Irretrievable Read online

  “Those aren’t your own ideas,” said Christine.

  “No, and nor do they need to be; it’s sufficient to have made them my own. So please let me continue with my borrowed ideas. With all due respect to Frederick the Great, he was unique, sui generis. But I cannot admire what we can call, if you like, the posthumous Prussia, Prussia after him, always in tow to some other country. Today it’s Russia, tomorrow perhaps it will be Austria. Everything that it ever succeeded in doing was done in some sort of double harness, not under its own eagle, whether red or black. I can understand people who refer contemptuously to the Prussian cuckoo. For a state to be more than a day’s wonder, it must have frontiers, it must represent a nation.”

  “There are other ingredients needed to make a state,” said Arne and both Schwarzkoppen and Christine nodded approvingly.

  “Certainly,” retorted Holk. “Money, for example. But who’s joking now? Prussia and money!”

  “No, not money; another trifle—a trifle that is called an idea, a faith. With the Russians, the idea still lives on that they must possess Constantinople and one day they will possess it. History is full of such examples and something similar can be found with the Prussians. It’s unwise to laugh about such things, too. Ideas like that are a force. Someone once wrote that our fate can be read in our hearts and what that inner voice says will be fulfilled. In Prussia—which, incidentally, you have been unable to tolerate ever since you were a boy—in Prussia, for the last century and a half, everything has been directed towards one great purpose. It was not old Fritz who was an episode but the period of weakness that you mentioned which was an interregnum. And now this interregnum is over. That newspaper article was right; the recruiting sergeant’s drum is moving gently through the whole country and ‘old Denmark,’ when the time comes to call the tune, will have to pay the piper, if I may mix my metaphors. Petersen, you must say something. At your age, you have second sight and can see what is going to happen.”

  The old man smiled gently. “I should like to pass the question on, because what men have when they are eighty or more—and I am not quite that yet—women have from birth; they are born prophets. Certainly the countess must be.”

  “And I want to reply, too,” said Christine. “At first, I was only half listening to what Julie was reading, because I only wanted to hear about the dear King and Queen and not about rearmament and such things. But what they were saying was right …”

  Arne threw a kiss to his sister while Holk, who was now beginning to feel himself the victim of a certain animosity, began to busy himself with his plate.

  “The report in the Hamburger Nachrichten,” continued Christine, “was obviously written by someone who is in close touch with the new ruler and knows his plans. And even if they are not plans as yet, they are at least aspirations. But I must agree whole-heartedly with what Alfred has just said about the power of certain ideas. The world is governed by such things, for good or evil, according to the nature of these things. And with the Prussians everything is based on …”

  “Duty,” interpolated Arne.

  “Yes, duty and trust in God. And if that is saying too much, then at least it is based on Luther’s catechism. They still have that. Thou shalt keep holy the Sabbath day, thou shalt not commit adultery, thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s man-servant nor his maid-servant nor his ox nor his ass nor anything that is his—yes, such things are still believed in Prussia.”

  “And, apart from Prussia, have otherwise entirely disappeared from the world,” laughed Holk.

  “No, Helmut, not entirely but from the little corner of the world in which we live. I do not mean from our dear Schleswig-Holstein, because God in his mercy has not let us sink so low, I mean everything that is going on across the water in Denmark where the government is that we have to obey—and which I am prepared to obey as long as law is law. But for me to approve everything that goes on over there, that you cannot expect, that is impossible. In Copenhagen …”

  “Your bête noire again. What do you have against them?”

  “In Copenhagen everything is worldly pleasure and sensuality and intoxication and that doesn’t give strength. Strength belongs only to those who are sober and self-controlled. Tell me yourself, do you think that can still be called a court and a monarchy over there? A monarchy, if it stays as it should, has something compelling about it, it can make us ready to sacrifice ourselves body and soul and give up everything for it, belongings, family, everything. But a king who is only good at divorcing and is more interested in seeing a low farce or drinking Acquavit than thinking of his country or of justice, a king like that is completely without strength nor can he give any strength, and he will succumb to those who can.”

