Tauche ein in die faszinierende Welt von Theodor Fontanes ‘Schach von Wuthenow’, einem packenden Roman über Macht, Intrigen und die Geheimnisse des Schachs. 🏆 In diesem Werk erleben wir die Schicksale von Charakteren, die im politischen Spiel des 19. Jahrhunderts gefangen sind und die Grenzen von Ehrgeiz und Moral ausloten. ✨ Begleite die dramatische Geschichte von Schachmeistern, die nicht nur auf dem Brett, sondern auch in ihrem Leben alles riskieren. 🤯
-Unterm Birnbaum 🍃🌳 – Ein packendes Drama von Theodor Fontane[https://youtu.be/wblOI-IHBRM]
-Tonio Kröger 🎭✨ von Thomas Mann – Ein Meisterwerk der Literatur[https://youtu.be/IcM2Jj4I2-g]
-Ingeborg – Berliner Liebesdrama & Gesellschaftsroman 🎭💔🏙️ [https://youtu.be/v_V_42wuwVo]
-Schach von Wuthenow ♟️ Der dramatische Kampf um Macht und Ehre 🏰[https://youtu.be/v7VYHT0_Quk]
-Unterm Birnbaum 🍃🌳 – Ein packendes Drama von Theodor Fontane[https://youtu.be/wblOI-IHBRM]
-Das Bildnis des Dorian Gray 🎭🖼️ | Oscar Wilde Hörbuch auf Deutschhttps://youtu.be/wZA6Yd3NA8E]
**Navigate by Chapters or Titles:**
00:00:32 Chapter 1.
00:13:01 Chapter 2.
00:25:08 Chapter 3.
00:39:55 Chapter 4.
01:13:54 Chapter 5.
01:22:04 Chapter 6.
01:38:09 Chapter 7.
01:58:34 Chapter 8.
02:13:30 Chapter 9.
02:20:44 Chapter 10.
02:31:20 Chapter 11.
02:37:09 Chapter 12.
02:45:37 Chapter 13.
02:59:54 Chapter 14.
03:24:58 Chapter 15.
03:36:26 Chapter 16.
03:52:01 Chapter 17.
04:02:02 Chapter 18.
04:09:47 Chapter 19.
04:20:36 Chapter 20.
04:26:38 Chapter 21.
Schach von Wuthenow, a fascinating work by Theodor Fontane, transports us to the world of chess and profound human relationships. This story tells of the encounter between a young man and an older chess master, who engage in a thrilling game not only on the chessboard but also in real life . Fontane reveals the complexity of the human psyche and the moral dilemmas that often involve us in decision-making processes. Join us on this journey that leads into the depths of the human soul. Chapter 1. In the salon of Mrs. von Carayon. In the salon of Mrs. von Carayon, who lived on Behrenstrasse, and her daughter Victoire, a few friends were gathered for their usual evening reception , but admittedly only a few, as the intense heat of the day had lured even the circle’s most loyal followers outdoors. Of the officers of the Gendarme Regiment, who were rarely absent on one of these evenings, only one had appeared, a Herr von Alvensleben, and had taken a seat next to the beautiful lady of the house, simultaneously jokingly regretting that the very person to whom this seat truly belonged was missing. Opposite them, at the side of the table facing the center of the room, sat two gentlemen in civilian clothes who, although they had only been at home in this circle for a few weeks, had nevertheless already achieved a dominant position within it. Most notably, the younger of the two, a former staff captain who, having returned home after an adventurous life in England and the Union States , was generally regarded as the head of those military frondeurs who at that time shaped, or rather terrorized, the political opinion of the capital . His name was von Bülow. Nonchalance was part of genius, and so, with both feet stretched out and his left hand in his trouser pocket, he would wave his right hand in the air, emphasizing his lecture with lively gesticulations. As his friends said, he could only speak to deliver a lecture, and—he was actually always talking. The strong gentleman beside him was the publisher of his writings, Mr. Daniel Sander, but otherwise his complete opposite, at least in all matters of appearance. A full black beard framed his face, expressing as much contentment as sarcasm, while the Dutch-cloth coat, fitted tightly at the waist, tightened his embonpoint. What completed the contrast was the finest white linen, in which Bülow by no means excelled. The conversation that was just taking place seemed to revolve around the recently concluded Haugwitz mission, which, in Bülow’s view, had not only restored a desirable understanding between Prussia and France , but had also included the possession of Hanover as a “morning gift.” Mrs. von Carayon, however, criticized this “morning gift” because one couldn’t properly give or give away what one didn’t have. At this remark, her daughter, Victoire, who had been unnoticed at the tea table until then, cast a tender glance at her mother , while Alvensleben kissed the beautiful woman’s hand. “I was sure of your approval, dear Alvensleben,” Mrs. von Carayon interjected, “but look how Minos and Rhadamantus-like our friend Bülow is sitting there. He’s brooding over things again, Victoire, rich Mr. von Bülow of the Carlsbad Oblates. I believe it’s the only thing he’ll accept about Austria. Meanwhile, Mr. Sander tells us about our progress in the new province. I’m just afraid it ‘s not great.” “Or rather, let’s say it doesn’t exist at all,” Sander replied. “Anyone who believes in the Welf Lion or the Prancing Horse doesn’t want to be ruled by Prussia. And I don’t blame anyone. We’d be enough for the Poles, at best. But the Hanoverians are fine people.” “Yes, they are,” confirmed Mrs. von Carayon, adding immediately afterward: “Perhaps also a little arrogant.” “A little!” laughed Bülow. “Oh, my Grace, if only such leniency had always been met with. Believe me, I have known the Hanoverians for a long time, and in my Altmark capacity, I have, so to speak, peered over their fences since my youth, and can assure you that everything that makes England so repugnant to me is doubly present in this Guelph ancestral land. I therefore begrudge them the punishment we are giving them. Our Prussian economy is wretched, and Mirabeau was right to compare the vaunted state of Frederick the Great to a fruit that is already rotten before it has even ripened, but rotten or not, we have at least one thing: a feeling that the world has taken a step forward in the last fifteen years, and that its great destinies do not necessarily have to unfold between the Nuthe and the Notte . In Hanover, however, people still believe in a special mission for Kalenberg and the Lüneburg Heath. The name is an omen. It is the seat of stagnation, a breeding ground for prejudice. We at least know that we are worthless, and in this knowledge lies the possibility of improvement. In some details we lag behind them , admittedly, but as a whole we are ahead of them, and in this lies a claim and a right that we must assert. That we, despite Sander, have actually failed in Poland proves nothing; the state made no effort and considered its tax collectors just good enough to carry culture to the East. Rightly so, insofar as even a tax collector represents order, albeit from the unpleasant side. Victoria , who had abandoned her seat at the tea table the moment Poland was brought into the conversation, now threatened the speaker and said: “You must know, Herr von Bülow, that I love the Poles, even with all my heart.” And with that, she leaned out of the shadows into the lamplight, in whose brightness one could now clearly see that her delicate profile might once have resembled her mother’s, but that numerous smallpox scars had robbed her of its former beauty. Everyone must have seen it, and the only one who didn’t see it, or, if he did, considered it absolutely indifferent, was Bülow. He simply repeated: “Oh yes, the Poles. They are the best mazurka dancers, and that’s why you love them.” “Not at all. I love them because they are chivalrous and unhappy.” “That too. Such things could be said. And one could almost envy them for their misfortune, for it wins them the sympathy of all ladies.” In the conquest of women, they have, from ancient times, the most brilliant military record.” “And who saved…” “You know my heretical views on rescues. And now Vienna in particular! It was saved. Certainly. But why? My imagination revels in the notion of seeing a favorite sultan standing in the crypt of the Capuchins. Perhaps where Maria Theresa now stands. A touch of Islam has always been at home with these Hahndel and Fasahndel men , and Europe could have tolerated a little more of the seraglio or harem economy without great harm…” A servant entering announced Captain von Schach, and a glimmer of joyful surprise passed over both ladies when the one announced entered immediately after. He kissed Frau von Carayon’s hand, bowed to Victoria, and then greeted Alvensleben cordially, but Bülow and Sander with reserve. “I’m afraid I interrupted Mr. von Bülow…” “An unavoidable occurrence, to be sure,” Sander replied, pushing his chair aside. There was laughter, Bülow himself joined in, and only Schach’s more than usual reserve suggested that he must have entered the salon under the impression of either a personally unpleasant event or politically unpleasant news . “What do you bring, dear Schach? You’re preoccupied. Are new storms brewing…” “Not that, Madam, not that. I’m from the Countess.” Haugwitz, with whom I spend more time the more I withdraw from the Count and his politics. The Countess knows this and approves of my behavior. We had just begun a conversation when a crowd began to gather outside the palace, first hundreds, then thousands. The noise grew, and finally a stone was thrown and flew past the table at which we were sitting. A hair’s breadth and the Countess was hit. But what really hit her were the words, the curses that echoed up. Finally, the Count himself appeared. He was completely composed and never for a moment denied his cavalier identity. It took a long time, however, before the street could be cleared. Have we already reached that point? Riot, uproar. And in the land of Prussia, under the very eyes of His Majesty.” “And we, in particular, will be held responsible for these events ,” interrupted Alvensleben, “in particular us, the gendarmes.” It is known that we disapprove of this sycophancy towards France, from which we ultimately gain nothing but stolen provinces. Everyone knows where we stand on this, even at court, and they will not hesitate to blame us for this riot.” “A sight fit for the gods,” said Sander. “The regiment of gendarmes accused of high treason and riot.” “And not without reason,” Bülow interrupted, now genuinely agitated . “Not without reason, I say. And don’t keep joking about it, Sander. Why do these gentlemen, who every day claim to be smarter than the king and his ministers, why do they use this language? Why do they engage in politics? Whether a troop may engage in politics is a moot point, but if it engages in politics, let it at least engage in politics properly. Finally, we are on the right path, finally we are where we should have been from the beginning, finally His Majesty has listened to the suggestions of reason, and what happens? Our officers, whose first word is the King and their loyalty, and who only ever feel good when there is a hint of Russia and Juchten and very little of freedom, our officers, I say, are suddenly indulging in a naive and dangerous spirit of opposition, and with their bold actions and their even bolder words, they are provoking the wrath of the barely appeased Emperor. Such things then easily spread to the street. The gentlemen of the Gendarme Regiment will certainly not lift the stone themselves, which ultimately flies all the way to the Countess’s tea table, but they are nevertheless the moral originators of this riot; they created the mood for it .” “No, that mood was there.” “Good. Perhaps it was there.” But once it existed, it was necessary to fight it, not to nurture it. If we nurture it, we will hasten our downfall. The Emperor is only waiting for an opportunity; we are entered in his debt book with many items, and once he adds up the total, we are lost.” “Don’t believe it,” Schach replied. “I cannot follow you, Herr von Bülow.” “Which I regret.” “Even less so. It is convenient for you that you may instruct and enlighten me and my comrades about loyalty to our country and our king , for the principles to which you profess are currently paramount. We now, according to your wish and most high will, stand at the table of France and pick up the crumbs that fall from the Emperor’s table. But for how long? The state of Frederick the Great must remember itself again.” “If only it would,” Bülow replied. “But it is simply neglecting that.” Is this wavering, this still half-hearted commitment to Russia and Austria, which alienates us from the Emperor, this is Frederick’s policy? I ask you?’ ‘You misunderstand me.’ ‘Then I beg you to extricate me from this misunderstanding.’ ‘Which I will at least try to do…. Besides, you are misunderstanding me, Herr von Bülow. I am not fighting the French alliance because it is an alliance, nor because it is in the manner of all alliances aim to duplicate our strength for this or that end. Oh, no; how could I? Alliances are means that every policy requires; even the great King used these means and constantly varied within them. But he did not change his ultimate goal. This was unwavering: a strong and independent Prussia. And now I ask you, Herr von Bülow, is what Count Haugwitz has brought us home, and what enjoys your approval so much, is that a strong and independent Prussia? You asked me, now I ask you.” Chapter 2. “The Consecration of Strength.” Bülow, whose features began to take on an expression of extreme arrogance , wanted to reply, but Frau von Carayon interrupted and said: “Let us learn something from the politics of our time: where there cannot be peace, there can at least be an armistice. Here too… And now, dear Alvensleben, guess who was here today to pay us a visit? A celebrity. And assigned to us by Rahel Lewin .” “So the Prince,” said Alvensleben. “Oh no, more famous, or at least more famous for the day. The Prince is an established celebrity, and celebrities who have lasted ten years are no longer… I’ll help you, by the way; it’s bordering on literary, and so I’d like to assume that Mr. Sander will solve the riddle for us.” “I’ll at least try, most gracious lady, and perhaps your trust will grant me a certain consecration, or let’s put it bluntly, a certain ‘consecration of strength’.” “Oh, excellent. Yes, Zacharias Werner was here. Unfortunately, we were out, and so we missed the visit we were supposed to have. I regretted it very much .” “On the contrary, you should congratulate yourself on having escaped disappointment ,” Bülow interjected. “It is rare that poets live up to the image we have of them. We expect an Olympian, a nectar and ambrosia man, and instead see a gourmand consuming a roast turkey; we expect revelations from his most secret dialogue with the gods and hear him recount his last order, or perhaps even recite the most gracious words that Serenissimus uttered about his muse’s youngest child . Perhaps also Serenissima, which always means the most absurd thing imaginable . “But after all, nothing is more absurd than the judgment of those who have the privilege of being born in a stable or a barn,” said Schach pointedly. “To my regret, my very esteemed Herr von Schach, I must disagree with you on this point as well.” The difference you doubt actually exists, at least in my experience, and, as you’ll allow me to repeat, not in favor of the Serenissimus. In the world of the common people, judgment in and of itself is not higher, but the embarrassed modesty in which it clothes itself and the stammering bad conscience with which it surfaces always have something conciliatory about it. And now the Prince speaks! He is the lawgiver of his country in everything and anything, in matters great and small, and therefore naturally also in aesthetic matters. One who decides over life and death, shouldn’t he also be able to decide over a little poem? Ah, bah! Let him say what he will, they are always tablets directly from Sinai. I have heard such Ten Commandments proclaimed more than once, and since then I know what it means: regarder dans le Néant.” “And yet I agree with Mama,” remarked Victoire, who was anxious to return the conversation to its beginning, to the play and its poet . “It would have been a real pleasure for me to meet the ‘famous gentleman of the day,’ as Mama so euphemistically called him . You forget, Mr. von Bülow, that we are women, and that as such we have a right to be curious. After all, finding little interest in a celebrity is still better than never having seen them at all.” “And we won’t see him again, definitely not,” added Frau von Carayon. “He’s leaving Berlin in the next few days and was only here to attend the first rehearsals of his play.” “Which means,” Alvensleben interjected, “that there’s no longer any doubt about the performance itself.” “I think not. They’ve managed to win over the court, or at least dispel all the reservations raised.” “Which I find incomprehensible,” Alvensleben continued. “I’ve read the play. He wants to glorify Luther, and the quirk of Jesuitism peeks out everywhere from under his doctoral robe. But what’s most puzzling to me is that Iffland , a Freemason, is interested in it.” “From which I’d simply conclude that he has the leading role,” Sander replied. “Our principles last just until they come into conflict with our passions or vanities, and then we always come up short. He’ll want to play Luther. And that’s what decides it.” “I confess I’m reluctant,” said Victoire, “to see Luther’s figure on stage. Or am I going too far?” It was Alvensleben to whom the question had been directed. “Too far? Oh, my dearest Victoire, certainly not. You speak from my heart . My earliest memories are of sitting in our village church, with my old father beside me, singing along to all the hymns. And to the left of the altar, our Martin Luther hung in full length, the Bible in his arms, his right hand resting on it, a lifelike image, looking over at me. I dare say that on many a Sunday, this serious man’s face has preached to me better and more penetratingly than our old Kluckhuhn, who, it is true, had the same high cheekbones and the same white chin as the Reformer, but nothing more. And this man of God, after whom we name ourselves and distinguish ourselves, and whom I have never looked up to except with reverence and devotion, I do not want to see emerge from the wings or from a back door. Not even if Iffland plays him, whom I, incidentally, esteem, not only as an artist, but also as a man of principle and good Prussian conviction.” “Pectus facit oratorem,” Sander assured him, and Victoria cheered. But Bülow, who did not gladly tolerate new gods beside him, threw himself back in his chair and said, stroking his chin and goatee , “It will not surprise you to find me in dissent.” “Oh, certainly not,” Sander laughed. “I would only like to protest against the idea that, through such a dissent, I would somehow become the advocate of this priestly Zacharias Werner , whose mystical, romantic tendencies are simply repugnant to me. I am nobody’s advocate…” “Not even Luther’s?” Schach asked ironically. “Not even Luther’s!” “It’s fortunate that he can do without him…” “But for how long?” Bülow continued, straightening up. “Believe me, Herr von Schach, he too is in decadence, like so much else with him, and no attorney general in the world will be able to keep him for a trifle.” “I heard Napoleon speak of a ‘Prussian episode,'” Schach replied. “Do the gentlemen of innovation, with Herr von Bülow at their head, perhaps wish to bless us with a ‘Luther episode’ as well?” “It is so. You are right. Incidentally, it is not we who want to create this episodicism. Such things cannot be achieved by individuals; history does. And in doing so, a wonderful connection will emerge between the Prussian episode and the Luther episode. It is said there again: ‘Tell me with whom you associate, and I will tell you who you are.’ I confess that I believe Prussia’s days are numbered, and ‘when the cloak falls, the Duke must follow.’ I leave it to you to assign the roles. The connections between church and state are not sufficiently appreciated; Every state is, in a certain sense, also a church state; it enters into a marriage with the church, and if this marriage is to be happy, both must be compatible. In Prussia, they are compatible. And why? Because both are equally meager, equally narrowly connected. They are small existences, both destined to rise or fall in something greater. And soon. Hannibal ante portas.” “I thought I understood you,” Schach replied, “that Count Haugwitz did not bring us ruin, but rather salvation and peace .” “He did. But he cannot change our destiny, at least not in the long run. This destiny is called incorporation into the universal. The national and the confessional standpoint are vanishing things, but above all it is the Prussian standpoint and its alter ego, the Lutheran one. Both are artificial entities. I ask, what do they mean? What missions do they fulfill? They draw on each other; they are each other’s purpose and task, that is all. And that’s supposed to be a global role! What has Prussia contributed to the world? What do I find when I do the math? The Great Blues of King Frederick William I, the iron ramrod, the pigtail, and that wonderful morality that invented the phrase, ‘I tied him to the manger, why didn’t he eat?'” “Good, good. But Luther… “Well then, there’s a legend that freedom came into the world with the man from Wittenberg, and narrow-minded historians have assured the North German people of this until they believed it. But what did he really bring into the world? Intolerance and witch trials, sobriety and boredom. That is no glue for millennia. That world monarchy, which is only missing the final touch, will also be followed by a world church, for just as small things find each other and are connected, so the great ones even more so. I won’t see Luther on stage because, in this distortion of Mr. Zacharias Werner, he’s simply something that annoys me; but not seeing him because it offends, because it’s desecration, that’s more than I can comprehend.” “And we, dear Bülow,” interrupted Frau von Carayon, “we will see him, even though it offends us. Victoria is right, and if with Iffland vanity may prevail over principle, with us curiosity prevails. I hope Herr von Schach and you, dear Alvensleben, will accompany us. Incidentally, a few of the inserted songs aren’t bad. We received them yesterday. Victoria, you could sing us one or two of them.” “I’ve barely played them through.” “Oh, then I beg you all the more,” remarked Schach. “All salon virtuosity is hateful to me. But what I love in art is this poetic searching and groping.” Bülow smiled to himself and seemed to want to say: “To each his means.” But Schach led Victoria to the piano and she sang while he accompanied. The blossom, it sleeps so softly and gently, Well in the cradle of snow; Winter lulls it: “Sleep quickly, you blooming child.” And the child weeps and sleeps away its sorrow, And down from fragrant heights the sisters descend and love and bloom . There was a short pause and Mrs. von Carayon asked: “Well, Mr. Sander, how does it stand up to your criticism?” “It must be very beautiful,” he replied. “I don’t understand it. But let’s hear it further. The blossom, which for now still sleeps, will surely awaken one day.« And when May comes again so mildly, Then it breaks the cradle of snow, It shakes the blossom »Wake up quickly, you withering child.« And it lifts its little eye, it aches , And climbs up into the shining heights Where its little brothers bloom radiantly. There was lively applause. But it was exclusively for Victoria and the composition, and when it finally came time for the text , everyone confessed to Sanders’ heretical views. Only Bülow remained silent. Like most Frondeurs preoccupied with the downfall of states, he also had his weak points, and one of them had been hit by the song. Outside, a few stars sparkled in the partly clouded sky, the crescent moon between them, and he repeated, as he gazed up through the panes of the high balcony door : “Where the little brothers bloom, shining brightly.” Against his will and knowledge, he was a child of his time and romanticized. A second and third song was sung, but the verdict remained the same. Then, not too late in the evening, they parted. Chapter 3. At Sala Tarone. The clocks on the Gensdarmenmarkt struck eleven as Frau von Carayon’s guests stepped out onto Behrenstraße and, turning left, walked toward the Linden trees. The moon had veiled, and the damp rain that already hung in the air, indicating a change in the weather , did everyone good. At the corner of the Linden trees, Schach took his leave, citing all sorts of official business, while Alvensleben, Bülow, and Sander agreed to chat for another hour. “But where?” asked Bülow, who, on the whole, wasn’t particular, but still had a distaste for establishments where “guards and waiters choked him.” “But where?” repeated Sander. “Look, the good stuff is so close,” and pointed to a corner shop above which, in moderately large letters, it read : Italian, Wine and Delicatessen Shop by Sala Tarone. Since it was already closed, someone knocked on the front door, on one side of which there was a notch with a flap. And sure enough, immediately afterwards it opened from inside, a head appeared at the peephole, and when Alvensleben’s uniform had reassured them about the character of the somewhat late guests , the key turned in the lock inside, and all three entered . But the draft extinguished the torch the cooper was holding, and only a lantern smoldering in the distance, just above the courtyard door, provided just enough light to indicate the perilous nature of the passage. “Please, Bülow, what do you say to this parade?” grumbled Sander, shrinking ever thinner, and it really was time to be on guard, for in front of the oil and wine barrels lying on either side stood lemon and orange crates, their lids open at the front . “Watch out,” said the cooper. “It’s all full of pins and nails here. I just kicked one in yesterday. ” “So Spanish cavalry too… Oh, Bülow! This is the kind of situation a military publishing house puts you in.” Sander’s cry of pain restored cheerfulness, and with groping and feeling, they finally reached the courtyard door , where, to the right, some of the barrels lay less densely together. They squeezed through here and, with the help of four or five steep steps, reached a moderately large back room, painted yellow and half-faded, and, like all “breakfast rooms,” at its most crowded at midnight. Everywhere, along low panels, stood long, long-settled leather sofas, with small and large tables in front of them, and there was only one place where this furniture was missing. Here, instead, stood a desk covered with chests and reals, in front of which one of the company’s representatives rode day in and day out on a swivel stool, usually shouting his orders with only a word into a cellar located directly next to the desk , whose trapdoor was always open. Our three friends had taken a seat in a corner diagonally opposite the cellar , and Sander, who had been a publisher long enough to understand culinary subtleties, was just scanning the wine and menu. It was bound in Russian leather, but smelled of lobster. It didn’t seem that our Lucullus had found what he liked; so he pushed the menu away again and said: “The least I can expect from such a dog-day April is May herbs, Asperula odorata Linnéi. For I have also published botanicals . We learned about the availability of fresh oranges outside.” Convinced at the risk of our lives, and the company guarantees the Mosel . ” The gentleman at the desk didn’t move, but it was clearly visible that he agreed with his back. Bülow and Alvensleben did the same, and Sander resolved briefly: “So, May punch.” The word was deliberately spoken loudly and with the emphasis of an order , and at the same moment a cry rang out from the swivel chair down into the cellar: “Fritz!” A fat, short-necked boy, who initially emerged from the recesses only halfway up, immediately became visible as if a spring had been pressed, eagerly leaped the last two or three steps, placing his hand on the ground, and in an instant stood before Sander, whom he apparently knew best. “Tell me, Fritz, what is the Sala Tarone company’s attitude toward May punch?” “Good.” Very good.” “But it’s only April, and as much as I’m generally a man for surrogates, I still hate one thing: the tonca bean. The tonca bean belongs in the snuffbox, not in the May punch. Understood?” “You’re welcome, Mr. Sander.” “Good then. May herbs, then. And don’t let it steep for long. Woodruff is not chamomile tea. The Mosel, let’s say a Zeltlinger or a Brauneberger, is poured slowly over the bunches; that’s enough. Orange slices as a mere ornament. One slice too many gives you a headache. And not too sweet, and an extra drizzle. Extra, I say. Better is better.” With that, the order was completed, and before ten minutes had passed, the punch appeared, with no more than three or four woodruff leaves floating on it, just enough to prove its authenticity. “You see, Fritz, I like that. It floats on some May punches like duckweed. And that’s terrible. I think we’ll remain friends. And now, green glasses.” Alvensleben laughed. “Green?” “Yes. What can be said against that, dear Alvensleben, I know and I’ll accept it. It is indeed a question that has occupied me for some time, and which, along with others, belongs to the series of those conflicts that, no matter how we begin, drag on through our lives. The color of the wine is lost, but the color of spring is gained, and with it the overall festive color. And this seems to me the more important point. Our eating and drinking, insofar as it doesn’t serve the common necessities of life, must become more and more a symbolic act, and I can understand times in the later Middle Ages when the centerpiece and the fruit bowls meant more than the meal itself.” “How well that suits you, Sander,” laughed Bülow. “And yet I thank God I don’t have to pay your capon bill.” “Which you do pay after all.” “Ah, the first time I’ve discovered a grateful publisher in you. Let’s raise a glass… But, my goodness, there goes tall Nostitz from the shadows. You see, Sander, he never ends…” Indeed, it was Nostitz who, using a secret entrance, was just stumbling up the cellar stairs, Nostitz of the Gensdarmes, the tallest lieutenant in the army, who, despite being of Saxon ancestry, had been accepted into the elite Gensdarmes Regiment almost without argument because of his six foot three inches, and had long since overcome any remaining small vestige of antagonism. A daring rider and an even more daring knight and debt-maker, he had long been the most popular member of the regiment, so popular that the “Prince,” who was none other than Prince Louis, had requested him as his adjutant during the previous year’s mobilization . Curious about his origins, he was bombarded with questions, but only after he had adjusted himself on the leather sofa did he answer all the questions. “Where am I from? Why did I play truant at the Carayons’? Well, because I wanted to see in Französisch Buchholz whether the storks were back, whether the cuckoo was hooting again, and whether the schoolmaster’s daughter would be there for much longer. ” She has flaxen braids, like last year. A charming child. I always have her show me the church, and then we climb up into the tower because I have a passion for old bell inscriptions. You wouldn’t believe what you can decipher in a tower like that. I count it among my happiest and most instructive hours.” “And a blonde,” you said. Then, of course, everything is explained. Because our Miss Victoria can’t stand next to a Princess with flaxen hair. And not even her beautiful mother, who is beautiful, but ultimately brunette. And blonde always comes before black.” “I wouldn’t want to make that an axiom,” Nostitz continued. “It all depends on secondary circumstances, which, of