Irretrievable Page 3

  The countess said nothing and merely poked her needle in the ball of silk lying on the table in front of her.

  The count was annoyed by her silence. “I thought that you would agree.”

  “You know that those are estate matters in which I have no say. If you think mangers of marble or something similar are necessary, then we shall have them, even if they have to be fetched from Carrara.”

  “Why do you talk like that, Christine?”

  “I’m sorry, Helmut, but you happen to have chosen the wrong moment. I have just been talking with Dr. Schwarzkoppen about matters much closer to my heart, building matters as well, incidentally, and at this very moment you come and talk of building cowsheds …”

  “Of course I want to build them. You always forget, Christine, even if, as you’ve just said, you have no say, you always forget that first and foremost I am a farmer and that a farmer has, in fact, to be interested in farming, that it is the main thing for him.”

  “No, Helmut, it is not the main thing.”

  “Then what is?”

  “It makes me very sad and unhappy that where you’re concerned, I always have to point out the obvious.”

  “Oh, now I understand. The church needs rebuilding or is it a convent or an orphanage? And after that it will be a Campo Santo and then we shall have to buy up all the pictures of Cornelius and have them made into frescoes for the walls …”

  The count rarely descended to the use of such forceful language, but there were some subjects that had the effect of making him lose his temper and forget the good manners on which he normally prided himself. His brother-in-law knew this and so quickly intervened to change the subject, which his imperturbable good humour always enabled him to do.

  “Sister, Helmut, my view is that we must do the one and not forget the other. There’s wisdom for you—and peace too. Particularly as you have no idea what the question is about, my dear brother-in-law.”

  Holk laughed good-humouredly.

  “You have no idea,” continued Arne, “and I have no idea either, although Christine normally lets me into all her secrets. No doubt this will give us the key, unless this is all meant merely to mislead me.” He picked up the water-colour which Fräulein Dobschütz had meanwhile fetched. “Charming, whoever the author of it may be. Gothic arches, angels, palms. May a man not walk unmolested even in such surroundings? And our poor unfortunate veterinary surgeon was the cause of all this trouble, a man who walks about in top-boots and the only comic thing about him is that he speaks with a Saxon accent. He ought really to speak Low German or even Mecklenburger. Which reminds me, did you know that in Rostock and Kiel they have founded a school of Low German poetry, or rather, two schools, because when the Germans start anything they always split into two at once? Hardly was the Low German school started than we had another itio in partes and so the Mecklenburgers are parading under their leader Fritz Reuter and the Holsteiners under Klaus Groth. But Klaus Groth has stolen a march on the other because he is a lyric poet who can be set to music and everything depends on that. Before twelve months, no, before six months are out, there won’t be a single piano without a song of his perched on it all the time. I saw something on your piano, Asta, can you sing anything of his?”

  “I’m not very fond of Low German.”

  “Well then, sing something in High German as long as it is nice and cheerful.”

  “I’m not very fond of cheerful things.”

  “All right, if it can’t be cheerful, then it will have to be sad. But then I shall have to be sad, too, to make it worthwhile. Something about a page who dies for his Lady Asta or about a knight who is killed by his rival and is buried by the road-side. And his faithful hound keeps watch over the knight’s grave and three ravens sit on a black poplar and caw and stare.”

  Asta was used to her uncle’s teasing and would not have been at a loss to answer had her attention not been distracted at this moment by something else.

  “There’s Elizabeth,” she cried, pleased and excited. “And old Petersen with her, and Schnuck, too.”

  And with the others she went into the garden at the front and they all called down to the new-comers.

  3

  Pastor Petersen and his granddaughter failed to notice their welcome, perhaps because the light was shining in their eyes, but those standing on the terrace could see them all the more plainly as they approached along the beach. The old man, hat in hand so that the wind was ruffling his long, thin, white hair, was a few steps in front, while Elizabeth was picking up small pieces of wood and bark and throwing them into the sea so that Schnuck, a splendid black poodle, could retrieve them. Now, however, she had stopped playing and was picking a few flowers which were growing among the wild oats at the edge of the beach. Slowly sauntering, they eventually reached the pier and turned left towards the terrace.

