The language of the translation does not have to sound
normal, or ordinary; it has to sound acceptable. For this reason the degree of difference
from the conventional should, in general, be slight; revolutionary measures, in
all walks of life, tend to have a violent, and short-lived, effect. The importation of new ideas should
enrich the language that imports them; some will flourish, some will fade to
death; what is important is the fact that they have been given the chance to
live. The whole point of the
translation of literature is to approach a foreign culture as closely as one’s
native language will allow; by the mere fact of translating – if one bases
one’s efforts on a theoretical apparatus that stresses the importance of the
original text – one is stretching these boundaries. Moreover, by translating several
authors, and attempting to reproduce each individual’s style, the translator is
extending his own capabilities. If
all the authors he brings into his own language talk with the same voice, the
correct term to apply to his work is not ‘consistency’ but ‘limitations’. He should not attempt to write a
translation as if he were writing an original work in his native tongue; all he
has to do is follow the author he is translating. It is fatuous to talk of writing in the
style in which that author would have spoken if he had been born in
As concerns the sentence structure, I followed the original whenever this was possible and purposeful in English. For example: with “Und damit fing die Arme an zu weinen und zu schluchzen, bis sie endlich, vom Schmerz übermannt, ganz entkräftet einschlief” (I:146), it is possible to employ the hanging sentence so that the verb comes at the end (2). The sentence: “He decided to govern and immediately appointed his valet Andres, who had once, in an inn on the far side of the mountains, lent him six Ducats when he had left his purse behind, and so rescued him from grave danger, as First Minister of the Realm” (9) reflects the German form because the fact of Andres becoming First Minister achieves its comic effect through the information that precedes this disclosure. Sometimes, an alternative has to be sought: when the Fairy Rosabelverde hears that she will not be deported, a decision “worin sie sich, wiewohl mit großen Widerwillen, fügte” (I:158) then her reluctance is expressed by the hesitating style. In the English translation: “with which she complied, albeit with great reluctance,” (12) the same effect is produced by the stress being placed on the last word.
The greatest difficulty, as concerns this particular
author, is attempting to portray the scenes he evokes so vividly: I could quite
easily picture in my mind many of the events of this Märchen, but attempting to
find the words to recreate these images was somewhat more demanding. Hoffmann is one of the most visual of
writers; a quality which filmmakers have never seized upon. Even during the Expressionist period,
when the popular perception of ‘Gespenster Hoffmann’ made his works ideal for
filmic adaptation, the only perceptible influence appears in Der Student von Prag (1913; remade 1926)
which uses the doppelgänger theme and in particular that of the man who loses
his mirror-reflection.
It has been remarked that: “Perhaps the worst sin a
translator can commit is to incorporate in a translation material not in the
original but which has been written by him/herself.”[107] Once again, the sacredness of the text
is evoked. There were, however, one
or two occasions when the addition of two or three words was necessary; when
Balthasar is believed to have imitated a cat, the phrase “Sich zur Erde
bückend” (I:179) literally
means ‘stooping down to the ground’, but it also refers to the word
‘Katzenbückel’; because there is no such association in English, it was
necessary to add “and arching your back” to help the reader to visualise the
scene. There are also some slight
additions on one or two occasions when movement is described – especially when
Fräulein von Rosenschön is stroking Zaches’ head. There is generally a greater flexibility
in the use of prepositions involving direction in German, and this necessitates
this slight expansion for the sake of the image.
The occasional pun may (unintentionally) creep in to
the translation that is not in the original – for example “relations” (17); but
they are in the spirit of the work.
Hoffmann certainly does not shy away from inflicting bad puns on his
readership – such as Fräulein von Rosenschön being in the “Blüte ihrer Jahre”
(I:151) – and Zaches dying “einen humoristischen Tod” (I:246).
My intention in translation is both to produce a text
worthy of the original and to attempt to enrich the English language. Therefore I am willing to try to coin
new phrases, if they are appropriate.
Sometimes the idiom has been translated into the corresponding idiom,
because both are clichés, and it would be false of me to give the impression
that Hoffmann was an experimental writer with language; hence “der mir steht
wie angegossen an den Leib” (I:228) has been rendered as “that fits me to a T”
(70). On the other hand, “Kein
Hund...würde ein Stück Brot von Ihnen nehmen” (I:162), which translates as
‘Everyone would avoid you like the plague’, has here been translated literally. And why not? The meaning is perfectly clear. The idiom “kein gescheites Wort zu
Markte bringt” (I:170) was likewise translated in this manner, after due
consideration; there was the initial concern that it might be slightly archaic,
but although that criticism certainly applies to ‘I go before my horse to
market’, it does not seem relevant here.