course, also speak in my friend’s favor here. The beautiful mother, as you call her, is turning thirty-seven, which, when added up, I ‘m probably gallant enough to count her four years of marriage as half instead of double. But that’s Schach’s business, who sooner or later will be able to interrogate her baptismal certificate for its secrets.” “How so?” asked Bülow. “How so?” repeated Nostitz. “What poor observers scholars, even if they were learned military men, are. Has the relationship between the two escaped you? A rather advanced one, I think. It’s the first thing, it costs…” “You’re expressing yourself somewhat obscurely, Nostitz. “Otherwise, not exactly my fault.” “For my part, I think I understand you,” interrupted Alvensleben. “But you’re mistaken, Nostitz, if you’re drawing conclusions about a game from that. Chess is a very peculiar nature, which, whatever one may find fault with it, at least poses some psychological problems. I have never met a person, for example, whose entire approach could be traced back to aesthetics, which is perhaps somewhat related to his exaggerated ideas about integrity and marriage. At least of the kind of marriage he wishes to enter into. And so I am convinced, as if for life , that he will never marry a widow, not even the most beautiful one. But if there could still be any doubt about this, one circumstance would dispel it, and that one circumstance is: “Victoire.” “How so?” “Just as so many a marriage plan has failed because of an unrepresentable mother, so it would fail here because of an unrepresentable daughter. He feels downright embarrassed by her lack of beauty and is horrified by the thought of seeing his normality, if I may express myself so, in any way connected with her abnormality . He is pathologically dependent, dependent to the point of weakness, on the judgment of people, especially those of his peers, and would at any time feel unable to introduce Victoria as his daughter to any princess or even a high-ranking lady .” “Possible. But such a thing can be avoided.” “Yet difficult.” To put her aside, or simply to treat her like Cinderella, goes against his fine sense; his heart is too much in the right place for that. And Frau von Carayon simply would n’t tolerate that. For as surely as she loves chess, she loves Victoria—indeed, she loves her a good deal more. It’s an absolutely ideal relationship between mother and daughter, and it’s precisely this relationship that has made this house so precious to me and still does.” “So we’ll bury the game,” said Bülow. “For me personally, it’s a matter of particular satisfaction and joy, for I’m in raptures about this woman. She has all the charm of the true and the natural, and even her weaknesses are charming and amiable. And next to that, this chess! He may have his merits, all right, but to me he is nothing but a pedant and a self-important person, and at the same time the embodiment of that Prussian narrow-mindedness which has only three articles of faith: first, “the world rests no more securely on the shoulders of Atlas than the Prussian state on the shoulders of the Prussian army”, second, “the Prussian infantry attack is irresistible,” and third and finally, “a battle is never lost as long as the Garde du Corps Regiment has not attacked.” Or, of course, the Gensdarmes Regiment. For they are siblings, twin brothers. I detest such sayings, and the day is near when the world will recognize the hollowness of such rhetoric.” “And yet you underestimate Schach. He is, after all, one of our best.” “So much the worse.” “One of our best, I say, and truly a good one. He doesn’t just play the chivalrous, he is one too. In his own way, of course. In any case, he wears an honest face and no mask.” “Alvensleben is right,” Nostitz confirmed. “I don’t have much time for him, but that’s true, everything about him is genuine, even his stiff nobility, however boring and offensive I find it. And that’s where he differs from us. He is always himself, whether he enters the drawing room, or stands in front of the mirror, or puts on his saffron nightgown before going to bed. Sander, who doesn’t love him, should decide and have the final say over him.” “It’s not even three days,” he began, “since I read in Haude und Spener that the Emperor of Brazil promoted Saint Anthony to lieutenant colonel and instructed his Minister of War to credit the said saint’s salary until further notice. This credit made an even greater impression on me than the promotion. But no matter. In days of such appointments and promotions, it will not be surprising if I summarize the feelings of this hour, as well as the decision and verdict I demand , in these words: Long live His Majesty, Captain von Schach.” “Oh, especially Sander,” said Bülow, “you’ve hit the nail on the head. The whole ridiculousness in one fell swoop. The little man in the big boots! But for my sake, long live him!’ ‘Then, to top it all off, we have the language of “His Majesty’s most loyal opposition,” Sander replied, rising. ‘And now, Fritz, the bill. Please allow me to arrange the business side, gentlemen.’ ‘In the best of hands,’ said Nostitz. And five minutes later, everyone stepped outside again. Dust swirled from the gate up the linden trees; a severe thunderstorm was evidently approaching, and the first heavy drops of rain were already falling. ‘Hatez vous.’ And everyone followed the instructions and strove to reach their apartments as quickly as possible and by the nearest route. Chapter 4. In Tempelhof. The next morning saw Mrs. von Carayon and her daughter in the same corner room in which they had received their friends the previous evening . Both loved the room and preferred it at the expense of all others . It had three tall windows, the two of which, positioned at right angles to each other, overlooked Behrenstrasse and Charlottenstrasse, while the third, door-like, occupied the entire, broad, blunt corner and led out onto a balcony framed by a gilded Rococo railing. As soon as the season permitted, this balcony door stood open, allowing, from almost any part of the room, a view of the neighboring street life, which, despite the aristocratic neighborhood, was particularly lively at times , especially during the spring parades, when not only the famous old infantry regiments of the Berlin garrison, but also, more importantly for the Carayons, the regiments of the Garde du Corps and Gensdarmes marched past the house to the sound of their silver trumpets. On such occasions , when the officers’ eyes naturally turned to the balcony, the corner room truly showed its value and could not have been exchanged for any other. But even on quiet days it was a charming room, both elegant and cozy. Here lay the Turkish carpet that still adorned the splendid Petersburg carpets of almost half a generation ago. Here stood the malachite clock, a gift from Empress Catherine, and here, above all, was the large, richly gilded trumeau, which daily reassured the beautiful woman that she was still a beautiful woman. Victoria never missed an opportunity to reassure her mother on this important point, but Mrs. von Carayon was wise enough to have it confirmed anew each morning by checking her own reflection in the mirror. Whether her gaze at such moments slid over the image of Mr. von Carayon, hanging in full length over the sofa with a red ribbon , or whether a more imposing image presented itself to her mind, was in no doubt for anyone with even a modicum of familiarity with the domestic circumstances. For Mr. von Carayon had been a small, black French colonist who, apart from a few distinguished Carayons living near Bordeaux and a membership in the legation that filled him with pride, had brought nothing of note into the marriage. Least of all male beauty. Eleven o’clock struck, first outside, then in the corner room, where both ladies were busy at a tapestry frame. The balcony door was wide open, for despite the rain that had lasted until morning, the sun was already bright in the sky again, creating much the same sultriness that had prevailed the day before. Victoria looked up from her work and recognized Schach’s little groom, coming up Charlottenstrasse in top-boots and two colors in his hat, which she liked to say were Schach’s “national colors . ” “Oh, just look,” said Victoria, “there comes Schach’s little Ned. And how important he’s acting again! But he’s also being spoiled too much, and becoming more and more of a doll.” What could it possibly bring?” Their curiosity would not remain unsatisfied for long. A moment later, they both heard the bell ring, and an old servant in gaiters, who had still lived through the days of genteel Petersburg, entered to hand over a note on a silver plate. Victoire took it. It was addressed to Frau von Carayon. “To you, Mama.” “Read it,” she said. “No, you yourself; I’m afraid of secrets.” “Fool,” laughed her mother, and opened the note and read: “My dearest lady. Last night’s rain has not only improved the roads, but also the air. All in all, a beautiful day, the kind that April rarely grants us Hyperboreans. I will stop my carriage in front of your apartment at four o’clock to pick you and Miss Victoire up for a drive. I await your instructions regarding the destination. You know how happy I am to be able to obey you. Please let the messenger know. He’s just fluent enough in German not to confuse “yes” and “no.” With greetings and regards to my dear friend Victoire, who, for greater certainty, might write a line. ” Well, Victoire, what shall we say…?” “But you can’t seriously ask, Mama?” “Well then, ‘yes’.” Victoire had already sat down at her desk, and her pen scribbled: “Cordially accepted, although the goals remain unclear for the time being. But once the moment of decision has arrived, it will allow us to choose the right thing.” Frau von Carayon continued reading over Victoire’s shoulder. “It sounds so ambiguous,” she said. “So I’ll just write a simple yes, and you’ll sign it in the opposite direction.” “No; just leave it.” And Victoire closed the sheet and handed it to the groom, who was waiting outside. When she returned to the room from the corridor, she found her mother thoughtful. “I don’t like such piquantities, and least of all such riddles.” “You shouldn’t write them either. But me? I can do anything. And now listen to me. Something has to be done, Mama. People talk so much, even to me, and since Schach is still silent and you don’t If you are allowed to speak, I must do it instead of you and marry you. Everything in the world is reversed. Usually mothers marry their daughters, but here it is different, and I am marrying you. He loves you and you love him. You are the same age, and you will be the most beautiful couple ever married in a French cathedral or Trinity Church in living memory. You see, I will at least give you the choice regarding the preacher and the church; I can do no more in this matter. Bringing me into the marriage is not good, but it is not bad either. Where there is much light, there is much shadow.” Frau von Carayon’s eyes moistened. “Ah, my sweet Victoire, you see things differently than they actually are. I do not want to surprise you with confessions, and speaking in mere hints, as you occasionally like to do, goes against my will. I do not like to philosophize either. But let me tell you, everything is predetermined within us, and what seems like cause is usually already effect and consequence. Believe me, your little hand will not tie the bond you wish to tie. It’s not possible, it can’t be. I know better. And why should it? After all, I really only love you.” Their conversation was interrupted by the appearance of an old lady, sister of the late Mr. von Carayon, who was invited to lunch every Tuesday, once and for all, and by “lunch” she understood, punctually, twelve o’clock, although she knew that the Carayons didn’t eat until three. Aunt Marguerite, that was her name, was still a true Frenchwoman from the colonies, that is, an old lady who spoke the Berlin dialect of the time, which was almost exclusively in the dative case , with a pompous mouth, preferring the ü to the i, either eating “Kürschen” (a kind of cake) or going to the “Kürche” (church), and naturally garnishing her speech with French interjections and formal greetings. Dressed neatly and in an old-fashioned way, she wore the same little silk coat summer and winter and had that half-grown look so common among the old colony ladies at that time that Victoire once asked as a child , “How is it, dear Mama, that almost all aunts are so ‘I don’t know how’?” And she had a high shoulder. Aunt Marguerite’s silk coat also came with a pair of silk gloves, which she held in particular esteem and only put on on the top landing. Her communications, which she never failed to provide, lacked any interest, especially when she spoke of high and mighty persons, which she loved very much. Her specialty was the little princesses of the royal family: La petite Princesse Charlotte and La petite Princesse Alexandrine, whom she occasionally saw in the rooms of a French governess friend, and with whom she felt so intimate that when one day the Brandenburg Gate guards failed to take up arms and beat the drum in time as La Princesse Alexandrine drove past, she not only shared the general feeling of indignation, but viewed the event as if Berlin had suffered an earthquake. That was Auntie, who had just entered. Frau von Carayon went to meet her and welcomed her warmly, more warmly than usual, simply because her appearance had interrupted a conversation that she no longer had the strength to let go. Aunt Marguerite immediately sensed how favorable things were for her today, and the moment she sat down and tucked her silk gloves into her pompadour, she began to address the high nobility of royal residences, this time bypassing the “Most Highest Gentlemen.” Her reports from the aristocratic sphere were, as a rule, far preferable to her court anecdotes, and could have been dismissed once and for all, had she not had the weakness to treat the nevertheless important question of personnel with utter disdain. In other words, she confused constantly the names, and when she told of an escapade of Baroness Stieglitz, one could be sure that she meant Countess Taube . Such news also opened today’s conversation, news among which the one “that Captain von Schenk of the Garde du Corps Regiment had serenaded the Princess von Croy ” was by far the most important, especially when, after some questioning, it emerged that Captain von Schenk should be transposed to Captain von Schach, the Garde du Corps Regiment to the Gensdarmes Regiment, and the Princess von Croy to the Princess von Carolath. Such corrections were always received by the aunt without any trace of embarrassment, and she felt no such embarrassment today when, at the end of her story, she was informed that Captain von Schenk, alias Schach, was expected later that afternoon, as a cross-country trip had been arranged with him. A consummate gentleman as he was, he would certainly be delighted to see a dear relative of the family joining him on this outing. A remark that was received very warmly by Aunt Marguerite and accompanied by an involuntary tug at her taffeta dress. At exactly three o’clock, they sat down to dinner, and at exactly four— l’exactitude est la politesse des kings, Bülow would have said— a half-chaise, folded back, appeared in front of the door on Behrenstrasse. Schach, who was driving himself, wanted to hand the reins to the groom, but both Carayons, already ready for travel, greeted him from the balcony and the next moment were down at the carriage door with a full complement of scarves, sunshades, and umbrellas. With them was Aunt Marguerite, who was now introduced and greeted by Schach with a characteristic mixture of courtesy and grandeur. “And now the dark destination, Miss Victoria.” “Let’s take Tempelhof,” she said. “Well chosen.” Just excuse me, it’s the darkest destination in the world. Especially today. Sun and more sun.” They set off at a brisk trot down Friedrichstrasse, first toward the Rondel and the Hallesches Tor, until the deep sandy path leading up to the Kreuzberg forced them to slow down. Schach felt he had to apologize, but Victoire, who was sitting backward and could easily talk to him by half-turning, was, like a true city girl, genuinely delighted by everything and anything she saw on both sides of the path, and never tired of asking questions and reassuring him with the interest she showed. What amused her most were the strangely stuffed figures of old women who stood among the bushes and garden beds, either carrying straw hats or flapping and clattering their hundred papillotes in the wind . Finally, they had climbed the slope, and along the firm clay path that ran between the poplars, they trotted more quickly toward Tempelhof . Kites soared beside the road, swallows darted back and forth, and the church steeples of the nearby villages flashed on the horizon. Aunt Marguerite, who, in the wind that was blowing, was constantly striving to keep her little coat collar in order, nevertheless undertook to act as guide, and in doing so, astonished both Carayon ladies as much by confusing the names as by discovering nonexistent similarities. “Look, dear Victoire, this Wülmersdörfer church tower! Doesn’t it resemble our Dorotheenstadt church?” Victoire remained silent. “I don’t mean because of its spire, dear Victoire, no, because of its corps de logis.” Both ladies were startled. But what usually happens happened: everything that embarrasses those close to him is either ignored or received with indifference by those far away. And now chess! He had lived far too long in the world of old princesses and ladies-in-waiting to be influenced by any Signs of stupidity or lack of education could be particularly astonished . He simply smiled and used the phrase “Dorotheenstadt Church,” which had been uttered, to ask Frau von Carayon “whether she had already heard of the monument that the late King had erected in the aforementioned church to his son, the Count of the Mark?” Mother and daughter answered in the negative. Aunt Marguerite, however, who did not like to admit that she did not know something or perhaps had not even seen it, remarked in a very general way: “Ah, the dear little prince. That he had to die so early. How pathetic. And yet he resembled his late mother in both eyes.” For a moment, it seemed as if Schach, his sense of legitimacy deeply wounded, wanted to respond and most shamefully dethrone the “dear little prince” born “of his late mother. ” But he quickly overlooked the ridiculousness of such an idea and, in order to at least do something, pointed to the green domed roof of Charlottenburg Palace, which was just becoming visible, and the next moment turned into the large village street of Tempelhof, lined with old linden trees. The very second house was an inn. He gave the reins to the groom and jumped off to help the ladies disembark. But only Mrs. von Carayon and Victoire gratefully accepted the help, while Aunt Marguerite politely declined, “because she had found that one can always rely best on one’s own hands.” The beautiful day had lured many guests out, and the front yard, enclosed by a picket fence, was occupied at all its tables . This caused a slight embarrassment. But just as they had decided to have coffee in the back garden, under a half-open bowling alley, one of the corner tables became free, so that they could remain in front of the house, overlooking the village street . This happened, and it happened to be the prettiest table. A maple tree grew from its center, and even though, apart from a few tips, it still lacked any decorative foliage, the birds were already sitting in its branches, chirping. And that wasn’t the only thing they saw; Carriages stopped in the middle of the village street, the town coachmen chatted, and farmers and farmhands, coming in from the fields with plows and harrows, passed by the line of carriages. Last came a flock, herded together from right to left by the German Shepherd, and in between them one could hear the prayer bell ringing. For it was just six o’clock. The Carayons, spoiled city children as they were, or perhaps because they were, were enthusiastic about everything and cheered when Schach mentioned an evening stroll to the Tempelhof church . Sunset, he said, was the most beautiful hour. Aunt Marguerite, of course, who was afraid of “the unreasonable beast,” would have preferred to stay behind at the coffee table, but when the innkeeper, who had been called to her for further reassurance, had most emphatically assured her “that she needn’t fear the bull,” she took Victoria’s arm and stepped out with her onto the village street, while Schach and Frau von Carayon followed. Everyone still sitting at the picket fence watched them. “Nothing is so finely spun,” said Frau von Carayon and laughed. Schach looked at her questioningly. “Yes, dear friend, I know everything. And none other than Aunt Marguerite told us about it this afternoon.” “About what?” “About the serenade. Carolath is a lady of the world and, above all, a princess. And you know what is said about you, ‘that you would prefer the ugliest princess to the most beautiful bourgeoise .'” Any nasty princess, I say. But to top it all off, Carolath is also beautiful. A lys and rose complexion. You’ll make me jealous.” Schach kissed the beautiful woman’s hand. “Aunt Marguerite has told you correctly, and now you shall hear everything. Even the smallest details. For if, as I admit, it gives me joy to have such an evening among my experiences, it gives me even greater joy to be able to chat about it with my beautiful friend . Your pleasantries, so critical and yet so full of goodness, are what make everything dear and precious to me. Do n’t smile. Oh, that I could tell you everything. Dear Josephine, you are my ideal woman: clever and yet without scholarship and conceit, witty and yet without mockery. The homage my heart offers is still only for you, you, the most amiable and best. And that is your greatest charm, my dear friend, that you don’t even know how good you are and what silent power you exercise over me.” He had spoken almost with emotion, and the beautiful woman’s eyes shone, while her hand trembled in his. But she quickly resumed her playful tone and said: “How well you know how to speak . You know, one can only speak so well from within one’s guilt.” “Or from the heart. But let’s leave it at guilt, which demands atonement. And first of all, confession. That’s why I came yesterday. I had forgotten that it was your reception evening, and I was almost shocked when I saw Bülow and that bloated Roturier, Sander. How does he get into your company?” “He is Bülow’s shadow.” “A strange shadow, one that weighs three times heavier than the object that casts it. A true mammoth. Only his wife is said to surpass him, which is why I recently heard someone say mockingly, ‘Sander, when he’s planning his fountain promenade, just walk around his wife three times .’ And this man, Bülow’s shadow! If you would rather say his Sancho Panza…” “So you take Bülow himself as Don Quixote?” “Yes, my lady… You know that I generally resist medicating, but this is not medicating at all, it is more flattery. The Good Knight of La Mancha was an honest enthusiast, and now I ask you, dearest friend, can the same be said of Bülow? Enthusiast! He is eccentric, nothing more, and the fire that burns within him is simply that of an infernal self-love.” “You misjudge him, dear Schach. He is bitter, certainly; but I fear he has a right to be so.” “Anyone who suffers from pathological overestimation will always have a thousand reasons to be bitter. He goes from company to company, preaching the cheapest of wisdom, wisdom post festum. Ridiculous. If you listen to him, all the humiliations we’ve suffered over the past year aren’t the fault of the arrogance or the strength of our enemies. Oh no, this strength could easily have been countered with greater force if we’d secured our talents—that is , Bülow’s talents—in time. The world failed to do that, and it’s ruining itself. And so it goes on endlessly. Hence Ulm and Austerlitz. Everything would have taken on a different appearance, would have turned out differently, if this Corsican throne and crown usurper, this angel of darkness who calls himself Bonaparte, had been confronted on the battlefield by the shining figure of Bülow. Repellent to me. I hate such fanfaronades. He speaks of Braunschweig and Hohenlohe as if they were ridiculous figures, but I adhere to Frederick’s maxim that the world rests no more securely on the shoulders of Atlas than Prussia on the shoulders of its army.” While this conversation was taking place between Schach and Frau von Carayon , the couple walking ahead of them had come to a point in the path from which a footpath branched off across a freshly plowed field . “That’s the church,” said the aunt, pointing with her parasol at a newly thatched tower roof, the red of which shimmered through all sorts of bushes and branches. Victoria confirmed what could not be disputed anyway, and immediately turned back to ask her mother with a gesture of her head and hand whether the church here Should I take the branching footpath? Mrs. von Carayon nodded in agreement, and aunt and niece continued in the direction indicated . Larks rose everywhere from the brown field; they had already built their furrowed nests here before the seeds had even sown. At the very end, however, came a stretch of fallow field that ran to the churchyard wall and, apart from a sparse patch of turf, contained nothing but a funnel-shaped pool in which a pair of toads were making music, while the edge of the pool was covered in tall reeds. “Look, Victoire, those are reeds.” “Yes, dear Auntie.” “Can you imagine, ma chère, that when I was young, rushes were used as little night lights, and they would actually float quite peacefully on a glass when one was sick or simply couldn’t sleep…” “Certainly,” said Victoire. “Nowadays, people use wax threads, cut them up, and stick them in a piece of card.” “Quite right, my angel. But before, they were rushes, rushes. And they burned, too. And that’s why I’m telling you. Because they must have had some natural fat, I should say something like wood.” “It’s quite possible,” answered Victoire, who never contradicted her aunt, and as she spoke, she listened to the pond, where the music of the toads was growing louder and louder. Immediately afterwards, however , she saw a half-grown girl running toward her from the church, teasing a shaggy white Pomeranian that jumped up at her, barking and biting. As she did so, the little girl threw a church key, attached to a rope and a clapper , into the air and caught it so deftly that neither the key nor the clapper could hurt her. Finally, however, she stopped and held her left hand over her eyes because the setting sun was blinding her. “Are you the sexton’s daughter?” asked Victoria. “Yes,” said the child. “Then please, give us the key or come with us and unlock the church for us.” We’d like to see them, we and the gentlemen over there.” “Gladly,” said the child, and ran ahead again, climbed over the churchyard wall, and immediately disappeared behind the hazel and rosehip bushes, which grew so abundantly here that, despite their still bare growth, they formed a dense hedge. Auntie and Victoire followed her, slowly descending over dilapidated graves that spring hadn’t yet touched; not a leaf appeared anywhere, and only immediately next to the church was a shady, damp spot covered with violets. Victoire bent down to hastily pick some, and when Schach and Frau von Carayon came up the main path of the churchyard the next moment, Victoire went to meet them and gave the violets to her mother. The little girl had already caught up with the door and was sitting waiting on the threshold stone; But when both couples arrived, she quickly rose and, leading the way, entered the church, whose choir stalls stood almost as slanted as the gravestones outside. Everything seemed miserable and dilapidated, but the setting sun, which stood behind the evening-facing windows, bathed the walls in a reddish glow and renewed, at least for a moment, the long-dim gilding of the old altar saints, who still eked out their existence here from the Catholic era. It was inevitable that the Genevan Reformed aunt was genuinely shocked when she saw these “idols.” But Schach, who also counted genealogy among his hobbies, asked the little girl if there weren’t perhaps any old gravestones there. “There’s one,” said the little girl. “This one,” and pointed to a worn but still clearly recognizable stone statue, walled upright into a pillar, close to the altar. It was evidently a cavalry colonel. “And who is it?” asked Schach. “A Templar Knight,” replied the child, “and his name was the Knight of Tempelhof. And he had this gravestone made during his lifetime because he wanted it to resemble him. ” Here the aunt nodded in agreement, because the need for resemblance to the alleged Knight of Tempelhof struck a chord in her heart . “And he built this church,” the little girl continued, “and finally built the village as well, and called it Tempelhof because he himself was called Tempelhof. And Berliners say ‘Templow’. But it’s wrong.” The ladies accepted all this with reverence, and only Schach, who had become curious, asked further, “did she not know one thing or another from the knight’s lifetime?” “No, not from his lifetime. But afterward.” Everyone listened, especially the aunt, who immediately felt a faint shudder. The little girl, however, continued in a calm tone: “Whether it ‘s all as true as people say, I don’t know. But old cottager Maltusch still lived to see it.” “But what, child?” “It lay here in front of the altar for over a hundred years, until it annoyed him that the farmers and children being consecrated were always standing on it and scraping its face off when they went to communion. And old Maltusch, who is now approaching ninety, told me and my father that he still heard it with his own ears, that sometimes it still made such a rumbling and rolling noise as if it were thundering over Schmargendorf.” “Quite possible.” “But they didn’t understand what the rumbling and rolling meant,” the little girl continued. “And so it went on until the year the Russian general, whose name I always forget, lay here on the Tempelhofer Feld. Then one Saturday the previous sexton came and wanted to erase the singing numbers and write new ones for Sunday. And he took the piece of chalk. But then he suddenly saw that the numbers had already been erased, and new hymn book numbers and also the numbers of a Bible verse, chapter and verse, had been added. All old-fashioned and unclear, and only just legible. And when they looked it up, they found: ‘You shall honor your dead and not harm his face.’ And now they knew who had written the numbers, and they took up the stone and embedded it in this pillar.” “I do think,” said Aunt Marguerite, who, the more terribly afraid she was of ghosts, the more vehemently denied their existence, “I do think the government should do more to combat superstition.” And with that, she turned fearfully away from the eerie stone image and walked back toward the exit with Frau von Carayon, who, when it came to fear of ghosts, could rival her auntie. Schach followed with Victoire, to whom he had offered his arm. “Was it really a Templar?” she asked. “My knowledge of Templars is limited to the one in ‘Nathan,’ but unless our stage designer handled the costume question too arbitrarily , the Templars must have looked quite different. Am I right?” “Always right, my dear Victoire.” And the tone of these words struck her heart and reverberated within it, without Schach being aware of it .
