Baltic Providences and Martyrdoms1 329 E. T. A. Hoffmann’s “Falun”: Baltic Providences and Martyrdoms 1 Katherine Arens and Sandra Ballif Straubhaar University of Texas at Austin Abstract: E. T. A. Hoffmann’s Die Bergwerke zu Falun (1818 / 19) is often taken as a prototypical Romantic tale. This essay suggests that what Hoffmann called a tale of saints and martyrs is less a story of individuals sacrificing themselves in futile searches for money and succumbing to delusions, and more a commentary on the shift of power and economics in the Baltic regions in the wake of Napoleonic France’s incursions into Russia and the 1815 establishment of the Congress Kingdom of Poland. Keywords: E. T. A. Hoffmann, Falun, Serapionsbrüder, religious iconography, Napoleonic Europe, Congress Kingdom of Poland In 1720, two Copenhagen newpapers published reports about a well-preserved body found in a mine in December, 1719. These were the remains of a miner who had gone missing years earlier. 2 This extraordinary tale was given book form in a volume of Romantic science by Gotthilf Heinrich Schubert, in his Ansichten der Nachtseite der Naturwissenschaften (1808). From that source, the story was taken up by E. T. A. Hoffmann, who turned one of the most famous mines of his era into a literary milestone: Die Bergwerke zu Falun, an almost gothic story of lost love, madness, and fate. The tale was written between 1816 and 1818, published in the first part of a four-volume collection entitled Die Serapionsbrüder ( Serapion Brethren, 1819-21 [Kleßmann 427]), and was the only story written specifically for the collection (see Hoffmann 228 ff.). Hoffmann drew the basic materials for Falun from Heinrich Schubert’s work which he augmented with standard reference books on Sweden (Kleßmann 416-17). Today’s critics often see mines in literature as metaphors for the unconscious: entering them becomes a descent into hell or into the torments of sex and identity. All of these elements are present in Falun. 3 However, Theodore 330 Katherine Arens and Sandra Ballif Straubhaar Ziolkowski’s German Romanticism and Its Institutions (1990) suggests another dimension to a story about mines and miners. Mining was one of the institutions shaping the 1790s generation of Romantic intellectuals, many of whom were trained as miners or mining engineers (29), an important profession of the day (see especially 53 ff.). More than mere metaphors, mines referred to real geopolitical situations; miners and mining engineers were those people whose lives were split between the earth and the entities (commercial and governmental) profiting from their work. Hoffmann accounted for his own story in these terms. Mines like Falun, he noted, represent “die gnadenlose Vernichtung der Natur um des Profits willen, aber auch die Zerstörung der Menschen Natur durch einen bessessenen Arbeitswillen, der in neurotischer Getriebenheit Schuld tilgen möchte und neue Schuld verursacht” (Kleßmann 420). This “guilt” is thus related to real, experienced history, not just personal psychology. “Schuld” also means “debts” that need to be repaid. In fact, Hoffmann wrote to a friend in 1818 that he was writing “[ein] historisches Werk, welches über Heiligen-, Märtyrer- oder Einsiedlergeschichte […], der eine vergleichbare Aufgabe zukommen sollte, wie sie die Geschichte des Einsiedlers Serapion zu übernehmen” (Hoffmann 1258). On one level, Hoffmann means that reference to saints, martyrs, and hermits explicitly. The Serapionsbrüder collection’s title alluded to the “Seraphinenabende” in Hoffmann’s life, evenings spent with friends who traded stories and discussed issues of the day. Hoffmann doubles that allusion when he takes these Brethren into the collection’s frame narrative and situates one of their meetings on November 14, the name’s day of St. Serapion (Seraphim) in at least one church calendar (Kleßmann 428). 4 On another level, as we shall see, the idea of martyrdom also has a political dimension as a comment on Baltic politics in Europe’s post-Napoleonic era. This essay will pursue these connections, taking Falun back into its multilple contexts: the Baltic region’s economy and politics, the religious question of martyrdoms, and historical change. In these contexts, Hoffmann’s novella emerges as less a Romantic tale than as a morality fable for geopolitics and its victims. Falun not only has a position within the martyr-stories told by and for Hoffmann’s Serapionbrüder -martyrs, it is also the site of real mines that had played significant roles in the region’s politics and economics, not just in its natural history. Tracing how these three frames allow what seems at first to be a fairy tale to emerge as a much more political work, a direct commentary on the world bequeathed to Hoffmann’s generation and a source for a more politicized interpretation of Hoffmann’s late Romantic poetics. Baltic Providences and Martyrdoms 331 From the first, Hoffmann situates Falun squarely within the Baltic’s economic nexus, opening in Göthaborg (today’s Göteborg, or, in English, Gothenburg ), one of the Baltic’s trading hubs, in July at the height of the shipping season. A ship comes into port and is greeted by teeming masses, including the representatives of the East India Company: “Ein reicher Ostindienfahrer glücklich heimgekehrt aus dem fremden Lande lag im Klippa-Hafen vor Anker und ließ die langen Wimpel, die schwedischen Flaggen lustig hinauswehen in die azurblaue Luft” (208). Hoffmann continues, Die Herren von der ostindischen Kompanie wandelten am Hafen auf und ab, und berechneten mit lächelnden Gesichtern den reichen Gewinn, der ihnen geworden, und hatten ihre Herzensfreude daran, wie ihr gewagtes Unternehmen nun mit jedem Jahr mehr und mehr gedeihe und das gute Göthaborg im schönsten Handelsflor immer frischer und herrlicher emporblühe. (208) “The gentlemen from the East India Company” would indeed bring life into the town, with profits on their ships in the era reaching as high as 60 %. Hoffmann’s story thus begins on a seemingly optimistic note. The ship’s company, numbering about 150, is welcomed with music and happy noise and taken into a local tavern to enjoy a hearty celebration, including wild drinking, dancing, and local prostitutes—the seductions enabled by the rich money from the India trade. And in the midst of the celebration, Hoffmann’s hero Elis Fröbom is introduced, “ein einziger Seemann, ein schlanker hübscher Mensch, kaum mocht’ er zwanzig Jahr alt sein” (208), sitting alone next to the door of the tavern. Readers at Hoffman’s time familiar with world economics would recognize this scene as fraught with nostalgia: those rich ships of 1806 no longer came into the harbor of Gothenburg in his day. 5 The Swedish East India Company had existed from 1731-1813, occupying a building at the heart of Goteborg. Over its lifetime, it sent 132 expeditions to China, shipping metals and alcohol out and bringing back mainly tea, its most profitable commodity. 