It is instructive to discover how other cultures
phrase idioms which have an equivalent in our language: why reduce the
Hungarian ‘Az
A language does require a certain number of clichés to
provide stability, a foundation; it also requires an influx of fresh
blood. And it needs to be given the
chance to breathe. A dictionary
would translate “klaftertief” as “very deep” – what a weakening of language! It would also explain that a
“Generaldirektor” (as in “Generaldirektor sämtlicher natürlicher
Angelegenheiten”) was a “Chairman”; but this word does not convey the sense of
directing (Nature) so important in the context. Lexical enrichment is not one of the
translator’s primary aims when he begins his work; but as the work progresses, and
he comes to realise the deficiencies of his mother tongue, it assumes an
ever-greater importance. In the
words of Dryden – themselves a translation from Quintillian – “...when I want
at home, I must seek abroad.”[108]
Forming new words is a different matter from the
formation of new phrases, and one that demands the utmost care and
attention. The word
“conventability” (7), which I have never before encountered, is employed as an
equivalent for “Stiftsfähigkeit” (I:152).
The facility with which compound words can be produced in languages such
as German and Greek often presents a problem to the English translator, and a
ponderous phrase is generally the unwelcome but unavoidable result (Carlyle’s
translations providing perhaps the classic example). This particular instance seemed to be
one of those happy few cases in which the word can be literally translated
section for section, yet still make sense, yet still sound right. And it was
for reasons of sound that the archaic form of address “Er,” usually translated
as ‘you’, was given a literal rendering.
There was no danger of ambiguity, and it captured the formality and tone
of the usage.
From the above it is to be expected that I retained
some German words. The most obvious
example is probably “Fürst,” for which there is no equivalent in English; it
suggests sovereignty, actually having power, whereas “Prinz” suggests a
Fairy-Tale Prince or the heir to the throne. So the former is retained whereas the
latter, when it makes a rare appearance (in the summary for Chapter 3) is
translated as “Prince.” The
adjective has been rendered as “aristocratic” (“von fürstlichem Geblüt”
[33/I:184]) or “princely” when describing the wine-cellar; and “Fürsttum” was
given as “Principality” because this word contains those connotations that
“Prince” does not. “König” was
translated as “King” – this being standard procedure – but “Kaiser” was
retained; the usage of German terms with which the average English reader will
be familiar is one of those touches which emphasise the fact that this is an
essentially German story.
Another of these touches is the usage of “Herr,”
“Fräulein,” etc. The use of titles
was one of the most problematic aspects of this translation. Robertson had used ‘Mr’ and ‘Mrs’, which
led to the rather strange-sounding “Mrs. von Carsner” (304). “Sister von Rosenschön” may appear in my
translation, but “Sister,” when applied to a nun, has an international
quality. As a rule I decided to
translate “mein Herr” as “sir” (‘my Herr’ was not an option!), but when “Herr”
or “Frau” were followed by a name, the German forms were retained. There was also the problem posited by
such formations as “Herr Studiosus” (“Studiosus” being a humorous term for
‘student’). Research showed that
Kent and Knight translated this as “sir”; Bealby as “dear student-friend”[109];
and James Kirkup retained the German form (which in the context – following on
from “Laddie, laddie, laddie!” – was a rather curious choice![110]). In the case of a similar term,
Hollingdale retained “Herr Justitiarius.”
It was decided to leave “Studiosus,” “Referendarius” and “Melancholikus”
as they were because there is no satisfactory English translation; moreover,
they are close enough to English words to be recognisable, and the –us ending has comic overtones. An exception was made for “Herr
Pfarrer,” because “Father” is so familiar to the English speaker.