“Yes. But if not a Templar, what then?” she continued, looking at him trustingly yet embarrassed. “A cavalry colonel from the time of the Thirty Years’ War. Or perhaps even from the days of Fehrbellin. I even read his name: Achim von Haake.” “So you consider the whole story a fairy tale?” “Not exactly, or at least not entirely. It is proven that we had Templars in this country, and the church here, with its pre-Gothic forms, may well date back to those Templar days . That much is credible.” “I love hearing about this order.” “Me too. It has been the most severely afflicted by the punishing hand of God and, for that very reason, the most poetic and interesting. You know what it is accused of: idolatry, Denial of Christ, vices of all kinds. And I fear with reason. But as great as his guilt was, so great was his atonement, not to mention that here, too, the innocent survivor had to atone for the guilt of previous generations. The fate and destiny of all phenomena that, even where they are lacking and erring, elude the everyday. And so we see the guilt-ridden order, despite all its inglorious deeds, finally perish in a regained halo of glory. It was envy that killed it, envy and self-interest, and guilty or not, I am overwhelmed by its greatness.” Victoire smiled. “Anyone who heard you speak like that, dear Schach, might think they saw a later Templar in you. And yet it was a monastic order, and monastic was also its vow. Would you have been able to live and die as a Templar?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Perhaps tempted by the dress, which was even more fitting than the supra vest of the gendarmes.’ ‘Not by the dress, Victoire. You misjudge me. Believe me, there’s something in me that makes me shy away from any vow.’ ‘To keep it?’ But before he could answer, she quickly continued, her tone becoming more joking again: ‘I believe Philippe le Bel has the Order on his conscience. It’s strange that all historical figures who bear the nickname ‘The Beautiful’ are unsympathetic to me. And I hope not out of envy. But beauty, it must be true, makes one selfish, and whoever is selfish is ungrateful and faithless.’ Schach tried to refute. He knew that Victoire’s words, however much she loved piquanteries and allusions, could not possibly have been directed against him. And in that, he was right. It was all just a jeu d’esprit, a concession to her tendency to philosophize. And yet, everything she had said, as surely as it had been said unintentionally , had just as surely been spoken out of a dark premonition. When their argument had died down, they had reached the village entrance, and Schach stopped to wait for Frau von Carayon and Aunt Marguerite, who had both been late to meet them. When they arrived, he offered Frau von Carayon his arm and led her back to the inn. Victoire watched them go, shocked, and pondered the exchange, which Schach had accompanied with no word of apology. “What was that?” And she turned pink as, out of sudden suspicion, she had answered the question she had posed herself. There was no longer any question of re-sitting in front of the inn, and they gave up all the more easily and willingly as it had become chilly in the meantime and the wind, which had been blowing all day, had shifted to the northwest. Aunt Marguerite asked for the back seat, “so as not to be driving against the wind.” No one objected. So she took the requested seat, and while everyone silently considered what the afternoon had brought them, they set off back towards the city at an ever-increasing pace. It was already dusk when they reached the slope of the Kreuzberg hill, and only the two gendarme towers still rose with their domes out of the gray-blue fog. Chapter 5. Victoire von Carayon to Lisette von Perbandt. Berlin, May 3. My dear Lisette. How happy I was to finally hear from you, and such good things. Not that I had expected anything else; Few men have I met who seem to offer me such a complete guarantee of happiness as yours. Healthy, benevolent, undemanding, and of that fine level of knowledge and education that avoids an equally dangerous excess and too little . “Too much” is perhaps even more dangerous. For young women are only too inclined to demand, “You shall have no other gods before me.” I see this almost daily at the Rombergs, and Marie knows it for her wise and amiable husband. Little thanks for forgetting his visits and toilets because of politics and French newspapers. The only thing that worried me was your new Masurian homeland, a piece of land that I always imagined as one big forest with a hundred lakes and swamps. So I thought this new homeland could easily plunge you into melancholy dreams, which is always the beginning of homesickness or even grief and tears. And that, I’ve been told, frightens men. But I see to my heartfelt joy that you have escaped this danger too , and that the birches surrounding your castle are green Whitsun mays and not weeping birches. Speaking of the birch water, you must write to me sometime. It’s one of those things that has always piqued my curiosity, and which I’ve been denied until this moment. And now I’m supposed to tell you about us. You ask sympathetically about everything and everyone, and even demand to hear about Aunt Marguerite’s newest princess and the latest name mix-up. I could tell you about it, for it’s been less than three days since we’ve had at least a few shaken and tossed doses of these mix-ups . It was on a drive that Herr von Schach took with us to Tempelhof, and to which Auntie had to be invited as well, because it was her day. You know that we see her every Tuesday as a guest in our house. She was with us in the “church,” where, upon seeing some images of saints from the Catholic era, she not only constantly urged the eradication of superstition, but also regularly addressed Schach with this very request, as if he were sitting in the consistory. And so, because I have the virtue or vice of imagining everything in person while writing, I put down my pen, only to laugh heartily at first. In the end, it’s much less ridiculous than it first appears. There’s something about him that’s solemn, like a consistory council, and if I’m not mistaken, it’s precisely this solemnity that makes Bülow so fond of him. Much, much more than the difference of opinions. And it almost sounds as if I were sympathizing with Bülow in my description. Truly, if you didn’t know better, you would n’t be able to tell from this characterization of our friend how much I value him. Yes, more than ever, despite the fact that there’s no shortage of painful things. But in my situation, one learns to be gentle, to console oneself, to forgive. If I hadn’t learned it, how could I live, I, who love to live so much! A weakness which, as I once read, all those who least understand it are said to have. But I spoke of many painful things, and I feel compelled to tell you about them. It was only yesterday on our drive. As we walked from the village to church, Schach was leading the way with Mama. Not by chance; it was arranged, and by me. I left them both behind because I wanted to bring about a conversation—you know which one—between them. Such quiet evenings, when one walks across the field and hears nothing but the tolling of the evening bell, lift us above petty considerations and make us freer. And once we have done that, the right word also reveals itself . What was said between them, I don’t know, or at least not what was meant to be said. Finally, we entered the church, which was as if glowing with the evening glow; everything took on a life of its own, and it was unforgettably beautiful. On the way home, Schach exchanged words and led me. He spoke very attractively, and in a tone that both pleased and surprised me. Every word remains in my memory and gives me food for thought. But what happened? When we were back at the entrance to the village, he became more silent and waited for his mother. Then he offered her his arm, and they walked back through the village to the inn, where the carriages were stopped and many people were waiting. were gathered. It stabbed me in the heart, for I could n’t shake the thought that he had been embarrassed to appear among the guests with me and on my arm. In his vanity, of which I cannot absolve him, it is impossible for him to rise above people’s gossip, and a mocking smile puts him off for a week. As self-confident as he is, he is just as weak and dependent on this one point. I would never make such a confession to anyone in the world, not even to Mama, but I had to to you. If I am wrong, tell me that my misfortune has made me suspicious, then give me a reprimand in the harshest terms, and rest assured that I will read it with a grateful eye. For despite all his vanity , I value him like no other. It is a saying that men must not be vain because vanity makes one ridiculous. This seems exaggerated to me. But if the sentence is nevertheless correct, then chess represents an exception. I hate the word “chivalrous” and yet have no other for him. He is perhaps one thing even more so: discreet, imposing, or at least full of natural presence, and should what I wish for my mother’s sake and also for my own were to come true, it would not be difficult for me to find a position of respect for him. And one more thing: You never considered him very clever, and I, for my part, only timidly disagreed. But he does have the best of cleverness, the middle kind, and that of an honest man. I feel this every time he wages his feud with Bülow. As superior as Bülow is to him, he is nevertheless far behind him. In doing so , I sometimes notice how the resentment stirring in our friend gives him a certain quick wit, even esprit. Yesterday he called Sander, whose personality you know, Bülow’s Sancho Panza. The further conclusions follow naturally, and I don’t find it a bad thing. Sanders’s publications are causing more talk than ever; the times are supporting the interest in purely polemical literature. Besides von Bülow, essays by Massenbach and Phull have also appeared, which are being praised by those in the know as something special and unprecedented . Everything is directed against Austria, proving once again that he who suffers the damage shouldn’t be responsible for the ridicule. Schach is outraged by this presumptuous know-it-all, as he calls it, and returns to his old hobbies, copperplate engravings and racehorses.
His little groom is getting smaller and smaller. What small feet are to Chinese women, small proportions in general are to grooms . For my part, I reject both, but especially the Chinese-laced feet, and conversely, am glad to be in a comfortable slipper. I’ll never be able to lead or swing him; I’ll leave that to my dear Lisette. Do it with the gentleness that is characteristic of you. Commend me to your dear husband, who has only the one fault of having abducted you from me. Mama greets and kisses her darling, but I urge you not to completely forget, in the abundance of happiness that has come your way, your Victoire, who, as you know, relied on a mere share of happiness . Chapter 6. At Prince Louis’s. On the same evening that Victoire von Carayon wrote her letter to Lisette von Perbandt, Schach received an invitation from Prince Louis in his apartment on Wilhelmstrasse . It read: “Dear Schach. I have only been here in the Moabit region for three days and am already thirsting for a visit and conversation. A quarter of a mile from the capital, the capital is no longer there and is longing for it. May I count on you tomorrow?” Bülow and his publishing coterie have agreed, as have Massenbach and Phull. So, all opposition, which invigorates me, even though I fight it. From your You will meet Nostitz and Alvensleben in the Regiment. In their interim coats and at five o’clock. Yours, Louis, Prince of Prussia.” At the appointed hour, Schach, after picking up Alvensleben and Nostitz, arrived at the prince’s villa. It lay on the right bank of the river, surrounded by meadows and dockyard pastures, and faced the western lisière of the Thiergarten, across the Spree. The entrance and entrance were from the rear. A wide, carpeted staircase led to a podium and from there to a vestibule where the guests were received by the prince. Bülow and Sander were already there, but Massenbach and Phull had sent their excuses. Schach was satisfied; Bülow already found this more than enough, and had no desire to see the number of geniuses increased . It was still broad daylight, but in the dining room, which they entered from the vestibule, the lights were already on, and the blinds were closed where the windows were open. The fire in the fireplace in the middle of the room complemented this artificial light, mingled with a glimmer of daylight from outside . The Prince sat in front of the fireplace, his back to it, and gazed through the open blinds at the trees of the Tiergarten. “Please accept,” he began, once the table had settled. “We are in the country here; that must serve as an excuse for everything that is lacking. ‘A la guerre, comme à la guerre.’ Massenbach, our gourmet, must have suspected, or rather feared, something of the sort. Which wouldn’t surprise me. It is said, dear Sander, that your good table sealed the friendship between you even more than your good publishing house.” “A statement I hardly dare contradict, Your Royal Highness.” “And yet you really should. Your entire publishing house shows no trace of that ‘laisser passer,’ which is the prerogative, indeed the duty of all satiated people. Your geniuses—pardon, Bülow—all write like hungry men. Fine by me. I’ll give you our star performers, but I dislike the fact that you treat the Austrians so badly as well. “Am I, Your Royal Highness? I, for my part, have no pretensions to higher strategy. Incidentally, of course, I would like to be allowed to ask the question, so to speak from my publishing house: “Was Ulm something clever?” “Ah, my dear Sander, what is clever? We Prussians constantly imagine ourselves to be; and do you know what Napoleon said about our Thuringian lineup last year? Nostitz, repeat it!… He doesn’t want to. Well, I’ll have to do it myself. ‘Ah, these Prussians,’ they said , ‘they’re even more stupid than the Austrians.’ There you have criticism of our much-praised wisdom, criticism from a most qualified quarter. And if he had been right, we would finally have to congratulate ourselves on the peace that Haugwitz has bartered for us. Yes, bartered for. Bartered for by sacrificing our honor for a souvenir. What are we to do with Hanover? It’s the morsel on which the Prussian eagle will choke.” “I have more confidence in the swallowing and digestive power of our Prussian eagle ,” Bülow replied. “That’s precisely what he can do and understands from ancient times. However, that’s something to be argued about ; But what cannot be disputed is the peace that Haugwitz has brought us. We need it like our daily bread and had to have it, as dear as our lives are to us. Your Royal Highness certainly has a hatred for poor Haugwitz, which surprises me insofar as this Lombard, who is the soul of the whole, has always found favor in Your Royal Highness’s eyes.” “Ah, Lombard! I don’t take Lombard seriously, and I also take into account that he is half-French. Besides, he has a sense of humor that disarms me. You know, his father was a hairdresser and his wife’s father a barber. And now comes This woman, who is not only vain to the point of madness, but also writes bad French verse, and asks him which is more beautiful: ‘L’hirondelle frise la surface des eaux’ or ‘l’hirondelle rase la surface des eaux?’ And what does he answer? ‘I see no difference, my dear; l’hirondelle frise pays homage to my father and l’hirondelle rase to yours.’ In that bon mot, you have the whole Lombard. But as for me personally, I openly confess to you that I cannot resist such witty self-parody . He is a polisson, not a character.’ ‘Perhaps the same could be said of Haugwitz, for better or for worse. And truly, I surrender the man to Your Royal Highness. But not his politics. His politics are good, for they take into account given greatness. And Your Royal Highness knows that better than I do. What is the true state of our forces? We live from hand to mouth, and why? Because the state of Frederick the Great is not a country with an army, but an army with a country. Our country is merely a base and a supply depot. It lacks any great resources. If we win, so be it; but only those countries that can endure defeat are allowed to wage war. We cannot. If the army is gone, everything is gone. And Austerlitz showed us how quickly an army can be gone. A breath can kill us, especially us. ‘He blew, and the Armada scattered to the four winds.’ Afflavit Deus et dissipati sunt.” “Mr. von Bülow,” Schach interrupted, “please forgive me for one remark. I don’t think he will want to recognize the breath of God in the hellish stench now blowing over the world, not the breath of God who blew the Armada to pieces.” “Yes, Mr. von Schach.” Or do you really believe that the breath of God is in the special service of Protestantism, or even Prussia and its army?’ ‘I hope so.’ ‘And I fear not. We have the ‘proprietary army,’ that’s all. But you can’t win battles with ‘propriety.’ Does Your Royal Highness remember the words of the great King when General Lehwald paraded his thrice-defeated regiments before him? ‘Proper people,’ he said. ‘There you go, look at mine. They look like grass devils, but they bite.’ I fear we now have too many Lehwald regiments and too few old, smarmy ones. The spirit is gone, everything has become a mere exercise and a game. There are officers who, for the sake of their great plumpness and plumpness, wear their uniforms directly on their bodies. All unnatural. Even the ability to march, that quite ordinary human ability to set one’s legs, has been lost to us in the eternal parade pace. And being able to march is now the first condition for success. All modern battles have been won with the legs.” “And with gold,” interrupted the Prince. “Your great emperor, dear Bülow, has a preference for small means. Yes, the very smallest. That he is lying is certain. But he is also a master in the art of bribery. And who opened our eyes to this? He himself. Read what he said immediately before the Austerlitz Battle. ‘Soldiers,’ he said, ‘the enemy will march and try to gain our flank; but in this march, he will surrender his own . We will throw ourselves on his flank and strike and destroy him. ‘ And that is precisely how the battle unfolded. It is impossible that he could have guessed the Austrians’ battle plan from their mere deployment.” There was silence. Since this silence was much more embarrassing to the lively prince than any contradiction, he turned directly to Bülow and said: “Confuse me.” “Your Royal Highness commands, and so I obey. The Emperor knew exactly what would happen, could know it, because he did not ask himself the question ‘what is mediocrity doing here?’ not only posed, but also answered. The greatest stupidity, it must be admitted, eludes calculation just as much as the greatest cleverness—that is one of the great aspects of genuine and unadulterated stupidity. But those ‘medium-wise’, who are just clever enough to be seized by the desire to ‘try something witty for once ,’ these medium-wise are always the easiest to calculate. And why? Because they always just follow the fashion and copy today what they saw yesterday. And the Emperor knew all this . Hic haeret. He has never proven himself more brilliantly than in this Austerlitz operation, not even in incidental matters, not even in those impromptus and witty ideas in the realm of the gruesome, which are truly the hallmarks of genius.” “An example.” “One in a hundred.” When the center had already been breached, a section of the Russian Guard, four battalions, had retreated toward as many frozen ponds, and a French battery mounted up to fire grapeshot into the battalions. At that moment, the Emperor appeared. He immediately grasped the peculiarities of the situation. ‘Why bother with all this detail here?’ And he ordered solid bullets to be fired at the ice. A minute later, the ice cracked and broke, and all four battalions fell en square into the muddy depths. Only genius can have such spur-of-the-moment flashes. The Russians will now resolve to do the same at the next opportunity, but if Kutuzov waits for ice, he’ll suddenly be caught in water or fire. Austria, all due respect to Russian bravery , but not to its genius. Somewhere it says: ‘In my wolf’s knapsack, the devil’s sexton stirs, a goblin called ‘genius’—well, in the Russian-Austrian knapsack, this ‘goblin and devil’s sexton’ has never been at home. And to compensate for this shortcoming, one resorts to the old, miserable excuses: bribery and treason. It is difficult for every vanquished man to seek the reason for his defeats in the only right place, namely within himself , and even Emperor Alexander, I believe, renounces such investigation in the most proper place.’ ‘And who could be angry with him for that?’ answered Schach. ‘He did his part, indeed more. When the high ground had already been lost and yet, on the other hand, the possibility of a resumption of the battle had not yet vanished , he advanced with a resounding march at the head of new regiments; His horse was shot dead from under him, he mounted a second, and for half an hour the battle faltered. True miracles of bravery were performed, and the French themselves acknowledged it in enthusiastic terms.” The Prince, who, during the previous year’s Berlin visit to the Emperor, incessantly praised as a deliciae generis humani, had not formed a particularly favorable impression of him, found it somewhat uncomfortable to see the “most amiable of men” elevated to the status of “most heroic.” He therefore smiled and said: ” With all due respect to His Imperial Majesty, it seems to me, dear Schach, as if you are giving French newspaper reports more weight than they should be. The French are clever people. The more they praise their opponent, the greater their own glory becomes, and I’m not even mentioning all the possible political reasons that are surely at play now. ‘One should build a bridge of gold for one’s enemy,’ the saying goes, and it’s true, for he who was my enemy today may be my ally tomorrow. Indeed, such things are already afoot; indeed, if I am correctly informed, negotiations are already underway about a new division of the world, that is, about the restoration of an Eastern and Western empire. But let’s leave aside things that are still hanging in the air and simply explain the praise bestowed upon the heroic emperor. the arithmetic: ‘If the defeated Russian courage weighed a full hundredweight, the victorious French naturally weighed two.'” Schach, who had been wearing the St. Andrew’s Cross since Emperor Alexander’s visit to Berlin, bit his lip and wanted to reply. But Bülow preempted him and remarked: ” I’m always suspicious of ‘imperial horses shot from under the belly.’ And now especially so here. All these eulogies must have embarrassed His Majesty , for there are too many who can testify to the contrary. He is the ‘good Emperor,’ and that’s that.” “You speak so mockingly, Herr von Bülow,” Schach replied. “And yet I ask you, is there a more beautiful title?” “Oh, certainly there is. A truly great man is not celebrated for his goodness, much less called by it. Conversely, he will be the subject of constant slander. For the commonplace, which prevails everywhere, loves only that which resembles itself. Brenkenhof, which, despite its paradoxes, should be read more than it is, actually claims that ‘in our age, the best men must have the worst reputation.’ The good Emperor! I beg you. What amazement King Frederick would have made if he had been called ‘the good Frederick.'” “Bravo, Bülow,” said the prince, raising his glass. “That spoke from my heart.” But this encouragement was unnecessary. “All kings,” Bülow continued with growing zeal, “who bear the nickname ‘good,’ are those who have buried the empire entrusted to them or at least brought it to the brink of revolution. The last King of Poland was also a so-called ‘good’ one. As a rule, such princes have a large harem and a small mind. And if it goes to war, some Cleopatra has to be with them, whether with or without a snake.” “You don’t think, Herr von Bülow,” Schach retorted, “that you have characterized Emperor Alexander with omissions like these.” “At least approximately.” “I would be curious.” “For this purpose, it is only necessary to recall the Emperor’s last visit to Berlin and Potsdam. What was it about? Well, admittedly, nothing small or trivial, the conclusion of a life-and-death pact, and indeed, by torchlight, people entered the tomb of Frederick the Great to swear a semi-mystical blood friendship over his coffin . And what happened immediately afterward? Before three days had passed, it was known that the emperor, who had happily emerged from the tomb of Frederick the Great , had divided the five most recognized beautés of the court into as many categories of beauty: coquettish beauté and trivial beauté, celestial beauté and devil’s beauté, and finally, fifthly, ‘beauté that inspires only true sentiment.’ Each of them may well have been seized by curiosity to learn about the supreme true sentiment. Chapter 7. A New Guest. All of Bülow’s leaps had aroused the prince’s merriment, who was just about to begin a capriccio on celestial beauté and devil’s beauté, which suited him comfortably, when he saw, from the corridor , under the half-folded curtain rug, a small gentleman with unmistakable artistic airs, appear and immediately enter. “Ah, Dussek, that’s good,” the prince greeted him. “It’s nice to have it late. Come in. Here. And now I ask you to bring whatever sweets are left to our artist friend . You’ll find plenty, dear Dussek. No objections. But what are you drinking? The choice is yours. Asti, Montefiascone, Tokay.” “Any Hungarian.” “Herb?” Dussek smiled. “Foolish question,” the prince corrected himself, continuing with increased anger. He continued in good humor: “But now, Dussek, tell us. Theater people have all sorts of virtues, virtue itself excluded, and among these is communicativeness. They rarely fail to answer the question ‘anything new’.” “And not today either, Your Royal Highness,” replied Dussek, who, after taking a sip, was just grooming his mustache. “Well, let us hear it. What’s floating on top?” “The whole city is in a frenzy. Of course, when I say ‘the whole city,’ I mean the theater.” “The theater is the city. So you are justified. And now further.” “Your Royal Highness commands. Well then, we have been severely offended in our leader and chief, and for this very reason we have had nothing less than a small theater riot. So , it was said, these were the new times, this was bourgeois rule, this was respect for the Prussian ‘belles lettres et beaux arts.’ A ‘homage to the arts’ was acceptable, but a homage against the arts was as far removed as ever.” “Dear Dussek,” interrupted the Prince, “your reflections are honored. But since you’re talking about art, I must ask you not to exaggerate the art of retardation. If possible, facts. What is it?” “Iffland has failed. He will not receive the medal we were talking about .” Everyone laughed, Sander most heartily, and Nostitz chanted: “Parturiunt montes nascetur ridiculus mus.” But Dussek was genuinely agitated, and this grew even stronger amid the merriment of his listeners. Sander annoyed him most. “You’re laughing, Sander.” And yet, in this circle, it only affects you and me. For against whom else is the barb directed but against the bourgeoisie in general?” The Prince extended his hand across the table to the speaker. “Right, dear Dussek. I love such advocacy. Tell me. How did it come about?” “Above all, quite unexpectedly. Like a bolt from the blue. Your Royal Highness knows that decoration has been talked about for a long time, and we rejoiced, forgetting all artistic envy, as if we were supposed to receive and support the order. In fact, everything was going well, and the ‘Consecration of Power,’ in whose performance the court is interested, was to provide the impetus and, at the same time, the special opportunity . Iffland is a Maçon—that, too, gave us hope; the lodge took it energetically in hand, and the Queen was won over. And now, after all, it has failed. A small matter, you will say; but no, gentlemen, it is a great matter. Such things are always the straw that shows which way the wind is blowing. And with us, it still blows from the old side. Chi va piano va sano, the saying goes. But in Prussia, it’s ‘pianissimo.'” “Failed, you said, Dussek. But failed because of what?” “Because of the influence of the court generals. I heard Rüchel’s name mentioned. He played the scholar and pointed out how low histrionics had always been in the world, with the sole exception of the Nero era. And they couldn’t be a model. That helped. For what most Christian king would want to be Nero or even hear his name? And so we know that the matter has been put aside for the time being. The queen is chagrined, and for the time being, we must be content with this supreme chagrin. New times and old prejudices.” “Dear Kapellmeister,” said Bülow, “I see to my regret that your reflections are far ahead of your feelings. Incidentally, that is the general thing. You speak of prejudices in which we are stuck, and you are stuck in them yourselves. You, along with your entire bourgeoisie, who do not want to create a new, free society, but only vainly and jealously align themselves with the privileged old classes. But you will not succeed in doing so. In place of the jealousy that now Consuming the heart of our third estate, an indifference must emerge toward all these childish things that have simply outlived their usefulness. Those who truly ignore ghosts no longer exist, and those who ignore orders are working to eradicate them. And thereby eradicate a true epidemic…” “Just as Herr von Bülow, conversely, is working to establish a new kingdom of utopias,” Sander interrupted. “For my part , I provisionally assume that the disease he speaks of will continue to grow from east to west, but will not die out in the opposite direction, from west to east. Rather, in my mind, I see ever-new multiplications and the blossoming of a flora of orders with 24 classes, like the Linnaean system.” Everyone sided with Sander, the prince most emphatically. There must be something in human nature that, like the penchant for jewelry and finery, is also attracted to this form of quincaillery. “Yes,” he continued, “there is hardly any degree of prudence that protects against that. Surely everyone will consider Kalkreuth a wise man, indeed, a man who, like few others, must be imbued with the ‘All is vanity’ conviction of our actions and endeavors . And yet, when he received the red eagle, while he had been expecting the black one, he angrily threw it into the drawer and shouted: ‘Lie there until you turn black.’ A color change that has since taken place.” “It’s a strange thing with Kalkreuth,” Bülow replied, “and frankly , another of our generals, who is said to have said: ‘I’d give the black one to be rid of the red one again,’ I like even better. Besides, I’m less strict than I seem. There are also decorations that, to refuse to consider them as decorations , would simply be narrow-minded or base. Admiral Sidney Smith, famous defender of St. Jean d’Acre and despiser of all decorations, nevertheless valued a medal that the Bishop of Acre had presented to him with the words: ‘We received this medal from the hands of King Richard the Lion, and after six hundred years, we return it to one of his countrymen who, heroically like him, defended our city.’ And a wretch and a fool, I add, who doesn’t know how to rejoice in such an award.” “I consider myself fortunate to hear such a word from your mouth,” replied the Prince. “It strengthens my feelings for you, dear Bülow, and is, pardon me, further proof to me that the devil is not half as black as he is painted.” The Prince wanted to continue speaking. But at that very moment, when one of the servants approached him and whispered that the smoking table was set and coffee served, he cleared the table and, taking Bülow’s arm, led his guests onto the balcony attached to the dining room. A large, blue and white striped marquise, its rings rattling merrily in the breeze, had already been lowered, and beneath its far-hanging fringes, one could see, upstream, the city’s towers, half shrouded in mist, and downstream, the trees of Charlottenburg Park, behind whose newly greening branches the sun was setting. Everyone gazed silently at the charming landscape, and only when twilight had fallen and a tall sinubra lamp had been brought did they sit down and light their Dutch pipes, choosing from among them as they pleased. Dussek alone, because he knew the Prince’s musical passion, had remained behind, lost in his imagination, at the grand piano in the dining room, and only when he turned his head to the side did he see his table companions outside, who were now chatting more animatedly, and also the sparks of light that flew from time to time from their clay pipes. The conversation had not returned to the subject of the Order, but had turned to its original cause, namely Iffland and the man who was in sight. He turned to the upcoming new plays, on which occasion Alvensleben remarked, “that he had become acquainted with some of the songs interspersed in the text during these last few days. Together with chess. In the salon of the amiable Frau von Carayon and her daughter Victoire. She had sung and accompanied chess.” “The Carayons,” the Prince interjected. “I hear no name more often than that now. My dear friend Pauline has told me about both ladies before , and recently Rahel as well. Everything combines to make me curious and seek connections, which, I think, will be easy to find. I remember the beautiful young lady from the Massow children’s ball, which, like all children’s balls, enjoyed the distinction of being a very special display of adult and fully blossomed beauties. And when I say ‘fully blossomed,’ I’m saying very little. Indeed, nowhere and at no time have I ever seen such beautiful thirty-somethings appear as at children’s balls. It’s as if the proximity of youth, consciously or unconsciously plotting revolution, spurred everything that still rules today doubly and trebly to assert its superiority, a superiority that may no longer exist tomorrow. But no matter, gentlemen, it can be said once and for all that children’s balls are only for adults, and investigating the causes of this interesting phenomenon would really be a topic for our Gentz. Your philosophical friend Buchholtz, dear Sander, isn’t graceful enough for me to play such games. Incidentally, no offense; he’s your friend.” “But not so,” laughed Sander, “that I wouldn’t be ready at any moment to sacrifice him to Your Royal Highness.” And, as I may be permitted to add on this occasion, not only for a very specific reason, but also for a very general one. For if children’s balls, in Your Royal Highness’s opinion and experience, are actually best without children, then friendships are best without friends. Surrogates mean everything in life and are, in fact, the ultimate essence of wisdom.” “You must be very well off, dear Sander,” replied the Prince, “that you can openly confess to such monstrosities. Mais révenons à notre belle Victoria. She was among the young ladies who introduced the festival with living pictures and, if my memory serves me correctly, represented Hebe offering a bowl to Zeus. Yes, that was how it was, and as I speak of it, the image comes clearly back to me. She was barely fifteen, and of that waist that seems about to break at any moment. But they never break. ‘Comme un ange,’ said old Count Neale, who was standing beside me and bored me with an enthusiasm that struck me as simply a caricature of my own. It would be a pleasure to renew the ladies’ acquaintance. ‘Your Royal Highness wouldn’t recognize Miss Victoria,’ said Schach, who was not particularly pleased by the Prince’s tone . ‘Immediately after the Massow ball, she was struck with smallpox and was only saved as if by a miracle. She has, to be sure, retained a certain charm of appearance, but it is only at moments when the rare amiability of her nature casts a veil of beauty over her and seems to restore the magic of her earlier days.’ ‘So restitutio in integrum,’ said Sander. Everyone laughed. ‘If you will, yes,’ replied Schach in a sharp tone, bowing ironically to Sander. The Prince noticed the discontent and wanted to put it right. “It does n’t help you, dear Schach. You speak as if you wanted to scare me away. But far from it. I beg you, what is beauty? One of the most vague concepts. Do I have to remind you of the five categories, which we owe, first and foremost, to His Majesty the Emperor Alexander and, secondly, to our friend Bülow? Everything is beautiful and nothing. Personally, I would always give preference to the beauté du diable, that is to say, to an appearance that would somewhat coincide with that of the ci devant beautiful Fräulein von Carayon.” “Your Royal Highness will have mercy,” replied Nostitz, “but I still doubt whether Your Royal Highness would perceive the characteristics of the beauté du diable in Fräulein Victoire. The fräulein has a witty, elegiac tone, which at first glance seems like a contradiction, and yet isn’t one, but under all circumstances can be considered her characteristic trait. Don’t you agree, Alvensleben?” Alvensleben confirmed. The Prince, meanwhile, who loved delving into questions immeasurably , continued, indulging in this inclination today as well, with increasing animation: “Elegiac,” you say, “wittily elegiac; I don’t know what could be more fitting for a beauté du diable.” You are clearly defining the term too narrowly, gentlemen. All you have in mind is merely a variation of the most commonplace form of beauty, the beauté coquette: the nose a little more plucked, the complexion a little darker, the temperament a little quicker, the manners a little bolder and more reckless. But with that, you by no means exhaust the higher form of the beauté du diable. It has something global about it that goes far beyond a mere question of complexion and race. Just like the Catholic Church. Both these and the others are based on an inner quality, and the inner quality that determines our question is energy, fire, passion.” Nostitz and Sander smiled and nodded. “Yes, gentlemen, I’ll go further and repeat ‘what is beauty?’ Beauty, ugh! Not only can the usual forms of beauty be dispensed with, their absence can even mean a most direct advantage. Indeed, dear Schach, I have seen miraculous defeats and even more miraculous victories. In love, too, it is like Morgarten and Sempach: the beautiful knights are defeated and the ugly pawns triumph. Believe me, the heart decides, only the heart. He who loves, whoever has the power of love, is also lovable, and it would be cruel if it were otherwise. Go through the series of your own experiences. What is more commonplace than seeing a beautiful woman replaced by an unbeautiful lover! And not according to the saying toujours perdrix. Oh no, there are much deeper connections to this . The most boring thing in the world is lymphatic, phlegmatic beauty, beauty par excellence. It ails here, it ails there—I won’t say always or necessarily, but certainly in the majority of cases—while my devilish beauty is the bearer of the most perfect health, that health which ultimately means everything and is equivalent to the highest charm. And now I ask you, gentlemen, who would benefit more from it than nature, which has gone through the greatest and most powerful purification processes, as if through purgatory. A few dimples in the cheek are the most charming thing in the world; this was true even among the Romans and Greeks, and I am not ungallant or illogical enough to deny a multitude of dimples the respect and homage that has long been due to the unity or the couple . The paradoxical ‘le laid c’est le beau’ is entirely justified, and it means nothing other than that behind the apparent ugliness lies a higher form of beauty. Were my dear Pauline here, which she unfortunately is not, she would agree with me , openly and emphatically, without being captivated by personal fate .” The Prince remained silent. It was evident that he was waiting for a universal expression of regret at not seeing Madame Pauline, who occasionally performed the honors of the house, present today. But when no one broke the silence, he continued: “We lack women, and with it, the foam from the wine and our lives. I take up my wish again and repeat that it would make me happy to be allowed to receive the Carayon ladies in my friend’s salon. I count on those gentlemen who belong to Mrs. von Carayon’s circle to interpret my wishes. You,
Schach, or you, dear Alvensleben.” Both bowed. “All in all, it will be best if my friend Pauline takes matters into her own hands. I think she will pay the Carayon ladies a first visit, and I look forward to hours of lively intellectual exchange.” The awkward silence with which these final words were received would have been even more palpable if Dussek hadn’t stepped out onto the balcony at that very moment. “How beautiful!” he exclaimed, pointing to the western horizon, bathed high in a glowing yellow light. Everyone had joined him at the balcony railing and gazed downstream into the evening sky. Against the yellow band of light, the tall poplars stood black and silent, and even the palace dome appeared only as a silhouette. This beauty touched each of the guests. Most beautiful, however, was the sight of countless swans approaching in a long line from Charlottenburg Park , as one gazed up at the evening sky . Others were already in the front. It was obvious that the entire flotilla must have been lured by something to the vicinity of the villa, for as soon as they reached its height, they swung in like a military maneuver, extending the line of those who were already lying there, still and motionless, their beaks hidden beneath their feathers, as if at anchor. Only the reed moved gently behind them. A considerable time passed like this. Finally, one appeared very close to the balcony and stretched its neck as if to say something. “Who is it for?” asked Sander. “To the Prince or Dussek or the Sinumbra Lamp.” “Of course the Prince,” Dussek replied. “And why?” “Because he’s not just a Prince, but also Dussek and ‘sine umbra’. ” Everyone laughed with the Prince, while Sander formally congratulated him “on becoming Court Kapellmeister.” “And when,” he concluded, “our friend gathers straws again in the future to see ‘which way the wind blows,’ this wind will always seem to him to come from the land of sacred traditions and no longer from the land of prejudice .” As Sander spoke, the swan flotilla, which must have been lured by Dussek’s music, set off again and sailed downstream, just as it had come upstream until then. Only the swan, who had acted as foreman, appeared once more, as if to repeat his thanks and bid farewell in the most ceremonial manner . But then he too took the middle of the river and followed the others, whose heads had already disappeared under the shade of the park trees. Chapter 8. Chess and Victory. It was shortly after this dinner with the Prince that it was announced in Berlin that the King would be coming over from Potsdam before the end of the week to hold a grand review on Tempelhof Field. The news aroused more than usual interest this time, because the entire population not only mistrusted the peace that Haugwitz had brought home with him, but was also increasingly convinced that in the end, only our own strength would be our security, or rather our salvation. But what other strength did we have than the army, the army which, as far as appearance and training were concerned, was still Frederick’s. In such a mood, people looked forward to the revue day, which was a Saturday . The picture that the city presented from early morning onwards corresponded to the excitement that prevailed. Thousands streamed out and covered Halle Gate to the ascending street, on both sides of which the “Knapphänse,” those well-known civilian sutlers, had established themselves with their baskets and bottles. Soon after, the carriages of the upper class also appeared, among them Schach’s, which had been placed at the disposal of the Carayon ladies for that day. In the same carriage with them was an old gentleman von der Recke, a former officer, who, as a close relative of Schach’s, performed the honors and also served as the military interpreter. Mrs. von Carayon wore a steel-gray silk dress and a mantilla of the same color, while a blue veil fluttered in the breeze from Victoria’s broad-brimmed Italian hat . The groom sat next to the coachman and enjoyed the courtesy of both ladies, especially the rather arbitrarily accented English words that Victoria addressed to him from time to time. The King’s arrival had been announced for eleven o’clock, but long before that, the renowned infantry regiments Alt Larisch, von Arnim, and Möllendorff, summoned to review, appeared, their Janissary band leading the way. They were followed by the cavalry: the Garde du Corps, Gensdarmes, and Life Hussars, until, at the very end, in an ever-thickening cloud of dust, the six- and twelve-pounders rattled and clattered up, some of which had already thundered at Prague and Leuthen, and recently again at Valmy and Pirmasens. Enthusiastic cheers accompanied the march, and truly, anyone who saw them approaching like this must have had their heart beat faster with patriotic, proud excitement. The Carayons, too, shared the general feeling, taking it as mere dejection or old-age anxiety when old Herr von der Recke leaned forward and said in an emotional voice: “Let us imprint this sight on our memory, ladies. ” For believe the premonition of an old man, we will not see this splendor again. It is the farewell revue of the Frederickian army.” Victoria had caught a slight cold at Tempelhofer Feld and stayed behind in her apartment while her mother went to the theater in the evening, a pleasure she had always loved, but never more than then, when the artistic stimulation was accompanied by a touch of soothing political emotion. Wallenstein, The Maid, and Tell appeared occasionally, but most frequently Holberg’s “Political Pewter-Founder,” which, as the audience and management might have jointly felt , was considerably better suited to noisy demonstrations than Schiller’s august muse. Victoria was alone. The peace and quiet did her good, and wrapped in a Turkish shawl, she lay dreaming on the sofa, before her a letter that she had received shortly before her morning outing and had only skimmed through at that moment. All the more slowly and attentively, of course, when she returned from the revue. It was a letter from Lisette. She picked it up again now and read a passage she had already marked with a pencil stroke: “… You must know, my dear Victoire, that I, pardon this frank confession, do not fully believe some of the statements in your last letter . You are trying to deceive yourself and me when you write that you imagine yourself in a relationship of respect for S. He would smile himself if he heard of it. The fact that you suddenly felt so hurt— yes, forgive me, could be so piqued—when he took your mother’s arm , betrays you and gives me all sorts of food for thought, as does other things you write specifically on this occasion. I am suddenly getting to know you from a side I hadn’t seen before, namely, from the suspicious side. And now, my dear Victoire, please listen to what I have to say to you on this important point. I am, after all, the older one. You must not, once and for all, allow yourself to be mistrustful of people who are quite entitled to make the opposite claim. And among these people, I believe, is Schach. I find that the more I examine the case, the more Consider that you are simply faced with a choice and must either abandon your good opinion of S. or abandon your mistrust of him . He is a gentleman, you write to me, ‘yes, chivalry,’ you add, ‘is truly his nature,’ and at the very moment you write this, your suspicion accuses him of a way of acting which, if true, would be the most unchivalrous thing in the world. Such contradictions do not exist. One is either a man of honor or one is not. As for the rest, my dear Victoire, be of good cheer and rest assured once and for all, the mirror is lying to you. There is only one thing for which we women live: we live to win a heart, but how we win it is immaterial.” Victoire folded the sheet again. “It’s easy to find advice and comfort from a state of complete possession; she has everything, and now she’s generous. Poor words that fall from the rich man’s table.” And she covered both eyes with her hands. At that moment, she heard the bell ring, and immediately afterward, a second time, without any of the servants coming. Had Beate and old Jannasch missed it? Or were they gone? Curiosity overcame her. So she quietly went to the door and looked out into the hallway. It was chess. For a moment, she hesitated, wondering what to do, but then she opened the glass door and asked him to come in. “You rang so softly. Beate must have missed it.” “I’ve just come to ask how the ladies are. It was splendid parade weather, cool and sunny, but the wind was quite strong…” “And you see me among his victims. I have a fever, not exactly severely, but at least so that I had to give up the theater.” The shawl I’m asking to be wrapped in again, and this tisane, from which Beate expects true miracles, will probably be more beneficial to me than Wallenstein’s death. Mama initially wanted to keep me company. But you know her passion for everything acting, and so I sent her away. Certainly, also out of selfishness; for, I confess, I longed for peace and quiet.’ ‘Which, in turn, disturbs my appearance. But not for long, only just long enough to discharge an errand, a request which, incidentally, I might very well arrive too late for if Alvensleben has already spoken.’ ‘Which I don’t believe, assuming that these aren’t things Mama has seen fit to keep secret, even from me.’ ‘A very unlikely case. For it’s an errand addressed to both mother and daughter. We had a dinner with the Prince, a private circle, and finally, of course, Dussek. He spoke of the theater, of something else he should have said, and even silenced Bülow, which was perhaps an act.” “But you do meditate, dear Schach.” “I’ve been frequenting Frau von Carayon’s salon long enough to be at least instructed in the elements of this art.” “Ever worse, ever greater heresies. I will bring you before Mama’s Grand Inquisitor. And at least you won’t escape the torture of a moral lecture.” “I couldn’t think of a better punishment.” “You take it too lightly… But now the Prince…” “He wants to see you, both mother and daughter. Frau Pauline, who, as you may know, makes up the Prince’s circle, is to bring you an invitation.” “To obey which, mother and daughter will consider it a special honor.” “Which surprises me not a little. And you, my dear Victoire, can hardly have said this in earnest. The Prince is a gracious gentleman to me , and I love him with all my heart.” No words are needed about it. But he is a light with a rich shadow, or, if you will allow me the analogy, a light that burns with a robber. All in all, he has the dubious merit of so many Princely qualities, to be equally outstanding in war and love affairs , or to put it more bluntly, he is alternately a hero and a debaucher. At the same time, unprincipled and ruthless, even disregarding appearances. Which is perhaps the worst of all. Do you know his relationship with Frau Pauline?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And…’ ‘I don’t approve of it. But not approving of it is different from condemning it. Mama taught me not to worry or fret about such things. And isn’t she right? I ask you, dear Schach, what would become of us, especially of us two women, if we were to set ourselves up as moral arbiters within our social sphere and test men and women for the correctness of their conduct ? Perhaps through a trial by water and fire. Society is sovereign. What it accepts is valid, what it rejects is reprehensible. Besides, everything here is exceptional. The prince is a prince, Frau von Carayon is a widow, and I… am me.” “And this decision is to remain, Victoire?” “Yes. The gods balance. And as Lisette Perbandt just wrote to me: ‘To whom is taken, there will be given.’ In my case, the exchange is somewhat painful, and I wish I hadn’t made it . But on the other hand, I don’t blindly pass by the good things I’ve exchanged, and I rejoice in my freedom. What others of my age and gender are frightened of, I am allowed to do. That evening at the Massows’, where I was first honored, I was, without being aware of it, a slave. Or at least dependent on a hundred things. Now I am free.” Schach looked at the speaker in surprise. Many things the prince had said about her were running through his mind. Were these convictions or fantasies? Was it fever? Her cheeks had flushed, and a flash of fire in her eye struck him with an expression of defiant determination. He tried, however, to return to the light tone in which their conversation had begun and said: “My dear Victoire is joking. I’d wager it’s a volume of Rousseau that lies before her, and her imagination follows the poet.” “No, it’s not Rousseau. It’s someone else who interests me more.” “And who, if I may be curious?” “Mirabeau. ” “And why more?” “Because he’s closer to me. And the most personal things always determine our judgment. Or almost always. He is my companion, my special companion in suffering. He grew up amid flattery. ‘Ah, the beautiful child,’ they would say day in, day out. And then one day everything was gone, gone like… like…’ ‘No, Victoire, you shouldn’t say the word.’ ‘But I want to, and would make the name of my companion and fellow sufferer my own if I could. Victoire Mirabeau de Carayon, or let’s say Mirabelle de Carayon, that sounds beautiful and natural, and if I translate it correctly, it’s Wunderhold.’ And with that, she laughed, full of high spirits and bitterness. But the bitterness came through. ‘You mustn’t laugh like that, Victoire, not like that. It does n’t suit you, it makes you ugly. Yes, just roll your lips— it makes you ugly. The prince was right when he spoke enthusiastically of you. Poor law of form and color. The only thing that counts is the eternal one, that the soul creates its body or illuminates and transfigures it.’ Victoire’s lips fluttered, her confidence deserted her, and a chill shook her. She pulled the shawl up higher, and Schach took her hand, which was ice-cold, for all the blood rushed to her heart. “Victoire, you are doing yourself an injustice; you are uselessly raging against yourself and are no better than the pessimist who seeks all that is gloomy and overlooks God’s bright sunlight. I implore you, pull yourself together and believe again in your right to life and love. Was I then blind? In the bitter word in which you wanted to humiliate her, in that very word you hit it, once and for all. Everything about you is a fairy tale and a miracle; yes, Mirabelle, yes, Miraculous Lady!’ Ah, those were the words her heart had longed for, while it sought to arm itself with defiance. And now she heard them helplessly and was silent in a sweet stupor. The room clock struck nine, and the tower clock outside answered. Victoria, who had followed the strokes, pushed back her hair and stepped to the window, looking out at the street. ‘What’s bothering you?’ ‘I thought I heard the carriage.’ ‘You have too much hearing.’ But she shook her head, and at the same moment, Frau von Carayon’s carriage drove up. ‘Leave me… please.’ ‘See you tomorrow.’ And without knowing whether he would succeed in avoiding the encounter with Frau von Carayon, he quickly took his leave and hurried through the anteroom and corridor. Everything was quiet and dark downstairs, and only from the middle of the hallway did a glimmer of light reach near the top steps. But luck was on his side. A broad pillar, jutting out right up to the stair railing, divided the narrow hallway into two halves, and behind this pillar he stepped and waited. Victoire stood in the glass door and received her mother. “You’re coming so early. Oh, and how I’ve been expecting you!” Schach heard every word. “First the guilt and then the lie,” echoed inside him. “The same old story.” But the point of his words was directed at him, not at Victoire. Then he emerged from his hiding place and walked quickly and silently down the stairs. Chapter 9. Schach withdraws. “See you tomorrow,” had been Schach’s parting words, but he didn’t come. Not even on the second or third day. Victoria tried to work it out for herself, and when she couldn’t manage, she took Lisette’s letter and reread the passage she had long since memorized. “You must not, once and for all, allow yourself to be mistrusted by people who are quite right to make the opposite claim. And Schach is one of these people, I believe. The more I consider the case, the more I find that you are simply faced with a choice and must either abandon your good opinion of S. or your mistrust of him .” Yes, Lisette was right, and yet a fear remained in her heart. “If only….” And it covered her with blood. Finally, on the fourth day, he came. But it happened that she had gone into town shortly before. When she returned, she heard of his visit; he had been very kind, had asked for her two or three times , and had left a bouquet for her. It was violets and roses that filled the room with their fragrance. While her mother chatted to her about the visit, Victoria tried to strike a light and cheerful tone, but her heart was too full of conflicting emotions, and she withdrew to weep in tears of both joy and fear. Meanwhile, the day had arrived when the “Consecration of Power” was to be performed. Schach sent his servant to inquire whether the ladies intended to attend the performance. It was a mere formality, for he knew they would. In the theater, all the seats were taken. Schach sat opposite the Carayons and greeted them with great courtesy. But that was all he said, and he didn’t come over to their box, a reticence that Mrs. von Carayon was hardly less shocked by than Victoria. Meanwhile, the argument between the audience, divided into two camps regarding the play, was so heated and agitated that both ladies were equally carried away and, at least for a moment, forgot all personal matters. Only on the way home did his astonishment at Schach’s behavior return. The next morning, he sent for an appointment. Mrs. von Carayon was pleased, but Victoire, who had a sharper eye, felt a deep unease. He He had clearly waited for this day to have something convenient to talk about and, with its help, to more easily overcome the awkwardness of seeing her again for the first time. He kissed Frau von Carayon’s hand and then turned to Victoria to express his regret at having missed her on his last visit . They were almost estranged, instead of becoming more closely attached. He said this in such a way that she was left with doubt as to whether he had said it with deeper meaning or out of mere embarrassment. She pondered it , but before she could finish, the conversation turned to the play. “What do you think?” asked Frau von Carayon. “I don’t like comedies that last five hours,” replied Schach, ” I want pleasure or relaxation in the theater, but not strain.” “Admittedly. But this is something superficial, and incidentally a grievance that will soon be remedied. Iffland himself agrees to considerable cuts. I want your opinion on the play.”
