THE CREMONA VIOLIN

E.T.A. Hoffman

From "Weird Tales," translated by J.T. Beally. Published by Charles
Scribner's Sons.

Councillor Krespel was one of the strangest, oddest men I ever met
with in my life. When I went to live in H---for a time the whole
town was full of talk about him, as he happened to be just then in
the midst of one of the very craziest of his schemes. Krespel had
the reputation of being both a clever, learned lawyer and a skilful
diplomatist. One of the reigning princes of Germany--not, however,
one of the most powerful--had appealed to him for assistance in
drawing up a memorial, which he was desirous of presenting at the
Imperial Court with the view of furthering his legitimate claims
upon a certain strip of territory. The project was crowned with the
happiest success; and as Krespel had once complained that he could
never find a dwelling sufficiently comfortable to suit him, the
prince, to reward him for the memorial, undertook to defray the cost
of building a house which Krespel might erect just as he pleased.
Moreover, the prince was willing to purchase any site that he should
fancy. This offer, however, the Councillor would not accept; he
insisted that the house should be built in his garden, situated in a
very beautiful neighborhood outside the town-walls. So he bought all
kinds of materials and had them carted out. Then he might have been
seen day after day, attired in his curious garments (which he had
made himself according to certain fixed rules of his own), slacking
the lime, riddling the sand, packing up the bricks and stones in
regular heaps, and so on. All this he did without once consulting an
architect or thinking about a plan. One fine day, however, he went
to an experienced builder of the town and requested him to be in his
garden at daybreak the next morning, with all his journeymen and
apprentices, and a large body of laborers, etc., to build him his
house. Naturally the builder asked for the architect's plan, and was
not a little astonished when Krespel replied that none was needed,
and that things would turn out all right in the end, just as he
wanted them. Next morning, when the builder and his men came to the
place, they found a trench drawn out in the shape of an exact
square; and Krespel said, "Here's where you must lay the
foundations; then carry up the walls until I say they are high
enough." "Without windows and doors, and without partition walls?"
broke in the builder, as if alarmed at Krespel's mad folly. "Do what
I tell you, my dear sir," replied the Councillor quite calmly;
" leave the rest to me; it will be all right." It was only the
promise of high pay that could induce the builder to proceed with
the ridiculous building; but none has ever been erected under
merrier circumstances. As there was an abundant supply of food and
drink, the workmen never left their work; and amidst their
continuous laughter the four walls were run up with incredible
quickness, until one day Krespel cried, "Stop!" Then the workmen,
laying down trowel and hammer, came down from the scaffoldings and
gathered round Krespel in a circle, whilst every laughing face was
asking, "Well, and what now?" "Make way!" cried Krespel; and then
running to one end of the garden, he strode slowly towards the
square of brickwork. When he came close to the wall he shook his
head in a dissatisfied manner, ran to the other end of the garden,
again strode slowly towards the brickwork square, and proceeded to
act as before. These tactics he pursued several times, until at
length, running his sharp nose hard against the wall, he cried,
" Come here, come here, men! break me a door in here! Here's where I
want a door made!" He gave the exact dimensions in feet and inches,
and they did as he bid them. Then he stepped inside the structure,
and smiled with satisfaction as the builder remarked that the walls
were just the height of a good two-storeyed house. Krespel walked
thoughtfully backwards and forwards across the space within, the
bricklayers behind him with hammers and picks, and wherever he
cried, "Make a window here, six feet high by four feet broad!"
" There a little window, three feet by two!" a hole was made in a
trice.

It was at this stage of the proceedings that I came to H---; and it
was highly amusing to see how hundreds of people stood round about
the garden and raised a loud shout whenever the stones flew out and
a new window appeared where nobody had for a moment expected it. And
in the same manner Krespel proceeded with the buildings and fittings
of the rest of the house, and with all the work necessary to that
end; everything had to be done on the spot in accordance with the
instructions which the Councillor gave from time to time. However,
the absurdity of the whole business, the growing conviction that
things would in the end turn out better than might have been
expected, but above all, Krespel's generosity--which indeed cost him
nothing--kept them all in good-humor. Thus were the difficulties
overcome which necessarily arose out of this eccentric way of
building, and in a short time there was a completely finished house,
its outside, indeed, presenting a most extraordinary appearance, no
two windows, etc., being alike, but on the other hand the interior
arrangements suggested a peculiar feeling of comfort. All who
entered the house bore witness to the truth of this; and I too
experienced it myself when I was taken in by Krespel after I had
become more intimate with him. For hitherto I had not exchanged a
word with this eccentric man; his building had occupied him so much
that he had not even once been to Professor M---'s to dinner, as he
was in the habit of doing on Tuesdays. Indeed, in reply to a special
invitation, he sent word that he should not set foot over the
threshold before the house-warming of his new building took place.
All his friends and acquaintances, therefore, confidently looked
forward to a great banquet; but Krespel invited nobody except the
masters, journeymen, apprentices, and laborers who had built the
house. He entertained them with the choicest viands; bricklayers'
apprentices devoured partridge pies regardless of consequences;
young joiners polished off roast pheasants with the greatest
success; whilst hungry laborers helped themselves for once to the
choicest morsels of truffes fricassees. In the evening their wives
and daughters came, and there was a great ball. After waltzing a
short while with the wives of the masters, Krespel sat down amongst
the town musicians, took a violin in his hand, and directed the
orchestra until daylight.