“Alraun” was retained, while “Wurzelmännlein” was
translated as “mandrake.” Two words
were necessary in English in any case, and the former has the authority of Funk
& Wagnall behind it. Yet
“Alraunwurzel” became “Mister Mandrake,” for this seemed apt in the
context. “Däumling,” which equates
to ‘Tom Thumb’, was problematic because of its use after the direct or indirect
article; ‘a Tom Thumb’ and ‘the Tom Thumb’ sound clumsy. The word ‘Däumlingen’ appears in Der Sandmann, and has been translated as
‘Tom Thumbs’ (Bealby) or simply ‘dwarfs’ (
Words such as “Tusch” and “Wichtelzöpfe” have no
equivalent in English. The latter
could be translated literally, but this would be inaccurate; for it refers to a
superstition that existed in
One feature of Hoffmann’s style is the coupling of
rhyming words; this gives his language a proverbial, informal feel. I have attempted to retain this whenever
possible, making “schalten und walten” (I:159) “reign and ordain” (12) rather
than ‘bustle around’; but if a rhyme would have been too strained or taken too
much liberty with the meaning, another device, such as alliteration, was
employed: “knurrte und murrte” (I:208) becomes “groaned and grumbled” (53).
There is the question of how to translate a literary
allusion. When Andres cries: “Sire!
– führen Sie die Aufklärung ein!” (I:155), this is a parody of Posa’s “Geben
Sie Gedankenfreiheit!” in Act 3 Scene 10 of Schiller’s Don Carlos. This was
one instance where I felt a reference to a source culture would be best
translated by reference to the translator’s source culture: “Let there be
Enlightenment!” playing on “Let there be light!” The retention of a humorous reference to
a well-known work was the important factor; and the humour achieves its effect
through being based on what the reader knows. With the reference from Friedrich
Schlegel’s tragedy Alarcos – “So ist
er aus Furcht zu sterben gar gestorben!” (I:245) – I could not think of a
relevant quotation in English literature; so I concentrated on rendering it in
iambic pentameter form – that most conventional of English dramatic forms, and
the one that most invites parody. I
considered adding an endnote for the allusion in Chapter 3 to Jean Paul’s Titan – in which a female character goes
momentarily blind in moments of great sentimentality – but this appears in the
middle of a passage that is obviously mocking certain contemporary authors, so
it was not considered necessary.
There was a certain amount of freedom when translating
various oaths: phrases such as “Tausend Sapperment!” are very dated nowadays,
and the effect is (and was, in this
context) comic. And it was in
deference to humour that I translated “Tausend Teufel!” as “Legion of
Lucifers!”; for this is not some demonic, tortured baroque soul gnashing his
teeth and fulminating against all of creation: this is Herr Vincenzo Sbiocca,
an amusingly irate Italian violinist.
He is not so obviously Italian as Coppola in Der Sandmann – “Brill – Brill auf der Nas su setze, das sein meine
Oke - sköne Oke!” (translated by Bealby as “Spect’cles! Spect’cles to put ’n nose! Them’s my oyes – foine oyes” which
conjures up images of gums and fingerless gloves, but not of Italians) – but
his nationality is still evident, through his sentences, rather than through
his words. It is difficult to go
into specific details; this is the way the whole passage reads. The effect was carried into English by
using the same punctuation (“It is my pride, my joy”) and by translating “ich
verlasse” and “ich spiele” as “I leave” and “I play,” instead of using the
present continuous tense.
This character presented one of those challenges that
make translation so interesting when he used the image of “ in die ganze
Applikatur greifend” (I:187) to describe the manner in which he wished to
pounce on Zinnober. This actually
means ‘grabbing all of him’, but “Applikatur” is a specialist term relating to
the violin. The aim of the
translator was to convey the notion of grabbing the whole person while
retaining a reference to the violin; hence the solution of “grabbing him by
both sound-holes” (36).
Changes in register always present a difficulty; the
speech of Zinnober’s valet in his official capacity, containing such
constructions as “Se. Exzellenz besitzen...” was represented by a pompous
vocabulary. Hence “is recumbent”
for “liegen,” “did arrive” for “sind...eingetroffen,” and so on. The mixed register of “halten Sie das
Maul” was represented by “please [for “Sie”] keep your trap shut” (78). It is not difficult to find some way of
representing the difference between “Sie” and “du”; but when Minister von
Mondschein is portrayed as never confusing his “Ihnen und Sie”, the only manner
of capturing this distinction is by reversion to the old forms “Thou and Thee”
(40).
One of the most noticeable features of the characters’
speech is the retention of Hoffmann’s “peculiarity of repeating the first word
of a direct quotation after the interruption.”[111] This is not really so peculiar, although
previous translators seem to have found it so; it is another example of
Hoffmann’s constructive repetition.
It is one of those gentle pointers towards the oral rather than the written
element; the image is evoked of a storyteller stepping out of his world for one
moment, then stepping back in. It
is simply his way of telling; and this way made the text enjoyable to read, and
just as enjoyable to translate.