“It didn’t satisfy me.” “And why not?” “Because it turns everything on its head. Thank God, there never was such a Luther, and if one ever did, he would simply lead us back to where the real Luther led us back in time. Every line contradicts the spirit and century of the Reformation; everything is Jesuitism or mysticism, playing an illicit and almost childish game with truth and history. Nothing fits. I was constantly reminded of Albrecht Dürer’s painting of Pilate riding with pistol holsters, or of an equally famous altarpiece in Soest, where, instead of the Easter lamb, a Westphalian ham lies in the dish. But in this supposedly Luther play, a most priestly priest lies in the dish. It is an anachronism from beginning to end.” “Good. That’s Luther. But I repeat, the play?” “Luther is the play. The other means nothing.” Or should I be enthusiastic about Katharina von Bora, about a nun who, after all, wasn’t one?” Victoire lowered her gaze, and her hand trembled. Schach saw this, and, alarmed by his faux pas, he spoke hastily and precipitately about a parody that was being prepared, about an announced protest by the Lutheran clergy, about the court, about Iffland, about the poet himself, and finally concluded with an exaggerated praise of the inserted songs and compositions. He hoped that Miss Victoire still remembered the evening when he had been allowed to accompany these songs on the piano. All this was spoken very kindly, but as kind as it sounded, it also sounded strange, and Victoire, with her sensitive ears, heard that it wasn’t the language she was entitled to demand. She tried to answer him impartially, but it remained a superficial conversation until he left. The day after this visit, Aunt Marguerite arrived. She had heard at court about the beautiful piece, “which was as beautiful as any other,” and so she was eager to see it. Frau von Carayon was willing, took her to the second performance, and since it had really been severely shortened, there was still time at home to chat for half an hour. “Well, Aunt Marguerite,” asked Victoire, “how did you like it?” “Good, dear Victoire. For it does touch on the main point in our purified church.” “Which one do you mean, dear Aunt?” “Well, the point of Christian marriage.” Victoire forced herself to remain serious and then said: “I thought this main point in our church lay in something else, for example, in the doctrine of the Lord’s Supper.” “Oh no, my dear Victoire, I know that quite well. With or without wine, it doesn’t make that much difference; But whether our prédicateurs live in a morally married marriage or not, that, my little angel, is of real importance.” “And I think Aunt Marguerite is quite right,” said Mrs. von Carayon. “And that’s exactly what the play is about ,” continued the woman who had been praised against all expectations, “and what one sees all the more clearly because Bethmann is truly a very pretty woman. Or at least much prettier than she actually was. I mean the nun. Which doesn’t matter, though, because he wasn’t a handsome man either, and nowhere near as handsome as he was. Yes, just blush, my dear Victoire, I know that much too.” Frau von Carayon laughed heartily. “And that must be true, our Captain von Schach is truly a very pleasant man, and I still think of Tempelhof and the upright knight… And do you know, there’s supposed to be one in Wülmersdorf too, and it was just as well brushed aside. And who did I get it from? Well? From the Little Princess Charlotte.” Chapter 10. “Something must happen.” The “Consecration of Power” was still being performed, and Berlin continued to be divided into two camps. Everything that was mystically romantic was for the play, everything that was liberal was against it. Even in the Carayon household, this feud continued, and while Mother enthusiastically joined in, partly for the sake of the court, partly for her own “feelings ,” Victoria felt repelled by these sentimentalities. She found everything untrue and fake and insisted that Schach had been right in every word he said. Schach now came from time to time, but always only when he could be sure of meeting Victoria in her mother’s company. He moved a lot in the “big houses” again and, as Nostitz mocked, added to the Radziwills and Carolaths what he took away from the Carayons. Alvensleben also joked about it, and even Victoria tried to strike the same note. But without success. She was daydreaming, and she wasn’t really sad. Even less unhappy. Among those who occupied themselves with the play, that is, with the issue of the day , were the officers of the Gendarme Regiment, although it never occurred to them to seriously engage in a pro or con debate . They viewed everything exclusively from its comical perspective and found in the dissolution of a nunnery, in Katharina von Boras, the “nine-year-old foster daughter,” and finally in the incessantly flute -playing Luther, inexhaustible material for their mockery and arrogance. Their favorite meeting place in those days was the regimental guardroom, where the younger comrades would visit the officer on duty and entertain themselves until late into the night. Among the conversations held here in connection with the new comedy, mockeries like the ones mentioned above were rarely absent from the daily routine, and when one of the comrades reminded everyone that the regiment, having recently fallen from its former heights, had a kind of patriotic duty to once again show itself “as itself,” tremendous cheering erupted, at the end of which everyone agreed “that something must be done.” It was clear from the outset that this could merely be a travesty of the “consecration of strength,” perhaps through a masquerade, and opinions only differed as to the “how .” Consequently, it was decided to hold another meeting a few days later, at which, after hearing a few suggestions, the actual plan would be finalized. Word quickly spread, and when the day and hour arrived, some twenty comrades appeared at the aforementioned bar: Itzenplitz, Jürgaß and Britzke, Billerbeck and Diricke, Count Haeseler, Count Herzberg, von Rochow, von Putlitz, a Kracht, a Klitzing, and, last but not least, an elderly Lieutenant von Zieten, a small, ugly, and saber-legged fellow who, through a distant cousinship with the famous general and almost more so through a bold, croaking voice, managed to compensate for what he lacked in other virtues. Nostitz and Alvensleben also appeared. Schach was missing. “Who will preside?” asked Klitzing. “Only two possibilities,” replied Diricke. “The longest or the shortest. So that means Nostitz or Zieten.” “Nostitz, Nostitz!” everyone shouted in unison, and the man thus elected by acclamation sat down on a large garden chair. Bottles and glasses lined the long table. “Speech: National Assembly… ”
Nostitz let the noise continue for a while and then rapped on the table with the sword he had laid at his side as a symbol of his dignity. “Silentium, silentium.” “Comrades of the Regiment of Gendarmes, heirs to an ancient reputation on the field of military and social honor—for we have not only set the direction for the battle, we have also set the tone for society—comrades, I say, we have come to a conclusion: something must be done!” “Yes, yes.” Something must be done.” “And newly consecrated by the ‘Consecration of Power,’ we have decided, for the sake of old Luther and ourselves, to organize a procession that future generations will still report about. It must be something great! Let us remember, whoever does not advance, regresses. A procession, then. That much is certain. But the nature and character of this procession still remains to be determined, and it is for this purpose that we have gathered here. I am ready to accept your suggestions in turn. Anyone who has suggestions to make, please speak up.” Among those who spoke up was Lieutenant von Zieten. “I’ll give the floor to Lieutenant von Zieten.” He stood up and said, rocking slightly on the back of his chair: “What I have to suggest is called a sleigh ride.” Everyone looked at each other. Some laughed. “In July?” “In July,” repeated Zieten. “Salt will be spread under the linden trees, and our journey will take place over this snow. First, a few disgruntled nuns; but in the large main sleigh, which forms the center of the procession , Luther and his assistant parade, each with a flute, while Katharinchen rides on the bunk. Ad libitum with torches or sleigh whips. Outriders open the procession. Costumes are taken from the theater or made to measure. I have spoken. A tremendous uproar answered, until the quiet-enforcing Nostitz finally broke through. “I’ll simply take this uproar as approval and congratulate Comrade Zieten on having hit the bull’s eye with a single, first master shot. So, sleigh ride. Accepted?” “Yes, yes.” “So all that remains is the allocation of roles. Who will play Luther?” “Check.” “He’ll refuse.” “Not at all,” croaked Zieten, who harbored a special malice toward the handsome Schach, who had been preferred to him on more than one occasion: “How can one misjudge Schach so! I know him better than that.” He will, of course, lament for half an hour having to adopt high cheekbones and transform his normal oval into a peasant-like tête-à-carré. But in the end, he will set vanity against vanity and find his reward in being the hero of the day for 24 hours .” Before Zieten had finished speaking, a private had entered from the guard post to deliver a letter addressed to Nostitz. “Ah, lupus in fabula.” “About chess?” “Yes!” “Read, read!” And Nostitz opened the letter and read. “I ask you, dear Nostitz, to act as my mediator and, if necessary, also my advocate at the meeting of our young officers that is presumably taking place at this very moment . I have received the circular and was initially willing to come. In the meantime, however, I have been informed of what the matter will most likely be, and this information has changed my mind. It is no secret to you that everything that is planned contradicts my feelings, and so you will easily be able to work out how much or how little I was for the already stage Luther contre coeur I have a Luther mummery left. The fact that we are moving this mummery to a time that cannot even claim carnival freedom certainly does not improve things. However, my position on the matter should not impose any constraints on younger comrades, and in any case, one can be assured of my discretion. I am not the conscience of the regiment, much less its overseer. Your Schach.” “I knew it,” said Nostitz calmly, as he burned Schach’s note at the nearest light. “Comrade Zieten is greater in suggestions and fantasy than in knowledge of human nature. He wants to answer me, I see, but I cannot give in to him, because at this moment the only question is: who will play Luther? I ‘ll put the reformer under the hammer. The highest bidder has him. First, second, and… third. No one? So all that remains for me is the nomination: Alvensleben, you.” He shook his head. “I stand by it like Schach; Play the game, I’m no spoilsport, but I personally won’t play . I can’t and won’t. I’ve got too much of Luther’s Catechism in me for that.” Nostitz didn’t want to give in right away. “Everything in its time,” he continued, “and when seriousness has its day, jokes at least have their moment. You take everything too conscientiously, too solemnly, too pedantically. In this, too, like chess. Nothing is intrinsically good or bad. Remember that we don’t want to mock old Luther; on the contrary, we want to avenge him. What is to be mocked is the play, the caricature of Luther, the reformer in the wrong light and in the wrong place. We are a court of punishment, the authority of all supreme morality. Do it. You mustn’t let us down, or it will all go down the drain. ” Others echoed this sentiment. But Alvensleben remained firm, and a slight discontent only subsided when, unexpectedly and precisely for that reason, young Count Herzberg rose to offer himself for the role of Luther, greeted with universal cheers. Everything that remained to be arranged was quickly arranged, and within ten minutes, the main roles had already been assigned: Count Herzberg as Luther, Diricke as the assistant, and Nostitz, because of his colossal size, as Katharina von Bora. The rest were simply written up as nun material, and only Zieten, to whom everyone felt particularly indebted , advanced to the role of abbess. He immediately declared that he wanted to play a “jeu entriren” (game of mariage) on his sleigh seat, or a game of “marriage” with the convent’s provost . New cheers erupted, and after the following Monday had been quickly set for the masquerade, but all gossiping had been strictly forbidden, Nostitz closed the meeting. In the doorway, Diricke turned around once more and asked: “But what if it rains?”
“It mustn’t rain.” “And what will happen to the salt?” “It’s for the domestics.” “And for the rabble,” concluded the youngest cornet. Chapter 11. The Sleigh Ride. Silence had been promised, and it truly remained unspoken. Perhaps a unique case. It was said in the city that the gendarmes were “up to something” and were once again brooding over one of those mad pranks for which they had gained a reputation among other regiments, but no one learned what the madness would culminate in, nor for what day it was planned. Even the Carayon ladies, at whose last reception evening neither Schach nor Alvensleben had appeared, had remained uninformed, and so the famous “Summer Sleigh Ride” broke out, surprising both those close and distant alike. At dusk, they had gathered in one of the stables near Mittelstraße and Dorotheenstraße , and a dozen splendidly dressed outriders accompanied by torchbearers , just as Zieten had proposed, shot with the At the stroke of nine, the procession passed the Academy building toward the Linden street, raced further downhill, first into Wilhelmsstrasse, then turned around into Behren and Charlottenstrasse, and repeated this journey around the aforementioned Linden Quarré with ever-increasing haste. When the procession passed the Carayon house for the first time, and the light of the torches riding ahead shone brightly into all the panes of the bel étage , Frau von Carayon, who happened to be alone, rushed in alarm to the window and looked out into the street. But instead of the cry of “Fire!” which she expected to hear, all she heard, as in the middle of winter, was a cracking of great hooves and the cracking of sleigh whips , interspersed with the ringing of bells, and before she could get her bearings , it was all over again, leaving her confused, questioning , and half-stupefied. It was in this state that Victoria found her. “For God’s sake, Mama, what is it?” But before Frau von Carayon could answer, the vanguard of the masquerade had arrived for the second time, and mother and daughter, who had now quickly stepped out onto the balcony from their corner room for better orientation , were from that moment no longer in doubt what the whole thing meant. Mockery, no matter who or what. First, lewd nuns, with a witch of an abbess at the head, yelling, drinking, and playing cards, and in the middle of the procession, a main sleigh on wheels, evidently intended as a triumphal carriage by its abundance of gilding, in which sat Luther and his assistant, with Katharina von Bora on the bunk. By his gigantic figure, they recognized Nostitz. But who was the man in the front seat? Victoire wondered. Who was hiding behind this Luther mask? Was it him? No, it was impossible. And yet, even if he wasn’t, he was still always an accomplice in this disgusting game, which he had approved of or at least not hindered. What a depraved world, how irreverent, how devoid of all propriety! How shallow and disgusting. A feeling of infinite pain seized her to see the beautiful distorted and the pure dragged through the mud. And why? To make a name for herself for a day , for the sake of petty vanity. And that was the sphere in which she had thought and laughed, and lived and woven, and in which she had longed for love, and, alas, worst of all, believed in love! “Let’s go,” she said, taking her mother’s arm, and turned to return to the room. But before she could reach it, she was overcome as if by a faint and sank down on the threshold of the balcony. Her mother rang the bell, Beate came, and they both carried her to the sofa, where she was immediately seized by a violent chest cramp . She sobbed, sat up, sank back into the pillows, and when her mother tried to wash her forehead and temples with cologne , she violently pushed her away. But the next moment, she snatched the bottle from her mother’s hand and poured it over her neck and throat. “I hate myself, as much as the world. During my illness, I begged God for my life… But we shouldn’t beg for our lives… God knows best what is good for us. And if he wants to lift us up to himself, we shouldn’t ask: let us still… Oh, how painfully I feel that! Now I’m alive… But how, how!” Mrs. von Carayon knelt down beside the sofa and spoke to her. At that same moment, the sleigh train sped past the house for the third time, and again it seemed as if fantastic black figures were chasing and snatching each other in the glowing red light. “Isn’t it like hell?” said Victoria, pointing to the shadow play on the ceiling. Mrs. von Carayon sent Beaten to summon the doctor. In truth, however, she cared less for the doctor than for being alone and talking to her beloved child. “What’s wrong with you? And how you’re flying and trembling. And you look so fixed.” I no longer recognize my cheerful Victoria. Consider, child, what has happened? One more foolish prank, one among many, and I know times when you would have laughed at this arrogance rather than lamented it. There is something else that torments and oppresses you; I’ve seen it for days . But you’re keeping it from me, you have a secret. I implore you, Victoria, speak. You may. Be what it may.” Victoria flung her arm around Frau von Carayon’s neck, and a stream of tears welled from her eyes. “Dear mother!” And she drew her closer to her, kissed her, and confessed everything to her. Chapter 12. Chess at Frau von Carayon’s. The next morning, Frau von Carayon sat by her daughter’s bed and said, as she looked up at her mother tenderly and with a regained , calmly happy expression: “Have faith, child. I’ve known him for such a long time. He is weak and vain, like all fine men, but possessed of an unusual sense of justice and an impeccable disposition.” At that moment, Captain von Schach was announced, and old Jannasch added, “that he had brought him into the drawing-room.” Frau von Carayon nodded in agreement. “I knew he would come,” said Victoria. “Because you dreamed it?” “No, not dreamed it; I only observe and calculate. For some time now , I’ve known in advance on what day and on what occasion he will appear. He always comes when something has happened or there is news that is convenient to discuss. He avoids intimate conversation with me. So he came after the performance of the play, and today he comes after the performance of the sleigh ride. I’m curious to know if he was there. If he was, tell him how much it hurt me. Or better not say it.” Frau von Carayon was moved. “Ah, my sweet Victoire, you are too good, much too good. He doesn’t deserve it; no one does.” And she stroked her daughter and walked across the corridor into the drawing room, where Schach was waiting for her. He seemed less embarrassed than usual and bowed to kiss her hand, which she kindly allowed. And yet her demeanor was changed. With a ceremony that was usually foreign to her, she pointed to one of the Japanese chairs at one side, pushed a footrest closer, and took her place on the sofa. “I have come to inquire about the ladies’ well-being and, at the same time , to find out whether or not yesterday’s masquerade met with favor in your eyes.” “Frankly, no. Personally, I found it rather unsuitable, and Victoire felt almost repulsed by it.” “A feeling I share. ” “So you weren’t there?” “Certainly not.” And I’m surprised to have to confirm it first . You know my position on this matter, my dear Josephine, have known it since that evening when we first spoke about the play and its author. What I said then still applies today. Serious matters require serious treatment, and I am sincerely pleased to see Victoria on my side. Is she at home?’ ‘In bed.’ ‘I hope nothing serious.’ ‘Yes and no. The after-effects of a chest convulsion and crying fit that struck her last night.’ ‘Presumably as a result of this masquerade madness. I deplore it with all my heart.’ ‘And yet I owe a debt of gratitude to this very madness. In her disgust at the mummery she had to witness, her tongue loosened ; she broke her long silence and confided a secret to me , a secret that you know.’ Schach, who felt doubly guilty, was covered in blood. “Dear Schach,” continued Mrs. von Carayon, taking his hand and looking at him kindly but firmly with her wise eyes: “Dear Schach, I am not silly enough to make a scene or even give you a moral lecture; among the things that matter most to me hated, also includes moralizing. I have lived in the world since my youth, I know the world, and I have experienced much in my own heart. And if I were hypocritical enough to want to hide it from myself and others, how could I hide it from you?” She was silent for a moment as she touched her forehead with her batiste handkerchief . Then she resumed speaking and added: “Of course there are those, and especially among us women, who interpret the saying about the left hand not knowing what the right hand is doing to mean that today should not know what yesterday did. Or even the day before yesterday! But I am not one of these virtuosos of forgetting. I deny nothing, do not want it, do not like it. And now condemn me, if you can.” He was clearly hurt when she spoke like this, and his entire demeanor showed the power she still exerted over him. “Dear Schach,” she continued, “you see, I submit myself to your judgment . But even if I unconditionally refrain from any defense or advocacy for Josephine von Carayon—for Josephine —excuse me, you yourself just invoked the old name again— I cannot renounce being the advocate for Mrs. von Carayon, for her house, and for her name.” Schach seemed about to interrupt. But she wouldn’t allow it. “Just a moment. I’ll have said what I have to say in a moment . Victoria has asked me to keep silent about everything, to reveal nothing, not even to you, and to demand nothing. To atone for half a guilt—and I’m counting it high when I speak of half a guilt—she wants to bear the whole of it, even before the world, and, in that romantic streak that is characteristic of her, she wants to create happiness from her misfortune . She delights in the elation of sacrifice, in a sweet death for the one she loves and for the one she will love. But however weak I am in my love for Victoria, I am not weak enough to be at her beck and call in this comedy of magnanimity. I belong to society, whose conditions I fulfill, whose laws I submit myself to; that is how I was raised, and I have no desire to sacrifice my social position for the sake of my only beloved daughter’s whim . In other words, I have no desire to enter a convent or play the pillar saint removed from earthly things, not even for Victoria’s sake. And so I must insist on legitimizing what has happened. That, Captain, was what I had to say to you.” Schach, who had meanwhile found an opportunity to collect himself , replied, “that he knew very well how everything in life has its natural consequence.” And he had no intention of shirking such a consequence. If what he now knew had been revealed to him earlier, he would have freely requested the very steps that Frau von Carayon was now demanding. He had wished to remain unmarried, and to say goodbye to such a long-cherished idea was creating a certain amount of confusion at the moment. But he felt with no less certainty that he ought to congratulate himself on the day that would soon bring this change into his life. Victoria was her mother’s daughter, that was the best guarantee of his future, the promise of true happiness.” All this was said very politely and obligingly, but at the same time with a remarkable coolness. Frau von Carayon experienced this in a way that was not only painful but downright hurtful; What she had heard was neither the language of love nor of guilt, and when Schach remained silent, she replied sharply: “I am very grateful to you for your words, Mr. von Schach, especially for what was addressed to me personally. You probably feel in your own heart that your ‘yes’ could have sounded more wholehearted and unconstrained . But no matter, A ‘yes’ is enough for me. Because what am I thirsting for in the end? A wedding ceremony in the cathedral and a gala wedding. I want to see myself again in the yellow satin that suits me, and once we’ve danced our torch dance and cut Victoria’s garter—for we’ll have to act a little princessily, for Aunt Marguerite’s sake if only—well, then I’ll give you carte blanche. You’ll be free again, free as a bird in the air, to do and to refrain, to love and hate, for then what had to happen will simply have happened.” Schach was silent. “For the time being, I’ll accept a silent engagement. We’ll easily agree on everything else. If necessary, in writing. But the sick woman is waiting for me now, and so please forgive me.” Frau von Carayon rose, and immediately afterwards Schach took her formal leave, without another word being spoken between them. Chapter 13. “Le choix du Schach.” They had parted in almost open hostility. But everything went better than could have been expected after this irritable conversation, to which a letter that Schach wrote to Frau von Carayon the next day contributed significantly . In it, he frankly admitted his guilt, feigning surprise and confusion, as he had already done during the conversation itself, and in all these explanations, he adopted a warmer tone and more cordial language. Indeed, his sense of justice, which he wanted to satisfy, perhaps led him to say more than was good and wise to say . He spoke of his love for Victoria and , intentionally or accidentally, avoided all those assurances of respect and appreciation that hurt so bitterly when the simple confession of heartfelt affection is demanded. Victoria absorbed every word, and when her mother finally laid the letter down, she saw, not without emotion, how two minutes of happiness had sufficed to restore her poor child’s hope, and with that hope, her lost vitality. The sick woman beamed, felt as if she had recovered, and Frau von Carayon said, “How pretty you are, Victoria.” Schach received a reply that same day, which frankly expressed his old friend’s heartfelt joy. He might forget many of the bitter things she had said; she had allowed herself to be carried away, lively as she was. Apart from that, nothing serious or significant had been missed, and if, as the saying goes, sorrow blossoms from joy, it would surely turn around. She once again saw the future brightly and had renewed hope. Whatever she personally sacrificed , she would gladly make if this sacrifice were the condition for her daughter’s happiness . Schach, when he read the note, weighed it up and down and was clearly filled with mixed feelings. When he spoke of Victoria in his letter, he had given himself over to a friendly, cordial feeling that could not easily be denied to her by anyone, and he remembered giving particularly vivid expression to this feeling.