6 The Company had the Dutch as its competition and had managed to undercut the tea trade in England. Ultimately, however, it was disbanded in 1813 when the tea trade had become less profitable. Its Dutch and British rivals had gone over to the opium trade, and the British East India Company had been nationalized by act of Parliament, 7 which gave it great economic support. Thus the story’s first images of economic prosperity are actually less than promising: Hoffmann’s hero Elis Fröbom has come to Sweden from a job in a trade that no longer existed (he gives a girl “ein schönes ostindisches Tuch” [211]). Elis’ back-story, however, shows that his family was indeed heavily implicated with the India Company. After Elis’ two brothers were lost as soldiers, 332 Katherine Arens and Sandra Ballif Straubhaar he had been the sole support of his widowed mother. His father, “ein tüchtiger Steuermann” (212), had been lost in a storm after he arranged for his son’s future in the service of the East Indian Company by securing him a place on a ship. The logic of the time would have it that, even as a common seaman, the boy would be able to get a share of the profits from each trip. His mother had encouraged this choice, as well, by telling him stories of his bold father (213). But this security was Elis’ father’s dream, not his own: the son wishes himself dead, “begraben in dem tiefsten Meeresgrunde! ” (211), because he was not cut out for the sea, having “keine rechte Lust am wackern Seemannsleben” (210). An old seaman in this scene confirms that Elis will never be a “proper sailor” ( ein ordentlicher tüchtiger Seeman ) because he can’t drink (“saufen kannst du gar nicht” [209]). More critically, Elis has returned home to find himself not only fatherless, but also motherless. Strangers occupy his one-time house since his mother had died three months earlier. Her things are available for pickup at the Rathaus by this now completely orphaned young man, abandoned and miserable ( verlassen, einsam, elend ). Elis feels that he should have stayed home to take care of her rather than going to sea, which he sees as an “irres, zweckloses Treiben” (212). This detail does indeed motivate Elis’ subsequent actions in terms of personal psychology, as most critics have pursued, but Hoffmann colors the situation differently by adding a religious dimension to it. His life will change on the feast of Pentecost, the day on which the Holy Spirit descended upon Jesus’ Apostles with the gift of tongues (Acts of the Apostles 2: 1-31). Notably, this feast falls seven weeks after the resurrection of Easter Sunday, and celebrates the miracle that confirmed the Apostles’ vocation to spread the Gospel of Jesus through the world. Elis has entered a classical night of the soul, a profound moment of selfdoubt from which he will emerge only when he sees a new life open up in front of him on that date. Elis’ savior is an old miner (“ein alter Bergmann” [211]) who picks him up off the street and encourages him to return to work. Ultimately, the miner concurs that Elis has no talent for the sea (214), and he offers him a job in his mine lease. Elis does realize that he is being tested again, as he is offered the chance to take up yet another profession in which he has no interest, but which can lead either to death by misfortune or to great riches (215). Elis is not sure about a profession that will force him to “gve up the sun”: “hinab in die schauerliche Höllentiefe und dem Maulwurf gleich wühlen und wühlen nach Erzen und Metallen, schnöden Gewinns halber? ” (214). The miner convinces him with tales of the beauty of the mines (“die Schachten wie die Gänge eines Zaubergartens” [215]) and in the way of life they provide which includes membership in a Stand, an estate with a social standing, and is not just a money-making enterprise. In a gesture again referencing tropes from the Easter story, Elis debates for three days if he will take up this new profession, until his fate is sealed by two dreams. In the first, he finds himself on a ship in the underground, viewing crystals with metal flowers, “unzählige holde jungfräuliche Gestalten” (217), and a mysterious “queen” who will endanger him; the second was a vision of his mother who warns him against the mine. On the fourth day, after dying to his life as a sailor, he is “resurrected” to a new profession: he gives up his family’s vision and goes through the gate into the mining town, which appears more like Hell than Heaven. It is situated on a blasted heath of ecological destruction, with a few towers rising between steaming lakes, leading to the mouth of hell ( Höllenschlunde ) that “froze his blood in his veins.” 8 A 200-by-600-foot-long hole is surrounded with slag, breakdown, and carpentry that leaves no chance for anything to grow: Kein Baum, kein Grashalm sproßt in dem kahlen zerbröckelten Steingeklüft und in wunderlichen Gebilden, manchmal riesenhaften versteinerten Tieren, manchmal menschlichen Kolossen ähnlich, ragen die zackigen Felsenmassen ringsumher empor. Im Abgrunde liegen in wilder Zerstörung durcheinander Steine, Schlacken— ausgebranntes Erz, und ein ewiger betäubender Schwefeldunst steigt aus der Tiefe, als würde unten der Höllensud gekocht, dessen Dämpfe alle grüne Lust der Natur vergiften. Man sollte glauben, hier sei Dante herabgestiegen und habe den Inferno geschaut mit all’ seiner trostlosen Qual, mit all’ seinem Entsetzen. (220) Images of hell and damnation proliferate, as Elis feels himself drowning in this world and panics. However, he is lulled into a kind of calm by his earlier experience of the miners in the orderly world of Gothenburg. Whereas the sailors had celebrated their work with a dunken orgy, the miners’ celebration seemed to Elis to be of a quite different order. In a community assembly, a Bergthing (an old Germanic title for a legal assembly), the miners had blessed a new mine as a kind of feudal guild, and then had come to celebrate it as a real community, an image that appealed to the now-orphan Elis in no small part because of its patriarch: “Die helle Fröhlichkeit, die, als Pehrson Dahlsjö hinaustrat, wie aufs neue angefacht, durch den ganzen Kreis aufloderte, war wohl ganz anderer Art als der wilde tobende Jubel der Seeleute beim Hönsning” (222). There, he also meets Ulla Dahlsjö, the apple of her father’s eye, a Scandinavian beauty: “Hoch und schlank gewachsen, die dunklen Haare in vielen Zöpfen über der Scheitel aufgeflochten, das nette schmucke Mieder mit reichen Spangen zusammengenestelt ging sie daher in der höchsten Anmut der blühendsten Jugend” (223). Longing for this girl binds Elis to this community and also to his doom: “Dem Elis war es, als läge er in dem wonnigen Paradiese eines herrlichen Traums, aus dem er gleich erwachen und sich unbeschreiblich Baltic Providences and Martyrdoms 333 334 Katherine Arens and Sandra Ballif Straubhaar elend fühlen werde” (224). He refuses to let die the dream of a patriarchal, old Germanic guild that would take care of him and provide him a