Hoffmann does not really belong in the list of ‘classic’ authors; he rather has one foot in the classic world, and one foot in the ‘popular’ world. He writes in the style of an oral storyteller, yet the end product is much more than a mere ‘story’: it is a conscious and skilled work of art. It may be claimed that it is this polarity, this duality, which is responsible for the manner in which his popularity has often alternated between the reading public and the critics – a far from ideal situation. An author requires the approval of both in order to establish a lasting reputation; and Hoffmann has something to offer both worlds. It is not surprising that his literary work should have “called forth not only great admiration but also deep aversion”[112]; for it provokes a reaction. It often has the quality of being ‘on the edge’; it avoids sentimentality, proselytising and triteness, choosing instead to celebrate the power of the imagination. Its portrayal of the irrational, the supernatural, in a realistic setting can be so convincing as to be unsettling. And it runs the gauntlet of incomprehension that is the lot of all ironical works of art.
There is so much that is musical and theatrical in his texts that they are difficult to judge without an appreciation of these other art-forms. Hence comments such as “his prose is devoid of rhythm”[113]; but at its best, it has a musical rhythm, and when not at its best, it yet has the rhythm of speech. It is no coincidence that most of his musical compositions were composed for voices; speech, social intercourse, and not music, was Hoffmann’s greatest love. It has been remarked that Hoffmann has a painter’s approach to writing[114]; but this is no ordinary brush, for it sometimes appears as a wand, and sometimes as a baton. Of all the German Romantics, Hoffmann was the least poetical – witness his attempts at writing verse if you dare – but the most musical. The inspiration his work gave Tchaikovsky, Offenbach, Schumann, Delibes and Wagner[115] – and the influence of authors on musicians is, mercifully, easily traceable! – is in itself proof of the musicality of his literary creations.
He is unique in being a German Romantic with a
relevance for the modern age; he was the member of this ‘group’ who “perhaps
most successfully translated the theoretical pronouncements of his colleagues
into literary practice.”[116] An example of this is Der Goldne Topf; although “striking
similarities”[117] can
be found between this text and Novalis’s Heinrich
von Ofterdingen, the former is highly enjoyable whereas the latter is
barely readable. Indeed, Hoffmann,
like Heine, was so much more than a German Romantic; there is something
essentially dissatisfying about this movement – it does not seem to have
produced anything of lasting value in any of its branches. It is as insubstantial as a dream; its greatest
use was to serve as an embryonic phase for the best writer of fiction and the
best poet in the movement – the only two German authors of the 19th
century, after Goethe and Schiller, to have an international effect – to
transcend. When Fabian cries, “ei,
das ist nun wieder das alte ewige Lied von Wehmut und Wonne und sprechenden
Bäumen und Waldbächen” (I:166) in response to Balthasar’s raptures, then for
once, the joke is not on he himself.
There is, as John Reddick emphasised in 1969[118]
– and it is surprising that an English critic should not have made this point
clear at an earlier stage – much irony in Hoffmann’s texts; there is also much
outright humour. His work is
uneven; there are some texts, such as Prinzessin
Brambilla and Die Doppeltgänger,
which I really do not rate very highly at all. This variation in quality is to be
expected from an author was who so prolific in such a short space of time. Moreover, one sometimes has the sense
that he felt he had to live up to a certain image and give the public what they
wanted: hence his comment on Meister
Martin, quoted in Baudelaire’s Salon
de 1846: “C’est le plus médiocre de mes ouvrages; il n’y a ni terrible ni
grotesque, qui sont les deux choses par où je vaux le plus!”[119] There were also texts that mattered to
him, and texts that he wrote for material gain alone. But at his best, Hoffmann is one of the
greatest German authors. Klein Zaches genannt Zinnober is one of
those works, like Mozart auf der Reise
nach Prag, Aus dem Leben eines
Taugenichts, and The Vicar of
Wakefield, that express sheer joy via the medium of literature. And while I was translating it, I felt
that I could see the immortal little Hoffmann standing before me, waving and
whispering encouragement.
I wished to paint him, while he was telling this
Märchen, as he painted himself. It
does not matter how wonderful the painting you produce may be; if you paint
some object other than the one that is sitting for you, you have wasted your
time. In his ‘Selbstporträt mit
physiognomischen Erklärungen’ he described the laughing-muscle as “Der
ironische Zug oder die Märchenmuskel”[120];
and in Klein Zaches, right up until
the final sentence, it is this feature that catches the light. These paintings are very difficult to
execute, for they have to be judged on two levels; by those who have seen the
actual person, and by those who have no knowledge, but rather vague
expectations, of his appearance.
