Text: Palmer Cobb, “Chapter VI,” The Influence of E. T. A. Hoffman on the Tales of Edgar Allan Poe, 1908, pp. 71-80

CHAPTER VI

HOFFMANN'S Die Jesuiterkirche in G ... AND POE'S The Oval Portrait

Dem Hochaltare links war ein hopes Gerüste errichtet, auf dem ein Mann stand, der die Wande in Giallo an tik übermalte ... Der Maler wandte sich nach uns um; aber gleich fuhr er wieder fort zu arbeiten, indem er mit dumpfer beinahe unvernehmbarer Stimme sprach: “Viel Plage — krummes verworrenes Zeug — Kein Lineal zu brauchen — Tiere — Affen — Menschengesichter — 0 ich elender Thor!” Das letzte rief er laut mit einer Stimme, die nur der tiefste im Innersten wühlende Schmerz erzeugt; ich fühlte mich auf die seltsamste Weise aufgeregt, jene Worte and der Ausdruck des Gesichts, der Blick, womit er zuvor den Professor an-schaute, brachten mir das ganze zerrissene Leben eines unglücklichen Künstlers vor Augen.(1) [page 73:]

“Dies Bild,” sprach der Professor, “ist das Schonste, was wir besitzen, es ist das Werk eines jungen Künstlers der neueren Zeit — gewiss sein letztes, denn sein Flug ist gehemmt — wir mussten in diesen Tagen das Gemälde aus gewissen Gründen verhägen lassen, doch bin ich vielleicht morgen, oder übermorgen imstande, es Ihnen zu zeigen.”

Die Komposition war wie Raphaels Stil, einfach und himmlisch erhaben! Maria und Elizabeth in einem schöen Garten auf einem Rasen sitzend, vor ihnen die Kinder Johannes und Christus mit Blumen spielend, im Hintergrunde seitwatts eine betende mannliche Figur! Marias holdes himmlisches Gesicht, die Hoheit und Frommigkeit ihrer ganzen Figur erfüllten mich mit Staunen und tiefer Bewunderung. Sie war schon, schoner als je ein Weib auf Erden, aber so wie Raphaels Maria in der Dresdner Gallerie verküundete ihr Blick die hohere Macht der Gottes-Mutter ... Sprachen die weichen halbgeöffneten Lippen nicht trostend, wie in holden Engels-Melodien, von der unendlichen Seligkeit des Himmels?

Its (the chateau's) decorations were rich, yet tattered and antique. Its walls were hung with tapestry and bedecked with manifold and multiform armorial trophies, together with an unusually great number of very spirited modern paintings in frames of rich golden arabesque. In these paintings which depended from the walls, — not only in their main surfaces, but in very many nooks which the bizarre architecture of the chateau rendered necessary, — in these paintings my incipient delirium perhaps had caused me to take deep interest; so that I bade Pedro to close the heavy shutters of the room — since it was already night — to light the tongues of a tall candelabrum which stood by the head of my bed, and to throw open far and wide the fringed curtains of black velvet which enveloped the bed itself. I wished all this done that I might resign myself, if not to sleep, at least to the contemplation of these pictures, and the perusal of a small volume which had been found under the pillow, and which purported to criticise and describe them.(2)

But the action produced an effect altogether unanticipated. The rays of the numerous candles (for there were many) now fell within a niche of the room which had hitherto been thrown into deep shade by one of the bed posts. I thus saw in vivid light a picture all unnoticed before. It was the portrait of a young girl just ripening into womanhood. I glanced at the painting hurriedly, and then closed my eyes. Why I did this was not at first apparent, even to my own perception. But while my lids remained shut, I ran over in my mind my reason for so shutting them. It was an impulsive movement to gain time for thought — to make [page 75:] sure that my vision had not deceived me — to calm and subdue my fancy for a more sober and more certain gaze. In a very few moments I again looked fixedly at the painting.

That I now saw aright I could not and would not doubt; for the first flashing of the candles upon that canvas had seemed to dissipate the dreamy stupor which was stealing over my senses, and to startle me at once into waking life.