family. In Hoffmann’s work, however, old men with beautiful daughters often cause young men’s downfalls. Like the Archivarius Lindhorst and his daughter Serpentina in Der goldene Topf, head miner Pehrson Dahlsjö and his daughter Ulla are from a world of the past, from the traditional economic order of Scandinavia. That world looks homelike to the damaged young Elis, who does not realize that he is about to become cannon fodder for another doddering industry. He gets drunk and is seduced into the mine despite his fear and against his dream-mother’s warning (224). Dahlsjö warns him that he is joining a profession that is actually a calling requiring dedication: Es ist ein alter Glaube bei uns, daß die mächtigen Elemente, in denen der Bergmann kühn waltet, ihn vernichten, strengt er nicht sein ganzes Wesen an, die Herrschaft über sie zu behaupten, gibt er noch andern Gedanken Raum, die die Kraft schwächen, welche er ungeteilt der Arbeit in Erd’ und Feuer zuwenden soll. (225) Elis dedicates himself to the job and to Ulla, who prays he will stay (226). Elis’ first descent into the depths of the mine is a descent into hell; he is out of his element: “Immer tiefer und tiefer ging es hinab, zuletzt auf kaum ein Fuß breiten eisernen Leitern, und Elis Fröbom merkte wohl, daß alle Geschicklichkeit, die er sich als Seemann im Klettern erworben, ihm hier nichts helfen könne” (226). But he keeps on, supported by his visions of his angelic Ulla and by her father’s promises that his daughter’s suitor would be made a master, with a seam of his own leased to him to mine and profit from. A vision from deep in the mine again augurs ill for Elis. An old miner from Gothenburg appears to the “false member of the guild” ( falscher Gesell ) and tells him to be careful that “der Metallfürst, den du verhöhnst, dich nicht faßt und hinabschleudert, daß deine Glieder zerbröckeln am scharfen Gestein.—Und nimmer wird Ulla dein Weib, das sag ich dir! ” (228). The mine has to be a vocation : Elis does not belong here, if he sees the job as an entrancy to the master miner’s world. This moral is written into the story as an echo of the financial lie upon which the mines of Falun actually rested. The mine’s overseer ( Obersteiger ) explains that Elis has seen the ghost of “Old Torbern,” a miner who lived a hundred years ago when the mine was richer, a miner who knew the secrets of the earth and who dedicated himself to the mine day and night, because he had neither wife nor child. He “stood as one with the metal” and always predicted disasters for those who were not similarly dedicated. That story was based on fact: at midsummer, 1687, the mine had caved in, because greed had led the miners to expand it incautiously. It had taken years to restore it to productivity, and once it was, Torbern’s ghost showed up in the story to help the miners find the richest veins (“der ihnen allerlei guten Rat erteilt und die schönsten Gänge gezeigt” [230]). Elis’ peers take the ghostly apparition as a good omen, portending the discovery of a rich seam. The story takes a darker turn when Ulla is purportedly betrothed to a rich merchant, a rich Handelsherr who lives from the sea, not the mines: “Ich [Dahlsjö] geb ihm auf sein Werben meine Tochter zum Weibe; er zieht mit ihr nach Göthaborg, und du bleibst dann allein bei mir, Elis, meine einzige Stütze im Alter” (231). Elis’ reaction is a lapse into utter madness; he runs to the mine and shrieks to its ghost “mit furchtbarer Stimme”: “Unten liegt mein Schatz, mein Leben mein alles! —Torbern! steig herab mit mir, zeig mir die reichsten Trappgänge, da will ich wühlen und bohren und arbeiten und das Licht des Tages fürder nicht mehr schauen! ” (230-31). Against all proper mining protocol, he goes down into the shafts alone and does indeed find the promised new seam of ore. This work underground will, he believes, compensate him for lost love. At that moment, Elis begins to hallucinate. In a third vision he sees his descent leading him into the arms of the mountain queen who will drown him in the underground, in a sea of “purest crystal” (232). Elis only survives because Dahlsjö fetches him out of the mine and reveals Ulla’s betrothal as a hoax designed to test Elis’ love against the necessary devotion to the family business. Elis has passed the son-in-law test (233), but at his engagement party, he looks disturbed ( verstört [234]) as he flashes back to his vision. He sees the face of the queen, this time with the head of Medusa (a French Revolution symbol, nota bene ), and recognizes that the pit is “eine Hölle voll trostloser Qual trügerisch ausgeschmückt zur verderblichsten Verlockung! ” (234). Nursed back to health by Ulla after this breakdown, he returns to the mine, divided between “sein besseres, sein eigentliches Ich” down in the mine, in the arms of the queen, and a dark self “seeking his bed in Falun” (235). 9 Their wedding celebration is set for Johannistag, the Midsummer’s Night between the 23 and 24 June, celebrated by fires that commemorate St. John the Baptist, harbinger of Jesus’ public life and martyrdom. On that morning, Elis, fully dressed in wedding clothes, knocks on his bride’s door and gives her great news of the prophecy he brings. He will find their fortune (and his own inner peace), he tells her, if he recovers the Queen’s stone, “der kirschrot funkelnde Almandin” (236), a figment of his imagination. Later that day, the bridal party assembles, but Elis does not appear to join their ranks. Suddenly some miners appear, pale and disturbed, to report on a collapse, “wie eben ein fürchterlicher Bergfall die ganze Grube, in der Dahlsjös Kuxe befindlich, verschüttet” (237). Elis has been buried in the pit, in the world of his new “family,” and Ulla disappears, a bride without a groom. There will be no Dahlsjö heirs. Baltic Providences and Martyrdoms 335 336 Katherine Arens and Sandra Ballif Straubhaar Outside the compelling psychological detail of these passages, Hoffmann’s Elis has lived and died in the context of the two great capitalist failures of Sweden: the India Company and the great open-pit mine collapse of the prior century. Hoffmann drives the point home by ending the story near the present, with the historical discovery of the miner Fet-Mats’s body: Da geschah es, daß die Bergleute, als sie zwischen zwei Schachten einen Durchschlag versuchten, in einer Teufe [sic] von dreihundert Ellen im Vitriolwasser den Leichnam eines jungen Bergmanns fanden, der versteinert schien, als sie ihn zutage förderten. Es war anzusehen als läge der Jüngling in tiefem Schlaf, so frisch, […] so ohne alle Spur der Verwesung seine zierliche Bergmannskleider, ja selbst die Blumen an der Brust. (238) In the story, this corpse is recognized as Elis Fröbom, and it is described as incorruptible, as a saint’s body would be. The reader also learns that Ulla is the Johannismütterchen who has shown up every year on Johannistag to commemorate her lost husband. She drops dead when she sees his corpse, which then abruptly