But what his friend’s note now reminded him of anew was more; it simply meant wedding, matrimony, words whose mere sound had always terrified him. Wedding! And wedding with whom? With a beauty who, as the Prince liked to express himself, “had gone through purgatory.” “But,” he continued in his monologue, “I do not share the Prince’s point of view, I am not enthusiastic about ‘purification processes,’ with regard to which it is not certain whether the loss is greater than the gain, and even if I could personally convert myself to this point of view, I would not convert the world…. I have irretrievably fallen prey to the mockery and jokes of my comrades, and the ridicule of a most happy ‘country marriage,’ which blooms in secret like a violet, lies before me in a true model specimen. I see exactly how it will turn out: I quit the service, take over Wuthenow again, farm, improve, move Rapeseed or turnip rapeseed, and I strive for the most marital fidelity. What a life, what a future! One Sunday a sermon, the next the Gospel or Epistle, and in between, whist en trois, always with the same pastor. And then one day a prince comes to the next town, perhaps Prince Louis himself, and changes horses, while I ‘ve appeared to wait on him at the gate or the inn. And he examines me and my old-fashioned coat and asks me, ‘How am I ?’ And every expression on his face expresses: ‘Oh God, what three years can do to a person.’ Three years… And maybe it will be thirty.’ He had paced back and forth in his room and stopped in front of a mirrored console on which lay the letter he had set aside while speaking. Two or three times he picked it up and dropped it again. ‘My fate. Yes, ‘the moment decides.’ I still remember, that’s what she wrote back then. Did she know what was coming? Did she want it? Oh, ugh, Schach, don’t denigrate the sweet creature. All the blame lies with you. Your blame is your fate. And I will bear it.” He rang the bell, gave the servant a few instructions, and went to the Carayons. It was as if, through the monologue he had been having, he had freed himself from the pressure weighing on him. His language toward his old friend was now natural, almost cordial, and without even the slightest cloud clouding Frau von Carayon’s restored trust, the two discussed what should be done. Schach agreed to everything: the engagement in a week, and the wedding after three. Immediately after the wedding, however, the young couple were to embark on a journey to Italy and not return home for another year: Schach to the capital, Victoria to Wuthenow, the old family estate, which she remembered with grateful and friendly gratitude from a previous visit when Schach’s mother was still alive . And even though the estate had been leased in the meantime, the castle was still there, freely available, and ready to be occupied at any moment. After these arrangements, they parted. Sunshine lay over the Carayon house, and Victoire forgot all the sorrow that had preceded it. Schach, too, made peace with it. Seeing Italy again had been a burning desire of his ever since his first stay there, only a few years earlier ; this was now being fulfilled, and when they returned, all sorts of benefits and advantages could easily be derived from the planned dual management . Victoire was attached to country life and tranquility. From time to time, he would take leave and drive or ride over there. And then they would walk through the fields and chat. Oh, she chatted so well, and was simple and witty at the same time. And after another year, or a second or a third, well, it had bled to death, it was dead and forgotten. The world forgets so easily, and society even more easily. And then they moved into the corner house on Wilhelmsplatz, and both rejoiced at the return to circumstances that, after all, represented not only his home, but also theirs . Everything was over, and the ship of life had not foundered on the cliff of the ridiculous. Poor Schach! It was written differently in the stars. The week that was to pass until the engagement announcement was not yet over when a letter with a full title and a large red seal was sent to his house. At first, he took it for an official letter, perhaps an appointment, and hesitated to open it, so as not to shorten the anticipation of his expectation. But where did it come from? From whom? He curiously examined the seal and easily recognized that it was not a seal at all, but a cameo impression. Strange. And then he opened it, and a picture fell towards him: an etched sketch with The caption: Le choix du Schach. He repeated the word to himself, unable to find his bearings in it or in the image itself, and felt only a very general and vague sense of attack and danger. And indeed, once he had oriented himself, he saw that his first feeling had been correct. Under a canopy sat the Persian Schach, recognizable by his tall lambskin cap, while on the lowest step of the throne stood two female figures, waiting for the moment when the man, cold and distinguished from his height, would make his choice between them. The Persian Schach, however, was simply our Schach, and indeed in the most striking portrait resemblance, while the two female heads, gazing questioningly at him and sketched much more hastily , were at least similar enough to make it easy to recognize Mme. von Carayon and Victoire. Thus, nothing more and nothing less than a caricature. His relationship with the Carayons had spread throughout the city, and one of his envious enemies and enemies, of which he had only too many, had seized the opportunity to satisfy his malicious desire. Schach trembled with shame and anger, all the blood rushed to his head, and he felt as if he were being struck by a blow. Following a natural desire for air and exercise, or perhaps filled with the premonition that the last arrow had not yet been shot, he took his hat and sword and went for a walk. Encounters and chatter were supposed to distract him, restore his peace of mind. What was it, after all? A petty act of revenge. The fresh air outside did him good; he breathed more freely and had almost regained his good mood when, turning from Wilhelmsplatz through the linden trees, he crossed to the shady side of the street to speak to a few acquaintances who were passing along the path. But they avoided conversation and became visibly embarrassed. Zieten also came, greeted him nonchalantly, and if all was not deceiving, even with a spiteful expression. Schach watched him go, still pondering and considering what the complacency of some and the embarrassed faces of others might have meant, when, a few hundred steps further up, he noticed an unusually large crowd standing in front of a small picture shop. Some were laughing, others chattering, but all seemed to be asking, “What is it, exactly?” Schach circled the crowd , glanced over their heads, and knew enough. The same caricature hung in the central window, and the deliberately low price was written large underneath in red ink. A conspiracy, then. Schach no longer had the strength to continue his walk and returned to his apartment. At noon, Sander received a note from Bülow: “Dear Sander. I have just received a caricature made of Schach and Carayon’s queens. In case you’re in doubt as to whether you already know it, I’m enclosing it with these lines. Please, try to trace the origin. You know everything and can hear the Berlin grass growing. For my part, I’m outraged. Not for Schach, who somewhat deserves this ‘Schach von Persia’—for he really is something of that—but for Carayon’s. The lovely Victoire! To be exposed like this. We take all the bad things from the French, and pass over their good things, which include gentilezza. Yours, B.” Sander cast only a fleeting glance at the picture he knew, sat down at his desk, and replied: “Mon Général! I do n’t need to trace the origin; it followed me. About four or five days ago, a gentleman came to my office and asked me if I would be willing to take over the distribution of some drawings. When I saw what they were about, I declined. There were three sheets, among them Le Choix du Schach. The gentleman who appeared to me pretended to be a stranger, but he said, Despite the affected burr, his German was so good that I had to consider his foreignness a mere mask. People from Prince R.’s circle take offense at his love affair with the princess and are probably behind it. But if I am wrong in this assumption, then it will be safe to assume that it is comrades in his regiment . He is anything but popular; anyone who plays the part never is. The matter might have been resolved if, as you very rightly point out, the Carayons hadn’t been dragged into it. For their sake, I deplore the prank, the malice of which can hardly be exhausted in this one image . The two others, which I mentioned at the beginning, will presumably follow. Everything in this anonymous attack is cleverly calculated, and the idea of not administering the poison all at once is also cleverly calculated. It will not fail to have its effect, and we only have to wait for the ‘how’. Tout à vous. S.” Indeed, the concern Sander had expressed to Bülow in these lines would prove only too justified. Intermittently, like the fever, the other two sheets appeared at two-day intervals and, like the first, were bought by every passerby, or at least gawked at and discussed. The Schach Carayon issue had become a cause celebre overnight, even though the curious public only knew half the story. Schach, it was said , had turned away from the beautiful mother and toward the ugly daughter. All sorts of speculations about the motif were indulged in, without finding the answer. Schach also received the other two sheets in an envelope. The seal remained the same. Sheet 2 was called “la gazza ladra,” or the “thieving Schach magpie,” and depicted a magpie examining two rings of unequal value and taking the less conspicuous one from the jewelry dish. But the third picture, which took Frau von Carayon’s salon as its setting, was far more hurtful . On the table stood a chessboard, its pieces overturned as if after a lost game and to seal the defeat. Beside it sat Victoire, well-captured, and at her feet knelt Schach, again wearing the Persian cap from the first picture. But this time piping hot and dented. And underneath it was written: “Checkmate.” The purpose of these repeated attacks was only too well achieved. Schach reported sick, saw no one, and asked for leave, which was promptly granted by his boss, Colonel von Schwerin. Thus it came to pass that on the very day on which, by mutual agreement, his engagement to Victoire was to be announced, he left Berlin. He went to his estate without saying goodbye to the Carayons, whose house he hadn’t entered during all this time. Chapter 14. In Wuthenow by the Lake. Midnight struck when Schach arrived in Wuthenow. On the opposite side of the village lay Wuthenow Castle , built on a hill overlooking Lake Ruppin to the right and left. Everyone in the houses and cottages had long since fallen into a deep sleep, and only from the stables could one still hear the stamping of a horse or the faint lowing of a cow. Schach passed through the village and turned at the exit onto a narrow field path that, gradually rising, led up to the castle hill. To the right lay the trees of the outer park, to the left a mown meadow whose scent of hay filled the air. The castle itself, however, was nothing but an old, whitewashed half- timbered building, punctuated by a layer of black-tarred timbers. Only Schach’s mother, the “late lady,” had stripped it of its appearance of the most sober, everyday existence by adding a double roof, a lightning rod, and a magnificent terrace modeled on Sanssouci . Now, of course, under the starlight, everything lay there like a fairytale castle, and Schach often stopped and looked up, obviously struck by the beauty of the picture. Finally, he reached the top and rode toward the entrance gate, which was in a A shallow arch formed between the gable of the castle and an adjacent servants’ quarters. At the same moment, he heard barking and growling from the courtyard and heard the dog furiously leap out of its hut and scratching left and right against the wooden wall with its chain. “Stay humble, Hector.” And the animal, recognizing its master’s voice, began to howl and whine with joy, jumping up and down from the hut alternately. In front of the servants’ quarters stood a walnut tree with wide branches. Schach dismounted, wrapped the reins around the branch, and knocked softly on one of the shutters. But only after he knocked a second time did it come to life inside, and he heard a half-sleepy voice from the alcove : “What is it?” “It’s me, Krist.” “Goodness, Mother, that’s the young master.” “Yes, he’s here.” Stand up and be quick.” Schach heard every word and called good-naturedly into the room, half-opening the shutter, “Take your time, old man. ”
But the old man was already out of bed and, as he searched back and forth, just kept saying, “Wait, young sir, wait. Let’s pray.” And really, it wasn’t long before Schach saw a burning sulphur thread and heard a lantern door being opened and closed. Sure enough, the first glimmer of light now flashed through the panes, and a pair of wooden clogs clattered across the clay hallway. And now the bolt was thrown back, and Krist, who had hastily put on nothing but a pair of linen trousers, stood before his young master. Many years ago, when the old “Gracious Lord” had died, he had wanted to transfer the title of honor and respect vacated by this death to his young master, but the latter, who had shot the first coot with Krist and taken the first boat trip across the lake , had wanted nothing to do with the new title. “Goodness, young sir, otherwise you always write to us, or send us bears or the little English king. And now not a word. But I knew that the Poggers couldn’t come into the house tonight with all the squawking . ‘Oh, oh, mother,’ I said, ‘that means something.’ But what the women are like! What do they say? ‘What should it mean?'” Say, ‘Rain means it. And that’s good. Because we idiots need it.'” “Yes, yes,” said Schach, who had only half-listened as the old man unlocked the small door that led into the castle from the gable end. “Yes, yes. Rain is good. But go ahead.” Krist did as his young master had commanded, and the two now walked along a narrow, tiled corridor. Only in the middle did it widen, forming a spacious stairwell to the left, while to the right, a double door richly decorated with gold moldings and Rococo ornamentation led into a garden salon , which had served as the living and reception room of the late Frau Generalin von Schach, a very distinguished and very proud old lady . This was where both of their steps were headed, and when Krist had opened the half-swollen door, not without difficulty and effort , they entered. Among the many art and memorabilia standing around in this garden salon was a bronze double candlestick, which Schach himself had brought home from his Italian trip just three years earlier and presented to his mother. Krist now took this candlestick from the fireplace and lit the two wax candles that had long been in the candlestick holders and had once served the deceased lady to seal her letters. The lady herself, however, had only been dead for a year, and since Schach had not been here since then, everything was still in its old place. A couple of small sofas stood opposite each other on the narrow sides, as before, while two larger ones occupied the center of the They occupied the long wall and had nothing between them but the gilded Rococo double doors . The round rosewood table, the general’s pride and joy, and the large marble bowl containing alabaster grapes, oranges, and a pine apple remained unchanged in their place. But the whole room, which hadn’t been aired for a long time, was stuffy and humid. “Open a window,” said Schach. “And then give me a blanket. That one.” “Would you like to lie down here, young sir?” “Yes, Krist. I’ve slept worse.” “I know. God, if the old gentleman tells us about it then! You’ll just fall into the lime mud. No, no, that’s no good for me. ‘God, young sir,’ I always say, ‘I think the hat’s coming around .'” But then the old gentleman always laughed and said: ‘No, Christ, our skin is almost gone.'” While the old man was still talking and thinking of times gone by, he reached for a wide, woven cane beater that stood in the corner of the fireplace and tried to use it to at least get the worst of the dust off the sofa Schach had chosen as his bed . But the thick dust that rose only demonstrated the futility of such efforts, and Schach said with a touch of good humor: “Don’t disturb the dust in its peace.” And only after he had said it did the double meaning strike him, and he thought of his parents, who stood down in the village church in large copper coffins with a soldered crucifix on them in the old family crypt. But he didn’t dwell on the image any further and threw himself onto the sofa. “Give my white horse a piece of bread and a bucket of water; Then he’ll hold out until tomorrow. And now put the light in the window and leave it burning…. No, not there, not in the open one; in the one next to it. And now good night, Krist. And lock it from the outside so they don’t carry me away.” “Ugh, they won’t…” And soon afterward Schach heard the slippers clattering down the corridor. But before Krist could reach the gable door and lock it from the outside, a heavy, leaden weight settled on his master’s overstimulated brain. Not for long, of course. Despite all the weight weighing on him, he clearly felt that something was buzzing above him, brushing and tickling him, and when turning and twisting, and even an involuntary and half-sleep-waving hand, didn’t help, he finally pulled himself to his feet and forced himself back to wakefulness. And now he saw what it was. The two lights that had just gone out, their smoke making the already stuffy air even more stuffy, had attracted all sorts of creatures from the garden into the room, and only their nature and composition remained a matter of doubt. For a moment he thought of bats; but very soon he was convinced that they were simply gigantic moths and night butterflies, flying back and forth in the room by the dozens, banging against the panes and trying in vain to find the open window again. He then gathered the blanket and punched the air several times to chase the troublemakers out. But the vermin, growing ever more anxious with this chasing and banging, seemed to double in number and buzzed around him more densely and loudly than before. Sleep was no longer an option, so he stepped to the open window and jumped out, pacing around outside to wait for morning. He looked at the clock. It was half past one. The garden, located directly in front of the salon, consisted of a circular garden with a sundial, around which, in mostly triangular beds bordered by boxwood, all kinds of summer flowers bloomed: mignonette, delphinium, lilies, and stocks. It was easy to see that an organizing hand had recently been lacking here, even though Krist counted that of gardener among his many duties . However, the time that had passed since the lady’s death On the other hand, it was still far too short to have led to complete wilderness. Everything had only just taken on the character of rampant bloom, and a heavy, yet at the same time invigorating scent of stocks hung over the beds, which Schach inhaled in ever-increasing breaths. He walked around the circular path once, ten times, balancing, placing one foot in front of the other, between the walkways, which were only a hand’s width wide . He wanted to test his dexterity and pass the time with grace. But this time refused to disappear, and when he looked at his watch again, only a quarter of an hour had passed. He then abandoned the flowers and walked toward one of the two arbors that flanked the large park garden and descended from the heights almost to the foot of the castle hill. In some places the passages were overgrown, but in others they were open, and it entertained him for a while to measure the space, alternating between darkness and light, in steps. A few times the passage widened into niches and temple curves containing all sorts of sandstone figures : gods and goddesses, whom he had previously passed hundreds of times without paying the slightest attention to them or investigating their meaning; but today he paused and was particularly pleased by all those whose heads were missing, because they were the darkest and most incomprehensible, and the hardest to guess . Finally, he had descended the arcade, climbed it up and down again, and now stood at the edge of the village and heard the sound of two o’clock striking. Or did the two strikes mean half past two? Was it half past two? No, it was only two o’clock. He gave up on continuing the up-and-down pace of his promenade and preferred to make a semicircle around the foot of the castle hill until he was in front of the castle itself. And now he looked up and saw the large terrace, framed by orangery pots and pyramidal cypress trees, descending right down to the lake. Only a narrow patch of meadow lay between them, and on this very meadow stood an ancient oak tree, whose shadow Schach now circled, once, many times, as if he were held under its spell. It was obvious that the circle he was walking in reminded him of another circle, for he murmured to himself: If only I could get out! The water, which here ran so relatively close to the castle terrace, was merely a dead arm of the lake, not the lake itself. But going out onto this lake had always been his greatest delight in his boyhood. “If there’s a boat there, I’ll go.” And he strode toward the reed belt that bordered the deep bay on three sides. There seemed to be no entrance anywhere. Finally, however, he found an overgrown jetty, at the end of which lay the large summer boat that his mother had used for many years when she crossed to Karwe to visit the Knesebecks. Oars and poles were also found, while the flat bottom of the boat was covered with piles of rushes piled high to keep his feet dry . Schach jumped in, untied the chain from the peg, and pushed off. Demonstrating any kind of rowing skills was impossible for him at the moment, for the water was so shallow and narrow that he would have hit the reeds with every stroke . Soon, however, it widened out, and he could now put in the oars. A profound stillness reigned; the day had not yet awakened, and Schach heard nothing but a gentle rustling and rushing and the sound of the water gurgling against the reeds. Finally, however, he was in the large, proper lake through which the Rhin flows, and the point where the current flowed was clearly visible by a ripple on the otherwise mirror-smooth surface. He now turned into this current , directed the boat in the right direction, laid himself and the oars in the rushes, and immediately felt the movement and a gentle rocking begin. The stars grew paler and paler, the sky reddened in the east, and he fell asleep. When he awoke, the boat, which was going with the current, was already far beyond the point where the dead arm of the lake turned towards Wuthenow. So he took up the oars again and exerted himself with all his strength to get out of the current and back to the missed spot, and he was pleased with the effort it cost him. Day had now broken. The sun hung over the ridge of the Wuthenow manor house, while over on the other shore the clouds glowed in the reflected light and the strips of forest cast their shadows into the lake . On the lake itself, however, things began to stir, and a peat boat, riding the morning breeze, glided past Schach with its sail outstretched . A shiver ran through him. But this shiver did him good, for he clearly felt how the pressure on him was easing . “Wasn’t he taking it too hard? What was it in the end? Malice and ill will. And who can escape it! It comes and goes. Another week, and the malice will have run its course.” But as he consoled himself, other images came back, and he saw himself arriving in a carriage before the princely family to introduce them to Victoire von Carayon as his bride. And he clearly heard the old Princess Ferdinand whispering to her daughter, the beautiful Radziwill: “Is she rich?” “Without doubt.” “Ah, I understand.” Amidst such changing images and reflections, he turned back into the bay that had been so quiet a short time before, but in whose reeds a colorful and bustling life now reigned. The nesting birds screeched or cooed, a few lapwings took flight, and a wild duck, looking around curiously, dived down as the boat suddenly came into view. A minute later, and Schach stopped at the footbridge again, looped the chain tightly around the peg, and, avoiding any detours , climbed the terrace. On the top landing, he met Krist’s wife, old Mother Kreepschen, who was already up to bring her goat its first green fodder. “Good day, Mother Kreepschen.” The old woman jumped, seeing her young master, whom she presumed to be inside the garden parlor, for whose sake she hadn’t let the chickens out of the coop , simply so their clucking wouldn’t disturb his sleep, approaching from the front of the castle . “Goodness, young sir. Where are they coming from?” “I couldn’t sleep, Mother Kreepschen.” “What’s the matter? Was it spooked again?” “Almost. It was mosquitoes and moths. I had left the light on. And one of the window sashes was open.” “But why didn’t you turn the light off?” Everyone knows that where there’s light, there are always midges and moths. I don’t know! And my old Kreepschen, he’s getting dumber and dumber too. Yea, yea. And not an eye closed.” “Yes, Mother Kreepschen. I slept in the boat, and quite well and quite soundly. But now I’m freezing. And if the fire’s burning, then you’ll bring me something warm. Isn’t it? Soup or coffee.” “Goodness, it burns all the time, young sir; it’s always there for you. Of course, of course, something warm. And I’ll bring it straight away, too; just the old Zick, she’ll go away. You don’t know, young sir, how prankster such an old Zick is. De weet, as if he had a watch in his head , whether it was fair or sweet. And if it’s not sweet, it’s wrong. I’ll give it a go and want to milk it, yeah, what do I want to praise, what’s going on? Because it bothers me. We’re here in Krüz, close to the hips. About what? As I know, I’ll give you my heartfelt sadness. Awers now you come to our room and sit down to pray. Mien oll Kreepsch is now good, bie’t Pierd and pour em something in. Awers not a quarter of an hour for me, young gentleman, because it’s honorable Koffe. Well, what so far. The old Semmelfruyer of Herzberg will be here all right now.« With these words, Schach entered Kreepschen’s living room. It was clean and pure, except for the air. A peculiar smell pervaded, coming from a pepper and coriander mixture that the Kreeps had placed in the corners of the sofa as a moth repellent. Schach therefore opened the window, chained the hook, and was only now able to enjoy all the little things that adorned the “parlor.” Above the sofa hung two small calendar pictures, depicting anecdotes from the life of the Great King . “Du, du” was written under one, and “Bon soir, Messieurs” under the other. Around the pictures and their gold border hung two thick immortelle wreaths with black and white ribbons, while on the small, low stove stood a vase of quaking grass. The main ornament, however, was a sentry box with a red roof, in which, in all probability, a squirrel had once lived, pulling its feeding cart on its chain. Now it was empty, and the carriage had quiet days. Schach had just finished his inspection when he was told “that everything was clear over there.” And indeed, when he entered the garden parlor, which had so persistently denied him a place to sleep for the night, he was surprised at what a sense of order and a few friendly hands had made of it. The door and windows were open, the morning sun filled the room with light, and all the dust had disappeared from the table and sofa. A moment later, Krist’s wife appeared with coffee, the rolls placed in a basket, and as Schach was about to lift the lid from the small Meissen pot, the church bells rang out from the village. “What’s that?” asked Schach. “It can hardly be seven.” “Just seven, young sir.” “But otherwise it was only eleven. And then the sermon at twelve.” “Yeah, that’s how it is. But not me now. And every third Sunday it’s different.” Twice a Sunday, when the Radensleben woman comes, it’s around twelve o’clock, because you’re probably already living in Radensleben, but on the third Sunday, when the old Ruppin woman comes, it’s all around eight o’clock. And always, when old Kriwitz sees us killed by his tower window and our old lady from three, then he rings his clock. And it’s always around seven.’ ‘What’s the Ruppin woman’s name now?’ ‘Well, what should he be called? He’s still called that. It’s still the old Bienengräber. ‘I’m ordained by him. He was always a very good man.’ ‘Yeah, he is. It’s just that he doesn’t have any part in me, not even one, and now he’s always grumbling and mumbling, and no one understands him.” “That’s certainly not so bad, Mother Kreepschen. But people always have something to complain about. And especially the farmers! I’ll go and see what the old bee-digger has to say to me, to me and the others. Does he still have that big horseshoe in his room with a ten-pound weight hanging from it? I used to look at it all the time when I wasn’t paying attention.” “He probably still has that. The boys don’t fit in at all.” And now she left, so as not to disturb her young master any longer, and promised to bring him a hymn book. Schach had a good appetite and enjoyed the Herzberg rolls . For since he left Berlin, not a single bite had passed his lips. Finally, however, he stood up to enter the garden gate and gazed from there over the roundabout and the boxwood borders, and further beyond them over the treetops of the park , until his eye finally rested on a sunlit pair of storks, striding below, at the foot of the hill, across a meadow patterned red and yellow with sorrel and ranunculus. The sight of this image stunned him into all sorts of contemplation; but the bell was just ringing for the third time, and so he went down to the village to hear, from the stately choir stall, “what old Bienengräber had to say to him. ”