All the painter can do is learn various techniques, expand his
knowledge, and then rely on his developed artistic instinct. If there exists a certain sympathy
between artist and model – the latter term is entirely appropriate – then, by
practice, the former may ascend to those heights where he can capture the
model’s expression. A sense of the
correct balance between proportion and decoration will provide the outline; to
fill this in, to make the picture live, the crucial element is a sense of
timing.
I would not wish in any way to blame the earlier
Anglo-American translators of Hoffmann; they at least recognised that his work
merited translation. Their hearts
were in the right place; it is merely unfortunate that their brains were on
sabbatical at the time. Much of the
criticism that has been devoted to him has been dull – almost to the point of
German literary criticism, where the critic may hit the nail on the head but
just does not know when to stop hammering – dire, narcissistic, and has failed
in its purpose. Hoffmann has his
flaws, but he is never boring. “In
tandem, translation and criticism enhance the understanding and appreciation of
literature”[121];
Hoffmann has been ill-served in both these fields. Both critics and translators have not,
in general, paid enough attention to the author; the former have largely
misappropriated his content, and the latter have mislaid his style – although
each is also guilty of the other crime.
It is to be wished that some of the critical energy had been bestowed on
evaluating these translations; a translation begins and ends with
criticism. Like innumerable other
authors, he has suffered because of the late – too, too late – arrival of
translation studies into the critical world.
An Italian critic, writing specifically about Hoffmann
in
This theme of development seems to be relating the
text to other authors rather than to the readers. What it actually relates to is
translation in the broadest sense – by reader, writer and critic. There is so much to be kept alive in
Hoffmann’s work. And the strongest
criticism that must be levelled at the English-speaking world is not that he
has been translated badly, haphazardly, with no respect for his style – true
though this undoubtedly is – but that he simply has not been translated enough. Misunderstanding an artist is
forgivable, but this misunderstanding must be based on knowledge, and not on
imagination.
To sum up Hoffmann’s contribution to the world of the
arts in a single sentence: “Er hat ein großes Werk hinterlassen.”[123] But a reader who did not know German
would not understand this. What
chance would he have, when many Germans would question the application, if not
the meaning of the words? We end
with reference to a passage in Des
Vetters Eckfenster. Hoffmann
took pains to establish a relationship between author/speaker and
reader/listener; yet when he approaches a flower-girl who is reading, and
enjoying, one of his books, he discovers her ignorance as to the existence of
authors. The pleasure he feels at
his works being read has been nullified by the manner of this reading; the
public only cares about the story, not the author; the content, not the
art. As far as criticism of his
texts is concerned, there has been an improvement over the last thirty or so
years, even if much is still being written that could quite profitably feed a
blazing fire; the crucial recognition was that he was not only “the great
storyteller of the Romantics” but that “his meanings are as much in how he
tells as in what is told.”[124] The appreciation of his style is the vital
factor, for the careful reader, for the critic, and for the translator. This style charted the difficult quest
to achieve the correct balance between being an automaton and being a madman; a
balance which was attained by the use of humour and irony, by narrative
perspective, and by sheer artistic ability.
Hoffmann is, at least in his native land, beginning to
receive the recognition that the quality of his art deserves. There is no guarantee that a translation
of his work into English that, unlike those earlier attempts, aims at
reproducing his style and spirit, will actually serve to enhance his reputation
in these shores; but in the final assessment, people will form their own
subjective judgements. All the
translator can do is strive to present reliable evidence. Trapped in the sometimes conflicting,
sometimes overlapping demands of self, reader and original author, the prose
translator discovers that his ultimate loyalty lies with his fellow artist, who
wrote to be read. As did numerous
other authors, in numerous other ways: and it is the way that is all-important.
There are two realities in the world of E.T.A.
Hoffmann, and so there are two realities in this dissertation: that of
criticism, and that of translation.
Like Hoffmann’s worlds, they exist in the same time and space, and there
is no clear dividing line. And this
essay itself is one of two worlds; the higher realm – the theoretically higher
realm, although it (ironically enough) is a practical world – is to follow.
Notes
† Unless otherwise stated, all page references for Hoffmann – including those relating to my translation – are taken from the Aufbau-Verlag: Berlin und Weimar 1979 edition in three volumes.