deteriorates: “Man bemerkte, daß der Körper des Unglücklichen, der fälschlicher Weise für versteinert gehalten, in Staub zu zerfallen begann” (239). Both sets of remains were buried in the church together. The miracle has disappeared. Hoffmann plants a barb in the story which emphasizes for contemporaneous readers its distance from reality. Johannistag is not only a solstice celebration; it is also a quarter day in Europe, when rents and other payments were typically due. This rent was indeed due on Elis’s life, on the life of the mine, and on the patriarchal guild estates that run it. No matter how family-like this culture of miners had seemed to Elis, then, it offered only Faustian bargains. Elis Fröbom is not Barbarossa returning from under the mountain, but simply a victim of false promises made by Ulla’s father, and of an obsessive devotion to a profession that could no longer pay off. In this sense, Elis Fröbom has become a victim of Sweden’s economic illusions for a second time. His two fathers both have fostered delusions in their son; their “noble professions” live from the blood of workers and bring death to many. Elis’ parents had wanted him to go abroad and so had arranged his berth in the India trade. They had profited because his father was a pilot, one of the most highly paid of sailors. But his family was left rudderless when he drowns: the mother’s tales of his father keep Elis focused on the sea, not the direct example of his father’s presence. Elis finds a temporary new father in Dahlsjö, who is from the older paternalistic world of the mine. However, that world, that underground hell promising much but delivering little, will kill Elis off as surely as the era’s other dominant form of capitalism had killed his father. Adding to this body count of state capitalism are Elis’ two brothers, lost at war. In these fates, Hoffmann has painted not only the picture of a disturbed and unfortunate young man, but also a panorama of Sweden’s capitalist landscape at the end of its cycle, at the end of Sweden’s tall ships and the copper that clad the bottoms of Europe’s ships of trade and of the apprentice system that guaranteed success for hardworking youth. This world resembles nothing more than the miner’s body preserved in vitriol: a beautiful corpse that will disintegrate at first touch or light of day. That corpse only becomes a saint and martyr against the larger political background of Hoffmann’s day. Falun appeared in a collection framed by Hoffmann’s own circle of friends, his Serapionsbrüder who appear in the frame narrative as victims of the region’s politics. Hoffmann’s generation would have recognized Elis Fröbom’s tragedy as the fate of a generation in a region that had been ripped and made bankrupt by war among imperial powers. For Hoffman’s readers, Die Bergwerke zu Falun implicates more than just despair or the luncacy of creative minds forced into old, hereditary boxes that stifle them, since both Gothenburg’s harbor and Sweden’s Copper Mountain at the town of Falun were unmistakable reference points for Sweden’s fall and Prussia’s attempts to rise in the Napoleonic era. They were the economic heart of a Swedish empire that was failing because its hereditary income sources had radically shifted at the moment when war debts needed to be paid. The story is explicitly set in the very near past of its publication, in a late phase of the Napoleonic Wars after the dissolution of the Holy Roman Empire and the so-called War of the Fourth Coalition in 1806-07, in which Napoleon and the Rheinbund joined together against Prussia, Russia, Saxony, Sweden, the UK , and Sicily. French troops had occupied parts of Prussia since the Battle of Austerliz (1805), despite the Prussian king’s attempt at neutrality; they entered Warsaw itself on 28 November 1806 (Kleßmann 121). Napoleon followed them on 19 December, and the Poles welcomed Napoleon as their liberator, while the Prussians saw in him an agent blocking their ascent. The Peace of Tilset (9 July 1807) was dictated by Napoleon, creating the independent Duchy of Warsaw, which Prussia was to occupy until reparations were paid (Kleßmann 127). Ultimately, however, Prussia was to lose almost half its territory. Within Prussia, these losses led to the Stein-Hardenberg Reforms (starting 1807), aimed at restructuring and rationalizing Prussia’s law code and administration so that it could pay its reparation debts to France. Unfortunately, Hoffmann himself was part of that occupying Prussian bureaucracy that suffered when Napoleon “liberated” Poland. For a young state bureaucrat, Prussia’s annexation of Poland had promised careers. In the early throes of the political upheavals realigning the borders of the Baltic states and Baltic Providences and Martyrdoms 337 338 Katherine Arens and Sandra Ballif Straubhaar after the fall of Sweden as a power had begun, Hoffman had been a state employee stationed in Posen between 1800 and 1802. Because he had drawn satirical caricatures of local army officers, he was then sent to Plock, a prior capital of Poland, but “ein tristes westpolnisches Provinznest” (Mangold 168). He stayed there until 1804, when he obtained a position as Regierungsrat in Warsaw. Hoffmann found in Warsaw an interesting intellectual life, offering contact with modern literature and with local intellectuals such as Zacharias Werner and Julius Eduard Hitzig (his eventual biographer and member of the Serapionsbrüder ). When Napoleon’s troops captured Warsaw on 28 November 1806, however, the bulk of Prussian civil servants employed there divided the remnants of the treasury among them and fled. The new French occupiers demanded a loyalty oath from the remaining Prussian officials, but were not accommodated. Not rich enough to simply cut and run, Hoffman stayed in Warsaw, working on music and organizing concerts. But ultimately he also left. Hoffmann and his family returned to Posen, and then, after 6 months of illness that trapped them there, they got passports from the French to return to Berlin. Berlin, however, was a city under stress: “Du weißt, daß ich kein Vermögen, sondern nur Talent habe, die mich erhalten könnten, diese Talente aber hier, in dem menschenleeren, geldarmen Berlin wuchern zu lassen, ist kaum möglich! ” (B1, 221 / 222, cited Kleßmann 128). In consequence, Hoffmann and his family moved on to Bamberg in 1808, where he got a job as theater manager (which he rapidly lost) and began to write for the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung, a newspaper in Leipzig. His breakthrough as an author came in 1809 with Ritter Gluck, which also got him rehired at the theater in various capacities, including playwright. By 1813, he managed to secure a position as music director for an opera company, but the war again intervened. When Prussia declared war on France in the War of the Sixth Coalition (1813), the situation again worsened: Hoffmann and his family were trapped in the active war zones in Leipzig and