On the Tuesday after this festival, which exhibited Councillor
Krespel in the character of a friend of the people, I at length saw
him appear, to my no little joy, at Professor M---'s. Anything more
strange and fantastic than Krespel's behavior it would be impossible
to find. He was so stiff and awkward in his movements, that he
looked every moment as if he would run up against something or do
some damage. But he did not; and the lady of the house seemed to be
well aware that he would not, for she did not grow a shade paler
when he rushed with heavy steps round a table crowded with beautiful
cups, or when he manoeuvred near a large mirror that reached down to
the floor, or even when he seized a flower-pot of beautifully
painted porcelain and swung it round in the air as if desirous of
making its colors play. Moreover, before dinner he subjected
everything in the Professor's room to a most minute examination; he
also took down a picture from the wall and hung it up again,
standing on one of the cushioned chairs to do so. At the same time
he talked a good deal and vehemently; at one time his thoughts kept
leaping, as it were, from one subject to another (this was most
conspicuous during dinner); at another, he was unable to have done
with an idea; seizing upon it again and again, he gave it all sorts
of wonderful twists and turns, and couldn't get back into the
ordinary track until something else took hold of his fancy.
Sometimes his voice was rough and harsh and screeching, and
sometimes it was low and drawling and singing; but at no time did it
harmonize with what he was about. Music was the subject of
conversation; the praises of a new composer were being sung, when
Krespel, smiling, said in his low, singing tones, "I wish the devil
with his pitchfork would hurl that atrocious garbler of music
millions of fathoms down to the bottomless pit of hell!" Then he
burst out passionately and wildly, "She is an angel of heaven,
nothing but pure God-given music!--the paragon and queen of song!"--
and tears stood in his eyes. To understand this, we had to go back
to a celebrated artiste, who had been the subject of conversation an
hour before.

Just at this time a roast hare was on the table; I noticed that
Krespel carefully removed every particle of meat from the bones on
his plate, and was most particular in his inquiries after the hare's
feet; these the Professor's little five-year-old daughter now
brought to him with a very pretty smile. Besides, the children had
cast many friendly glances towards Krespel during dinner; now they
rose and drew nearer to him, but not without signs of timorous awe.
What's the meaning of that? thought I to myself. Dessert was brought
in; then the Councillor took a little box from his pocket, in which
he had a miniature lathe of steel. This he immediately screwed fast
to the table, and turning the bones with incredible skill and
rapidity, he made all sorts of little fancy boxes and balls, which
the children received with cries of delight. Just as we were rising
from table, the Professor's niece asked, "And what is our Antonia
doing?" Krespel's face was like that of one who has bitten of a sour
orange and wants to look as if it were a sweet one; but this
expression soon changed into the likeness of a hideous mask, whilst
he laughed behind it with downright, bitter, fierce, and, as it
seemed to me, satanic scorn. "Our Antonia? our dear Antonia?" he
asked in his drawling, disagreeable singing way. The Professor
hastened to intervene; in the reproving glance which he gave his
niece I read that she had touched a point likely to stir up
unpleasant memories in Krespel's heart. "How are you getting on with
your violins?" interposed the Professor in a jovial manner, taking
the Councillor by both hands. Then Krespel's countenance cleared up,
and with a firm voice he replied, "Capitally, Professor; you
recollect my telling you of the lucky chance which threw that
splendid Amati [Footnote: The Amati were a celebrated family of
violin-makers of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, belonging
to Cremona in Italy. They form the connecting-link between the
Brescian school of makers and the greatest of all makers,
Straduarius and Guarnerius.] into my hands. Well, I've only cut it
open to-day--not before to-day. I hope Antonia has carefully taken
the rest of it to pieces." "Antonia is a good child," remarked the
Professor. "Yes, indeed, that she is," cried the Councillor,
whisking himself round; then, seizing his hat and stick, he hastily
rushed out of the room. I saw in the mirror how that tears were
standing in his eyes.

As soon as the Councillor was gone, I at once urged the Professor to
explain to me what Krespel had to do with violins, and particularly
with Antonia. "Well," replied the Professor, "not only is the
Councillor a remarkably eccentric fellow altogether, but he
practises violin-making in his own crack-brained way." "Violin-
making!" I exclaimed, perfectly astonished. "Yes," continued the
Professor, "according to the judgment of men who understand the
thing, Krespel makes the very best violins that can be found
nowadays; formerly he would frequently let other people play on
those in which he had been especially successful, but that's been
all over and done with now for a long time. As soon as he has
finished a violin he plays on it himself for one or two hours, with
very remarkable power and with the most exquisite expression, then
he hangs it up beside the rest, and never touches it again or
suffers anybody else to touch it. If a violin by any of the eminent
old masters is hunted up anywhere, the Councillor buys it
immediately, no matter what the price put upon it. But he plays it
as he does his own violins, only once; then he takes it to pieces in
order to examine closely its inner structure, and should he fancy he
hasn't found exactly what he sought for, he in a pet throws the
pieces into a big chest, which is already full of the remains of
broken violins." "But who and what is Antonia?" I inquired, hastily
and impetuously. "Well, now, that," continued the Professor,--"that
is a thing which might very well make me conceive an unconquerable
aversion to the Councillor, were I not convinced that there is some
peculiar secret behind it, for he is such a good-natured fellow at
bottom as to be sometimes guilty of weakness. When we came to H---,
several years ago, he led the life of an anchorite, along with an
old housekeeper, in ---- Street. Soon, by his oddities, he excited the
curiosity of his neighbors; and immediately he became aware of this,
he sought and made acquaintances. Not only in my house but
everywhere we became so accustomed to him that he grew to be
indispensable. In spite of his rude exterior, even the children
liked him, without ever proving a nuisance to him; for,
notwithstanding all their friendly passages together, they always
retained a certain timorous awe of him, which secured him against
all over-familiarity. You have to-day had an example of the way in
which he wins their hearts by his ready skill in various things. We
all took him at first for a crusty old bachelor, and he never
contradicted us. After he had been living here some time, he went
away, nobody knew where, and returned at the end of some months. The
evening following his return his windows were lit up to an unusual
extent! This alone was sufficient to arouse his neighbors'
attention, and they soon heard the surpassingly beautiful voice of a
female singing to the accompaniment of a piano. Then the music of a
violin was heard chiming in and entering upon a keen ardent contest
with the voice. They knew at once that the player was the
Councillor. I myself mixed in the large crowd which had gathered in
front of his house to listen to this extraordinary concert; and I
must confess that, besides this voice and the peculiar, deep, soul-
stirring impression which the execution made upon me, the singing of
the most celebrated artistes whom I had ever heard seemed to me
feeble and void of expression. Until then I had had no conception of
such long-sustained notes, of such nightingale trills, of such
undulations of musical sound, of such swelling up to the strength of
organ-notes, of such dying away to the faintest whisper. There was
not one whom the sweet witchery did not enthral; and when the singer
ceased, nothing but soft sighs broke the impressive silence.
Somewhere about midnight the Councillor was heard talking violently,
and another male voice seemed, to judge from the tones, to be
reproaching him, whilst at intervals the broken words of a sobbing
girl could be detected. The Councillor continued to shout with
increasing violence, until he fell into that drawling, singing way
that you know. He was interrupted by a loud scream from the girl,
and then all was as still as death. Suddenly a loud racket was heard
on the stairs; a young man rushed out sobbing, threw himself into a
post-chaise which stood below, and drove rapidly away. The next day
the Councillor was very cheerful, and nobody had the courage to
question him about the events of the previous night. But on
inquiring of the housekeeper, we gathered that the Councillor had
brought home with him an extraordinarily pretty young lady whom he
called Antonia, and she it was who had sung so beautifully. A young
man also had come along with them; he had treated Antonia very
tenderly, and must evidently have been her betrothed. But he, since
the Councillor peremptorily insisted on it, had had to go away again
in a hurry. What the relations between Antonia and the Councillor
are has remained until now a secret, but this much is certain, that
he tyrannizes over the poor girl in the most hateful fashion. He
watches her as Doctor Bartholo watches his ward in the Barber of
Seville; she hardly dare show herself at the window; and if,
yielding now and again to her earnest entreaties, he takes her into
society, he follows her with Argus' eyes, and will on no account
suffer a musical note to be sounded, far less let Antonia sing--
indeed, she is not permitted to sing in his own house. Antonia's
singing on that memorable night has, therefore, come to be regarded
by the townspeople in the light of a tradition of some marvellous
wonder that suffices to stir the heart and the fancy; and even those
who did not hear it often exclaim, ever any other singer attempts to
display her powers in the place, 'What sort of a wretched squeaking
do you call that? Nobody but Antonia knows how to sing.'"

