Doralice stroked his curly hair lightly with her hand. “No, no,” she said, sounding both tired and compassionate, “together, we will remain together, all by ourselves, just the two of us.”
Hans straightened up, laughing once more, confident and triumphant, while he held Doralice’s arm and shook it: “That’s what I want as well, and I’ll also make sure that no one comes anywhere near you.” Then he took her small form in his arms, as if picking up a child, and carried her into the bedroom.
Notes
2 “…cet enfant!”: (French) “This child!”
3 Reichsbank: The central bank of Germany from 1876 to 1945.
4 Panama hat: A brimmed straw hat from Ecuador that became popular among Americans and Europeans at the beginning of the twentieth century. It was worn in tropical climates, or at the seaside.
5 It was customary in Germany at this time for a wife (or widow) to be addressed by her husband’s professional or military title with the addition of a feminine ending (-in). Because her late husband was a general, the Generalin von Palikow is addressed in this strangely martial (at least to English-speakers) manner. In the context of the story, her military “rank” also indicates her status as the matriarch and commander of the family.
Chapter Two
Dawn was breaking when Doralice awoke. It always happened this way now – when she lay down, she would fall quickly into a deep sleep, but then she would awake before sunrise and be unable to fall asleep again. She lay there, her arms raised, her hands folded on top of her head, her eyes wide open, and observed how the grey-blue light penetrated into the room through the white-and-red-striped curtains, picking out the washstand, the two crude chairs and the tall yellow wardrobe in the gloom, illuminating the room without bringing it to life, without, as it were, waking it up. And it seemed to Doralice that this room, as small as a ship’s cabin, was in no way connected to her. She was lying there comfortably enough in the narrow bed under the ugly rose-coloured calico cover, but she did not have the feeling that this was reality – the world of dreams from which she had just emerged was still more real for her. Every night she travelled back to her former life, every night she had to relive her former life. She was happiest when she found herself back in the old family house of her childhood in the small provincial town. Her mother lay again on the sofa, with her migraines and a compress of eau-de-cologne on her forehead. She heard again the plaintive voice: “My child, when you are married and I am no longer here, then you will often think back on what I have told you.” And the phrase “when you are married,” which recurred often in her mother’s conversation, gave Doralice once more a pleasant, mysterious sense of anticipation. Outside the shadeless garden lay yellow in the sunshine, the long rows of currant bushes, the bed filled with chrysanthemums that had almost no leaves and swollen bronze-coloured hearts. On the garden bench dozed Miss Plummers. Her kindly old face was turning red in the midday heat. Doralice paced restlessly to and fro on the gravel paths, the monotonous summer buzzing all around her sounded like the voice of loneliness and tedium. And yet it was in this very place, in the old garden, that she always sensed most clearly that on the far side of the garden fence a beautiful world of experiences was waiting for her. She felt it physically as a strange disturbance of her blood, she almost heard it, like listening to the jumbled voices of a party from the other side of a locked door. Now and then this world came to her, in the form of Count Köhne-Jasky, the handsome older gentleman who smelled so strongly of “new mown hay,”6 who paid Doralice bewildering compliments, and who told such entertaining stories, always involving costly things and beautiful places. That Doralice would one day put on her white dress with the pink sash, that her weeping mother would embrace her and that the coal-black moustache of the Count would be pressed against her forehead in a kiss, these were all things that were so obviously necessary that it seemed to both mother and daughter as if they had been waiting their whole lives for them.