Dresden, experiencing bombardments firsthand. He could not get to the company he was hired to direct; it took three months to reach his employer in Dresden, where he settled, only again to be caught in the bombardments associated with the Battle of Dresden. The city surrendered in November, and Hoffmann moved on to Leipzig with the opera company. By February 1814, he had quarreled with the company owner, was given notice and fired. At the end of September, he returned to Berlin, where he found work again as a jurist at the Kammergericht and where the opera put on his Undine to great success. No matter what critics may think about Hoffmann’s sense of politics (“Hoffmann, an jeglicher Politik vollkommen desinteressiert, begreift nicht im mindesten, was sich da anbahnt” [Kleßmann122]), he was completely engulfed by the region’s wars for a decade. Even after Napoleon’s 1815 defeat, the damage to Prussia would not be mitigated until the Congress of Vienna reestablished old order Europe. Unfortunately, this political resolution did not improve Hoffmann’s overall situation as a state employee, because Prussian remained in debt (Kleßmann 389). Although Hoffmann seems to have been a good jurist, according to his yearly performance reports, he remained underpaid (Kleßmann 440). The situation was no more promising elsewhere in the German lands. The anti-Semitic Hep-Hep Riots in Bavaria occurred in 1819 (alongside the rise of Turnvater Jahn, a nationalist figure), making emigration unfeasible as the situation in Prussia further deteriorated. By 1818-1819, liberals were trying for a constitutional monarchy in Prussia (Mangold 173), but the murder of August von Kotzebue in 1819 gave Metternich the opportunity to issue the Karlsbader Beschlüsse, intended to stifle radicals through censorship and court action; they applied to most German regions. Hoffmann tried to work against these anti-liberal policies as an “overreaction by the state” ( Überreaktion des Staates ), but to no avail (Mangold 175). Despite the deteriorating political situation, Hoffmann had begun to have literary success, which would continue to his death in 1822 from ill health. Although Hoffmann was a seemingly unpolitical author, he nevertheless suffered centrally from the politics of the era. It thus makes it unlikely that Hoffmann took up the story of the Falun miners as a fairy tale completely unrelated to the era’s socio-political conditions. Between 1816 and 1818, when Hoffmann was working on Falun, he saw any hope for a quick rise of the Prussian state dashed. No wonder, then, that he set his tale of a displaced sailor-miner into a contemporaneous frame narrative. That frame carefully marks Hoffmann’s generation as a collection of saints and martyrs to the era’s political and economic affairs. The Prussia that was supposed to create a future Germany had left them adrift in the economic and political wreckage of Prussia in the Baltic region. In turning to Falun, Hoffmann took up an imperial moment of collapse still in public memory, but not directly related to his own experience, which was a prudent choice in an era of censorship. Moreover, he clearly knew the mine’s history, since the details of its management in Falun are correct. The Swedish Empire was one of the region’s political ghosts, having lost huge territories in the Great Northern War with Russia (1700-1721). As noted, Falun had been an economic engine for Sweden’s past imperial might. The real mines of Falun are still found at the Stora Kopparberg, or Big Copper Mountain, an open pit copper mine 95 meters deep, 400 meters long, and 350 meters across, with a main underground shaft leading off it at 450 meters deep (see Forss for the complete technical details). Now a world’s heritage site, 10 Falun’s pit was first excavated before 1100, with considerable mining operations Baltic Providences and Martyrdoms 339 340 Katherine Arens and Sandra Ballif Straubhaar already in place by 1288. “Soon the rich copper deposit aroused international interest, particularly among the merchants in the Hanseatic League. Trade was mainly by way of Lübeck” (Forss). King Magnus Eriksson had granted a letter of patent for Stora Kopparberg by 1347, organizing the enterprise to minimize the government’s risks (a state of affairs which is represented in Dahlsjö’s lease): “The mine was worked by the individual mining masters in relation to their copper smelter holdings” (Forss), under supervision of administrators. Reflecting the mine’s growing importance for the region, a town was chartered in 1642, taking the pit’s name as its own. In the latter part of the sixteenth century, new ores had been discovered in the historic pit, augmenting its traditional yield of copper with iron pyrite, zinc, and lead. In the mid-seventeenth century, the pit yielded 3000 tons of copper: “At times the mine accounted for almost two-thirds of the total world output of copper” (Forss). Even in Hoffmann’s era, the mine’s yield was still significant enough that the Stora Corporation that ran it as a surface pit mine (still existing today) had built a new mine building (1812). Cave-ins were frequent, because the pit masters functioning as independent contractors working individual claims often mined the lode too quickly. One of the most dramatic collapses happened on 25 June 1687, “when the walls dividing the three largest open pits along with underlying galleries collapsed, forming the present ‛Great Pit’” (Forss). This is the collapse that buried the miner Fet-Mats, Hoffmann’s prototype for his hero Elis. Notably, this piece of Swedish history was also Prussia’s history. The pit’s profits had financed Gustav II ’s campaigns in the Thirty Years War (1618-1648) and allowed Sweden to engage Russia militarily. When Sweden went bankrupt after the Great Northern War, a power vacuum rose in the Baltic as Sweden withdrew from the continent to retrench its economy, and Russia began to swallow up some eastern Baltic states, facilitating Prussia’s rise in the process at least until Napoleon temporarily halted its growth. No wonder, then, that Hoffmann could call Falun a historical work: when that kind of economy fails, individuals suffer. Hoffmann has built yet another layer into his collection, beyond history. Based on the fact that he called Falun the story of martyrs, it would be logical to suggest that there is an additional layer to this history: the stories of individuals who were martyred to these imperial legacies. There is a whole ethical layer to the stories about this historical space. The empires in question resemble the older family patriarchs in many of his stories, as they sell their sons and daughters into lives not of their own making. This is a nice metaphor for coalition politics in the Napoleonic era and in Metternich’s Europe, seen from the point of view of the generation that had to live that history while having no control over it. Hoffmann marks this historical space repeatedly with references to religion. The Serapionsbrüder of the frame narrative reflect the real group of writing friends with whom Hoffmann met regularly in 1816. From 1818 on, Hoffmann met with these friends in his own apartment (Kleßmann 429), and the collection’s frame refers to eight such evening meetings, reflecting real events occurring between 1818 and 1820. 