The Mutual Interdependence of Things (Fantasy and Horror Classics)

By E T A Hoffmann

This early work by E. T. A. Hoffmann was originally published in 1820. Born in Königsberg, East Prussia in 1776, Hoffmann's family were all jurists, and during his youth he was initially encouraged to pursue a career in law. However, in his late teens Hoffman became increasingly interested in literature and philosophy, and spent much of his time reading German classicists and attending lectures by, amongst others, Immanuel Kant. Hoffman went on to produce a great range of both literary and musical works. Probably Hoffman's most well-known story, produced in 1816, is 'The Nutcracker and the Mouse King', due to the fact that - some seventy-six years later - it inspired Tchaikovsky's ballet The Nutcracker. In the same vein, his story 'The Sandman' provided both the inspiration for Léo Delibes's ballet Coppélia, and the basis for a highly influential essay by Sigmund Freud, called 'The Uncanny'. (Indeed, Freud referred to Hoffman as the "unrivalled master of the uncanny in literature.") Many of the earliest books, particularly those dating back to the 1900's and before, are now extremely scarce and increasingly expensive. We are republishing these classic works in affordable, high quality, modern editions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Read Books Ltd.
• Release date: Oct 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9781473377486

E T A Hoffmann

Ernst Theodor Amadeus Hoffmann (1776–1822) was a German author, artist, and composer who is best remembered for his story “The Nutcracker and the King of Mice.”

Book preview

The Mutual

Interdependence of Things

By

E. T. A. Hoffmann

Copyright © 2012 Read Books Ltd.

This book is copyright and may not be

reproduced or copied in any way without

the express permission of the publisher in writing

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Contents

E. T. A. Hoffman

The Mutual Interdependence of Things

E. T. A. Hoffman

Ernst Theodor Wilhelm Hoffmann was born in Königsberg, East Prussia in 1776. His family were all jurists, and during his youth he was initially encouraged to pursue a career in law. However, in his late teens Hoffman became increasingly interested in literature and philosophy, and spent much of his time reading German classicists and attending lectures by, amongst others, Immanuel Kant.

In was in his twenties, upon moving with his uncle to Berlin, that Hoffman first began to promote himself as a composer, writing an operetta called Die Maske and entering a number of playwriting competitions. Hoffman struggled to establish himself anywhere for a while, flitting between a number of cities and dodging the attentions of Napoleon’s occupying troops. In 1808, while living in Bamberg, he began his job as a theatre manager and a music critic, and Hoffman’s break came a year later, with the publication of Ritter Gluck. The story centred on a man who meets, or thinks he has met, a long-dead composer, and played into the ‘doppelgänger’ theme – at that time very popular in literature. It was shortly after this that Hoffman began to use the pseudonym E. T. A. Hoffmann, declaring the ‘A’ to stand for ‘Amadeus’, as a tribute to the great composer, Mozart.

Over the next decade, while moving between Dresden, Leipzig and Berlin, Hoffman produced a great range of both literary and musical works. Probably Hoffman’s most well-known story, produced in 1816, is ‘The Nutcracker and the Mouse King’, due to the fact that – some seventy-six years later - it inspired Tchaikovsky’s ballet The Nutcracker. In the same vein, his story ‘The Sandman’ provided both the inspiration for Léo Delibes’s ballet Coppélia, and the basis for a highly influential essay by Sigmund Freud, called ‘The Uncanny’. (Indeed, Freud referred to Hoffman as the unrivalled master of the uncanny in literature.)

Alcohol abuse and syphilis eventually took a great toll on Hoffman though, and – having spent the last year of his life paralysed – he died in Berlin in 1822, aged just 46. His legacy is a powerful one, however: He is seen as a pioneer of both Romanticism and fantasy literature, and his novella, Mademoiselle de Scudéri: A Tale from the Times of Louis XIV is often cited as the first ever detective story.

The Mutual Interdependence of Things

A tumble over a root as a portion of the system of the universe--Mignon and the gypsy from Lorca, in connection with General Palafox--A Paradise opened at Countess Walther Puck’s.

No! said Ludwig to his friend Euchar, no! There is no such lubberly, uncouth attendant on the goddess of Fortune as Herr Tieck has been pleased to introduce in the prologue to his second part of ‘Fortunat,’ who, in the course of his gyrations, upsets tables, smashes ink-bottles, and goes blundering into the President’s carriage, hurting his head and his arm. No! For there is no such thing as chance. I hold to the opinion that the entire universe, and all that it contains, and all that comes to pass in it--the complete macrocosm--is like some large, very ingeniously constructed piece of clockwork-mechanism, which would necessarily come to a stop in a moment if any hostile principle, operating wholly involuntarily, were permitted to come in contact--in an opposing sense--with the very smallest of its wheels.