Having a singular weakness for such like fantastic histories, I
found it necessary, as may easily be imagined, to make Antonia's
acquaintance. I had myself often enough heard the popular sayings
about her singing, but had never imagined that that exquisite
artiste was living in the place, held a captive in the bonds of this
eccentric Krespel like the victim of a tyrannous sorcerer. Naturally
enough I heard in my dreams on the following night Antonia's
marvellous voice, and as she besought me in the most touching manner
in a glorious adagio movement (very ridiculously it seemed to me, as
if I had composed it myself) to save her--I soon resolved, like a
second Astolpho,[Footnote: A reference to Ariosto's Orlando Furioso.
Astolpho, an English cousin of Orlando, was a great boaster, but
generous, courteous, gay, and remarkably handsome; he was carried to
Alcina's island on the back of a whale.] to penetrate into Krespel's
house, as if into another Alcina's magic ca stle, and deliver the
queen of song from her ignominious fetters.

It all came about in a different way from what I had expected; I had
seen the Councillor scarcely more than two or three times, and
eagerly discussed with him the best method of constructing violins,
when he invited me to call and see him. I did so; and he showed me
his treasures of violins. There were fully thirty of them hanging up
in a closet; one amongst them bore conspicuously all the marks of
great antiquity (a carved lion's head, etc.), and, hung up higher
than the rest, and surmounted by a crown of flowers, it seemed to
exercise a queenly supremacy over them. "This violin," said Krespel,
on my making some inquiry relative to it, "this violin is a very
remarkable and curious specimen of the work of some unknown master,
probably of Tartini's [Footnote: Giuseppe Tartini, born in 1692,
died in 1770, was one of the most celebrated violinists of the
eighteenth century, and the discoverer (in 1714) of "resultant
tones," or "Tartini's tones," as they are frequently called. Most of
his life was spent at Padua. He did much to advance the art of the
violinist, both by his compositions for that instrument, as well as
by his treatise on its capabilities.] age. I am perfectly convinced
that there is something especially exceptional in its inner
construction, and that, if I took it to pieces, a secret would be
revealed to me which I have long been seeking to discover, but--
laugh at me if you like--this senseless thing which only gives signs
of life and sound as I make it, often speaks to me in a strange way
of itself. The first time I played upon it I somehow fancied that I
was only the magnetizer who has the power of moving his subject to
reveal of his own accord in words the visions of his inner nature.
Don't go away with the belief that I am such a fool as to attach
even the slightest importance to such fantastic notions, and yet
it's certainly strange that I could never prevail upon myself to cut
open that dumb lifeless thing there. I am very pleased now that I
have not cut it open, for since Antonia has been with me I sometimes
play to her upon this violin. For Antonia is fond of it--very fond
of it." As the Councillor uttered these words with visible signs of
emotion, I felt encouraged to hazard the question, "Will you not
play it to me, Councillor?" Krespel made a wry face, and falling
into his drawling, singing way, said, "No, my good sir!" and that
was an end of the matter. Then I had to look at all sorts of rare
curiosities, the greater part of them childish trifles; at last
thrusting his arm into a chest, he brought out a folded piece of
paper, which he pressed into my hand, adding solemnly, "You are a
lover of art; take this present as a priceless memento, which you
must value at all times above everything else." Therewith he took me
by the shoulders and gently pushed me towards the door, embracing me
on the threshold. That is to say, I was in a symbolical manner
virtually kicked out of doors. Unfolding the paper, I found a piece
of a first string of a violin about an eighth of an inch in length,
with the words, "A piece of the treble string with which the
deceased Stamitz [Footnote: This was the name of a well-known
musical family from Bohemia. Karl Stamitz is the one here possibly
meant, since he died about eighteen or twenty years previous to the
publication of this tale.] strung his violin for the last concert at
which he ever played."