  “And so we shall all become good little Prussians and a spiked helmet will be stuck on a pole and we shall have to bow down and worship it.”

  “Heaven forbid. German, not Prussian, that is what we must become. I am a Schleswig-Holsteiner through and through and I ask you gentlemen to drink to it with me. You too, Helmut, if your position as gentleman-in-waiting permits you to. And see over there, Dr. Schwarzkoppen, the moon is rising as if it wanted to bring peace to the whole world. Yes, peace is the best thing of all; ever since I was a child, I have always believed that. My father used to say that we are not merely born under a certain star but, in the book of heaven, against our names, there is always a special sign written, ivy or laurel or palm. I hope there is a palm against mine.”

  Old Petersen took her hand and kissed it: “Yes, Christine. Blessed are the peace-makers.”

  He had spoken quietly and casually, with no thought that his words might affect the countess in any way deeply, yet this is what in fact occurred. She had been almost boasting of her peacefulness or at least expressing her firm belief in it and yet, at the very moment that old Petersen seemed to be almost promising it to her, suddenly she became aware that she did not possess it. In spite of having the best of husbands whom she loved as much as he loved her, she yet did not possess that peace for which she longed; in spite of all their love, his easy-going temperament was no longer in harmony with her melancholy, as recent arguments had proved to her more than once to an ever-increasing degree and even though she would strive with all her might to resist her tendency to disagree. Hence Petersen’s well-meant words found no response amongst the others, indeed they all stared silently in front of them and only Arne dared to look down the table through the high French-windows out over the sea, shimmering and silvery beneath the moon.

  At this moment full of uneasiness and oppression, Asta suddenly came out of the next room and whispered to her mother: “Elizabeth wants to sing something. May she?”

  “Certainly she may. But who is going to accompany her?”

  “I shall. It’s very easy and we have just been through it. I think it will be all right. And even if I break down, it won’t be a disaster.”

  She went back to the grand piano, leaving the big dividing doors open. The music was already open on the piano, the lights were on, and they both began. But what they had feared happened: voice and accompaniment failed to keep pace and they both burst out laughing, half embarrassed. However, they started again at once and Elizabeth’s high, clear voice, still almost that of a child, rang through the two rooms. Everyone listened in silence. The countess seemed particularly moved and at the end of the last verse, she rose from her chair and went over to the piano. Then, picking up the song still lying open on the music-rest, without saying a word to anyone, she left the room. This did not cause undue surprise, since everyone knew how sensitive she was. Holk merely asked Elizabeth who had written the words.

  “Waiblinger, whom I had never heard of till now.”

  “Nor me,” said Holk. “And the title?”

  “‘The churchyard.’”

  “That must be why.”

  A quarter of an hour later, the Arnewieck carriage arrived and Arne insisted on Petersen’s accompanying him as far as the vicarage; Schnuck woul
d be able to keep up alongside. After some discussion, the offer was accepted and Arne took the back seat while Elizabeth, who was fond of chatting with the coachman, climbed up on the box. Barely was she ensconced than she found herself being told at length about his sick wife and the “sympathy” which had proved once again to be more help than the doctor who always merely prescribed things without looking properly to see what was wrong and particularly without discovering whether her spleen was in order. For the trouble definitely lay in the spleen.

  This conversation was short-lived, for in less than ten minutes they pulled up in front of the vicarage. Schnuck vigorously voiced his delight at being home again and Arne moved over to sit beside Schwarzkoppen. Then, after a further exchange of greetings and thanks, they both drove on towards Arnewieck.

  [1]A tribe of the Suevi who penetrated as far west as Portugal.