11 The list of Bethren includes names familiar from the so-called Berlin Romanticism, including Adelbert von Chamisso (author of the famous Peter Schlemihl [1814], about a man who loses his shadow), Julius Eduard Hitzig (a civil servant working at the Berlin court who was associated with the Salon of Rahel Varnhagen and who had in 1808 founded a publishing house), Karl Wilhelm Salice-Contessa (a merchant whose younger brother was a poet), Friedrich de la Motte Fouqué (an author most famous from the 1811 Undine ), and occasional others. Their conversations, used to tie the stories together, gives evidence of their attempts at evolving an aesthetic program in their conversations (Hoffmann 1231), as they discussed how to express poets’ inner experience (Hoffmann 1247). The frame narrative not only contains these meetings of poetic friends, it also contains the story of St. Serapion (Seraphim), after whom both the club and the books were named. Hoffmann takes as his avatar in this frame specifically the Hermit ( Einsiedler ) Serapion, well known in religious circles (Hoffmann 1246). Cyprian, who was a diplomat and poet (likely a representation of Adelbert von Chamisso), tells the tale of the saint’s burial. The Brethren purportedly found the tale in an almanac ( Hauskalender [66]), a book form that in German had become associated with the education of scarcely lettered readers. Their Serapion was “nourished by solitude” until his death around 1809 (Hoffmann 34). He had looked on all with “des Hofmanns Auge” (Hoffmann 35), the courtier’s eye—but also the author’s. Cyprian was buried “mit Hülfe zweier Löwen” (36) as befits an evangelist or royal, and with two stags carrying a mantle, as would befit a king. 12 In the Catholic Church’s calendar of saints, this Serapion is probably Serapion of Thmuls (C. E. ca. 330-360), an Egyptian monk with a feast day on 21 March, who supported Athanasius in combatting the Arian heresy. This Serapion published a commentary against Arianism around 340, dying around 362; Hoffmann identifies him as a bible translator (Hoffmann 28). Yet there are actually multiple “"Sts. Serapion” or “Seraphim” woven through the frame narrative text. 13 Perhaps the most famous St. Serapion of all in Church history specifically is associated with sailors, the one whose feast day is the 14 November (in a German saints’ calendar) of Hoffmann’s Brethren’s meeting. This Serapion was a saint-martyr killed at Algiers in Africa (d. C. E. 1240), the first martyr of the Mercedarian Order (the Order of Our Lady of Mercy), whose charge was caring for the victims of Barbary pirates. 14 Hoffmann alludes to another famous St. Serapion: a martyr killed in anti-Christian riots (C. E. 252) Baltic Providences and Martyrdoms 341 342 Katherine Arens and Sandra Ballif Straubhaar under “Kaiser Dexius” (Decius) in third century Alexandria (Hoffmann 26 and 1265). Still another St. Serapion (d. C. E. 211, with a feast day of 30 October) was a theologian and Bishop of Antioch, known for a tract decrying those who did not resist persecution. Another of Hoffman’s Serapions was actually canonized in 1767: St. Seraphim of Montegranaro (1540-1604), 15 with a feast day on 12 October. He was a shepherd who entered the Capuchin order, where he demonstrated “the gift of reading the secrets of hearts, and with that of miracles and prophecy.” Significantly, this Serapion has a career very parallel to many in Hoffmann’s own circles: “aus glänzender Familie” (Hoffmann 25), working in the diplomatic corps (advancing to Ambassador, Gesandter ), before he turned into a Hermit, eventually coming out of the desert to go to Rome (Hoffmann 28). 16 Hoffmann called his tale a story of a martyr, saint, or hermit, which straightforwardly associates it not only with morality fables, but with a particular devotional practice in the Catholic Church and a set of associated strategies for understanding stories as moral exempla. Remember that Scriptural interpretation insisted that the Bible needed to be read in four ways: a literal interpretation, focusing on words and historical facts in the text; a typological (figural) interpretation, making explicit connections between Old and New Testaments, seeing Christ’s life prefigured in the former; a tropologial (moral) reading of the story, suggesting what it should teach us about our daily lives; and an anagogical interpretation, focusing on death and life beyond death, an eschatological reading. With the frame narrative’s Serapions, Hoffmann encourages such multiple readings of the stories told by his own Serapion-Bretheren, the martyrs of his era who can be equated with the multiple Sts. Serapion noted above. As historical martyrdoms, these stories document a world passed from fathers to sons, an Old Testament whose covenant needs to be reread in the world of the New Testament. The multiple Serapions, therefore, encourage multiple rereadings of the text. In the world of Falun, for instance, the pit of hell that this historically real place has quite literally been opened to those like Elis trapped by the ideology of the old orders, the old empires, and traditional patriarchal guild families who pass jobs on to children they deem worthy. In an endtime of merchantile capitalism, however, the story suggests a different moral: those children will be lost if they follow the strategies that led the region into economic collapse, war, and devastation. Figurally, each Serapion echoes on the other, just as the characters in the various stories in the Serapionsbrüder overlap heavily in their identities and dilemmas. In this sense, Hoffmann’s frame narrative also points to another factor influencing his collection: the original story was found as a Kalendergeschichte or popular almanac tale. Almanachs (like Benjamin Franklin’s Poor Richard’s ) were a mixed form, containing practical advice, humor, and short prose tales with moral points; Johann Peter Hebel had made them into an art form in the German language with his 1811 publication of the Schatzkästlein des Rheinischen Hausfreundes (1811), taken from a long-running set of almanac volumes. In this sense, then, Hoffmann’s play with Serapions calls attention not just to the collection’s possible moral purpose, but also to its claim of presenting popular tales in straightforward language, but with refined narrative techniques. The Serapionsbrüder volumes are easily read as Kalendargeschichten —as a set of recursive morality fables that meditate on the generation’s martyrdoms. Just as multiple Serapions run through the frame narrative, questions about fathers and their legacies, art, and inheritances in end times run throughout these now-familiar stories. The