Most often, however, Doralice found herself in her dreams in the grand salon of the Dresden Embassy.7 A wintry afternoon light fell on the polished parquet floor. The sweet fragrance of the hyacinths standing in the windows mingled with a faint odour of turpentine from the great oil paintings on the walls. Her husband came toward her from the other side of the room, very slender encased in his black frock coat, the tips of the moustache on his upper lip brushed upwards. He looked handsome, if a little too delicate, as he approached her, the smooth white brow, the regular nose, the long eye lashes. But the dream played a strange trick on her: the closer the Count came to her, the older his face became, it withered, it deteriorated before her eyes. He placed his arm around Doralice’s waist, took her hand and kissed it. “Charmant, charmant,”8 he said, “once again such delightful attentiveness. We have given up our drive because we knew that our husband had an hour free this afternoon. We are going to keep him company here and make his tea for him ourselves. I have seen plenty of good wives in my life and, thank God, there are still some left, but ma petite comtesse9 is truly a refined artist when it comes to the little treats of marriage.” Doralice remained silent and pressed her lips tightly together and had the suffocating feeling that she was being trained. Of course she had wanted to go for a drive, of course she had not known that her husband had an hour free today and she had not had the slightest intention of keeping him company. But that was his training method; he acted as if Doralice already was as he wanted her to be. He praised her constantly for those attributes that he was trying to instil in her, he forced upon her a Doralice of his own design, as it were, by acting as if she were already there. If, at a social gathering, Doralice had conversed with a young gentleman too charmingly and too merrily, it would be said: “We are a little too exacting, a bit sensitive, one cannot always choose carefully with whom one associates; but you are correct, the young man’s manners are not above reproach, and as far as possible, we will keep him at arm’s length in the future.” Or if at the theatre Doralice had laughed too long or too innocently at a play that had displeased the Count, he would remark during the drive home: “We are a little upset, shocked even; we are a little too severe, but it does not matter, you are quite right, it was an error on my part to bring you to this play. I should have known ma petite comtesse better, please forgive this lapse.” And it was the same on all occasions, this alien Doralice was imposed upon her; she tyrannised her, intimidated her, hemmed her in like a dress that had not been made for her. It was no help that the social life around her was often pleasant and varied, that the beautiful Countess Jasky was celebrated – she was not allowed to enjoy any of this, she was always that disagreeable petite comtesse, who was so touchy and reserved and who was, according to her husband, always right. Like a relentless governess she accompanied her everywhere and spoiled everything.
When Count Köhne was dismissed from his post, when he was, in his words, toppled, he withdrew, hurt and sulking, to his lonely castle, and henceforth busied himself with writing a history of the Köhne-Jaskys and falling into melancholy old age. And now there was a new Doralice waiting for her there in the old castle. “Ah, ma petite châtelaine10 is finally in her natural element here – quiet, peaceful, almost idyllic occupations, the benevolent angel devoted to her husband and home. That is what we have been missing.” And the silent, benevolent angel that she had suddenly become pressed down upon Doralice like a leaden cloak.
Then Hans Grill arrived at the castle to paint Doralice’s portrait, Hans with his loud laugh and his boyish, exuberant mannerisms and his impulsive behaviour, suddenly and eagerly saying everything that came into his head. “I recommend to you my protégé,” the Count had said to his wife. “To be sure, he cannot be considered a member of society, you are quite right to maintain a certain distance, but I nonetheless commend him to your favour.” Now began the long sittings in the north-facing corner room of the castle. Hans stood before his canvas, applying paint and then scraping if off. As he worked, he talked constantly, regaling, questio
ning, dropping big words. Doralice listened to him curiously at first, it was new to her that someone could spill forth his innermost self so carelessly. He always spoke of himself, sometimes with an entirely childish self-satisfaction and boastfulness, but then he good-naturedly confided to Doralice those things that seemed to him questionable about himself. “At times,” he said, “there is a lack of character, alas.” What stood out most strongly in these conversations was his unlimited appetite for life and his complete faith that he would achieve whatever he set out to do. “Oh, I will be a success, I am not worried,” he would say. It did Doralice good to hear this, it aroused in her again a hunger for life, it awakened in her something that she had almost forgotten – her youth. There was no longer any question of keeping her distance, the role of the fastidious châtelaine fell away and in the corner room it was now often very cheerful and congenial. But sometimes, just after they had laughed quite loudly, they would pause and listen for sounds in the corridor. “Hush!” said Hans, “I hear the creaking of his boots,” and it was as if a secret feeling of solidarity was now taken for granted between the two of them. Hans as a matter of course fell in love with Doralice and was completely defenceless against this feeling. He revealed this to her, he spoke to her with a naïve, almost shameless openness and Doralice let it happen; it seemed to her as if life had violently seized her with strong arms and was carrying her away. It was in those late autumn days, then, that Doralice’s love affair began. Bright, cold days and dark nights, in the flower beds of the garden dahlias browned by nighttime frost, in the avenues of the park withered leaves that rustled in response to even the most cautious step. Whenever Doralice thought back on this time, she always felt again the strange, sultry burning of her blood, she felt the constant fear of impending disaster, a fear that also infected every hour of love with a heady fever. She felt again that strangely disconnected, confused feeling, that fatalism that so often overcomes women in the first transports of love. Nevertheless, Doralice was better able than Hans to endure the secrecy and the lies. “I can’t stand it any longer,” he said, “to be always in the presence of someone whom I am deceiving. We will either have to run away together or tell him everything.”