  “Here they come!” shouted Asta delightedly. “And Elizabeth has brought her grandfather with her.”

  “Yes,” said Arne. “And one might almost say that her grandfather has brought Elizabeth with him. But you are all the same: youth is everything and when you are old, you are merely an accessory. Youth equals selfishness. But I suppose we older ones are hardly any better. When I saw the old gentleman my first thought was, here comes our game of whist. I know that Schwarzkoppen is not in favour of gambling but, thank God, he’s not against it either and if he were a Papist he would probably call it only a venial sin. And those are my favourite sins. By the way, I rather like that poodle, what’s his name?”

  “Schnuck,” said Asta.

  “Oh yes, Schnuck. More a name for a character in a comedy than for a dog, don’t you think? He has already been up and down here three times. He’s obviously enjoying himself immensely. And now tell me, Asta, what is he pleased about—you or the tricks he is going to show off or the sugar you are going to give him for doing them?”

  Two hours later all was quiet on the terrace; evening had come and only on the sky-line could a red glow still be seen. Everyone had retired to the drawing-room, which was the same size as the dining-room and situated immediately behind it; and from here, they were able to look out on to the well-kept garden, with its greenhouses adjoining, which sloped away towards a large park.

  The drawing-room was richly furnished but there was still space to move freely about. Beside the grand piano, in the most secluded corner, was a large round table on which stood an oil lamp. Here the countess sat with her friend Julie Dobschütz, who was about to read to her, while Asta and Elizabeth were sitting beside them on two foot-stools alternately chatting quietly to themselves and putting the poodle through his tricks, to its great and manifest delight. At last, however, tired by its efforts, it overbalanced and its paw struck one of the piano keys.

  “Now he is trying to play the piano as well,” laughed Asta. “I think that if he wanted, Schnuck could play better than I can; he’s so clever and Aunt Julie will bear me out. They tried to make me play earlier on and even sing; Uncle Arne wanted me to very much but I took good care not to, because, although I quite like it, I’m no good at all. Have you brought anything with you, Elizabeth? You always have something new and I saw that you had a music-case under your arm when you came in. Let’s see.”

  The girls continued to chat whilst in the corner diagonally opposite the four men sat playing whist, Arne as usual blaming Petersen for playing so slowly, as slowly, he was complaining, as at the time of the Congress of Vienna.

  Petersen laughed: “Yes, exactly as I used to play at the time of the Congress of Vienna; people used to play slowly then, because it was considered distinguished to do so and later on I must tell you a story about that which is not very well known and as far as I know came from Thorwaldsen,[1] who had it from Wilhelm von Humboldt …”

  “Alexander von Humboldt,” corrected Arne.

  “Oh no, please allow me, Arne, from Wilhelm von Humboldt. Wilhelm was particularly …”

  “Careful, Petersen.”

  The ga
me proceeded without further interruption and even the girls lowered their voices, for Fräulein Dobschütz had started to read from a big newspaper which the postman had brought that afternoon. She had not yet properly started her reading but was trying to find one or two matters of interest. The Italian war was still struggling in its death-throes, so first of all she chose the headlines and read in a querying voice: “Archduke Albrecht and Admiral Tegethoff?” The countess shook her head. “On the march to Magenta? … Bonnemain’s Brigade of Cuirassiers? …” Another shake of the head. “Our correspondent reports from Charlottenburg on the state of health of King Frederick William IV of Prussia? …”

  “Yes,” said the countess, “read that, my dear Julie. The piece from Charlottenburg. I’m not interested in all those stories about the war, they are all the same, someone is always collapsing fatally wounded and dying so that something or other called Poland or France or for all I care Schleswig-Holstein may live. But it’s always the same. This modern cult of nationalism is not my sort of worship. I prefer something with purely human interest—and that includes religion, at least for me …. That poor unfortunate king in his palace at Charlottenburg; … such a clear-sighted man and now his mind is all in darkness. Yes, that interests me. Is it long?”