first of the volume’s tales, Rat Krespel, is a familiar tale about a retired bureaucrat, a slightly addled father of a doomed daughter. This father tries to protect his daughter by forbidding her to sing because she was born with a weak heart. If she falls in love and starts singing, she will die—a clear morality of a choice between love and life. The next entry is Die Fermata (71), another story of music intertwined with young love, but this time it is more a black comedy than a tragedy. Theodor cuts off the trill sung by his beloved Lauretta and she rejects him; he finds her again 14 years later, when she, now a nun singing in church services, again complains about how he treated her. Love’s power has decisively faded, and some things never change in the damaging, often fatal, relations between men and women. A fragment playing “am 2. Pfingsttag” introduces the second set of tales (129). Set on the second day after Pentecost Sunday, it includes jokes about various contemporary works, including Kleist’s Bettelweib von Locarno (129), Hoffmann’s own Kater Murr (130), and Arndt’s Wahres Christentum (130). The stories here are decisively driven by the supposed opposition between art and commerce. Der Artushof, about Danzig (177), is set in a trade hall and exchange. The hero marries into a company of woolgatherers and is happy with his lot as a merchant, until an old man seduces him into becoming a painter by showing him a marvelous panel (186). 17 This is the tale paired with Falun, whose references to Baltic commerce necessarily call to mind the contemporaneous paintings of Caspar David Friedrich (1774-1840) featuring the region’s harbors and cities. The final story in this set and in Hoffman’s first volume is the familiar Nußknacker und Mausekönig, the source for The Nutcracker ballet, a comingof-age story that starts at the beginning of the liturgical cycle, on Christmas. Nußknacker shows straightforwardly that benevolent kingdoms are the stuff of Baltic Providences and Martyrdoms 343 344 Katherine Arens and Sandra Ballif Straubhaar dreams, while, on the more practical level, to grow up, one must deal with the mice that come out of the walls at night. As a collection, then, this volume blends humor with visions and nightmares and heroes with (often unwitting) villains who offer them jobs. But one can go a step further with the religious analogies and figural readings. Like so many German Romantic tales, Elis’ story is the tale not just of a martyr, but also one of an orphan who lacks substantial, meaningful reference points within his own class, culture, and age group. He remains a well-meaning youth who, with few special gifts and only unacceptable opportunities available to him, will be sacrificed to the past as he tries to do his best and find a family or a community. The prominent roles played by the women in the other tales suggest that Ulla’s role in Falun also needs to be considered actively. Remember that when Elis dies in the mine collapse, the value of the Dahlsjö patriarch’s mine lease probably has also died. If this is so, then Ulla may be less a grieving widow than another victim of the economic realities of her world. She ended up not only without a bridegroom, but probably also without a dowry, and so she has become a kind of living ghost, a female victim of the mine. Even at the start of her courtship, she may have been less in love with Elis than happy to have found a groom at all—Elis, after all, did not have a city rival. Her father was looking to use his lease to find a son-in-law, not necessarily to pass on a family business in a declining industry. These tales of saints, martyrs, and hermits thus implicate a very specific readership and reading strategy, one leading back into the roots of the Romantic movement in its exploration of genre aesthetics. Taking Hoffmann’s own description of his historyand martyr-tales seriously opens up a broader sense of what Romanticism meant to this “third Romanticism” (after Jena and Heidelberg). Remember that the very term “romantic” refers back to the romance as a litery genre from high culture in the latter Middle Ages and Early Modern Europe. A romance was often a tale of a knight-errant on a quest or adventure, but one that focused on manners and mores, not just heroic deeds; it would often rework history, folk tales, or legends into more fictional form. 18 At the origin of the European novel, the romance also was a mixed genre, accommodating dialogue and poetry or song as well as exposition. And this, arguably, is what Hoffmann has provided in the Serapionsbrüder by adopting the almanac form with a frame narrative. His work is utterly political as a commentary on the mores of an era fatally disrupted by war and political realignments, leaving lives and careers in wreckage. Die Bergwerke von Falun is the key to this collection, since it is a story written for the collection, but ripped from recent history to bring the imperial politics of Hoffmann’s day into focus for individuals, as well as to question the value of traditional Bildung and the bourgeois social orders who are its proponents. The seduction offered by that older generation was economic and paternalistic: to become a “company man” as part of a ship or a mining lease, each with a distinct way of life, with its preferred celebrations and art. Yet older metaphors open up the moral core of this choice (the ultimate goal of a hero like Wilhelm Meister) when they are juxtaposed. In Christian iconography, a ship has always represented a world unto itself as it is a set of individuals under the complete disposition of the captain who, godlike, has their fate in his hands. The mine, in contrast, is almost a hermitage, a retreat from life on the earth into something more primitive, but totally under the control of skill and the whims of the mountain queen. Hoffmann’s Serapion Brethren are the saints among these people, survivors of the seductive bad advice that brought Elis Fröbom to his doom, a victim of the delusions fostered upon him by the traditional estates. But the families he shows us are traumatogenic: broken, orphaned, looking backwards and living off old wealth, with no clear way forward. These Seraphions from Berlin gained and lost their careers in Poland and retreated to the capital of a Prussia whose stratified society thwarted their hopes for a new future, a possible ascent into a new class, and a new social project. I would add that much of Romantic literature might be considered a product of cultural post-traumatic stress disease: they feature broken homes, lost loves, and desolate landscapes which disrupt the scripts through which individuals should author their own lives. Yet this literature is also a literature written under censorship, between the French Revolution and the Napoleonic Wars, so that the causes of these broken lives cannot be mentioned. Bringing the politics down to the everyday level of experience and focusing on the politics of economics, however, Hoffmann narrates the cultural and political causes of his generation’s traumas. This is a generation that, should it follow the scripts of the various guilds or Turmgesellschaften of the era, will be brought to its doom, a generation that needs Kalendergeschichten with clear morals and practical reason rather than the delusions of nationalism and Bildung among a bourgeoisie with infinite guile and little guilt about the costs imposed on its children as it asserts the political and economic ground of its existence long past its expiration date. Baltic Providences and Martyrdoms 345 346 Katherine Arens and Sandra Ballif Straubhaar Notes 1 This essay was jointly conceived and researched, especially the argument about the position of Falun and Sweden in the Baltic and the cross-references to religious spaces; both authors have worked through the text first drafted by Arens. 