† From Der Sandmann / Das Öde Haus (Reclam: Stuttgart 1986).
[1] H.W. Hewett-Thayer, Hoffmann: Author of the Tales (New York, 1948), p.vii.
[2] David Charlton, E.T.A.
Hoffmann’s Musical Writings
(Cambridge University Press, 1989), p.ix; p.235.
[3] Thomas S. Grey, Wagner’s Musical Prose (Cambridge University Press, 1995), p.92.
[4] James McGlathery, Mysticism and Sexuality: E.T.A. Hoffmann, Vol.I: Hoffmann and his Sources
(
[5] Hewett-Thayer, op. cit., p.233.
[6] Helga Slessarev, ‘E.T.A. Hoffmann’s Prinzessin Brambilla: A Romanticist’s Contribution to the
Aesthetic Education of Man’ in Studies in Romanticism, 9 (1970), 147-160, at 160.
[7] H.W. Longfellow, Hyperion
in The Works of Henry
Massachussetts, 1886), p.234.
[8] From Blackwood’s Magazine, Vol. XX, pp. 844ff. Quoted in Erwin G. Gudde, ‘E.T.A. Hoffmann’s
Reception in
1005-10, at 1006.
[9] Mark Spilka, Dickens and
Kafka: A Mutual Interpretation (
[10] The New
1982), p.11.
[11] Ibid, p.475.
[12] Albert Ward, Book Production,
Fiction and the German Reading Public 1740-1800 (
p.83.
[13] Heinrich Heine: Sämtliche Werke, Band 8/1 (Düsseldorfer Ausgabe: Hamburg, 1979), p.193.
[14] In his conversation with Eckermann of 3 December 1824.
[15] Karl August Varnhagen von Ense: Werke, Band 4 (Deutscher Klassiker Verlag: Frankfurt, 1990), p.660.
[16] For example, by Jean Paul in the preface he wrote to Hoffmann’s Fantasiestücke in Callots Manier.
[17] Kenneth Negus, E.T.A.
Hoffmann’s Other World (
[18] Heinrich von Treitschke, Deutsche
Geschichte (1st Ed.
1879) Trans. By Eden & Cedar Paul as History
of
[19] Heines Werke, Band 4 (Säkularausgabe, Akademie-Verlag: Berlin, 1981), p.158.
[20] As is clear from his letters to his mother of 3 December 1858 through to early February 1859 requesting
that she send him Hoffmann’s Novellen – which she seemed strangely reluctant to do.
[21] Thomas Mann, Briefe 1937-47 (Kempten/Allgau, 1963), p. 23.
[22] M Anchelot (intro.), Contes D’Hoffmann (Abridged; Lagny-sur-Marne – undated).
[23] Rosemary Lloyd, Baudelaire’s Literary Criticism (Cambridge University Press, 1981), p.11.
[24] Ibid, p.49; p.50.
[25] Charles Baudelaire, Curiosités Esthétiques in Oeuvres Complètes (Notice de Jacques Crépet; Paris,
1923), p.394.
[26] McGlathery, op. cit., p.19.
[27] Alfred Dubruck, Gérard de Nerval and the German Heritage (The Hague, 1965).
[28] Geneviève Delattre, Les
Opinions Littéraires de Balzac
(
[29] Ibid, p. 379.
[30] A.W. Raitt, Prosper Mérimée (
[31] René Jasinski, Les Années
Romantiques de Théophile Gautier
(
[32] Théophile Gautier, ‘Hoffmann’s Tales’ in The Complete Works of Théophile Gautier, Trans. F.C. De
Sumichrast, Vol. XII (Boston/New York, 1903), p.239.
[33] Ibid, p. 243.
[34] Charles E. Passage, The Russian Hoffmannists (The Hague, 1963), p.238.
[35] Where, it is interesting to note, his work influenced the young Hans Christian Andersen, as is clear from
the latter’s literary debut
‘A Walk from Holmen’s Canal to the
Years 1828 and 1829’ (P.M. Mitchell, A History of Danish Literature [Copenhagen, 1957] p.151).
[36] Passage, op. cit., p.38.
[37] Charles E. Passage, Dostoevski the Adapter (University of North Carolina Press, 1954), p.6.
[38] Marina Ledkovsky, the other turgenev: from romanticism to symbolism (Würzburg, 1973), p.29.
[39] Passage, Dostoevski the Adapter, p.7.
[40] As is evident from a letter to Stefan Zweig dated May 16 1928.