This summary dismissal at mention of Antonia's name led me to infer
that I should never see her; but I was mistaken, for on my second
visit to the Councillor's I found her in his room, assisting him to
put a violin together. At first sight Antonia did not make a strong
impression; but soon I found it impossible to tear myself away from
her blue eyes, her sweet rosy lips, her uncommonly graceful, lovely
form. She was very pale; but a shrewd remark or a merry sally would
call up a winning smile on her face and suffuse her cheeks with a
deep burning flush, which, however, soon faded away to a faint rosy
glow. My conversation with her was quite unconstrained, and yet I
saw nothing whatever of the Argus-like watchings on Krespel's part
which the Professor had imputed to him; on the contrary, his
behavior moved along the customary lines, nay, he even seemed to
approve of my conversation with Antonia. So I often stepped in to
see the Councillor; and as we became accustomed to each other's
society, a singular feeling of homeliness, taking possession of our
little circle of three, filled our hearts with inward happiness. I
still continued to derive exquisite enjoyment from the Councillor's
strange crotchets and oddities; but it was of course Antonia's
irresistible charms alone which attracted me, and led me to put up
with a good deal which I should otherwise, in the frame of mind in
which I then was, have impatiently shunned. For it only too often
happened that in the Councillor's characteristic extravagance there
was mingled much that was dull and tiresome; and it was in a special
degree irritating to me that, as often as I turned the conversation
upon music, and particularly upon singing, he was sure to interrupt
me, with that sardonic smile upon his face and those repulsive
singing tones of his, by some remark of a quite opposite tendency,
very often of a commonplace character. From the great distress which
at such times Antonia's glances betrayed, I perceived that he only
did it to deprive me of a pretext for calling upon her for a song.
But I didn't relinquish my design. The hindrances which the
Councillor threw in my way only strengthened my resolution to
overcome them; I MUST hear Antonia sing if I was not to pine away in
reveries and dim aspirations for want of hearing her.

One evening Krespel was in an uncommonly good humor; he had been
taking an old Cremona violin to pieces, and had discovered that the
sound-post was fixed half a line more obliquely than usual--an
important discovery!--one of incalculable advantage in the practical
work of making violins! I succeeded in setting him off at full speed
on his hobby of the true art of violin-playing. Mention of the way
in which the old masters picked up their dexterity in execution from
really great singers (which was what Krespel happened just then to
be expatiating upon) naturally paved the way for the remark that now
the practice was the exact opposite of this, the vocal score
erroneously following the affected and abrupt transitions and rapid
scaling of the instrumentalists. "What is more nonsensical," I
cried, leaping from my chair, running to the piano, and opening it
quickly--"what is more nonsensical than such an execrable style as
this, which, far from being music, is much more like the noise of
peas rolling across the floor?" At the same time I sang several of
the modern fermatas, which rush up and down and hum like a well-spun
peg-top, striking a few villainous chords by way of accompaniment.

Krespel laughed outrageously and screamed: "Ha! ha! methinks I hear
our German-Italians or our Italian-Germans struggling with an aria
from Pucitta, [Footnote: Vincenzo Pucitta (1778-1861) was an Italian
opera composer, whose music "shows great facility, but no
invention." He also wrote several songs.] or Portogallo, [Footnote:
Il Portogallo was the Italian sobriquet of a Portuguese musician
named Mark Anthony Simao (1763-1829). He lived alternately in Italy
and Portugal, and wrote several operas.] or some other Maestro di
capella, or rather schiavo d'un primo uomo." [Footnote: Literally,
" The slave of a primo uomo," primo uomo being the masculine form
corresponding to prima donna, that is, a singer of hero's parts in
operatic music. At one time also female parts were sung and acted by
men or boys.] Now, thought I, now's the time; so turning to Antonia,
I remarked, "Antonia knows nothing of such singing as that, I
believe?" At the same time I struck up one of old Leonardo Leo's
[Footnote: Leonardo Leo, the chief Neapolitan representative of
Italian music in the first part of the eighteenth century, and
author of more than forty operas and nearly one hundred compositions
for the Church.] beautiful soul-stirring songs. Then Antonia's
cheeks glowed; heavenly radiance sparkled in her eyes, which grew
full of reawakened inspiration; she hastened to the piano; she
opened her lips; but at that very moment Krespel pushed her away,
grasped me by the shoulders, and with a shriek that rose up to a
tenor pitch, cried, "My son--my son--my son!' And then he
immediately went on, singing very softly, and grasping my hand with
a bow that was the pink of politeness, "In very truth, my esteemed
and honorable student-friend, in very truth, it would be a violation
of the codes of social intercourse, as well as of all good manners,
were I to express aloud and in a stirring way my wish that here, on
this very spot, the devil from hell would softly break your neck
with his burning claws, and so in a sense make short work of you;
but, setting that aside, you must acknowledge, my dearest friend,
that it is rapidly growing dark, and there are no lamps burning to-
night, so that, even though I did not kick you downstairs at once,
your darling limbs might still run a risk of suffering damage. Go
home by all means; and cherish a kind remembrance of your faithful
friend, if it should happen that you never,--pray, understand me,--
If you should never see him in his own house again." Therewith he
embraced me, and, still keeping fast hold of me, turned with me
slowly towards the door, so that I could not get another single look
at Antonia. Of course it is plain enough that in my position I
couldn't thrash the Councillor, though that is what he really
deserved. The Professor enjoyed a good laugh at my expense, and
assured me that I had ruined for ever all hopes of retaining the
Councillor's friendship. Antonia was too dear to me, I might say too
holy, for me to go and play the part of the languishing lover and
stand gazing up at her window, or to fill the role of the lovesick
adventurer. Completely upset, I went away from H---; but, as is
usual in such cases, the brilliant colors of the picture of my fancy
faded, and the recollection of Antonia, as well as of Antonia's
singing (which I had never heard), often fell upon my heart like a
soft faint trembling light, comforting me.