2 Wunberg, 177 ff., has a good overview of the source history, albeit more with reference to Hugo von Hofmannsthal’s version of the story. Neubauer takes up the versions in another way, reaching up through Wagner and Hofmannsthal. See Jacobs for quotations of the source in Schubert (56 f., n. 19). See Steinecke (1997) for a modern biography that also includes more extended accounts of the origin of each of Hoffmann’s works and an account of his employment history. 3 The vast number of modern studies addresses Hoffmann’s work through its aesthetics; see, for example, Kremer. Grossert and Böhme take on the Falun material psychologically. Montadon documents the contemporaneous sources from Scandinavia (211), and notes how Novalis is a secondary source, while offering an overall Freudian interpretation. E. L. Smith stresses the metaphor of understanding fate and thus a more psychologizing approach to myth; Rieckmann also approaches the story through fate, as he compares Hoffmann to Hofmannsthal. Fleck shows how Ibsen used it as a source; Stinchcomb does the same for Trakl. Wulff has noted that D. H. Lawrence used Hebel’s version of the story. The history of ideas has also figured prominently: Jennings takes on the text’s connections to Naturphilosophie ; Kugler (2013) and Uerlings (1996) deal with the mine as real and ideal. Maillard traces the tale back to romantic science, as well, with the emphasis on the unconscious and Carus, but then makes a modern psychoanalytic interpretation, referring to the structure of the soul. Rickels talks about how it early became a tourist trap, with Fet-Mats Israelsson (the historical prototype for Hoffmann’s protagonist Elis Fröbom) being multiply buried, but then defers this discussion to offer instead an overall Freudian interpretation. 4 The collection, published in four volumes, was originally intended to be titled “Die Seraphinen Brüder”; the change in name from Seraphim to Serapion seems to have been motivated by his wife’s Polish calendar (Hoffmann 1236 f.). An editor identifies the titular saint as Seraphinus von Montegranaro, whose feast day is 12 October (Hoffmann 1230). But as we shall see below, there are at least three different saint Seraphims that come into question as his referents, given how common Seraphim / Serapion is in Orthodox Christianity. 5 See also Voss (2009) for a tie between aesthetics and economics in this story. 6 A project has rebuilt a replica of Sweden’s largest India Trader, the Gotheborg. See the webpage by Jan-Erik Nilsson at www.gotheborg.com / project / project_introduction.shtml for the entire history of this investment and reconstruction. Information on the ship which was built in Stockholm to go to China (whereas any number of the British India Traders were built in India) and which originally sank in 1745 can be found at this site and at en.wikipedia.org / wiki / Götheborg_(ship) (accessed 28 April 2014). The original trade charter was set to expire in 1746, and the ship had left the harbor for Canton, China in 1743. In 1813, the Swedish East India Trade was given up (see en.wikipedia.org / wiki / Swedish_East_India_Company for a usable outline of the trade in English [accessed 28 April 2014]). 7 The British East India Company had been brought under political control in 1784 and in 1813 had nationalized its international holdings under the British Crown in the Charter Act of 1813 (53 Geo. III c.155). 8 See Hartma (2003) for a discussion of technical “progress” in mining. 9 Such passages explain the proliferation of psychoanalytic interpretations of the story. See, for example, Klesse 2010 or Wight 1990 for explicitly Freudian interpretations. 10 The full application documents (2001) are available at whc.unesco.org / uploads / nominations / 1027.pdf (accessed 28 April 2014). 11 Hoffmann is considered to be the Theodor represented in the text (Kleßmann 429). For a discussion of how this frame sets up Hoffmann’s project, see Brown (2006). 12 This image is probably a reference to the end of the Holy Roman Empire in 1806, given that staghorns are part of the coat of arms of the house of Württemberg, which allied itself with Napoleon in the Rheinbund. Württemberg’s monarch changed from being one of the HRE ’s Prince-Electors to being a King. 13 See the commentary in the critical edition (Hoffmann 1265). 14 See www.orderofmercy.org/ and libro.uca.edu / rc / prolog.htm, or en.wikipedia.org / wiki / Serapion_of_Algiers, featured in a famous painting by Zurbarán (accessed 28 April 2014). 15 See the New Catholic Encyclopedia , Online ed. www.newadvent.org/ cathen/ 13726a.htm (accessed 28 April 2014) and en.wikipedia.org / wiki / Seraphin_ of_Montegranaro (accessed 10 May 2014). 16 One other St. Seraphim is important in the Russian Orthodox Church of the era, St. Seraphim of Sarov (1754-1833), a famous hermit-monk, who, in 1815, had a vision of the Virgin Mary and turned to prophecy and healing; Baltic Providences and Martyrdoms 347 348 Katherine Arens and Sandra Ballif Straubhaar he had, of course, not been canonized yet, but he was visible when Hoffmann was writing. See en.wikipedia.org / wiki / Seraphim_of_Sarov. 17 From a 12 March 1815 letter to Hippel: “Das Ganze dreht sich um ein wunderbares Bild im Arthushof, welches in der Seele eines jungen Kaufmanns den Funken der Kunst entzündet, so daß er sich von allem losreißt und Mahler wird” (Hoffmann 1318). 18 See the The Origins of the English Novel, 1660 — 1740 by Michael McKeon (1987) for the position of the romance in the history of the novel. Works Cited Arnold, Heinz Ludwig. E. T. A. Hoffmann. Text + Kritik Sonderband. München: edition text + kritik, 1992. Baldes, Dirk. “The Significance of Name-Days in the Literature of German Romanticism Using the Example of E. T. A. Hoffmann.” Acta humanitarica universitatis Saulensis T. 8 (2009), 177-83. Böhme, Hartmut. “Romantische Adoleszenzkrisen: Zur Psychodynamik der Venuskult-Novellen von Tieck, Eichendorff und E. T. A. Hoffmann.” Text & Kontext 10, Supplement (1981): 133-76. Brown, Hilda Meldrum. Critique and Creativity: E. T. A. 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