[41] Maxim Gorky, On Literature (Progress:
[42] Monika Greenleaf, Pushkin and Romantic Fashion (Stanford University Press, 1994), p.324.
[43] Paul Debreczeny, The Other Pushkin (Stanford University Press, 1983), p.326.
[44] John Bayley, Pushkin: A
Comparative Commentary (
[45] Passage, Dostoevski the Adapter, p.177.
[46] Richard Peace, The Enigma of Gogol (Cambridge University Press, 1981), p.106. The affinity is far
from striking.
[47] Donald Fanger, The Creation of Nikolai Gogol (Harvard University Press, 1979), p.148.
[48] Passage, Dostoevski the Adapter, p.131.
[49] The letter of 9 August 1838.
[50] First circulated among friends, then inflicted on a wider audience
(
[51] George B. Von der Lippe, ‘The Figure of E.T.A. Hoffmann as Doppelgänger to Poe’s Roderick Usher’ in
Modern Language Notes, 92 (1977), 525-34, at 534.
[52] Ibid; and Thomas S.
Hansen/
pp.98-104.
[53] P.A. Shelley, A.O. Lewis Jr., W.W. Betts Jr. (ed.), Anglo-German and Anglo-American
Crosscurrents,
Vol. I. (University of North Carolina Press 1957, Reprinted 1969), p.135.
[54] Henry A. Pochmann, German Culture in America (University of Wisconsin Press, 1961), p.338. This
study supplies all the statistics in this section.
[55] Heines Werke, Band 5 (Akademie Verlag: Berlin, 1970), p.15.
[56] From the Edinburgh Review, Vol. 82, 1845, pp.451ff. (quoted in Gudde, op. cit.).
[57] C.T. Carr, ‘Carlyle’s Translations from German’ in Modern Language Review, Vol. XLII (1947), 223-
232, at 223.
[58] From the Athenaeum, No. 1031, 1847, pp.811ff. (quoted in Gudde, op. cit.).
[59] Although Gudde was somehow surprised, because of the wild and confusing nature of the narrative.
[60] The Letters of Robert Louis Stevenson, Vol. 7 (Yale University Press), p.125.
[61] Una Pope-Hennessy, Charles Dickens (2nd ed. Harmondsworth, 1970), p.337.
[62] Michael Hollington, Dickens
and the Grotesque (
[63] E.N. Bennett (Trans.), German Short Stories (Oxford University Press, 1934), p.8.
[64] P.A. Shelley, A.O. Lewis Jr. (ed.), op. cit., Vol. II (University of North Carolina Press, 1962), p.246.
[65] Ioan Williams (ed.), Sir
Walter Scott On Novelists and Fiction
(
[66] Ibid, p.330.
[67] Scott does devote some three pages to Der Sandmann, which is roughly equivalent to three lines by the
average critic.
[68] Quoted in
[69] Thomas Carlyle, Critical and
Miscellaneous Essays, Vol. I (
[70] Ibid, p.602.
[71] R.J. Hollingdale (trans. & intro.), Tales of Hoffmann (Penguin: 1982), p.8.
[72] The New
[73] Theodore Ziolkowski, German Romanticism and its Institutions (Princeton University Press, 1990),
p.210.
[74] Alan Menhennet, The Romantic Movement (
[75] Heinrich Heine: Sämtliche Werke, Band 8/1, p.193.
[76] Hoffmanns Werke, Band 1 (Aufbau-Verlag: Berlin und Weimar, 1979), p.263.
[77] Hollingdale, op. cit., p.7.
[78] Ziolkowski, op. cit., p.5.
[79] The trials in Die Elixiere des Teufels, Das Fräulein von Scuderi, and Meister Floh; the question of the
nature of evidence (Ignaz Denner); the characters in the legal profession (Krespel, Coppellius, and Little
Zaches); and so on.
[80] John Reddick, ‘E.T.A. Hoffmann’s Der Goldne Topf and its “Durchgehaltene Ironie”’ in Modern
Language Review, 71 (1976), 577-94, at 578.
[81] J.M. Ellis, ‘E.T.A. Hoffmann’s Das Fräulein von Scuderi’ in Modern Language Review, 64 (1969), 340-
50, at 340.
[82] Göppingen, 1975.
[83] E.K. Bennett, A History of
the German Novelle (2nd
ed.
[84] Harry Steinhauer (Trans. & Ed.), Twelve German Novellas (University of California, 1977), p.115.