Two years afterwards I received an appointment in B---, and set out
on a journey to the south of Germany. The towers of H---- rose before
me in the red vaporous glow of the evening; the nearer I came the
more was I oppressed by an indescribable feeling of the most
agonizing distress; it lay upon me like a heavy burden; I could not
breathe; I was obliged to get out of my carriage into the open air.
But my anguish continued to increase until it became actual physical
pain. Soon I seemed to hear the strains of a solemn chorale floating
in the air; the sounds continued to grow more distinct; I realized
the fact that they were men's voices chanting a church chorale.
" What's that? what's that?" I cried, a burning stab darting as it
were through my breast. "Don't you see?" replied the coachman, who
was driving along beside me, "why don't you see? they're burying
somebody up yonder in yon churchyard." And indeed we were near the
churchyard; I saw a circle of men clothed in black standing round a
grave, which was on the point of being closed. Tears started to my
eyes; I somehow fancied they were burying there all the joy and all
the happiness of life. Moving on rapidly down the hill, I was no
longer able to see into the churchyard; the chorale came to an end,
and I perceived not far distant from the gate some of the mourners
returning from the funeral. The Professor, with his niece on his
arm, both in deep mourning, went close past me without noticing me.
The young lady had her handkerchief pressed close to her eyes, and
was weeping bitterly. In the frame of mind in which I then was I
could not possibly go into the town, so I sent on my servant with
the carriage to the hotel where I usually put up, whilst I took a
turn in the familiar neighborhood to get rid of a mood that was
possibly only due to physical causes, such as heating on the
journey, etc. On arriving at a well-known avenue, which leads to a
pleasure resort, I came upon a most extraordinary spectacle.
Councillor Krespel was being conducted by two mourners, from whom he
appeared to be endeavoring to make his escape by all sorts of
strange twists and turns. As usual, he was dressed in his own
curious home-made gray coat; but from his little cocked-hat, which
he wore perched over one ear in military fashion, a long narrow
ribbon of black crape fluttered backwards and forwards in the wind.
Around his waist he had buckled a black sword-belt; but instead of a
sword he had stuck a long fiddle-bow into it. A creepy shudder ran
through my limbs: "He's insane," thought I, as I slowly followed
them. The Councillor's companions led him as far as his house, where
he embraced them, laughing loudly. They left him; and then his
glance fell upon me, for I now stood near him. He stared at me
fixedly for some time; then he cried in a hollow voice, "Welcome, my
student friend! you also understand it!" Therewith he took me by the
arm and pulled me into the house, up the steps, into the room where
the violins hung. They were all draped in black crape; the violin of
the old master was missing; in its place was a cypress wreath. I
knew what had happened. "Antonia! Antonia!" I cried, in inconsolabie
grief. The Councillor, with his arms crossed on his breast, stood
beside me, as if turned into stone. I pointed to the cypress wreath.
" When she died," said he, in a very hoarse solemn voice, "when she
died, the sound-post of that violin broke into pieces with a ringing
crack, and the sound-board was split from end to end. The faithful
instrument could only live with her and in her; it lies beside her
in the coffin, it has been buried with her." Deeply agitated, I sank
down upon a chair, whilst the Councillor began to sing a gay song in
a husky voice; it was truly horrible to see him hopping about on one
foot, and the crape strings (he still had his hat on) flying about
the room and up to the violins hanging on the walls. Indeed, I could
not repress a loud cry that rose to my lips when, on the Councillor
making an abrupt turn, the crape came all over me; I fancied he
wanted to envelop me in it and drag me down into the horrible dark
depths of insanity. Suddenly he stood still and addressed me in his
singing way, "My son! my son! why do you call out? Have you espied
the angel of death? That always precedes the ceremony." Stepping
into the middle of the room, he took the violin-bow out of his
sword-belt, and, holding it over his head with both hands, broke it
into a thousand pieces. Then, with a loud laugh, he cried, "Now you
imagine my sentence is pronounced, don't you, my son? but it's
nothing of the kind--not at all! not at all! Now I'm free--free--
free--hurrah! I'm free! Now I shall make no more violins--no more
violins--hurrah! no more violins!" This he sang to a horrible
mirthful tune, again spinning round on one foot. Perfectly aghast, I
was making the best of my way to the door, when he held me fast,
saying quite calmly, "Stay, my student friend, pray don't think from
this outbreak of grief, which is torturing me as if with the agonies
of death, that I am insane; I only do it because a short time ago I
made myself a dressing-gown in which I wanted to look like Fate or
like God!" The Councillor then went on with a medley of silly and
awful rubbish, until he fell down utterly exhausted; I called up the
old housekeeper, and was very pleased to find myself in the open air
again.

I never doubted for a moment that Krespel had become insane; the
Professor, however, asserted the contrary. "There are men," he
remarked, "from whom nature or a special destiny has taken away the
cover behind which the mad folly of the rest of us runs its course
unobserved. They are like thin-skinned insects, which, as we watch
the restless play of their muscles, seem to be misshapen, while
nevertheless everything soon comes back into its proper form again.
All that with us remains thought passes over with Krespel into
action. That bitter scorn which the spirit that is wrapped up in the
doings and dealings of the earth often has at hand, Krespel gives
vent to in outrageous gestures and agile caprioles. But these are
his lightning conductor. What comes up out of the earth he gives
again to the earth, but what is divine, that he keeps; and so I
believe that his inner consciousness, in spite of the apparent
madness which springs from it to the surface, is as right as a
trivet. To be sure, Antonia's sudden death grieves him sore, but I
warrant that to-morrow will see him going along in his old jog-trot
way as usual." And the Professor's prediction was almost literally
filled. Next day the Councillor appeared to be just as he formerly
was, only he averred that he would never make another violin, nor
yet ever play on another. And, as I learned later, he kept his word.

