Selected Prose of Heinrich Von Kleist

by Heinrich von Kleist

  Shortly thereafter, at a time when the Forest Warden von G . . . , the commandant’s son, happened to be home, the family experienced a singular shock when a servant burst into the room to announce Count F . . . . “Count F . . . !” father and daughter intoned at the same time; and the astonishment rendered all speechless. The servant assured them that he had seen and heard rightly, and that the count was already standing in the antechamber waiting. The commandant himself leapt forward to open the door, whereupon the count, handsome as a young god yet a little pale in the face, strode in. Following the inconceivable scene of surprise, responding to the parents’ declaration that he was supposed to be dead, he assured them that he was alive, and promptly turned with deep emotion to their daughter, and asked her right off how she was. The marquise assured him that she was very well indeed, and only wished to know how he had sprung to life. But sticking to his guns, he replied that she was not telling him the truth; a curious frailty washed over her face; either he was completely deluded or she was indisposed and suffering. To which the marquise, charmed by his heartfelt words, responded: “Well, yes, this frailty, if you wish, could well be the lingering trace of an infirmity I suffered some weeks ago”; but added that she did not now fear any lasting effect on her health. To which, with a burst of joy, he replied: “Nor did I!” and added: “Will you marry me?” The marquise did not rightly know what to make of this behavior. Red in the face, she looked at her mother, and the latter, somewhat taken aback, looked at the son and the father; while the count came close to the marquise, taking her hand in his as if he intended to kiss it, and asked again if she had grasped his meaning. The commandant asked if he did not wish to be seated, and in a courteous, albeit somewhat formal, manner, pulled over a chair. His wife said: “Indeed, we will hold you to be a ghost until you tell us how you rose out of the grave in which they laid you in P . . . . ” Dropping the hand of the marquise, the count sat down and said that the circumstances compelled him to be brief; that he had suffered a deadly shot in the chest and was taken to P . . . ; that for many months he had doubted he’d pull through; that during that time he thought only of Madame la Marquise; that he could not put into words the joy and pain entwined with that thought; that following his recovery he returned to the army; that he had suffered the greatest disquiet; that many a time he had picked up a pen to unburden his heart to the Lord Commandant and Madame la Marquise; that he was suddenly sent to Naples; that he could not say for sure that he might not be redeployed from there to Constantinople; that he might even be obliged to return to St. Petersburg; that he would find it impossible to go on living all the while if he did not come clean concerning a certain imperative of the heart; that on his return passage through M . . . , he had not been able to resist the urge to make a detour with this purpose in mind; in short, that he harbored the ardent desire to be blessed with Madame la Marquise’s hand in marriage, and that he most respectfully, most earnestly and urgently beseeched them to respond to this request. Following a long pause, the commandant replied that if, as he did not doubt, the count was serious in his request, he found it very flattering. However, at the death of her husband, the Marquis of O . . . , his daughter had resolved not to remarry. Nevertheless, seeing as he had recently ingratiated himself by such a great kindness, it might not be impossible that her resolve had thereby been swayed in a manner that might favor such a request; in the meantime, he begged the count’s leave, on her behalf, that he might accord her a bit of time to consider his request. The count assured the commandant that this kind-hearted reply was all he could hope for; that under other circumstances, he could ask no more; that he was painfully aware of the impropriety of not being content therewith; that pressing matters, however, concerning which he could not now be more explicit, made a more definitive answer most desirable; that the horses that were to take him to Naples were already harnessed to his carriage; and that he beseeched them, if there were any persons in this house well disposed toward him, whereby he cast a glance at the marquise, that he not be left to drive off without a word of assurance. Somewhat taken aback by this