  “One column.”

  “That is rather long. Anyway, please start and we can always stop.”

  So Fräulein Dobschütz read: “All reports are agreed that the king’s state of health is deteriorating; his power of understanding is weakening and his periods of lucidity are becoming less and less frequent. Naturally the sick man’s condition has now started to have repercussions on matters of state and certain considerations that have hitherto been possible can now no longer be taken into account. The fact can no longer be hidden that a complete change in the system of government is impending and that this change will show itself in foreign policy. The link with Russia and Austria has weakened and a rapprochement with the Western Powers, and certainly with England, seems increasingly likely. All these events may recall the period from 1806 to 1813 which, following upon the previous humiliation, was a period of preparation and rearmament. The Prince Regent is incessantly concerning himself with such rearmament and when Prussia has reached the state of military preparedness which he is striving to achieve, we shall be in a position to see what will happen. This policy will show itself nowhere more plainly than in Schleswig-Holstein.”

  “That will do,” cried the countess. “I thought that the article would be giving anecdotes about the court, and all the trivialities that are their main concern most of the time; and instead, he’s making all sorts of political prophecies. I don’t believe in prophecies that are always being made by those least qualified to make them …. But what is that picture on the back-page, the castle with towers … ?”

  Julie ran her eye over it and said: “It is an advertisement for a Swiss boarding-school, on Lake Geneva, naturally. That little building there is the school and the big hotel in the foreground is for show.”

  “Read it to me. Advertisements about schools interest me.”

  “Our school at Beau-Rivage is now entering its twenty-fifth year. During this period, young ladies from every part of the world have been pupils here and, to the best of our knowledge, have always left with very pleasant memories of us. This we doubtless owe, in addition to God’s blessing, without which we could do nothing, to our strong guiding principles: complete cosmopolitanism and non-sectarianism. A clergyman of the Calvinist persuasion is the leading spirit of our community but, in full acceptance of the spirit of toleration, he allows the parents and guardians of the pupils entrusted to our care to decide whether or not they should take part in this religious instruction …”

  The countess was visibly amused. She possessed the characteristic, common to most devout churchgoers, not only of suspecting the piety of others but of considering them, on the whole, rather comic; as a result, reports from the Catholic or, even more, from the Calvinist camps were usually a source of amusement to her, even when, as now, her amusement had not been directly aroused by a blatant piece of commercialism. She took the paper in order to finish the rest of the advertisement, but the servant who had been watching the whist-table for the last quarter of an hour, waiting for the rubber to end, now announced that tea was served.

  “Just at the right moment,” said Arne. “When you have just won, a partridge—and I hereby warn you that I am relying on having one—a partridge is the best possible meal. When you have lost, it’s different.”

  With these words, he offered his arm to Fräulein Dobschütz, while Schwarzkoppen preceded him with the countess.

  “Well, Petersen,” said the count, “we must make do with each other.” And as he passed Asta and Elizabeth, he called to them: “Now, ladies.”

  But Asta merely stroked his hand and said: “No, Papa, we are staying here, Mama said we might; we still have all sorts of things to talk about.”

  [1]A well-known Danish sculptor of the nineteenth century. W. von Humboldt was a philologist, Alexander a scientist.

  4

  The table was laid in the dining-room, the double doors were open and bright lights met them as they went in. The countess sat down between the two clergymen while Julie sat opposite with Holk and Arne. A moment later the tutor and Axel appeared.

  “I have just been highly amused,” said the countess, turning to Schwarzkoppen.

  “Really?” interpolated Holk, in a tone of voice that would have been more charming had it been less sarcastic. Arne, who noticed the irony only too plainly (for Christine was incapable of being really amused), chuckled to himself.