Hints which the Professor let fall confirmed my own private
conviction that the so carefully guarded secret of the Councillor's
relations to Antonia, nay, that even her death, was a crime which
must weigh heavily upon him, a crime that could not be atoned for. I
determined that I would not leave H---- without taxing him with the
offence which I conceived him to be guilty of; I determined to shake
his heart down to its very roots, and so compel him to make open
confession of the terrible deed. The more I reflected upon the
matter, the clearer it grew in my own mind that Krespel must be a
villain, and in the same proportion did my intended reproach, which
assumed of itself the form of a real rhetorical masterpiece, wax
more fiery and more impressive. Thus equipped and mightily incensed,
I hurried to his house. I found him with a calm smiling countenance
making playthings. "How can peace," I burst out--"how can peace find
lodgment even for a single moment in your breast, so long as the
memory of your horrible deed preys like a serpent upon you?" He
gazed at me in amazement, and laid his chisel aside. "What do you
mean, my dear sir?" he asked; "pray take a seat." But my indignation
chafing me more and more, I went on to accuse him directly of having
murdered Antonia, and to threaten him with the vengeance of the
Eternal.

Further, as a newly full-fledged lawyer, full of my profession, I
went so far as to give him to understand that I would leave no stone
unturned to get a clue to the business, and so deliver him here in
this world into the hands of an earthly judge. I must confess that I
was considerably disconcerted when, at the conclusion of my violent
and pompous harangue, the Councillor, without answering so much as a
single word, calmly fixed his eyes upon me as though expecting me to
go on again. And this I did indeed attempt to do, but it sounded so
ill-founded and so stupid as well that I soon grew silent again.
Krespel gloated over my embarrassment, whilst a malicious ironical
smile flitted across his face. Then he grew very grave, and
addressed me in solemn tones. "Young man, no doubt you think I am
foolish, insane; that I can pardon you, since we are both confined
in the same mad-house; and you only blame me for deluding myself
with the idea that I am God the Father because you imagine yourself
to be God the Son. But how do you dare desire to insinuate yourself
into the secrets and lay bare the hidden motives of a life that is
strange to you and that must continue so? She has gone and the
mystery is solved." He ceased speaking, rose, and traversed the room
backwards and forwards several times. I ventured to ask for an
explanation; he fixed his eyes upon me, grasped me by the hand, and
led me to the window, which he threw wide open. Propping himself
upon his arms, he leaned out, and, looking down into the garden,
told me the history of his life. When he finished I left him,
touched and ashamed.