[85] John Clute/ Peter Nicholls, The
Encyclopedia of Fantasy (
[86] I.A. Willoughby, The Romantic Movement in Germany (1930; Reissued New York, 1966), p.120.
[87] Passage, The Russian Hoffmannists, p.223.
[88] Franz Fühmann, ‘Klein Zaches genannt Zinnober’ in Literaturwissenschaft-Gesellschaftswissenschaft
Interpretationen 54, zu E.T.A.
Hoffmann, hrsg. S.P. Scher (
[89] Holbeche, op. cit., p.153.
[90] E.T.A. Hoffmann, Poetische
Werke, Band 10 (
[91] E.T.A. Hoffmann, Späte Werke (
[92] Dichter über ihre Dichtungen, Band 13: E.T.A. Hoffmann (Heimeran Verlag: München, 1974), p.198.
[93] A theme discussed in Fühmann’s article cited in note 85.
[94] Charles E. Passage (Trans. & Intro.), Three Märchen of E.T.A. Hoffmann (
[95] Ibid, p.3.
[96] Ibid, p.36.
[97] Ritchie Robertson, Tales of Hoffmann (Oxford University Press, 1992).
[98] Nicholas Saul in This Year’s Work in Modern Language Studies, Vol. 54 (1992), p.804.
[99] Maria M. Tatar, ‘Mesmerism, Madness and Death in E.T.A. Hoffmann’s Der Goldne Topf’ in Studies in
Romanticism, 14 (1975), 365-89, at 371.
[100] Passage, Three Märchen, p.xvi.
[101] Hollingdale, op. cit., p.14.
[102] Ibid, p.44.
[103] The letters of 26 and 20 July 1813 respectively in Johanna C.
Sahlin, Selected Letters of E.T.A.
Hoffmann (University of Chicago Press, 1977), p.200; p.198.
[104] Der Sandmann / Das Öde Haus (Reclam: Stuttgart 1986), p.43.
[105] M. Anchelot, op. cit., passim..
[106] Quoted from Timothy Buck, ‘Thomas Mann’s Fiction in English
Translation’, Modern Language
Review 91 (1996), 898-921, at 902.
[107] Ibid, p.905.
[108] Quoted from Frederick M. Rener, Interpretation:
Language and Translation from
(
[109] Tales of E.T.A. Hoffmann,
Transl. by Leonard J. Kent and Elizabeth C. Knight (
For Bealby: internet site: http://www.mtroyal.ab.ca./programs/arte/english/gaslight/sandman.htm.
[110] James Kirkup, ‘Krespel the Lawyer’ in F.J. Lamport (ed.), The Penguin Book of German Stories
(
[111] Shelley, Lewis, Betts op.cit. p.119.
[112] H. S. Daemmrich, The
Shattered Self: E.T.A. Hoffmann’s Tragic Vision (
[113] Calvin Thomas, A History of German Literature (Heinemann: London 1919), p.343.
[114] W.F. Mainland in his Introduction to E.T.A. Hoffmann: Der Goldene Topf (
1967), p.x.
[115] For, respectively: ‘The Nutcracker Suite’; ‘Tales of Hoffmann’; ‘Kreisleriana’; ‘Coppélia ou la fille aux
yeux d’émail’; and ‘Der Meistersinger von Nürnberg’ and ‘Tannhäuser’.
[116] Maria M. Tatar, ‘E.T.A. Hoffmann’s “Der Sandmann”: Reflection and
Romantic Irony’ in Modern
Language Notes 95 (1980), 585-608, at 585.
[117] Sheila Dickson, ‘E.T.A. Hoffmann: Mind, Mythology and Meaning’ in Forum for Modern Language
Studies Vol. XXXII No.3 (1996), 251-63, at 256.
[118] John Reddick, ‘E.T.A. Hoffmann’ in German Men of Letters, Vol V. (
[119] Baudelaire, op.cit, p.152.
[120] Ingrid Strohschneider-Kohrs, Die romantische Ironie in Theorie und Gestaltung (Tübingen, 1977),
p.353.
[121] Marilyn Gaddis Rose, Translation
and Literary Criticism: Translation as Analysis (
p.11.
[122] Vincenzo Gibelli, E.T.A.
Hoffmann: Fortuna di un Poeta Tedesco in Terra di Russia (
p.41.
[123] Hans Meyer, Von Lessing bis Thomas Mann (Metzingen/Württemberg, 1959), p.246.
[124] Glyn Tegai Hughes, Romantic
German Literature (