“Yes, yes,” replied Doralice. It surprised her how few pangs of conscience she experienced from the wrong she was doing her husband; indeed, it did not feel any worse than the old days, when she went behind the back of Miss Plummers. “And he suspects something,” said Hans, “he is watching us, we encounter him everywhere, haven’t you noticed? His boots no longer creak; we need to do something before he does.”
But the Count preempted them. It was a grey, foggy day, Doralice stood by a window in the great hall, watching how the wind bent the crown of the old pear tree back and forth, tearing the yellow leaves from the twigs and whirling them into the air in a mad dash. It looked quite proper, as if the small yellow leaves were happy to escape from the tree, whirring away exuberantly. Doralice heard her husband enter the room. He advanced a few short, creaking steps, drew a chair closer to the fireplace, sat down and, as was his habit, picked up an iron bar to poke the fire. When he began speaking with a “ma chère,”11 she turned around and it struck her that he looked ill, that his nose was especially pale and pinched. He did not look up, but gazed at the fire, which he continued to poke. “Ma chère,” he said, “I have admired your patience, but you have done enough; I have just now arranged with Hans Grill that he will leave us today. Nothing will probably ever come of the picture, and it is asking too much of you to put up with the boredom of still more of these sittings or to endure such… company. So it will once again be just the two of us. Nice and cosy, don’t you think?”
Doralice had moved to the centre of the room, standing there in her slate-coloured wool dress, her arms hanging down, her whole frame tense with anticipation, as if she were about to spring into action, in her eyes the bright flicker of a person who is seized by a slight touch of vertigo before making a leap.
“If Hans Grill goes, then I go too,” she said, and in the effort to remain calm, her own voice sounded strange to her.
“How? What? I don’t understand, ma chère.” The poker fell clanging from his hand, and Doralice saw that he understood her perfectly well, that he must have understood long since. Little wrinkles bunched around his eyes and the tips of his moustache trembled peculiarly.
“I mean,” continued Doralice, “that I am no longer your wife, that I can no longer be your wife, that I will be leaving with Hans Grill, that, that…” She stopped, the sight of the man there in the armchair frightened and astonished her, making it impossible to continue. His body had crumpled in on itself, his face was contorted, his features shrivelled. Was that grief? Was that anger? It could also have been a bizarre comical grin. Doralice stared at him with large, fearful eyes. Then he shook himself, passed his hand over his face, sat up straight. “Allons, allons,”12 he murmured. He rose from his seat and walked with stiff, trembling legs to the window and looked out. Doralice waited fearfully, but also very curiously, for what would come next. Finally the Count turned to her, his face ashen but calm. He pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket, grew impatient when the case did not spring open immediately, then looked attentively at the dial and noted in his discreet, polite voice: “The train leaves at half past five.” He did not look up as Doralice now slowly left the room.
“My heart was beating so violently at that moment,” Doralice had later told Hans Grill, “that I heard it beating, it seemed to me to be the loudest noise in the room. I don’t know what brought it on, perhaps a sudden surge of great joy.”
“Of course, of course,” replied Hans Grill. “What else could it have been?”
Notes
6 …“new mown hay”: A scent of perfume popular with both men and women in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. It was supposed to smell like fresh-cut grass. This phrase is in English in the original German text, suggesting perhaps that the Count was fond of an imported brand of this scent.