Bienengräber spoke well enough, truly from his heart and experience. out, and when the last verse was sung and the church was empty again, Schach really wanted to go to the sacristy, thank the old man for many kind words from long ago, and accompany him back across the lake in his boat. On the way, however, he wanted to tell him everything, confess to him, and ask his advice. He would already know the answer. Old age was always wise, and if not by virtue of wisdom, then at least by virtue of age. “But,” he interrupted himself in the middle of this resolution, “what good is his answer to me after all? Have n’t I already got this answer? Don’t I have it within myself? Don’t I know the commandments? All I lack is the desire to obey them.” And as he rambled on, he abandoned the plan for a dialogue and climbed the castle hill again. He hadn’t said anything about the service in the church, and yet it was only ten o’clock when he reached the top again. Here he went through all the rooms, once, twice, and looked at the pictures of all the Schachs that hung scattered and in groups on the walls . All had held high positions in the army, all wore the Black Eagle or the Pour le Merite. This was the general who took the great redoubt at Malplaquet, and this was the picture of his own grandfather, the colonel in the Itzenplitz Regiment, who had held the Hochkirchner cemetery with four hundred men for an hour. Finally, he fell, hacked to pieces and shot to pieces, like all those with him. And among them hung the women, some beautiful, but the most beautiful of all his mother. When he was back in the garden salon, the clock struck twelve. He threw himself into the corner of the sofa, placed his hand over his eye and forehead, and counted the beats. “Twelve. I’ve been here for twelve hours now, and it feels as if it’s been twelve years…. What will it be like?” Every day the Kreeps, and on Sundays Bienengräber or the Radenslebens, it makes no difference. One like the other. Good people, of course, all good…. And then I walk with Victoire through the garden, and from the park onto the meadow, the same meadow we see from the castle forever and ever and ever, and where the sorrel and the ranunculus bloom. And among them walk the storks. Perhaps we are alone; but perhaps a little three-year-old runs beside us, singing over and over: ‘Adebaar, you best, bring me a sister.’ And my lady blushes and wishes for the little sister too. And finally, eleven years have passed, and we stop at the ‘first station,’ at the first station, which is called the ‘straw wedding.’ A strange word. And then, gradually, the time has come to have ourselves painted, to have ourselves painted for the gallery. Because we mustn’t be left out in the end! And then I’ll move in among the generals as a captain, and Victoire will come among the beautiful women. But first, I’ll have a conference with the painter and tell him: ‘I’m counting on you to know how to express it. The soul makes a similarity.’ Or should I just say to him: ‘Be gracious.’… No, no!’ Chapter 15. The Schachs and the Carayons. Whatever always happens, happened this time too: the Carayons learned nothing of what half the town knew. Tuesday, as usual, Aunt Marguerite appeared, found Victoire ‘a bit pointy around the chin,’ and, during the conversation at table, remarked: ‘Do you already know that caricatures have been published?’ But that was it, since Aunt Marguerite was one of those old society ladies who have only ‘heard’ about everything, and when Victoire asked, ‘What then, dear Aunt?’ she simply repeated, ‘Caricatures, dear child. I know it perfectly well.” And with that, the subject of conversation was dropped. It was certainly fortunate for mother and daughter that they learned nothing of the mockery and caricatures of which they were the subject ; but for the third party involved, Schach, it was just as Certainly a misfortune and a source of new discord. If Mrs. von Carayon, whose deep compassion could be considered the most beautiful trait of her heart, had had even the slightest idea of all the suffering that had been heaped upon her friend all this time, she would not have renounced his demands, but would have granted him respite and offered comfort and sympathy. Without any knowledge of what had happened in the meantime, however, she increasingly aggrieved Schach, and from the moment she learned of his retreat to Wuthenow, she vented her anger on his “breach of word and faith,” which she considered to be his “breach of faith.” It was very soon that she heard of this retreat. The very evening Schach began his leave, Alvensleben reported to the Carayons. Victoria, who was embarrassed by any company, withdrew, but Frau von Carayon begged her to come and received him with particular warmth. “I wish I could tell you, dear Alvensleben, how happy I am to see you again after so many weeks. A world of things has happened since then. And it’s fortunate that you remained steadfast when they tried to force Luther on you. That would have ruined your image for me once and for all.” “And yet, Your Grace, I hesitated for a moment as to whether I should refuse.” “And why?” “Because our mutual friend had refused immediately before. I’m practically reluctant to follow in his footsteps again and again . There are already enough of them who simply call me his copy, headed by Zieten, who just recently called out to me again: ‘Beware, Alvensleben, that you don’t end up as Schach II in the rank and lodging list.'” “Which is nothing to fear. ” They are different after all.” “But not better.” “Who knows.” “A doubt that somewhat surprised me coming from my beautiful Frau von Carayon, and would perhaps spoil our spoiled friend’s Wuthenow days if he heard about it.” “His Wuthenow days?” “Yes, Your Grace. With indefinite leave. And you don’t know about it? He wouldn’t have retired to his old lakeside castle, which Nostitz recently claimed was half worm-eaten and half romantic, without first saying goodbye to you.” “And yet it happened. He’s capricious, as you know.” She wanted to say more, but managed to control herself and continue the conversation about all sorts of current news, at which point Alvensleben was relieved to note that she knew nothing whatsoever about the main news of the day, the publication of the paintings . Indeed, even in the intervening half-week, it hadn’t occurred to Frau von Carayon for a moment to want to hear anything more about what her aunt had hinted at . Finally, Alvensleben took his leave, and Frau von Carayon, now free of all restraint and restraint, hurried, tears streaming from her eyes, to Victoria’s room to tell her of Schach’s escape . For an escape it was. Victoria followed every word. But whether it was her hope and confidence or, conversely, her resignation, it didn’t matter, she remained calm. “I beg you, don’t judge too quickly. A letter from him will arrive and explain everything. Let’s wait and see; you ‘ll see that you’ve given in to your suspicions and resentment toward him more than was right and proper.” But Frau von Carayon wouldn’t change her mind. “I knew him when you were still a child. Just for the record.” He is vain and arrogant, and the princely courts have completely overpowered him. He is becoming more and more ridiculous. Believe me, he wants to have influence and is secretly nurturing some kind of political or even statesmanlike ambition. But what bothers me most He’s so annoyed, he’s suddenly remembered his Obotrite nobility and is beginning to consider his chess or chess passion something quite special in world history.” “And in doing so, he’s doing no more than everyone else does… And the Schachs are truly an old family.” “He may think of that and dance his peacock tail when he walks over his Wuthenow chicken farm. And there are chicken farms like that everywhere here. But what does that matter to us? Or at least what does it matter to you? He could have strutted past me and turned his back on the bourgeois farmer-general’s daughter, the little Roturière. But you, Victoire, you; you are not just my daughter, you are also your father’s daughter, you are a Carayon!” Victoire looked at her mother with a touch of mischievous surprise. “Yes, go on laughing, child, laugh out loud, I don’t blame you.” You’ve seen me laugh about these things often enough yourself. But, my sweet Victoire, the hours are not equal, and today I beg your father for forgiveness and thank him from the bottom of my heart because, in his noble pride, with which he has driven me to despair and bored me out of his presence , he has given me a welcome weapon against this unbearable conceit . Chess, chess! What is chess? I don’t know its history and don’t want to, but I’ll bet this brooch of mine against a pin that if you throw the entire family onto the threshing floor, where the wind blows the fiercest, nothing will remain , I say, but half a dozen colonels and captains, all devoutly dead and all with a pontifical nose. Teach me to know these people!’ ‘But, Mama…’ ‘And now the Carayons! It is true, their cradle never stood on the Havel, nor even on the Spree, and neither in Brandenburg nor in Havelberg Cathedral did the bells ever ring when one of them came or went. Oh, these poor people, these unfortunate Carayon! They had their castles—real castles, incidentally—so mere, miserable on the Gironde; they were merely Girondins, and your father’s own cousins fell under the guillotine because they were both loyal and free, and, undaunted by the cries of the mountain, had voted for their king’s life .” Victoire followed, ever more astonished. “But,” continued Mrs. von Carayon, “I don’t want to speak of recent events, I don’t want to speak of today. For I know very well that being here today is always a crime in the eyes of those who were already here yesterday, no matter how. No, I want to speak of old times, of times when the first Schach came to the country and to Lake Ruppin, and built a wall and a moat, and heard a Latin mass of which he understood nothing. Just then , the Carayons, ces pauvres et malheureux Carayon, marched to Jerusalem and conquered and liberated it. And when they returned home, singers came to their court, and they sang themselves. And when Victoire de Carayon—yes, Victoire was also her name—married the great Count of Lusignan, whose illustrious brother was Grand Prior of the High Order of the Hospital and ultimately King of Cyprus, we were related and related by marriage to a royal house, to the Lusignans, from whose great house came the beautiful Melusine, of unfortunate but, thank God, unprosaic memory. And from us Carayons, who have seen quite different things, this Schach wants to turn away and arrogantly withdraw? He wants to be ashamed of us? He, Schach. Does he want it as Schach, or does he want it as the Lord of Wuthenow? Ah, bah! What’s the matter with both of them? Schach is a blue coat with a red collar, and Wuthenow is a clay cathedral.” “Mama, believe me, you’re doing him an injustice. I’m looking for it another way. And that’s where I find it.” Frau von Carayon bent down to Victoria and kissed her passionately. “Oh, how good you are, much, much better than your mother. And only one thing is good about her: that she loves you. But he should love you too! If only for your humility.” Victoria smiled. “No, not like that. The belief that you’re impoverished and out of the picture controls you with the power of a fixed idea. You’re not that impoverished. And he too…” She paused. “Look, you were a beautiful child, and Alvensleben told me how enthusiastically the prince recently spoke of your beauty at the Massow ball. That’s not gone, you retained it, and everyone must find it who has the mind and the heart to lovingly follow your features. And if anyone is obligated to do so, it’s him! But he resists, for as haute as he is, he’s just as conventional. A timid little observer. He listens to what people say, and when a man does that—we must—I call it cowardice and laughter. But he’ll answer to me . ” I have now completed my plan and intend to humiliate him, just as surely as he intended to humiliate us.” After this conversation, Frau von Carayon returned to the corner room , sat down at Victoria’s small desk, and wrote: “From a communication from Mr. von Alvensleben, I understand that you, Mr. von Schach, left Berlin today, Saturday evening, and have decided to spend some time in Wuthenow. I have no reason to begrudge you this stay in the country or to dispute your right to it, but I must contrast your right with that of my daughter. And so, please allow me to remind you that the publication of the engagement has been agreed upon between us for tomorrow, Sunday. I still insist on this publication today. If it has not been made by Wednesday morning, I will take other, entirely independent steps on my part. As much as this goes against my nature—not to mention Victoria, who knows nothing of this letter of mine and would only try to prevent me from doing so—the circumstances, which you, to say the least, know only too well, leave me no choice. So, see you Wednesday! Josephine von Carayon.” She sealed the letter and personally handed it to a messenger with instructions to set out for Wuthenow at daybreak. He had been expressly forbidden to wait for a reply. Chapter 16. Frau von Carayon and Old Köckritz. Wednesday came and went without a letter from Schach or even the requested announcement of the engagement appearing. Frau von Carayon had expected no less and had made her preparations accordingly. On Thursday morning, a carriage stopped in front of her house to take her to Potsdam , where the King had been staying for several weeks. She intended to bow down, explain the affront she had suffered, and call on his assistance. That it would be within the King’s power to provide this assistance and bring about a compromise was beyond her doubt. She had also considered the means and ways of approaching His Majesty, and with considerable success. She knew Adjutant General von Köckritz, who, thirty years or more ago, as a young lieutenant or staff captain, had visited her parents’ house and given “little Josephine,” the general arrears, many a bonbonnière. He was now the King’s favorite, the most influential person in his immediate circle, and through him, with whom she had maintained at least a superficial relationship, she hoped to be assured of an audience. At midday, Frau von Carayon was over there, checked into the “Einsiedler,” arranged her toilette, and went immediately to the palace. But here she had to learn from a chamberlain who happened to be coming down the steps that His Majesty had already left Potsdam and had gone to Paretz to greet Her Majesty the Queen, who intended to return from Bad Pyrmont the following day , where they intended to spend a week in happy seclusion, free from the constraints of the court . Now that was certainly bad news. For anyone preparing for a painful journey, even the “most painful” one, and eagerly awaiting the horrific end, nothing is harder than postponement. Just hurry, hurry! She manages a short distance, but then her nerves fail. With a heavy heart, and frightened by the thought that this failure might mean failure altogether for her, Frau von Carayon returned to the inn. A trip to Paretz was out of the question for today, all the more so since it was impossible to request an audience so late in the afternoon. So , wait until tomorrow! She had a small dinner, at least sat down to the table, and seemed determined to spend the long, long hours in solitude in her room. But the thoughts and images that rose before her, and above all the solemn speeches that she repeated to herself for the hundredth time, until finally she felt that when the moment arrived, she wouldn’t be able to utter a single word—all this finally gave her the healthy resolution to tear herself forcibly out of her musings and drive through the streets and environs of the city. A hired servant appeared to offer his services, and at six o’clock a moderately elegant hackney carriage stopped in front of the inn, as the vehicle she had used from Berlin, after its half-day’s exertion in the summer sand, had proven itself in dire need of rest . “Where are you to go, Madam?” “I’ll leave it to you. No castles, just, or at least as few as possible; but park and garden, and water and meadows.” “Ah, je comprends,” stammered the hired servant, who had become accustomed to taking his strangers once and for all as half-French, or perhaps also felt he owed some consideration to Madame de Carayon’s French name . “Je comprends.” And he ordered the coachman, sitting on the box in an old lace hat, to drive first to the “New Garden. ” The “New Garden” was almost dead, and a dark, melancholy avenue of cypresses seemed to have no end. Finally, they turned right onto a path running alongside a lake, whose trees, planted in single rows with their outstretched, drooping branches, touched the water’s surface. But in the latticework of leaves, the setting sun glowed and glittered. Frau von Carayon forgot all her sorrow in the face of this beauty, and only felt herself torn away from its enchantment again when the carriage turned from the riverside path into the large central aisle and immediately stopped in front of a house built of brick, but otherwise richly decorated with gold and marble. “Who does it belong to?” “The King.” “And what’s it called?” “The Marble Palace.” “Ah, the Marble Palace. So that’s the palace…” “At your service, Madam. That’s the palace in which His Majesty King Frederick William II succumbed to his long and painful bout of dropsy. And everything is still exactly as it was then. I know the room very well where the good, gracious gentleman always drank ‘the life-giving gas,’ which Privy Councillor Hufeland had brought to his bed in a small balloon, or perhaps simply in a calf bladder. Would you like to see the room, Madam ? It’s certainly already late. But I know the valet, and he’s doing it, I think, on my recommendation… of course … And it’s also the same small room in which there is a figure of Mrs. Rietz, or as some say of Mamsell Encken or Countess Lichtenau, that is, just a small figure, only up to the hips or even less.” Mrs. von Carayon thanked him. Given the walk that awaited her tomorrow , she was in no mood to get to know the Rietz’s holy of holies or even her portrait bust. So she spoke to the She expressed her wish to drive further and further into the park, and only turned back when the sun had already set and a cooler air announced the approach of evening. Indeed, it struck nine as they passed the Garrison Church on the return journey, and before the carillon had even finished playing its hymn, the carriage stopped again in front of the “Einsiedler.” The journey had strengthened her and restored her courage. Added to this was a pleasant tiredness, and she slept better than she had in a long time. Even her dreams were bright and light. The next morning, as agreed, her now rested Berlin carriage appeared in front of the hotel. However, since she had every reason to distrust the knowledge and foresight of her own coachman, she hired, as if to help out, the same hired servant who, despite all the minor peculiarities of his position, had proven himself so excellent yesterday. He succeeded again today. He had stories to tell of every village and summer residence they passed, most of all of Marquardt, from whose park, to the at least passing interest of Frau von Carayon, the little garden house shimmered, in which the spirits had appeared with the assistance and guidance of General von Bischofswerder, the “fat king,” as the increasingly confiding guide now readily expressed himself. A quarter of a mile beyond Marquardt, they had to pass the “Wublitz,” a branch of the Havel overflowing with mummel (flowers). Then came fields and meadows covered in high grass and flowers, and before midday they reached a footbridge and soon an open gate, which formed the entrance to Paretz Park. Frau von Carayon, who felt entirely like a supplicant, ordered a halt at this spot and, with her characteristic subtlety, got out to walk the rest of the way. There was only a short, sunlit stretch left, but the sunlight in particular was embarrassing to her, and so she stayed off to the side under the trees so as not to be seen prematurely. Finally, however, she reached the sandstone steps of the castle and bravely climbed them. The proximity of danger had given her back some of her natural resolve. “I wish to speak to General von Köckritz,” she said to a footman in the vestibule, who had risen from his seat immediately upon the beautiful lady’s entrance. “Who do I have to report to the General?” “Frau von Carayon.” The footman bowed and returned with the reply: “The General requests that you please enter the anteroom.” Frau von Carayon didn’t have to wait long. General von Köckritz, of whom it was said that, apart from his passionate love for his king, he had no other passion than a pipe of tobacco and a game of rubber whist, approached her from his study, immediately recalled the old times, and with a most obliging gesture, asked her to take a seat. His entire demeanor was so benevolent and trustworthy that questions about his wisdom meant very little. Especially for those like Frau von Carayon, who came with a request. And that’s the majority at court. He thoroughly confirmed the doctrine that a benevolent princely environment is always far preferable to an intelligent one. However, these princely private servants should not also be civil servants and not want to have a say and participate in government. General von Köckritz had seated himself so that Frau von Carayon had a profile view of him. His head was half-buried in an extremely high and stiff uniform collar, from which a jabot protruded in front, while a small, neatly trimmed braid fell behind. The latter seemed to lead a life of its own, moving lightly and with a certain coquettishness, even though the man himself did not show the slightest movement. Mrs. von Carayon, without forgetting the seriousness of her situation, was clearly amused by this peculiarly playful game, and only Once she had warmed up, what was incumbent upon her seemed much easier and more manageable, and enabled her to speak frankly about everything , even about what could be called the “delicate point” in her or her daughter’s affairs. The General had listened not only attentively but also with sympathy, and when Frau von Carayon fell silent, he said: “Yes, my dear lady, these are very fatal matters, matters that His Majesty does not like to hear about, which is why I generally remain silent about them, of course, as long as no remedy can be found and nothing can be improved. But here, improvement is needed, and I would be neglecting my duty and doing His Majesty a disservice if I were to withhold a case like yours from him, or, since you yourself have come to present your case, to hinder you, my dear lady, from making such a presentation by artificially creating difficulties . ” For such difficulties are always fictitious difficulties in a country like ours, where princes and kings have long desired the rights of their people and are unwilling to conveniently avoid the demand for such rights. Least of all, however, is my Most Gracious King and Lord, who has a strong sense of the equitable nature of law and, precisely for that reason, a true repugnance and genuine loathing for all those who , like many officers, but especially the otherwise so good and gallant officers of your Regiment of Gendarmes, are inclined, out of a base conceit, to indulge in all sorts of foolishness and consider it appropriate and praiseworthy, or at least not impermissible , to sacrifice the happiness and reputation of others to their arrogance and poor morality.” Frau von Carayon’s eyes filled with tears. “You are bon, my dear General.” “Not I, my dear lady.” But my most gracious King and Lord, he is good. And I think you will soon have in your hands the proof of his kindness, even though today is a bad day, or should we say a difficult one. For, as you may have already learned, the King is expecting the Queen back in a few hours so as not to be disturbed in the joy of seeing each other again, which is why he is here, why he has come here to Paretz. And now, in this idyll, a legal case and a dispute have come his way. And a dispute of such a delicate nature. Yes, it really is a prank and a real trick that Lady Fortuna’s mood has played on him. He wants to rejoice in his happiness in love – you know how much he loves the Queen – and almost at the very moment that is supposed to bring him happiness in love, he hears a story of unhappy love. This upsets him. But he is too kind not to overcome this discontent, and if we manage to manage it even somewhat tolerably, we must also know how to derive a special advantage from this very encounter. For the happiness he anticipates will only make him more inclined than usual to restore the clouded happiness of others . I know him perfectly in his sense of justice and in the goodness of his heart. And so, my dear wife, I am going to announce you to the King.” But he suddenly paused as if in thought, turned again , and added: “If I am not mistaken, he has just gone into the park. I know his favorite spot. So let me see. In a few minutes I will bring you an answer as to whether he wants to hear you or not. And now once again, be of good cheer. You may.” And with that, he took his hat and stick and stepped through a small side door directly into the park. In the reception room where Mrs. von Carayon had remained, there were all sorts of colored prints, which were fashionable at the time in England: angel heads by Josua Reynolds, landscapes by Gainsborough, and also a few reproductions of Italian masterpieces, Among them, a penitent Magdalene. Was it Corregio’s? The wonderfully deep-blue veil, which half-veiled the penitent, caught Frau von Carayon’s attention, and she approached to ascertain who the painter was. But before she could decipher his name, the old general returned and asked his protégé to follow him. And so they entered the park, where a profound silence reigned. The path wound between birches and silver firs and led to an artificial rock face overgrown with moss and ivy, in front of which old Köckritz had now remained behind, while the king sat on a stone bench. He rose when he saw the beautiful woman approaching and approached her gravely and friendly. Frau von Carayon wanted to kneel , but the king would not allow it; instead, he took her by the hand, supporting her, and said: “Frau von Carayon? Very well known to me… Remember the children’s ball… beautiful daughter… Back then…” He paused for a moment, either in embarrassment at the last word that had escaped him, or out of compassion for the deep emotion of the unhappy and almost trembling mother standing before him, and then continued: “Köckritz just hinted at me… Very fatal… But please… sit down, Your Grace… Courage… And now speak.” Chapter 17. Schach In Charlottenburg. A week later, the King and Queen had left Paretz again, and the very next day, Captain von Schach, prompted by a cabinet letter delivered to him at Wuthenow Palace , rode out to Charlottenburg, where the court had meanwhile moved. He made his way through the Brandenburg Gate and down the large Thiergartenallee, with Orderly Baarsch behind him on his left, a red-haired man covered in freckles with an entire lentil dish, and with even redder whiskers, on which red and slightly protruding beard Zieten used to assure them, “that even this Baarsch could be recognized by his fins.” A child from Wuthenow and the former playmate of his squire and captain , he was naturally unconditionally loyal to him and everything that had to do with Schach . It was four o’clock in the afternoon and there was little traffic, despite the sun shining and a refreshing breeze blowing. They encountered only a few riders, among them a couple of officers from Schach’s regiment. Schach returned their greeting, passed the Landwehrgraben, and soon after rode into the broad Charlottenburg main street with its summer houses and front gardens. At the Turkish tent, which was usually his destination, his horse wanted to turn; But he forced it further and only stopped at the Morell Coffee House, which was more convenient for the walk he had planned today . He swung himself out of the saddle, gave the reins to the orderly, and headed straight for the palace. Here, after passing a desolate square of grass long since scorched by the July sun, he entered a spacious stairwell and soon after into a narrow corridor, on whose walls the goggle-eyed blue giants of King Frederick William I paraded in seemingly larger-than-life portraits . At the end of this corridor, however, he met a valet who , after prior announcement, led him into the king’s study. The latter was standing at a desk on which maps lay spread out, a few plans of the Battle of Austerlitz. He turned immediately, approached Schach , and said: “I’ve had you called, dear Schach… Carayon; a fatal matter. I don’t like playing the moralist and judge of fragments; hateful to me; My errors too. But not getting stuck in errors; making amends. Incidentally, I don’t really understand. Beautiful woman, the mother; I like her very much; clever woman.” Schach bowed. “And the daughter! I know, I know; poor child… But, enfin, they must have found her charming. And what you once found charming, you can find again, if you only want to. But that’s your business, It’s none of my business. What concerns me is honesty. That’s what I demand, and for the sake of this honesty, I demand your marriage to Fraulein von Carayon. Or you would have to resign and resign from your service.” Schach remained silent, but betrayed by his posture and expression that this would be the most painful thing for him. “Well then, stay; fine man; I love that. But a remedy must be found, and soon, and right away. Incidentally, the Carayons are an old family, and will not spoil your Fraulein’s daughters’—pardon me, dear Schach—their candidature for Marienfließ or Heiligengrabe. So it’s agreed. Count on it, insist on it. And we’ll let me know.” “As you wish, Your Majesty.” “And one more thing: I’ve spoken to the Queen about it; I want to see you; women’s moods.” We’ll meet them over there in the Orangery… Thank you.” Schach was graciously dismissed, bowed, and walked down the corridor toward the large glasshouse and greenhouse on the opposite wing of the palace, which the King had spoken of. The Queen, however, was not yet there, perhaps still in the park. So he stepped out into it and paced back and forth along a tiled walkway between a crowd of Roman emperors stationed there, some of whom seemed to be smiling at him like a fauna. Finally, he saw the Queen approaching from the ferry bridge, accompanied by a lady-in-waiting, apparently the younger Fraulein von Viereck. He went to meet both ladies and stepped aside at a measured distance to pay the military honors. The lady-in-waiting, however, remained a few steps behind. “I am glad to see you, Herr von Schach. You have come from the King.” “Yes, Your Majesty.” “It is somewhat bold,” the Queen continued, “that I should have asked you to come . ” But the king, who was initially against it and mocked me for it, finally allowed it. I am a woman, after all, and it would be hard if I had to renounce my feminine ways just because I am a queen. As a woman, however, I am interested in everything that concerns our sex, and what could concern us more than such a question d’amour?”