behavior, the commandant replied that the gratitude the marquise felt permitted him to presume a great deal, but not to presume that much; that she could not take an action that would have a decisive effect on her happiness in life without careful reflection. It would be indispensable for his daughter, prior to any reply, that he honor her with the pleasure of his closer acquaintance. He invited him, following the conclusion of his business trip, to return to M . . . and spend some time as a guest of the family. If at that point Madame la Marquise might hope that he could make her happy, then he too – but not before – would be glad to hear that she had given him a definite answer. A redness rising to his face, the count replied that throughout his entire trip he had foreseen this answer to his impatient wishes; that he had meanwhile felt gripped by a great grief; that given the regrettable role he was now obliged to play, a closer acquaintance could only help his cause; that he believed himself justified in standing by his reputation, if elsewhere this most ambiguous of all qualities should be called into question; that no one knew of the only villainous act he had ever committed in his life, for which he was already in process of making amends; that he was, in a word, an honorable man, and begged leave to presume their assurance that they would accept this assurance as truthful. Cracking a smile, albeit without any ironic intent, the commandant responded that he approved of all these pronouncements. He had indeed never made the acquaintance of any young man who in such a short time had managed to amass so many inestimable qualities of character. He was almost certain that a short period of consideration would resolve any hesitation that still lingered in their minds; yet, nevertheless, before he could seek the consensus of his own, as well as the count’s family, no other answer than the one already given would be possible. Hereupon the count replied that he was an orphan and free, therefore, to answer for himself. His uncle was General K . . . , of whose consent he could assure him. He added that he possessed a considerable fortune and would be prepared to make Italy his home. The commandant made an obligatory bow, once again reiterated his intention, and asked his interlocutor to speak no more of this matter until his return. After a moment’s pause, during which the count gave every indication of the greatest distress, he turned to the marquise’s mother and insisted that he had done his utmost to avert this trip; that the efforts he had dared make to that end in his appeals to the commanding general, and to his uncle, General K . . . , stretched the limits of military decorum; but that his superiors thought, thereby, to shake him out of a lingering dejection in the wake of his injuries; and that he now felt as if he’d been sent to his doom. The family did not know what to make of all these declarations. Rubbing his forehead, the count continued that if there were any hope of thereby expediting his cherished wish, he would do his best to defer his journey for a day and even a bit more. Whereupon, he turned, respectively, from the commandant to the marquise and then to her mother. The commandant peered down with a look of displeasure and did not reply. His wife said: “Go then, go then, Sir Count; take care of your affairs in Naples; and upon your return, accord us the pleasure of your presence by visiting with us for a while; the rest will take its due course.” The count remained seated for a moment and seemed to be considering what to do next. Thereafter rising and pushing back his chair – since he was hopeful, he said, and since his immediate departure might be taken as over-precipitous, and the family insisted upon a closer acquaintance, to which he had no objection, he would send the dispatches back to headquarters in Z . . . , for someone else to take, and would accept the family’s kind invitation to be a houseguest for a few weeks. Whereupon, still grasping the back of the chair, with his back to the wall, he stood there a moment and peered at the commandant. The latter replied that he would find it most regrettable if the feelings that the count appeared to have developed for his daughter were to be the cause of serious repercussions for him; that he must surely know what he had to do an
d not do, whether or not to send back the dispatches; and that the rooms would be made ready for him. With these words, a pallor falling over his face, the count respectfully kissed the mother’s hand, bowed to the others and left the room.