In a few words, his relations with Antonia rose in the following
way. Twenty years before, the Councillor had been led into Italy by
his favorite engrossing passion of hunting up and buying the best
violins of the old masters. At that time he had not yet begun to
make them himself, and so of course he had not begun to take to
pieces those which he bought. In Venice he heard the celebrated
singer Angela----i, who at that time was playing with splendid
success as prima donna at St. Benedict's Theatre. His enthusiasm was
awakened, not only in her art--which Signora Angela had indeed
brought to a high pitch of perfection--but in her angelic beauty as
well. He sought her acquaintance; and in spite of all his rugged
manners he succeeded in winning her heart, principally through his
bold and yet at the same time masterly violin-playing. Close
intimacy led in a few weeks to marriage, which, however, was kept a
secret, because Angela was unwilling to sever her connection with
the theatre, neither did she wish to part with her professional
name, that by which she was celebrated, nor to add to it the
cacophonous "Krespel." With the most extravagant irony he described
to me what a strange life of worry and torture Angela led him as
soon as she became his wife. Krespel was of opinion that more
capriciousness and waywardness were concentrated in Angela's little
person than in all the rest of the prima donnas in the world put
together. If he now and again presumed to stand up in his own
defence, she let loose a whole army of abbots, musical composers,
and students upon him, who, ignorant of his true connection with
Angela, soundly rated him as a most intolerable, ungallant lover for
not submitting to all the Signora's caprices. It was just after one
of these stormy scenes that Krespel fled to Angela's country seat to
try and forget in playing fantasias on his Cremona violin the
annoyances of the day. But he had not been there long before the
Signora, who had followed hard after him, stepped into the room. She
was in an affectionate humor; she embraced her husband, overwhelmed
him with sweet and languishing glances, and rested her pretty head
on his shoulder. But Krespel, carried away into the world of music;
continued to play on until the walls echoed again; thus he chanced
to touch the Signora somewhat ungently with his arm and the fiddle-
bow. She leapt back full of fury, shrieking that he was a "German
brute," snatched the violin from his hands, and dashed it on the
marble table into a thousand pieces. Krespel stood like a statue of
stone before her; but then, as if awakening out of a dream, he
seized her with the strength of a giant and threw her out of the
window of her own house, and, without troubling himself about
anything more, fled back to Venice--to Germany. It was not, however,
until some time had elapsed that he had a clear recollection of what
he had done; although he knew that the window was scarcely five feet
from the ground, and although he was fully cognizant of the
necessity, under the above-mentioned circumstances, of throwing the
Signora out of the window, he yet felt troubled by a sense of
painful uneasiness, and the more so since she had imparted to him in
no ambiguous terms an interesting secret as to her condition. He
hardly dared to make inquiries; and he was not a little surprised
about eight months afterwards at receiving a tender letter from his
beloved wife, in which she made not the slightest allusion to what
had taken place in her country house, only adding to the
intelligence that she had been safely delivered of a sweet little
daughter the heartfelt prayer that her dear husband and now a happy
father would come at once to Venice. That, however, Krespel did not
do; rather he appealed to a confidential friend for a more
circumstantial account of the details, and learned that the Signora
had alighted upon the soft grass as lightly as a bird, and that the
sole consequences of the fall or shock had been psychic. That is to
say, after Krespel's heroic deed she had become completely altered;
she never showed a trace of caprice, of her former freaks, or of her
teasing habits; and the composer who wrote for the next carnival was
the happiest fellow under the sun, since the Signora was willing to
sing his music without the scores and hundreds of changes which she
at other times had insisted upon. "To be sure," added his friend,
" there was every reason for preserving the secret of Angela's cure,
else every day would see lady singers flying through windows." The
Councillor was not a little excited at this news; he engaged horses;
he took his seat in the carriage. "Stop!" he cried suddenly. "Why,
there's not a shadow of doubt," he murmured to himself, "that as
soon as Angela sets eyes upon me again, the evil spirit will recover
his power and once more take possession of her. And since I have
already thrown her out of the window, what could I do if a similar
case were to occur again? What would there be left for me to do?" He
got out of the carriage, and wrote an affectionate letter to his
wife, making graceful allusion to her tenderness in especially
dwelling upon the fact that his tiny daughter had, like him, a
little mole behind the ear, and--remained in Germany. Now ensued an
active correspondence between them. Assurances of unchanged
affection--invitations--laments over the absence of the beloved
one--thwarted wishes--hopes, etc.--flew backwards and forwards from
Venice to H----, from H---- to Venice. At length Angela came to
Germany, and, as is well known, sang with brilliant success as prima
donna at the great theatre in F----. Despite the fact that she was
no longer young, she won all hearts by the irresistible charm of her
wonderfully splendid singing. At that time she had not lost her
voice in the least degree. Meanwhile, Antonia had been growing up;
and her mother never tired of writing to tell her father how that a
singer of the first rank was developing in her. Krespel's friends in
F---- also confirmed this intelligence, and urged him to come for
once to F---- to see and admire this uncommon sight of two such
glorious singers. They had not the slightest suspicion of the close
relations in which Krespel stood to the pair. Willingly would he
have seen with his own eyes the daughter who occupied so large a
place in his heart, and who moreover often appeared to him in his
dreams; but as often as he thought upon his wife he felt very
uncomfortable, and so he remained at home amongst his broken
violins. There was a certain promising young composer, B---- of F----,
who was found to have suddenly disappeared, nobody knew where.
This young man fell so deeply in love with Antonia that, as she
returned his love, he earnestly besought her mother to consent to an
immediate union, sanctified as it would further be by art. Angela
had nothing to urge against his suit; and the Councillor the more
readily gave his consent that the young composer's productions had
found favor before his rigorous critical judgment. Krespel was
expecting to hear of the consummation of the marriage, when he
received instead a black-sealed envelope addressed in a strange
hand. Doctor R---- conveyed to the Councillor the sad intelligence
that Angela had fallen seriously ill in consequence of a cold caught
at the theatre, and that during the night immediately preceding what
was to have been Antonia's wedding-day, she had died. To him, the
Doctor, Angela had disclosed the fact that she was Krespel's wife,
and that Antonia was his daughter; he, Krespel, had better hasten
therefore to take charge of the orphan. Notwithstanding that the
Councillor was a good deal upset by this news of Angela's death, he
soon began to feel that an antipathetic, disturbing influence had
departed out of his life, and that now for the first time he could
begin to breathe freely. The very same day he set out for F----. You
could not credit how heartrending was the Councillor's description
of the moment when he first saw Antonia. Even in the fantastic
oddities of his expression there was such a marvellous power of
description that I am unable to give even so much as a faint
indication of it. Antonia inherited all her mother's amiability and
all her mother's charms, but not the repellent reverse of the medal.
There was no chronic moral ulcer, which might break out from time to
time. Antonia's betrothed put in an appearance, whilst Antonia
herself, fathoming with happy instinct the deeper-lying character of
her wonderful father, sang one of old Padre Martini's [Footnote:
Giambattista Martini, more commonly called Padre Martini, of
Bologna, formed an influential school of music there in the latter
half of the eighteenth century. He wrote vocal and instrumental
pieces both for the church and for the theatre. He was also a
learned historian of music. He has the merit of having discerned and
encouraged the genius of Mozart when, a boy of fourteen, he visited
Bologna in 1770.] motets, which, she knew, Krespel in the heyday of
his courtship had never grown tired of hearing her mother sing. The
tears ran in streams down Krespel's cheeks; even Angela he had never
heard sing like that. Antonia's voice was of a very remarkable and
altogether peculiar timbre: at one time it was like the sighing of
an Aeolian harp, at another like the warbled gush of the
nightingale. It seemed as if there was not room for such notes in
the human breast. Antonia, blushing with joy and happiness, sang on
and on--all her most beautiful songs, B---- playing between whiles as
only enthusiasm that is intoxicated with delight can play. Krespel
was at first transported with rapture, then he grew thoughtful--
still--absorbed in reflection. At length he leapt to his feet,
pressed Antonia to his heart, and begged her in a low husky voice,
" Sing no more if you love me--my heart is bursting--I fear--I fear--
don't sing again."