7 Dresden Embassy: After German unification in 1871, some of the states making up the new German Empire continued, as if they were still sovereign nations, to maintain formal diplomatic relations with each other and with foreign powers. Dresden was the capital of the Kingdom of Saxony, one of the more important of the second-tier German states. Count Köhne-Jasky is presumably the envoy from Prussia, the dominant power in the new Germany. (He could conceivably also be the Russian ambassador, but there is no evidence in the story to suggest that either Doralice or her husband are Baltic Germans like Keyserling.)
8 “Charmant, charmant”: (French) “Charming, Charming.”
9 …ma petite comtesse: (French) my little Countess.
10 …ma petite châtelaine: (French) my little châtelaine (lady of the manor).
11 …“ma chère”: (French) my dear.
12 “Allons, allons”: (French) Go on, go on.
Chapter Three
The Wardein farmstead was coming to life, a stable door creaked, bare feet clumped up and down the wooden steps in front of the house. Doralice awakened with a start from her musings, from the continuation of her nighttime dream. The room was now completely light, the ceiling with the great support beams, the furniture in all of its sturdy ugliness could no longer be imagined away as had been possible just now in the shadowy twilight – they called Doralice back to her reality, reminded her that she belonged to them. The door to the next room stood open, Hans was asleep there. Doralice looked at him, how he lay in the bed on his back, the cheeks ruddy, the tousled blond hair falling on his forehead, the lips half open. He was breathing deeply and audibly, his broad chest rising and sinking; his eyebrows were slightly drawn together, which gave his face an expression suggesting that, for him, sleep was a serious, arduous task, an undertaking to which he was devoting great effort. “He will certainly be a success,” thought Doralice. “Anyone who can sleep like that, who has such a presence, who is so sure of himself.” This consoled her a
little amidst the indistinct sadness of her morning hours. But she did not want to fall back asleep, she was afraid of dreaming, afraid of slipping back to her earlier life. She jumped out of bed and got dressed.
When she went outside and climbed the dune, she was greeted by a cool, brisk breeze from the sea. Fragments of light grey cloud were hurrying through the pale blue sky and out at sea the waves reared up without foam, tall and grey-green, a powerful, tranquil breathing – not until they were closer to the shore did they become livelier and allowed their white sheets of foam to flutter in the wind. This breathing of the ocean reminded Doralice of something, what was it? That’s right, it reminded her of Hans, of his chest, which had just been rising and sinking, peacefully and powerfully, there in the bedroom. She began to walk along the shore. The wind flapped at her dress, it pushed her, she felt it distinctly as it delivered little thrusts, attacking now from the back, now from the side – it was a delightfully refreshing game, something like what the waves must feel. She swayed as she walked, it seemed to her that she was surging like the sea; now a stronger gust caught her hair, blowing it free. Doralice jumped for joy and emitted a little cry. “Now I am breaking, I am breaking like the surf,” she thought. From above a shrill call answered her, a great white gull hanging over the water, beating its wings, then dropping, as if consumed by a sudden desire, down to the water and swimming there, a small white dot on the rippling grey-green silk. In front of the fishermen’s cottages on the dunes stood the fishermen’s wives, their grey dresses and red kerchiefs fluttering in the wind, shielding their eyes with their hands and looking out to sea, towards the men who had sailed out in the night to catch fish.
When Doralice came around the corner of a jutting dune, she saw Privy Counsellor Knospelius walking along the shoreline ahead of her. Wearing a yellow linen suit, his Panama hat tilted back, a beautiful golden setter by his side, he planted his heavy walking stick well in front of himself, making great strides, tossing his shoulders back and forth, moving, as hunchbacks love to do, like a tall, strong man. When he heard steps behind him, he turned around, bowed deeply and his big pale boy’s face broke into a smile. Since it seemed as if he wanted to say something, Doralice paused. “Good morning, Madame,” he began, looking keenly and attentively with his steel-blue eyes up at Doralice’s face, “already at your post before sunrise?”
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