Effi Briest Read online

  ‘That’s because you know Heine’s poem.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The one about Vineta.’

  ‘No, I don’t know it; I really don’t know very much at all. Unfortunately.’

  ‘And you have Gieshübler and the magazine circle! Anyhow, Heine gave the poem another name, “Sea Spectre” or something like that. But it was Vineta he meant. You’ll forgive me if I tell you the story – as he passes the spot, he, the poet that is, is lying on the deck of a ship looking down into the water, and there he sees narrow medieval streets with women in hoods tripping along, and they all have hymnbooks in their hands and are on their way to church, and all the bells are ringing. And when he hears that, he is seized with longing to go into the church with them, even if it’s only because of their hoods, and in his desire he cries out and is on the point of plunging in. But at that moment the captain grabs his leg and shouts, “Doctor, are you possessed by the Devil?”’

  ‘But that’s wonderful. I’d like to read it. Is it long?’

  ‘No, it’s actually quite short, a bit longer than “You have diamonds and pearls” or “Fingers soft and lily-white”…’ and he gently touched her hand. ‘But long or short, what descriptive power, what vividness! He’s my favourite poet and I know him by heart, not that I go in for poetry much, though I’ve dabbled in it myself, for my sins. But Heine’s different: it’s real life somehow, and above all he knows about love, which is the main thing in the end. Not that he’s one-sided in that respect…’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I mean he’s not only interested in love…’

  ‘Well, even if he were one-sided in that, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. What else is he interested in?’

  ‘He’s very much for the romantic, which comes close behind love and in some people’s view can’t be separated from it. Not that I believe that. For his later poems, which have been called “romantic”, in fact he himself called them that, these romantic poems are full of executions; often, it’s true, as a consequence of love. But mainly for other grosser motives, among which I would count politics, which is almost always gross, as the main one. Charles I for example carries his head underneath his arm in one of these poems, and the story of Vitzliputzli is even grislier…’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Vitzliputzli. You see Vitzliputzli is a Mexican god, and when the Mexicans had taken twenty or thirty Spaniards prisoner, those twenty or thirty had to be sacrificed to Vitzliputzli. That’s the way things were out there, local custom, ritual, it was all over in a flash, belly open, heart out…’

  ‘No Crampas, you must stop talking like that. It’s improper and disgusting. And just when we’re about to have breakfast.’

  ‘Speaking for myself, I’m not affected at all, and my appetite depends entirely on the menu.’

  With these words, exactly according to plan, they reached a bench that had been set up half in the lee of the dunes with a very primitive table in front of it, two posts with a board across them. Kruse, who had ridden on ahead, had already set out the meal; rolls and slices of cold roast meat with a bottle of red wine, beside which stood two pretty, delicate glasses, small and gold-rimmed, the kind you bring back from the seaside or buy as souvenirs at a glass factory.

  They dismounted. Kruse, who had tied the reins of his own horse round a stunted pine, walked up and down with the other two horses, while Crampas and Effi sat down at the set table, with an open view of the beach and the mole through a narrow gap in the dunes.

  The half-wintry November sun poured out its wan light on a sea still agitated in the aftermath of the storm, and the breakers reared. Every now and then a gust of wind carried the spray right up to them. Marram grass grew around, and the bright yellow of the immortelles stood out, despite their similar hue, from the yellow sand where they grew. Effi played hostess. ‘Sorry Major, to have to present these rolls to you in a basket lid…’

  ‘The giver, not the gift is what matters.’

  ‘Well, it was Kruse’s idea. And you’re here too Rollo. Our supplies don’t seem to have taken account of you. What are we going to do about Rollo?’

  ‘I think we’ll give it all to him, out of sheer gratitude, on my part at least. For you see my dearest Effi…’

  Effi looked at him.

  ‘For you see my dear lady, Rollo has reminded me of what I wanted to tell you as a continuation of, or rather a companion piece to Vitzliputzli – except that it is much more piquant because it’s a love story. Did you ever hear of a certain Pedro the Cruel?’