"No!" remarked the Councillor next day to Doctor R----, "when, as
she sang, her blushes gathered into two dark red spots on her pale
cheeks, I knew it had nothing to do with your nonsensical family
likenesses, I knew it was what I dreaded." The Doctor, whose
countenance had shown signs of deep distress from the very beginning
of the conversation, replied, "Whether it arises from a too early
taxing of her powers of song, or whether the fault is Nature's--
enough, Antonia labors under an organic failure in the chest, while
it is from it too that her voice derives its wonderful power and its
singular timbre, which I might almost say transcend the limits of
human capabilities of song. But it bears the announcement of her
early death; for, if she continues to sing, I wouldn't give her at
the most more than six months longer to live." Krespel's heart was
lacerated as if by the stabs of hundreds of stinging knives. It was
as though his life had been for the first time overshadowed by a
beautiful tree full of the most magnificent blossoms, and now it was
to be sawn to pieces at the roots, so that it could not grow green
and blossom any more. His resolution was taken. He told Antonia all;
he put the alternatives before her--whether she would follow her
betrothed and yield to his and the world's seductions, but with the
certainty of dying early, or whether she would spread round her
father in his old days that joy and peace which had hitherto been
unknown to him, and so secure a long life. She threw herself sobbing
into his arms, and he, knowing the heartrending trial that was
before her, did not press for a more explicit declaration, He talked
the matter over with her betrothed; but, notwithstanding that the
latter averred that no note should ever cross Antonia's lips, the
Councillor was only too well aware that even B---- could not resist
the temptation of hearing her sing, at any rate arias of his own
composition. And the world, the musical public, even though
acquainted with the nature of the singer's affliction, would
certainly not relinquish its claims to hear her, for in cases where
pleasure is concerned people of this class are very selfish and
cruel. The Councillor disappeared from F---- along with Antonia, and
came to H----. B---- was in despair when he learned that they had
gone. He set out on their track, overtook them, and arrived at H----
at the same time that they did. "Let me see him only once, and then
die!" entreated Antonia. "Die! die!" cried Krespel, wild with anger,
an icy shudder running through him. His daughter, the only creature
in the wide world who had awakened in him the springs of unknown
joy, who alone had reconciled him to life, tore herself away from
his heart, and he--he suffered the terrible trial to take place. B----
sat down to the piano; Antonia sang; Krespel fiddled away merrily,
until the two red spots showed themselves on Antonia's cheeks. Then
he bade her stop; and as B---- was taking leave of his betrothed, she
suddenly fell to the floor with a loud scream. "I thought,"
continued Krespel in his narration, "I thought that she was, as I
had anticipated, really dead; but as I had prepared myself for the
worst, my calmness did not leave me, nor my self-command desert me.
I grasped B----, who stood like a silly sheep in his dismay, by the
shoulders, and said (here the Councillor fell into his singing
tone), 'Now that you, my estimable pianoforte-player, have, as you
wished and desired, really murdered your betrothed, you may quietly
take your departure; at least have the goodness to make yourself
scarce before I run my bright hanger through your heart. My
daughter, who, as you see, is rather pale, could very well do with
some color from your precious blood. Make haste and run, for I might
also hurl a nimble knife or two after you.' I must, I suppose, have
looked rather formidable as I uttered these words, for, with a cry
of the greatest terror, B---- tore himself loose from my grasp,
rushed out of the room, and down the steps." Directly after B---- was
gone, when the Councillor tried to lift up his daughter, who lay
unconscious on the floor, she opened her eyes with a deep sigh, but
soon closed them again as if about to die. Then Krespel's grief
found vent aloud, and would not be comforted. The doctor, whom the
old housekeeper had called in, pronounced Antonia's case a somewhat
serious but by no means dangerous attack; and she did indeed recover
more quickly than her father had dared to hope. She now clung to him
with the most confiding childlike affection; she entered into his
favorite hobbies--into his mad schemes and whims. She helped him
take old violins to pieces and glue new ones together. "I won't sing
again any more, but live for you," she often said, sweetly smiling
upon him, after she had been asked to sing and had refused. Such
appeals, however, the Councillor was anxious to spare her as much as
possible; therefore it was that he was unwilling to take her into
society, and solicitously shunned all music. He well understood how
painful it must be for her to forego altogether the exercise of that
art which she had brought to such a pitch of perfection. When the
Councillor bought the wonderful violin that he had buried with
Antonia, and was about to take it to pieces, she met him with such
sadness in her face and softly breathed the petition, "What! this as
well?" By some power, which he could not explain, he felt impelled
to leave this particular instrument unbroken, and to play upon it.
Scarcely had he drawn the first few notes from it than Antonia cried
aloud with joy, "Why, that's me!--now I shall sing again." And, in
truth, there was something remarkably striking about the clear,
silvery, bell-like tones of the violin; they seemed to have been
engendered in the human soul. Krespel's heart was deeply moved; he
played, too, better than ever. As he ran up and down the scale,
playing bold passages with consummate power and expression, she
clapped her hands together and cried with delight, "I did that well!
I did that well."

From this time onwards her life was filled with peace and
cheerfulness. She often said to the Councillor, "I should like to
sing something, father." Then Krespel would take his violin down
from the wall and play her most beautiful songs, and her heart was
right glad and happy. Shortly before my arrival in H----, the
Councillor fancied one night that he heard somebody playing the
piano in the adjoining room, and he soon made out distinctly that B----
was flourishing on the instrument in his usual style. He wished to
get up, but felt himself held down as if by a dead weight, and lying
as if fettered in iron bonds; he was utterly unable to move an inch.
Then Antonia's voice was heard singing low and soft; soon, however,
it began to rise and rise in volume until it became an ear-splitting
fortissimo; and at length she passed over into a powerfully
impressive song which B---had once composed for her in the
devotional style of the old masters. Krespel described his condition
as being incomprehensible, for terrible anguish was mingled with a
delight he had never experienced before. All at once he was
surrounded by a dazzling brightness, in which he beheld B---and
Antonia locked in a close embrace, and gazing at each other in a
rapture of ecstasy. The music of the song and of the pianoforte
accompanying it went on without any visible signs that Antonia sang
or that B---- touched the instrument. Then the Councillor fell into a
sort of dead faint, whilst the images vanished away. On awakening he
still felt the terrible anguish of his dream. He rushed into
Antonia's room. She lay on the sofa, her eyes closed, a sweet
angelic smile on her face, her hands devoutly folded, and looking as
if asleep and dreaming of the joys and raptures of heaven. But she
was--dead.

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