  5

  Their way lay between high quickset hedges with the sea close by on the left; but it could only be heard since a low line of dunes obscured it from view. Arne and Schwarzkoppen had both wrapped their feet in plaids and rugs for, after the lovely warm day, it had become cool and autumnal, cooler than usual for September. This only increased the liveliness of their conversation which, naturally enough, concerned the evening they had just spent together.

  “That Petersen girl has a charming voice,” said Arne. “All the same, I wish she had sung some Weber rather than that gloomy song.”

  “It was a very lovely song.”

  “Certainly it was and we two can both listen to it without coming to any harm. But not my sister! You must have seen how she took the music and left the room. I feel sure that she immediately learned it by heart or cut it out and stuck it in an album. You know, although she is thirty-seven years old, she is still in many ways the little schoolgirl from Gnadenfrei, particularly now that she has Fräulein Dobschütz living with her. Of course, Fräulein Dobschütz is an excellent person and I have all possible respect for her character and her learning. But the fact remains that, as far as my poor brother-in-law is concerned, she is a mistake. You’re surprised but it’s true. She is far too intelligent and far too good-hearted, too, to try to come between them, either wilfully or through vanity, but my sister is forcing her into a false position. Christine always needs someone to complain to, some soulful figure straight out of the works of Jean-Paul Richter, someone perpetually worrying about the fact that life is real, life is earnest …. The only thing that is capable of relieving her gloom is gossip about the affairs of the heart of heretics—a heretic being anyone who is not an Old Lutheran, a Pietist, or a Herrnhuter. And it is a miracle that she can at least tolerate those three. She is so obstinate and unapproachable. I keep trying to persuade her and explain to her that she ought to be more adaptable and be prepared to listen to her husband if he tells a joke or a story or even makes a pun.”

  Schwarzkoppen nodded: “I was telling her as much today and pointing out all the count’s amiable qualities.”

  “A suggestion which she no doubt rather haughtily denied. I know her. Always some question of education or reports from some missionary in Greenland or Ceylon, or a harmonium or church-candles or an altar-cloth or a crucifix. It’s quite intolerable. I am mentioning all this to you so frankly and fully because you are the only one who can help. Mind you, I’m not certain that she finds you completely satisfactory because, thank God, you lack the necessary pietistic tinge of ‘little blossoms, little angels.’ The temperature of your religion is not quite high enough for her, but she at least accepts its form and because of that, she will not only listen to your advice but will follow it as well. Which is something.”

  While Arne was speaking, they had reached the place where the dunes opened out towards the sea. The surf could now be seen and, further out, fishing boats lying with furled sails in the moonlight. A rocket shot up on the horizon and stars of light slowly descended.

  Arne ordered the coachman to stop. “Enchanting. That’s the steamer from Korsör. Perhaps the King is on board and wishes to spend a few weeks more in Glücksburg. I have already heard that they have dug up something else in the bog near Süderbrarup or somewhere, a Viking ship or King Canute the Great’s pleasure yacht or something. Personally I would sooner read David Copperfield or The Three Musketeers. It all leaves me quite cold, these combs and needles they keep digging out of the bog or else some tangled mass that sets Thomsen and Worsaae at loggerheads because they can’t decide whether it is a bundle of roots or some sea-king’s head of hair. As for the royal luncheons where the chief item on the menu is crates of schnapps or else Countess Danner herself, of humble memory—a former milliner, I believe—well, I find all that quite repugnant. In everything else, I try to differ from my sister, even when she is right and makes such a fuss about it, unfortunately; but where this is concerned, I can only agree with her and I cannot understand why Holk persists in keeping on with all that business over in Copenhagen and seems to enjoy strutting about in his gentleman-in-waiting’s uniform. I grant that there is no reason why his feelings as a Schleswig-Holsteiner should stand in his way, since as long as the King is living, he is, after all, our King and Duke. But I think it inexpedient and unwise. After all, life with Countess Danner is hardly conducive to longevity—I mean for the King, of course—and overnight it may be all over. In any case, he’s an apoplectic. And what will happen then?”