  Upon his departure, the family had no idea what to make of this turn of events. The mother said that it was out of the question that he should send the military dispatches he was supposed to take to Naples back to Z . . . simply because he did not succeed in the course of a five-minute interview in eliciting a yes to his proposal of marriage from a woman he did not know. The forest warden declared that such a frivolous act would be punished by nothing less than his arrest. And his discharge, the commandant added. But he hadn’t yet run any risks, the latter continued. It was just a warning shot; he will surely come to his senses before sending off the dispatches. Upon being apprised of the risk he ran, the marquise’s mother expressed the most heartfelt concern that he would indeed send them. His strong, single-minded determination, she feared, might well make him susceptible to such a rash act. She implored the forest warden to immediately run after him and to dissuade him from courting misfortune. Her son replied that such a move on his part would effectuate the opposite result, and merely strengthen his hope of achieving his end by means of his stratagems. The marquise was of the same opinion, though she was certain, she said, that the dispatches would surely be sent off without him, insofar as he would rather court misfortune than show weakness. Everyone concurred that his behavior was strange, and that he appeared to be accustomed to winning over women’s hearts as he did fortresses, by sustained assault. At that moment, the commandant noticed that the count’s harnessed rig had pulled up to the gate. Surprised, he called his family to the window and inquired of a servant just entering the room if the count was still in the house. The servant replied that he was below in the servants’ quarters writing letters and sealing packages in the company of an adjutant. Hiding his dismay, the commandant hastened downstairs with the forest warden, and seeing the count bent over rough tabletops, inquired if he would not rather conduct his business in the rooms made ready for him, and if he had any other requests. Writing away fast and furiously, the count offered his humble thanks and said that his business was completed; sealing the letter, he asked for the time; and passing the entire dispatch pouch to his adjutant, he wished him a pleasant journey. Not believing his eyes, as the adjutant stepped outside, the commandant spoke up: “Sir Count, if your reasons are not of the utmost importance . . .” “Critical!” the count interrupted, accompanied the adjutant to the carriage and pulled open the door. “In that case,” the commandant continued, “if the dispatches were my responsibility, I would at least . . .” “Impossible!” replied the count, as he helped the adjutant to climb into his seat. “The dispatches are meaningless in Naples without my presence. I also thought of that. Drive on!” “And what of the letters from your uncle?” cried the adjutant, leaning out the door. “They will find me in M . . . ,” the count replied. “Drive on!” said the adjutant, and the rig rolled out the gate.

  Hereupon Count F . . . turned to the commandant and inquired if someone could now conduct him to his room. “Permit me the honor of doing so myself,” said the bewildered colonel; instructed his and the count’s servants to take charge of his baggage; and led him to the guest quarters, where he dryly took his leave. The count changed his uniform; left the house to report to the Russian commander of M . . . ; and absent for the rest of the day, only returned for dinner.

  The family, meanwhile, was profoundly upset. The forest warden pointed out how precisely the count’s replies had complied with the commandant’s presuppositions; maintained that his behavior appeared to bespeak a clearly planned course of action; and inquired as to what in Heaven’s name might be the reasons for such a packhorse-driven courtship. The commandant said that he had no idea what to make of it and insisted that the family speak no more of the matter in his presence. His wife kept peering every so often out the window, convinced she’d find him hastening back, regretting his rash action, and hoping to set things aright. Finally, as darkness set in, she sat herself down beside the marquise, who was bent over a table diligently engaged in some business, and seemed to be avoiding conversation. As the father paced back and forth, she asked her daughter in a hushed voice if she had any idea of what might come of all this. Casting a timid look at the commandant, the marquise replied: “If father had managed to make him go to Naples, then everything would be alright.” “To Naples indeed!” the commandant, who had heard this, cried back. “Should I have called for the priest? Or should I have had him locked up and arrested and sent under armed guard to Naples?” “No,” replied the marquise, but consumed by vivid and pressing fancies, she looked back, with some reluctance, upon her work. At last, at nightfall, the count appeared. Following an exchange of social niceties, the family waited only for this business to be brought up again to press him in a unified effort, should it still be possible, to retreat from the ill-advised step he’d taken. But for naught, throughout the entire meal, did the family await this moment. Studiously avoiding any subject that might lead to this, he kept the commandant entertained with talk of war and the forest warden with talk of the hunt. When he touched upon the battle at P . . . , in which he was wounded, the mother implored him to speak of his injuries, inquired as to the adequacy of his treatment in that remote place, and whether he had found all the essential comforts. Hereupon he told of many things relating to his passion for the marquise: how she