  ‘Vaguely.’

  ‘A kind of Bluebeard.’

  ‘Oh lovely, just the type we all like to hear about; I can still remember what we used to say about my friend Hulda Niemeyer, whose name you know; which was that she didn’t know any history except for the six wives of Henry VIII, the English Bluebeard, if that name does him justice. And she really did have all six off by heart. And you should have heard her pronounce their names, especially Elizabeth’s mother’s – so terribly embarrassed you’d have thought it was her turn next… But now, tell me the story of Don Pedro…’

  ‘Yes, well, at Don Pedro’s court there was a dark, handsome Spanish knight who wore the Cross of Calatrava on his chest – which meant more or less the same as the Order of the Black Eagle and the Pour le Mérite rolled into one. This cross was part of the whole thing, they had to wear it all the time, and this particular Knight of Calatrava, with whom the Queen was naturally secretly in love…’

  ‘Why naturally?’

  ‘Because we’re in Spain.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And this particular Knight of Calatrava, as I was saying, had a most beautiful dog, a Newfoundland, although there wasn’t any such thing at the time, for it all happened a hundred years before the discovery of America. A most beautiful dog then, let’s say like Rollo…’

  Rollo barked when he heard his name and wagged his tail.

  ‘This went on for many a day. But the secret love affair, which didn’t remain all that secret, it seems, was eventually too much for the King, and because he couldn’t bear the Knight of Calatrava – for he wasn’t just cruel, he was a jealous old stick, or if that’s not the word for a king, and still less for my kind listener, Frau Effi, he was consumed with envy – he decided to have the Knight of Calatrava secretly executed for his secret love.’

  ‘I don’t blame him.’

  ‘I don’t know about that, my dear lady. Listen to what happened next. Some things are acceptable, but to my mind the King went too far, well beyond the limit. He pretended he was going to hold a celebration to honour the knight, in recognition of his heroic deeds and valour in war. There was a long, long table, and all the grandees of the realm sat at that table with the King in the middle, and opposite him was the place for the man in whose honour it had been arranged – the Knight of Calatrava, the man they had gathered to celebrate that day. And since, although they had waited some good while for him, he still didn’t appear, the festivities had to begin without him and one place remained empty – the empty place directly opposite the King.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then, just imagine my dear lady, as the King, this two-faced Pedro, is about to rise and express his regret that his “dear guest” is still missing, the servants’ screams of horror are heard outside on the stairs, and before anyone knows what has happened, something bounds along the long table, jumps on to the chair, and deposits a severed head at the unoccupied place, and over this head Rollo stares at the man sitting opposite, the King. Rollo had accompanied his master on his last walk, and at the moment when the axe fell, the faithful hound had seized the head as it dropped, and now here he was, our friend Rollo at the long banqueting table, accusing the royal murderer.’

  Effi had gone quite silent. Finally she said, ‘Crampas, that’s all very beautiful in its way, and because it’s beautiful, I’ll forgive you. But you would do better and please me more if you told me d
ifferent stories. Even by Heine. Heine surely didn’t write poems only about Vitzliputzli and Don Pedro and this Rollo of yours – for mine wouldn’t have done such a thing. Come on Rollo. Poor thing, I can’t look at you without thinking about the Knight of Calatrava whom the Queen secretly loved… Call Kruse please and have him put the things back in the saddle-bags, and on the ride back, you must tell me something different, something quite different.’

  Kruse came up. But as he went to take the glasses Crampas said, ‘One of the glasses, that one there, you can leave. I’ll take that myself.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Effi, who had heard this, shook her head. Then she laughed. ‘Crampas, what do you think you’re doing? Kruse is stupid enough not to give it a second thought, and even if he does, he’ll see nothing in it, fortunately. But that doesn’t give you the right to the glass… that thirty-pfennig glass from the Josephine factory.’

  ‘You may mock the price, that just increases its value to me.’