I don’t know, friend Ludwig, said Euchar, laughing, how it is that you have come, all of a sudden, to adopt this wretched, mechanical theory--which is as old as the hills, and out of date long ago--disfiguring and distorting Goethe’s beautiful notion of the red thread which runs all through our lives--in which, when we think about it in our more lucid moments, we recognize that higher Power which works above, and in us.

I have the greatest objection to that simile, said Ludwig. It is taken from the British navy. All through the smallest rope in their ships (I know this, of course, from the Wahlverwandschaften), runs a small red thread, which shows that the rope is Government property. No, my dear friend! Whatever happens is pre-ordained, from the beginning, as an essential necessity, just because it does happen. And this is the Mutual Interdependence of Things, upon which rests the principle of all being, of all existence. Because, as soon as you----

However, it is necessary, at this point, to explain to the courteous reader that as Ludwig and Euchar were thus talking together, they were walking in an alley of the beautiful park at W----. It was a Sunday. Twilight was beginning to fall, the evening breeze was whispering in the branches which, reviving after the heat of the day, were exhaling gentle sighs. Among the woods were sounding the happy voices of townsfolk in their Sunday clothes, out for the afternoon, some of them lying in the sweet grass enjoying their simple supper, and others refreshing themselves in the various restaurants, in accordance with the winnings of their week.

Just as Ludwig was going on to explain more fully the profound theory of the mutual interdependence of things, he stumbled over the thick root of a tree, which (as he always wore spectacles) he had not seen; and he measured his length on the ground.

That was comprehended in the mutual interdependence of things, said Euchar gravely and quietly, lifting up his friend’s hat and stick, and giving him his hand to help him on to his legs again. If you had not pitched over in that absurd manner the world would have come to a stop at once.

But Ludwig felt his right knee so stiff that he was obliged to limp, and his nose was bleeding freely. This induced him to take his friend’s advice and go into the nearest restaurant, though he generally avoided these places, particularly on Sundays. For the jubilations of the Sunday townsfolk were exceptionally displeasing to him, giving him a sensation of being in places which were not by any means convenable--at all events for people of his position.

In the front of this restaurant the people had formed a deep, many-tinted ring, from the interior of which there Bounded the tones of a guitar and a tambourine. Ludwig, assisted by his friend, went limping into the house, holding his handkerchief to his face. And he begged so pitifully for water, and a little drop of wine-vinegar, that the landlady, much alarmed, thought he must be at the point of death. Whilst he was being served with what he required, Euchar (on whom the sounds of the guitar and tambourine exercised an irresistible fascination) crept forth, and endeavoured to penetrate into the closed circle. He belonged to that restricted class of Nature’s favourites whose exterior and whole being ensure a kindly reception everywhere, and in all circumstances. So that on this occasion some journeymen mechanics (people who are not usually much given to politeness of a Sunday) at once made room for him when he asked what was going forward, so that he as well as themselves might have a look at the strange little creature who was dancing and playing so prettily and cleverly. And a curious and delightful scene displayed itself to Euchar, which fettered all his mind and attention.

In the middle of the ring a girl with her eyes blindfolded was dancing the fandango amongst nine eggs, arranged three by three behind each other on the ground, and playing a tambourine as she danced. At one side stood a little deformed man, with an ill-looking gypsy face, playing the guitar. The girl who was dancing seemed to be about fifteen. She was oddly dressed in a red bodice, gold-embroidered, and a short white skirt trimmed with ribbons of various colours. Her figure and all her motions were the very ideal of elegance and grace. She brought the most marvellous variety of sounds out of her tambourine. Sometimes she would raise it above her head, and then hold it out in front of her or behind her, with her arms stretched out, in the most picturesque attitudes. Now it would sound like a far-off drum; now like the melancholy cooing of the turtle-dove, and presently like the distant roar of the approaching storm. All this was accompanied in the most delightful manner by the tinkling of the clear, harmonious bells. And the little guitar-player by no means fell short of her in virtuosity; for he, too, had quite a style of his own of treating his instrument--making the dance melody (which was a most characteristic one, wholly out of the common run of