The portrait, I have already said, was that of a young girl. It was a mere head and shoulders, done in what is technically called a vignette manner; much in the style of the favorite heads of Sully. The arms, the bosom, and even the ends of the radiant hair, melted imperceptibly into the vague yet deep shadow which formed the background of the whole. The frame was oval, richly gilded and filagreed in Moresqne. As a thing of art, nothing could be more admirable than the painting itself. But it could leave been neither the execution of the work nor the immortal beauty of the countenance, which had so suddenly and so vehemently moved me. Least of all, could it have been that my fancy, shaken from its half slumber, had mistaken the head for that of a living person. I saw at once that the peculiarities of the design, of the vignetting, and of the frame, must have instantly dispelled such idea — must have prevented even its momentary entertainment. Thinking earnestly upon these points, I remained, for an hour perhaps, with my vision riveted upon that portrait. At length, satisfied with the true secret of its effect, I fell back within the bed. I had found the spell of the picture in its absolute life-likeness of expression, which, at first startling, finally confounded, subdued and appalled me. With deep and reverent awe I replaced the candelabrum in its former position.(3) [page 76:]

Ich mühte mich, das, was nur wie dunkle Ahnung tief in meinem Innern lag, wie in jenem Traum hieroglyphisch darzustellen, aber die Züge dieser Hieroglyphen-schrift waren menschliche Figuren, die sich in wunder-licher Verschlingung urn einen Lichtpunkt bewegten. Dieser Lichtpunkt sollte die herrlichste Gestalt sein, die je eines Bildners Fantasie aufgegangen; aber ver-gebens strebte ich, wenn sie im Traum von Himmels-strahlen umflossen mir erschien, ihre Züge zu erfassen.(4)

Der einfache Gedanke, Maria und Elisabeth in einem schonen Garten auf einem Rasen sitzend, die Kinder Christus und Johannes vor ihnen im Grase spielend, sollte der ganze Vorwurf des Bildes sein, aber verge-bens war alles Ringen nach einer reinen geistigen An-schauung des Gemaldes. So wie in jener unglück-lichen Zeit der Krisis, verschwammen ihm die Gestalten, und nicht die himmlische Maria, nein, ein irdisches Weib, ach, seine Angiola selbst stand auf greuliche Weise verzerrt, vor seines Geistes Augen. ... Aber seine Kraft war gebrochen, all sein Bemühen, so wie damals, nur die ohnmachtige Anstrengung des unverstandigen Kindes. Starr und leblos blieb, was er malte, und selbst Angiola Angiola, sein Ideal, wurde, wenn sie ihm sass und er sie malen wollte, auf der Leinwand zum toten Wachsbilde, das ihn mit glasernen Augen anstierte.(6)

Berthold erschien bald darauf (after his wife's death) zu N, in Oberschlesien; er hatte sich seines Weibes und Kindes entledigt, und fing voll heitern Mutes an, das Bild zu malen, das er in N. vergebens begonnen hatte.(8)

She was a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full of glee. And evil was the hour when she saw, and loved, and wedded the painter. He passionate, studious, austere, and having already a bride in his art; she, a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full of glee; all light and smiles, and frolicsome as a young fawn; loving and cherishing all things; hating only the Art which was her rival; dreading only the pallette and the brushes and other untoward instruments which deprived her of the countenance of her lover. It was thus a terrible thing for this lady to hear the painter speak of his desire to portray even his young bride. But she was humble and obedient, and sat meekly for many weeks in the dark high turret-chamber where the light dripped upon the pale canvas [page 79:] only from overhead. But he, the painter, took glory in his work, which went on from hour to hour, and from day to day. And he was a passionate and wild and moody man, who became lost in reveries; so that he would not see that the light which fell so ghastly in that lone turret withered the health and the spirits of his bride, who pined visibly to all but him. Yet she smiled on and still on, uncomplainingly, because she saw that the painter (who had high renown) took a fervid and burning pleasure in his task, and wrought day and night to depict her who so loved him, yet who grew daily more dispirited and weak. And in sooth some who beheld the portrait spoke of its resemblance in low, words, as of a mighty marvel, and a proof not less of the power of the painter than of his deep love for her whom he depicted so surpassingly well. But at length as the labor drew near to its conclusion, there were admitted none into the turret; for the painter had grown wild with the ardor of his work, and turned his eyes from the canvas rarely, even to regard the countenance of his wife. And he would not see that the tints which he spread upon the canvas were drawn from the cheeks of her who sat beside him. And when many weeks had passed, and but little remained to do, save one brush upon the mouth, and one tint upon the eye, the spirit of the lady again flickered up as the flame within the socket of the lamp. And then the brush was given, and then the tint was placed; and for one moment the painter stood entranced before the work which he had wrought; but in the next, while he yet gazed, he grew tremulous and very pallid, and aghast, and crying with a loud voice, “This is Life indeed!” turned suddenly to regard his beloved: — She was dead.(9)