  ‘Always the same. For such a humorist you have an odd sense of humour. If I understand you correctly, you’re intending – it’s so ridiculous I’m almost ashamed to say it – you see yourself as the King of Ultima Thule, long before your time.’

  He nodded with a roguish smile.

  ‘Well, if you must. We all have our little ways; you know very well what I mean. But I have to say that the role you see fit to cast me in is too unflattering. I don’t want to run around as the rhyming appendage of the King of Thule. Keep the glass by all means, just don’t draw any conclusions that might be compromising for me. I shall tell Innstetten about this.’

  ‘You won’t do that, my dear lady.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Innstetten is not the man to take this kind of thing as it ought to be taken.’

  She looked at him sharply for an instant. But then she lowered her eyes in confusion, almost in embarrassment.

  18

  Effi was displeased with herself and glad it was settled that these outings together would cease from now on for the rest of the winter. When she considered what had been said, touched upon or hinted at over all these weeks and months, she could find nothing to reproach herself with in any direct way. Crampas was a clever man, sophisticated, humorous, free, free in a good sense too, and it would have been petty and mean-spirited to be strait-laced and insist on the rules of strict propriety at every moment. No, she could not accuse herself of having responded to his manner, yet she had just a slight sense of having escaped danger and congratulated herself that it all seemed to be behind her now. For that they should meet frequently en famille was scarcely likely, Crampas’s domestic situation more or less precluded that, and meetings in the homes of neighbouring gentry in prospect for the winter could only be occasional and fleeting. Effi worked all this out to her growing satisfaction and came to the conclusion that she would not grieve unduly at having to do without what the major’s company offered. In addition to which Innstetten informed her that his visits to Varzin would not take place this year: Prince Bismarck was going to Friedrichsruh, which he seemed to be favouring more and more; on the one hand he regretted this, on the other he welcomed it – now, he said, he could devote himself wholly to his home life, and if she didn’t object, they would retrace their Italian journey again using the notes he had made. Such recapitulation was really essential, for it was only then that one made everything lastingly one’s own, and retrospective study could even give conscious existence to things only fleetingly glimpsed, which one scarcely knew one still harboured in one’s soul. He elaborated further on this and added that Gieshübler, who knew the whole ‘boot of Italy’ down to Palermo, had asked to be allowed to join them. Effi, who would have far, far preferred an ordinary evening just chatting together, without the ‘boot of Italy’ (they were even going to hand round photographs), was a little strained in her answer; Innstetten however, quite wrapped up in his plan, noticed nothing and went on, ‘It won’t of course just be Gieshübler, we must have Roswitha and Annie with us too, and if I think of us sailing up the Canale Grande and hearing the gondoliers singing far off in the distance, while a few feet away Roswitha is bending over Annie, treating her to a rendition of “Buhküken von Halberstadt” or some such thing, then we may have some fine winter evenings to look forward to with you sitting at my side, knitting me a nice woollen cap. What do you say to that, Effi?’

  Such evenings were not merely planned, they went ahead, and would in all probability have gone on for many weeks had not the harmless Gieshübler in his innocence, despite his horror of ambiguous dealings, been the servant of two masters. The one was Innstetten and the other was Crampas, and if he accepted Innstetten’s invitation to the Italian evenings, not least because of Effi, with genuine delight, then the delight with which he obeyed Crampas was even greater. For according to Crampas’s plan, One False Step was to be performed before Christmas, and when they were about to have their third Italian evening, Gieshübler used the occasion to talk to Effi, who was to play the part of Ella.

  Effi was galvanized; what were Padua and Vicenza to that! Effi was not for reheated leftovers; fresh dishes were what she longed for, variety. But as if a voice within had called, ‘Take care!’ she asked in the midst of her joy and excitement, ‘Was it the major who thought up this plan?’

  ‘Yes. As you know, my lady, he was elected unanimously to the entertainments committee. So at long last we can look forward to an agreeable winter at the Club. He’s ideal for the job.’