  “I think that Holk doesn’t ask himself that question. He lives only for the moment and consoles himself with the saying: Après nous le déluge.”

  “Very true. He lives only for the moment and the fact that he does this is another thing my sister cannot forgive and here again I must take her side. But let’s not talk about this any more; today I don’t feel like making a list of all my sister’s virtues but rather of les défauts de ses vertus which, my dear Schwarzkoppen, we must combine in opposing or else we are going to witness something very unpleasant, of that I am certain. The only thing of which I am not certain is, who will take the first step—the first step to disaster. Holk is easy-going and modest almost to a fault—he is too respectful and chivalrous and he has become used to playing second fiddle to his wife all the time. It’s natural enough. In the first place, he is impressed by her beauty—she really was very beautiful and still is, in fact. Then he is impressed by her intelligence or what he takes to be intelligence. Finally, and perhaps most of all, he is impressed by her piety. But recently and, I’m afraid, all too rapidly, there has been a change and he has become impatient and touchy and sarcastic. Only this afternoon, it struck me how much his tone has changed. Take that question of the marble mangers. My sister took what was intended more or less as a joke with deadly seriousness and replied half in anger and half sentimentally. Now, three years ago, Holk would have let that pass but today he took it up sharply and made fun of her because she is only happy when she is talking of graves and chapels and painting angels on walls.”

  Schwarzkoppen had punctuated all this with an occasional “only too true” and left no doubt as to his agreement. But when Arne, who wanted something more explicit than mere agreement from Schwarzkoppen, stopped talking, the Principal betrayed little desire to expatiate on the subject, being reluctant to take the bull by the horns. Pointing towards Arnewieck, he said: “How lovely the town looks in the moonlight! And how well the dyke there makes the roofs stand out and the gables between the poplars and willows! And now St. Catherine’s: listen to the sound across the bay. I bless the day that brought me here to your beautiful country.”

  “And I must thank you for those kind words, Schwarzkoppen, because we all like to hear someone praising our own country. But may I point out that you are evading the issue? Here am I, begging you to stand by me in a very difficult matter, much more difficult than you imagine, and all you can do is to admire the landscape. Of course it’s lovely. But I’m not going to let you get away like that. With the influence you have over my sister, you must approach her through the Bible, and convince her, with half a d
ozen examples from the Gospels, that things cannot be allowed to continue as they are, that her attitude is nothing but self-righteousness, that real love has nothing to do with this hidden pride that is merely parading as humility, in other words, that she must mend her ways and fall in with her husband’s wishes instead of making the house unbearable for him. Yes, and you can add, too—and there is some truth in this as well—that he would probably long since have given up his post in Copenhagen if he wasn’t glad to escape now and again from the depressing effect of his wife’s virtues.”

  “Ah, my dear Baron,” replied Schwarzkoppen, “I’m not really trying to evade the issue, not in the least. I have all the goodwill in the world to co-operate, within my powers. But goodwill is not enough. If your sister were a Catholic instead of a Protestant and I were a Redemptorist or even a Jesuit father instead of the principal of a seminary in Arnewieck, the matter would be very simple. But that is not the case. There’s no question of authority. Our relationship is purely a social one and if I were to try to play the father confessor or healer of souls, I should be intruding and doing something that lies outside my competence.”

  “Intruding?” repeated Arne with a laugh. “But my dear Schwarzkoppen, I cannot accept the idea that you should feel troubled by thoughts of Petersen when he is nearly eighty years old and has reached the point where any idea of rivalry or any possibility of misinterpretation must be out of the question.”

  “I don’t mean Petersen,” said Schwarzkoppen. “He has long ago left all those petty jealousies behind that are normally only too common with my pastoral colleagues. He would certainly approve my role of reformer and miracle-worker. But we must not always take advantage of what chance offers us. In this case, there are so many adverse factors and difficulties that I feel bound to be cautious.”