“Your Majesty, you are so gracious.” “Not against you, dear Schach. It is for the sake of the young lady… The king told me everything, and Köckritz added his own . It was the same day that I returned to Paretz from Pyrmont , and I can hardly express to you how great my sympathy was for the young lady. And now you, of all people, want to deny the dear child this sympathy and, along with this sympathy, deny her rights. That is impossible. I have known you for such a long time and have always found you a gentleman and a man of honor. And I think we shall leave it at that.” I have heard of the satirical images that have been published, and these images, I assume, have confused you and robbed you of your calm judgment. I understand this, for I know from my own experience how painful such things are and how the poisonous arrow not only wounds us in our hearts, but also transforms us and does not transform us for the better. But be that as it may, you had to reflect on yourself, and with it, on what duty and honor demand of you.” Schach was silent. “And you will,” the queen continued, growing ever more animated, “and will show yourself to be repentant and penitent. It cannot be difficult for you, for even the accusation against you, the king assured me, still contained a tone of affection . Remember this if your decision should ever waver again, which I do not fear. I can hardly think of anything that I would like as much at this moment as the settlement of this dispute and the union of two hearts that seem to me to be meant for each other. And also through a truly genuine love. For you will not, I hope, deny that it is a A mysterious trait was what led you to this dear and once so beautiful child. To assume the opposite is contrary to my will. And now hurry home, and make others happy and become happy. My best wishes accompany you both. You will withdraw as long as circumstances dictate; but under all circumstances, I expect you to inform me of your family events and have your queen’s name entered in your Wuthenow church register as the first godmother . And now, God bless you.” A greeting and a friendly gesture accompanied these words; but Schach, looking back once more just before reaching the garden front, saw both ladies turn down a side path and walk toward a shadier part of the park, closer to the Spree. He himself was back in the saddle a quarter of an hour later, with Orderly Baarsch following. The gracious words of both Majesties had not failed to make an impression on him ; Nevertheless, he had only been struck, not changed in any way . He knew what he owed the king: obedience! But his heart resisted it, and so it was up to him to find something that combined obedience and disobedience, something that corresponded equally to the command of his king and the command of his own nature . And there was only one way to achieve this. A thought he had already formed in Wuthenow now returned to him and quickly matured into a decision, and the more firmly he felt it grow, the more he regained his former good composure and calm. “Life,” he said to himself. “What is life? A matter of minutes, a difference from one day to the next.” And, after days of severe pressure, he felt light and free for the first time again. Riding home, he reached the point where an old chestnut avenue branched off toward the Kurfürstendamm. He turned into it , beckoned Baarsch over, and said, dropping the reins and placing his left hand on his horse’s croup: “Tell me, Baarsch, what do you actually think about getting married?” “Goodness, Captain, what should I think of that? My late father always said: getting married is good, but not getting married is even better.” “Yes, he may well have said that. But what if I get married, Baarsch?” “Oh, Captain, we won’t get married!” “Well, who knows… Is it such a disaster?” “Goodness, Captain, not in front of you, but in front of me…” “How so?” “Because I made a bet with Corporal Czepanski that it would n’t happen.” And whoever loses has to keep the entire corporal body free.” “But how did you know about that?” “Good heavens, it’s been rumored for ages. And when the pictures came out last week…” “Ah, so… Now tell me, Baarsch, how’s the bet going? High?” “Well, it’s done, Captain. A Cottbus beer and a caraway. But one in particular.” “Now, Baarsch, you won’t come to any harm. I’ll pay the bet.” And after that, he fell silent and just muttered to himself, “And pay the lost pots.” Chapter 18. Fata Morgana. Schach was home in good time, and that same evening he wrote a note to Frau von Carayon, in which he apologized for his behavior in apparently sincere words. A cabinet letter, which he had received the day before yesterday in Wuthenow, had taken him this afternoon to Charlottenburg, where the King and Queen had reminded him of his duty. He regretted having been responsible for such a warning, found the step taken by Frau von Carayon justified, and asked to be allowed to present himself to both ladies tomorrow morning in order to personally reiterate his regret for these new omissions. In a postscript, which was longer than the letter itself, it was added that “he had gone through a crisis; this crisis, however, was now behind him, and he hoped to be able to say that there was no reason in him or his sense of justice to doubt, will not return. He lives only for the one wish and thought: to settle everything that has happened through legality . Regarding anything more, he imposes silence for the time being.” This note, delivered by the little groom, was answered immediately by Frau von Carayon, despite the late hour. She was pleased to encounter such conciliatory language in his lines . Regarding everything that, according to his letter, could now be considered a thing of the past, it would be best to remain silent; she, too, felt that she should have acted more calmly and considerately; she had allowed herself to be carried away, and perhaps only one thing could serve as her excuse: that she had only been aware for two days of those malicious attacks in word and image that seemed to have determined his behavior over the past week . Had she had this knowledge earlier, she would have judged many things more leniently, but in any case would have adopted a wait-and-see attitude toward him and his silence . She now hoped that everything would return to normal. Victoria’s great love , which she was convinced could fluctuate but could never be permanently shaken, gave her the assurance of a peaceful and, if her prayers were granted, a happy future. The next morning, Schach was announced to be at Frau von Carayon’s. She went to meet him, and the conversation that immediately ensued betrayed less embarrassment on both sides than might have been expected after what had happened . And yet, it was also explained. Everything that had happened, however painful it had been on both sides, had ultimately been understood by both parties, and where there is understanding, there is also forgiveness, or at least the possibility of it. Everything had developed as a natural consequence of the circumstances, and neither the flight, which Schach had accomplished, nor the complaint, which Frau von Carayon had brought at the top , had been intended to express ill will or malice. When the conversation began to falter for a moment, Victoire appeared. She looked very well, not haggard, but rather fresher than usual. He approached her, not coldly and ceremoniously, but cordially, and the expression of deep and sincere sympathy with which he looked at her and extended his hand sealed the peace. There was no doubt, he was moved, and while Victoire beamed with joy, tears filled her mother’s eyes. It was the best moment to strike the iron. So she asked Schach, who had already risen, to take his place once more for a brief moment, so that they could make the most necessary arrangements together. What she had to say was only a few words. One thing was certain: time had been lost, and making up for this was probably the first thing to do. Her long-standing friendship with the old Consistorial Councillor Bocquet, who had married her and blessed her victoirs himself, offered the best opportunity. It would be easy to replace the traditional three-time banns with a single one; this would have to happen next Sunday, and on the Friday of the following week—for she had personally experienced Fridays, which were generally considered unlucky days, from the completely opposite side— the wedding would then have to take place. And in her own apartment, that is, since she hated weddings in a hotel or inn with all her heart. What would happen next was up to the young couple; she was curious to see whether Venice would prevail over Wuthenow, or Wuthenow over Venice. They shared the lagoons and the gondola, and she only had one request: that the small bridge under the reeds, where the gondola lay, never be elevated to a bridge of sighs. Thus the chatter went, and thus the visit passed. On Sunday, as agreed, the banns were announced, and on Friday, The day on which the wedding was to take place was approaching. Everything in the Carayon household was in a state of excitement, most of all Aunt Marguerite, who now appeared daily and, with her naive happiness , counterbalanced all the discomfort that was otherwise inseparable from her appearance. In the evenings, Schach came. He was more cheerful and milder in his judgment than usual, and only in a way that was as remarkable as it was fortunately unnoticed, avoided speaking of the wedding and the preparations for it. When asked whether he wanted this or that, he asked with a kind of empress “to proceed entirely according to my own judgment ; he knew the tact and good taste of the ladies and knew that everything would be best decided without his advice and assistance .” If much remained obscure and mysterious to him, this was an added advantage for him, since from his youth he had had a tendency to be surprised.” With such evasions, he evaded any chatter which, as Aunt Marguerite put it, “had the day of honor en vue,” but was all the more chatty when the conversation turned to the travel days after the wedding. For Venice, despite all of Frau von Carayon’s half-hearted objections, had finally triumphed over Wuthenow, and Schach, when the subject came up, indulged in all imaginable travel plans and travel images with a fantasy otherwise completely alien to him. He wanted to cross over to Sicily and pass the Siren Islands, “whether free or tied to the mast, he left it to Victoria and her trust.” And then they wanted to go to Malta. Not for Malta’s sake, oh no. But on the way there, he said, was the place where the mysterious, dark part of the world spoke for the very first time, in aerial images and reflections, to the Hyperborean born in fog and snow. That was the place where the fairy, rich in imagery, lived, the mute siren, who lured with the magic of her color almost more seductively than the singing one. The scenes and figures of her magic lantern were constantly changing, and while a weary procession was just moving across the yellow sand, suddenly it stretched out like green meadows, and beneath the shady palm tree sat a group of men, their heads bowed and all their pipes lit. Black and brown girls, their braids loose and dressed as if for a dance, raised their cymbals and beat the tambourine. And now and then it seemed as if they were laughing. And then it fell silent and vanished again. And this reflection from the mysterious distance, that was the goal! And Victoria rejoiced, enraptured by the vividness of his description. But at the same moment, she was overcome by anxiety and gloomy, and a voice cried out in her soul: Fata Morgana. Chapter 19. The Wedding. The ceremony had taken place, and at four o’clock the guests gathered in the large dining room facing the courtyard , which was usually regarded as a mere inconvenient appendage of the Carayon residence and was being used today for the first time in many years. This seemed feasible, even though the number of guests was not large. Old Consistorial Councillor Bocquet had been persuaded to attend the meal and sat opposite the bride and groom, next to Frau von Carayon. Among the other guests, however, besides Auntie and a few old friends from the time of the general financial farmer, Nostitz, Alvensleben, and Sander were to be mentioned in the first row. Schach had insisted on the latter with particular emphasis, despite all other indifference, even when examining the invitation list , because he had since learned of Schach’s considerate behavior on the occasion of the proposal to publish the three pictures, a behavior that he valued all the more highly as he had not expected it from this side. Bülow, Schach’s old opponent, was no longer in Berlin and would probably have been absent had he still been there. The atmosphere at the table remained in the traditional ceremony; meanwhile, when the old Consistorial Councillor had spoken and, in a three-part toast that could be described as a “historical retrospective,” first commemorated his grandfather’s general fiscal tenantry, then the wedding of Mrs. von Carayon, and thirdly, citing the Bible verse given to her on her life’s journey, Victoria’s confirmation, but finally concluded with a half-honorable, half-joking reference to the “wonderful Egyptian bird, to whose promising proximity one would like to place oneself,” the signal for a change in mood was given. Everyone surrendered to a relaxed gaiety, in which even Victoria participated, and not least when Auntie, who appeared in honor of the day in a grass-green silk dress and a tall tortoiseshell comb, finally rose to propose a second toast to the newlyweds. Her bashful tapping of the dessert knife against the water carafe had gone unnoticed for a while , and only became noticeable when Frau von Carayon announced that Aunt Marguerite wished to speak. She bowed in agreement and began her speech with much more self-confidence than one might have expected after her initial shyness. “The Consistorial Councillor spoke so beautifully and at such length, and I only resemble the woman Ruth, who walks across the field and gathers ears of corn, which was also the text preached about last Sunday in the little melon orchard, which was again very empty—I don’t think more than 11 or 12. But as the aunt of the dear bride, in which respect I am probably the oldest, I raise this glass to once again drink to the health of the young couple.” And then she sat down again to receive the homage of the company. Schach tried to kiss the old lady’s hand, but she resisted, and Victoria returned her embrace with all sorts of little caresses, as well as with the assurance: “She had known all about it beforehand, from the afternoon they had made the trip to Tempelhof and the walk to the church. For she had clearly seen that Victoria, in addition to the large bouquet of violets intended for her mother, had also been holding a small bouquet , which she had wanted to present to her dear bridegroom, Mr. Schach, in the church doorway. But when he came, she threw the small bouquet away again, and it fell right next to the door onto a child’s grave, which always meant something, and had meant something this time too. For as much as she was against superstition, she did believe in sympathy, naturally during a waning moon. And the whole afternoon still stood before her as clearly as if it had been yesterday, and even if some people acted as if they knew nothing, they still had their two healthy eyes and knew very well where the best cherries were.” She became more and more absorbed in this sentence, without its meaning becoming any clearer. After Aunt Marguerite’s toast, the table broke up; everyone left their seats to take turns playing a guest role here or there , and soon after, when the large Josty foreign currency candies had been passed around and all sorts of sayings, such as “Dear wonderful fairy, even your pain doesn’t hurt,” had been deciphered and read out, despite all the small and unclear writing, everyone rose from the table. Alvensleben introduced Mrs. von Carayon, and Sander introduced Aunt Marguerite, on which occasion, specifically on the subject of Ruth, Sander indulged in all sorts of little teasing, teasing which pleased the aunt so much that she whispered to Victoiren as the coffee was being served: “Charming gentleman. And so gallant. And so meaningful.” Schach spoke a lot with Sander, inquired about Bülow, “who, although he had never liked him, had always been an object of interest despite all his eccentricities, ” and asked Sander, if the occasion arose, An opportunity to express this. In everything he said, friendliness and a desire for reconciliation were expressed. In this desire for reconciliation, however, he was not alone; he encountered Frau von Carayon. When she personally presented him with a second cup, she said, as he took the sugar from the bowl: “A word, dear Schach. But in the next room.” And she preceded him there. “Dear Schach,” she began, taking a seat here on a large-flowered sofa, from which, thanks to the open French doors, they both had a clear view of the corner room, “these are our last minutes, and before we say goodbye, I would like to get a few things off my chest. I don’t want to flaunt my age , but a year is a long time, and who knows if we’ll see each other again. Not a word about Victoire. She won’t give you a sad hour: she loves you too much to be able or willing to. And you, dear Schach, will prove yourself worthy of this love. You will not hurt her, this sweet creature who is nothing but humility and devotion. It is impossible. And so I demand no promise from you. I know in advance that I have it.” Schach looked straight ahead as Frau von Carayon spoke these words and, holding the cup in his left hand, slowly dripped the coffee from the dainty little spoon. “Since our reconciliation,” she continued, “I have regained my trust. But this trust, as my letter already expressed to you, had slipped away from me in days that are now fortunately behind us, far more than I would have thought possible, and in these days I have used harsh words against you, harsh words when I spoke to Victoria, and even harsher when I was alone. I have called you petty and arrogant, vain and assertive, and , worst of all, accused you of ingratitude and laughter. And I regret that now, and am ashamed of a mood that could have made me forget our past so much.” She was silent for a moment. But when Schach wanted to reply, she could not bear it and said: “Just one more word. Everything I said and thought in those days weighed on me and called for this confession. Only now is everything clear between us again, and I can look you freely in the eye again. But enough now. Come. People will have missed us anyway.” And she took his arm and joked: “Isn’t that right? We always return to our first loves. And how fortunate that I can tell you this with a laugh, and in a moment of pure and complete joy.” Victoire approached Schach and her mother from the corner room and said, “Well, what was it?” “A declaration of love.” “I thought so. And how fortunate, Schach, that we’re traveling tomorrow. Isn’t that right? I wouldn’t want to give the world the image of a jealous daughter at any price.” And mother and daughter sat down on the sofa, where Alvensleben and Nostitz joined them. At that moment, Schach’s carriage was announced, and it was as if he changed color at the announcement. Frau von Carayon saw it too. But he quickly collected himself, took his leave, and stepped out into the corridor, where the little groom was waiting for him in his coat and hat. Victoire had followed him to the stairs, where a half-daylight still shimmered from the courtyard. “See you tomorrow,” said Schach, and separated and left. But Victoire leaned far over the railing and repeated softly: “See you tomorrow. Do you hear?… Where will we be tomorrow?” And lo, the sweet sound of her voice did not fail to make an impression on him, even at this moment. He bounded back up the steps, embraced her as if to say goodbye forever, and kissed her. “Goodbye, Mirabelle.” And listening, she still heard his footsteps in the hallway. Then the front door slammed shut, and the carriage rolled down the street. On the box sat Orderly Baarsch and the groom, from whom the latter had specifically requested permission to drive his cavalry captain and lord of the manor on this, his special day. This was readily granted. As the carriage turned from Behren onto Wilhelmsstrasse, there was a jolt or a bump, without any impact being felt from below . “Damn,” said the groom. “What’s that?” “What is it? What is it, little fellow? It’s a stone; a good sergeant.” “Oh no, Baarsch. Not a stone. It was something… dear me… like shooting.”
“Schuting? Well now.” “Yes; pistol shooting…” But the sentence never finished, for the carriage stopped in front of Schach’s apartment, and the groom, in fear and haste, jumped from the box to help his master get out. He opened the carriage door, a thick billow of smoke greeted him, and Schach sat upright in the corner, leaning back only slightly. The pistol lay on the carpet at his feet. Horrified, the little boy slammed the pistol back into the lock and lamented: “Heavens, he is dead.” The innkeepers were alarmed, and so they carried the dead man up to his apartment. Baarsch cursed and sobbed and blamed everything on “humanity,” because he lacked the courage to blame it on marriage. For he was a diplomatic nature like all peasants. Chapter 20. Bülow to Sander. Königsberg, September 14, 1806. “…. You also write to me, dear Sander, about Schach. I already knew the purely factual details; the Königsberg newspaper had briefly mentioned the matter, but it is only thanks to your letter that I owe the clarification, as far as it can be given. You know my tendency, and I follow it today as well, to draw conclusions about the whole from the particular, but of course also conversely, from the whole to the particular, which is connected with generalizing. This may have its drawbacks and often lead me too far. However, if ever there was a justification for it, it is here, and you will find it particularly understandable that this Schach case, which is only a symptom, concerns me most seriously precisely because of its symptomatic significance. It is certainly a contemporary phenomenon, but, to be understood, with local limitations, a completely abnormal case in its causes, which could only occur in this way in His Royal Majesty of Prussia’s capital and residence, or, if beyond this, only in the ranks of our later Frederickian army, an army that has only conceit instead of honor, and instead of soul, only a clockwork—a clockwork that will soon enough run out of time. The great king prepared this dire state of affairs , but for it to become so dire, the great royal eyes had to close first, eyes which, as everyone was known , feared more than battle and death. I have belonged to this army long enough to know that ‘honor’ is the third word in it; a dancer is charming ‘on honor,’ a gray mare magnificent ‘on honor,’ yes, I have been recommended and introduced to usurers who were superb ‘on honor.’ And this constant talk of honor, of false honor, has confused concepts and rendered true honor dead. All of this is reflected in this chess case, in chess itself, which, despite all its faults, was still one of the best. What was the story? An officer frequents a noble house; He likes his mother, and on a beautiful May day, he likes his daughter too, perhaps—or rather, let’s say very likely—because Prince Louis had given him a lecture on “beauté du diable” half a week earlier . But no matter, he likes her, and nature draws its conclusions. What, under such circumstances, could have been simpler and more natural than a settlement through marriage, through a union that would have violated neither external advantage nor any prejudice. But what happens? He flees to Wuthenow, simply because the lovely creature in question has a few more dimples in her cheek than is currently fashionable or conventional, and because these “few dimples too many” could have placed our smooth, horsetail-polished chess in a position his enemies would have ridiculed for four weeks. So he flees, I say, cowardly breaking away from duty and word, and when finally, to let him speak for himself, his “Most Gracious King and Lord” reminds him of his duty and word and demands strict obedience, he obeys, but only to break that obedience in the most brusque manner in the moment of obedience. He simply cannot bear Zieten’s mocking gaze, much less a new onslaught of caricatures, and, frightened by a shadow, a pea-shell, he resorts to the old remedy of the desperate: a little powder. There you have the essence of false honor. It makes us dependent on the most fickle and arbitrary things there are, on the judgment of society built on quicksand, and causes us to sacrifice the holiest commandments, the most beautiful and natural impulses, to this very social idol. And to this cult of false honor, which is nothing but vanity and perversity, Schach has succumbed, and greater things than that will follow. Remember these words. We have, like ostriches, buried our heads in the sand so as not to hear and not to see. But this ostrich caution has never saved us. When the Ming Dynasty was declining and the victorious Manchu warriors had already penetrated the palace gardens of Beijing, messengers and emissaries still appeared , reporting to the emperor victories after more victories, because it was against ‘the tone’ of good society and the court to speak of defeats. Oh, this good tone! An hour later, an empire was shattered and a throne overthrown. And why? Because everything contrived leads to lies, and every lie to death. Do you remember the evening in Frau von Carayon’s salon, when something similar escaped my lips on the subject of ‘Hannibal ante portas’? Schach reproached me then as unpatriotic. Unpatriotic! The warners are still called by that name. And now! What I then considered something merely probable is now actually here. War has been declared. And what that means is perfectly clear to me. We will perish in the same world of appearances that perished Schach. Yours, Bülow. Postscript. Dohna, formerly with the Garde du Corps, with whom I have just spoken about the Schach affair, has an interpretation that reminded me of earlier information from Nostitz. Schach had loved the mother, which, in his marriage to the daughter, would have led him into strangely painful conflicts of the heart. Do write to me about it. Personally, I find it piquant, but not accurate. Schach’s vanity kept him cool-hearted throughout his life, and his ideas of honor—exceptionally correct in this case—would have protected him from any faux pas , had he really married his daughter . B. Chapter 21. Victoire von Schach to Lisette von Perbandt. Rome, August 18, 1807. My dear Lisette. If only I could tell you how touched I was by such kind lines! Out of the misery of the war, out of insults and losses, you have showered me with tokens of old, unchanged friendship and have not taken offense at my omissions. Mama wanted to write more than once, but I myself asked her to wait. Oh, my dear Lisette, you share in my fate and believe the time has now come for me to speak out against you. And you are right. I will do it as best I can. “How can all this be explained?” you ask, and add: “You are faced with a riddle that you cannot solve.” My dear Lisette, How are the riddles solved? Never. A residue of darkness and unexplainedness remains, and insight into the ultimate and most secret motives of others’, or even our own, actions is denied to us. He , people assure us, was the handsome Schach, and I, to say the least, the not-so-handsome Victoire—that provoked ridicule , and he lacked the strength to defy this ridicule . And so, out of fear of life, he went to his death. So the world says, and in many ways it is true. He wrote something similar to me and complained about it. But just as the world was stricter than necessary, so perhaps he was too. I see it in a different light. He knew very well that all the mockery in the world eventually fades and dies out, and he was, moreover, man enough to fight this mockery, if it did not want to fade and die out. No, he was not afraid of this fight, or at least not as much as is supposed; but a wise voice, the voice of his own and innermost nature, constantly told him that he was fighting this fight in vain, and that, even if he were victorious against the world, he would not be victorious against himself. That was it. He was definitely, and more than anyone I have ever known, one of those men who were not made for marriage. I already told you, on a previous occasion, about an excursion to Tempelhof, which marked a turning point for us in more than one respect . Returning home from church, we spoke about the knights of the order and the rules of the order, and the unintentionally serious tone with which he treated the subject, despite my teasing, showed me clearly what ideals he clung to. And among these ideals—regardless of all his liaisons , or perhaps because of them—was certainly not marriage. Even now, I can assure you, and the longing of my heart does not change this realization, that it is difficult, indeed almost impossible, for me to imagine him as his family . A cardinal—I see them here every day—is simply not conceivable as a husband. And neither is chess. There you have my confession, and he must have thought and felt similar things himself, even if he remained silent about it in his farewell letter. By his very nature, he was focused on representation and the assertion of a certain grandeur, on more superficial things, from which you can see that I do not overestimate him. Indeed, when I saw him defeated again and again in his feuds with Bülow , I felt only too clearly that he was neither a man of outstanding intellectual significance nor of superior character— all that admitted; and yet, on the other hand, he was perfectly capable of shining and ruling within narrow circles. He was as if destined to be the demigod of a princely court, and he would have fulfilled this destiny—you mustn’t laugh at this—not only for his personal joy, but also for the happiness and blessing of others, indeed, many others. For he was a good man, and also wise enough to always want the good. I would have prevented him from pursuing this career as a princely favorite and plenipotentiary; indeed, given my unassuming habits, I would have torn him from every possible career and forced him to Wuthenow to plant an asparagus bed with me or steal the chicks from the hen . He was frightened by this. He saw a small and limited life before him, and was, I won’t say, prepared for a great one, but for one that seemed great to him. He would have gotten over my lack of beauty. I almost hesitate to write it down, and perhaps he really did love me. If I consult his last lines addressed to me, it would in fact be so. But I distrust this sweet word. For he was full of tenderness and compassion, and all the pain he caused me, through his life and his death, he wanted to balance it out, as far as it could be balanced out. All the pain! Ah, how strange and punishing that word looks at me! No, my dear Lisette, none of the pain. I had resigned myself early on and believed I had no right to the most beautiful thing in life. And now I have it: love. How it lifts me up and trembles through me, and turns all the pain into bliss. There lies the child, just opening its blue eyes. Its eyes. No, Lisette, much has been placed upon me, but it springs lightly into the air, cradled next to my happiness. The little one, your godmother, was sick unto the point of death, and only through a miracle was it preserved for me. And I must tell you about it. When the doctor was at a loss, I went with our landlady, a true old Roman woman, in her pride and kindness , up to the Church of Araceli, an old round-arched building next to the Capitol, where they keep the ‘Bambino,’ the Christ Child, a wooden doll with large glass eyes and a whole diadem of rings, such as countless mothers have given to the Christ Child for his help. I brought him a ring before I was even sure of his intercession, and this confidence must have touched the Bambino. For, lo, he helped. A crisis arose immediately, and the Doctor proclaimed his ‘va bene’; but the landlady smiled as if she herself had performed the miracle. And the question occurred to me: what would Aunt Marguerite say to all this ‘superstition’ if she heard about it? She would warn me against the ‘old church’ and with more reason than she knows. For Araceli is not only old, but also comforting and refreshing, cool and beautiful. But its most beautiful thing is its name, which means ‘Altar of Heaven’. And on this altar rises day by day the sacrifice of my thanks. Published by F. Fontane Co. — Berlin W 35 Indispensable for every educated person who wants to keep up to date with the literary movement at home and abroad is The Literary Echo Bimonthly magazine for literature lovers Editor: Dr. Josef Ettlinger Third year Collective organ for all literary interests Essays, biographies, reviews from respected pens Literary letters from all civilised countries Concise review of domestic and foreign journals Complete bibliography Portraits Samples from newly published works News In the “Zeitschrift f. deutschen Unterricht” Leipzig, BG Teubner from February 1899 the editor Prof. Dr. Otto Lyon wrote a three and a half page review for the “Litt. Echo” in which he states, among other things:
“The purpose of this new magazine is to summarize the entire literary life of our nation as if in a mirror, and thus to give literature lovers the opportunity to survey this unique and intimate intellectual life of our people and to follow it with lively interest, is the purpose of this new magazine. That such a magazine is an absolute necessity for our time will be admitted by everyone who shares our opinion that in our age the only people who can survive and remain productive in the long term are those who are firmly bonded together by the common bond of a profound literary education … Therefore, perhaps our most important task today is to interest the educated circles of our people in their literature and thus to protect our people from the superficiality and giggly stupidity that we unfortunately already encounter so often in the streets and ballrooms of our capitals . One thing is still largely lacking in the leading circles of our people : the ability to enjoy literature and the urge to eat or drink that drives us to do so. Our people, for the most part, must first be educated to this end; the task of initiating such an education and guiding it in the right forms This journal will attempt to resolve this question. I believe this goal is so lofty and great that all who love our people and its intellectual life will joyfully place themselves at the service of this pure endeavor. And everyone who contributes to the distribution of this newspaper actively helps to achieve this ambitious goal. And this journal deserves to be widely distributed, especially among teachers and school circles, the appointed educators of our people.” etc. With the end of Schach von Wuthenow, we are left with the thoughts and reflections that history leaves us with. Fontane masterfully understood how to depict the conflicts and play of human nature, so that we will continue to ponder the questions that the work raises for a long time to come . Thank you for joining us on this narrative journey. Don’t forget to subscribe to our channel for more literary adventures in the future .
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