  “Yes, I have just been highly amused,” repeated the countess, with a certain hauteur, and went on: “It really is a most peculiar thing about those Swiss boarding-schools, the way they seem to combine their Calvinism so well with their sense of business. Its worldliness has always seemed to me the unpleasant side of Calvinism …”

  Schwarzkoppen, to whom this second remark was also addressed, inclined his head; but her brother said: “That is the first time I have heard that, Christine. As far as I know, Calvin was ruthless and uncompromising and so was John Knox, too. And after all, Coligny can’t have been as worldly-wise as all that or he might have lived a little longer. And then there was la Rochelle and the ten thousand believers who went into exile for their faith. Lutherans would be hard put to it to match that or improve on it. I appeal for justice: Schwarzkoppen, you mustn’t leave me in the lurch against my sister. Nor must you, Petersen.”

  Holk, who was, in any case, very fond of his brother-in-law, was delighted to hear him talking like this. “That’s quite right, Alfred. The absent must be defended.”

  “Even when it is Prussia,” added Arne with a smile. “And that reminds me of the article that was being read a moment ago. What was it saying exactly? You know that I have the faculty of winning at whist and at the same time following, more or less, all that is being read or said. I heard something about the court at Charlottenburg and rearmament and 1813. Was I right? I certainly heard 1813 and rearmament as well.”

  “Do tell the Baron what it was all about, my dear Julie,” said the countess.

  “It was exactly as the Baron was saying. In general, the article seemed to think that Denmark was finished unless the language question can be satisfactorily settled.”

  Holk laughed. “Denmark finished? Oh no, Mr. Prussian, things haven’t yet reached that stage and whatever happens we must not forget the fable of the stork and the fox. The fox couldn’t reach the water because it was in a bottle and the latest fox, the Prussian, cannot reach Denmark because it is all islands. Yes, water, thank God! It is always the same story, what some people can do, others can’t, and however good the Prussians are at their goose-step, you can’t march across the Baltic, even if Klaus Groth did write: ‘The Baltic is nowt but a puddle.’”

  Arne, who used regularly to start his dinner, until sometime in late autumn, with a spoonful of sour m
ilk and was just putting bread and sugar on the bowl in front of him, calmly completed his task, took his first spoonful and then, wiping his beard, replied:

  “Now there we differ. Our only difference. And let me add, fortunately, because one can wage all sorts of war against one’s sister but not against one’s brother-in-law. I appeal to Petersen who has seen more of life than we have.”

  Petersen nodded.

  “You see, Holk,” continued Arne, “you were talking about the fox and the stork. Well, I have nothing against moving into the animal world, nothing at all. There happens, however, to be another fable about a bird—the ostrich. My dear Holk, you’re hiding your head in the sand, like the ostrich, and refusing to see the danger.”

  Holk shifted to and fro in his chair and said: “Ah well, Alfred, who can see into the future anyway? Not you nor I. At the end of the day, everything is a matter of probability, and danger from Berlin or Potsdam is the most unlikely thing of all. The days of parades at Potsdam are over. I have nothing against old Fritz. He has no more fervent admirer than me, but everything he did seems to me a mere episode which has somehow become fatal to his country.”

  “And so a country’s fame or even its greatness can be fatal to it?”

  “I know it sounds strange but all the same, my dear Alfred …”

  Holk broke off as Asta was heard in the next room endeavouring to pick out the accompaniment to a song on the piano. But silence fell again and Holk repeated: “Yes, Alfred, it sounds strange that fame should be fatal but such things do happen and when they do, it’s because of the natural order of things. It is just possible that a new race of world-conquerors might have flourished on those sandy marshlands of Brandenburg, where after all, the Semnonians[1] and other red-headed world-conquerors once lived, that I can admit, but to achieve this, the country would have had to undergo a long and slow process of development. And it was Frederick the Great who disturbed that process. Prussia went to bed a province and woke up a state; that was abnormal and caused by the fact that overnight or, more exactly, over a period of some forty years, Prussia was racked and torn.”