  ‘And is he going to be in the play too?’

  ‘No, he turned that down. A pity, I have to say. For he is good at everything and would be an absolutely wonderful Arthur von Schmettwitz. He’s only going to produce.’

  ‘So much the worse.’

  ‘So much the worse?’ Gieshübler repeated.

  ‘Oh you mustn’t take me so seriously, it’s just a manner of speaking and I really mean the opposite. On the other hand of course there is something overpowering about the major, he likes to do things over your head. And then you have to act the way he wants, and not the way you want yourself.’

  She carried on in this vein, tying herself up in one contradiction after another.

  One False Step was duly performed, and because they had only two weeks (the last week before Christmas was excluded), everybody made an effort and it went off wonderfully; the cast, above all Effi, were rewarded with generous applause. Crampas had indeed contented himself with producing, and, strict as he had been with all the others during rehearsals, he had scarcely interfered with Effi’s acting at all. Either he had been informed by Gieshübler of his conversation with Effi, or he had himself noticed that Effi was studiously avoiding him. He was clever and knew enough about women not to disturb things that were taking their natural course, a course with which experience had made him all too familiar.

  After the evening’s performance at the Club they broke up late, and it was past midnight when Innstetten and Effi arrived home. Johanna was still up to help them, and Innstetten, who preened himself in no small way about his young wife, told Johanna how charming the Mistress had looked and how well she had acted. It was a pity he hadn’t thought of it before – she and Christel and even Frau Kruse, the old bat, could easily have watched from up in the music gallery; there had been a large number of people there. Then Johanna went out and Effi, who was tired, lay down. Innstetten however, who felt like chatting, drew up a chair and sat down at his wife’s bedside, looking at her amiably and holding her hand in his.

  ‘Yes Effi, that was a lovely evening. A lovely play, I found it so amusing. And to think it was written by a Kammergerichtsrat, you would hardly credit it. And from Königsberg, no less. But what pleased me most was my enchanting little wife who turned every head.’

  ‘Oh Geert, don’t talk like that. I’m quite vain enough already.’

  ‘Vain enough, that may be true. But not as vain as the others by a long chalk. And that’s in addition to your seven beauties, as Hans Sach
s put it…’

  ‘We all have seven beauties…’

  ‘Just a slip of the tongue; you can multiply that figure by itself.’

  ‘How gallant you are Geert. If I didn’t know you, I might be afraid. Or is there something behind it all?’

  ‘Have you a guilty conscience then? Been listening behind the door?’

  ‘Oh Geert, I really do get scared,’ And she sat bolt upright in bed and stared at him. ‘Shall I ring for Johanna to bring us tea? You’re so fond of it before you go to bed.’

  He kissed her hand. ‘No Effi. After midnight not even the Kaiser may call for tea, and you know I don’t like to make more demands on people than is necessary. No, I just want to look at you and be glad that I’ve got you. There are times when one is more keenly aware of the treasure one has. You might after all have been like poor Frau Crampas; what an awful woman she is, friendly to no one, and she would have liked to wipe you off the face of the earth.’

  ‘Oh Geert, please, you’re just imagining that. The poor woman! I didn’t notice anything.’

  ‘That’s because you don’t have an eye for that kind of thing. But it was just as I say and very awkward for poor Crampas, who avoided you all the time and scarcely gave you a glance. Which is very unnatural, first because he’s a ladies’ man through and through, and then, when it comes to ladies like you, why, they’re his particular passion. And I’ll wager nobody knows that better than my little wife herself. When I think of the lively chit-chat – if you’ll forgive the expression – when he used to come to the veranda in the morning or when we went riding along the beach or walking on the mole. It’s just as I say, he didn’t dare today, he was afraid of his wife. And I don’t blame him. The major’s wife is a bit like our Frau Kruse, and if I had to choose between the two of them, I don’t know which it would be.’

  ‘I know who I would choose; there’s a difference between the two of them. The major’s poor wife is unhappy, Frau Kruse is uncanny.’