had tirelessly been there at his bedside throughout his sickness; how, in the grip of a burning fever, he had kept confusing her with the image of a swan that he had seen as a boy on his uncle’s estate; that one memory was particularly stirring to him, of his once having tossed a handful of mud at it, whereupon it dove and reemerged clean as a whistle; that it had always swum around in a foamy ferment, and he had called out “Thinka!” which is what they called it, but that he was never able to draw the swan near him, though the splashing and neck-craning must have pleased it no end; and all of a sudden, red in the face, he swore that he loved her dearly, looked back down at his plate and said no more. The meal having been completed, it was finally time to rise from the table; and since, following a brief exchange with the mother, the count bowed to all present and once again withdrew to his room, the family members were left standing around, not knowing what to think. The commandant was of the opinion that they would simply have to let the matter run its course. The rash young man was probably counting on the intercession of his relatives. Or else he faced a dishonorable discharge. Madame von G . . . asked her daughter what she made of him, and if she could see clear to giving him an answer that would avoid a great misfortune. To which the marquise replied: “Dearest mother, I simply cannot do so. I regret that my gratitude had to be put to such a hard test. But I resolved not to marry again; I will not injudiciously risk my happiness on a second match.” The forest warden remarked that if such was her firm resolve, even this explanation could be helpful to him, under the circumstances, and that it seemed to be almost necessary to give him some definite answer. The mother insisted that, seeing as this young man, who was endowed with so many excellent qualities, expressed a desire to visit with them in Italy, that in her view, his request for the marquise’s hand merited her respectful and serious consideration. Sitting himself down beside his sister, the forest warden asked her if she found him attractive. To which the marquise replied, a bit embarrassed: “He pleases . . . and displeases me,” and appealed to the rest of the family to express their feelings. Her mother said: “If he came back from Naples, and the inquiries we would have been able to make in the meantime accorded with the overall impression you’ve had of him, how then would you reply to his repeated request?” “In that case,” said the marquise, “since his wishes seem so heartfelt, I would” – she paused, and her eyes glistened as she spoke – “because of the obligation I owe him, fulfill those wishes.” The mother, who had always wished her daughter would wed again
, took pains to hide her joy at this response, and silently pondered how best to proceed. Restlessly rising again from the chair, the forest warden said that if the marquise even contemplated the possibility of gratifying the count by granting him her hand in marriage, then a step had to be taken in that direction right here and now to forestall the consequences of his rash action. The mother was of the same opinion, and maintained that, in light of all the capital qualities he had demonstrated that night when the fort was overrun by Russian troops, it was not too much to presume that his subsequent conduct should likewise meet their approval. Greatly agitated, the marquise peered down at the ground. Taking her daughter’s hand in hers, the mother continued, “One could well assure him that you would not enter into any other engagement until he returns from Naples.” “Such an assurance, dearest mother, I would gladly give him,” the marquise said, “I fear only that it would not appease him and merely lead to our entanglement.” “Let me worry about that!” the mother replied with evident joy, and turned to her husband. “Lorenzo!” she said, preparing to rise from her chair, “What do you think?” All ears, the commandant stood at the window, staring out at the street, and said nothing. The forest warden gave assurances he would, with words of encouragement, hasten the count on his way. “Then do it! Do it! Do it!” cried the father, turning his back to his son. “I’m bound to yield yet again to this Russian!” Hereupon the mother leapt up, kissed him and her daughter and asked, as the father chuckled at her womanly wiles, how they might best communicate this reply post haste to the count. Following the forest warden’s suggestion, it was decided that, supposing he had not yet undressed for bed, they ask him to be so kind as to rejoin the family if but for a moment. The count sent word back that it would be an honor to promptly accede to their request, and hardly had the servant returned with the message when he was already striding into the room, his feet propelled with winged joy, and knelt down before the marquise, stirred with the deepest emotion. The commandant wanted to say something; but rising, the count blurted out: “I already know enough!” He proceeded to kiss his and the mother’s hand, hugged the brother, and asked them only to be so good as to help him order a rig. Although moved by this demonstration, the marquise nevertheless said: “I am afraid that your rash hopes may . . .” “Nothing! Nothing!” replied the count, “Nothing’s been done that can’t be undone, if the inquiries you wish to make about me should contradict the sentiments that made you call me back into this room.” Hereupon the commandant embraced him most heartily, the forest warden offered him the use of his own carriage, a valet raced to the station to fetch horses for hire, and his departure roused such joy as no arrival ever had. He hoped, said the count, to catch up with the dispatches in B . . . , from whence he’d take a shorter road to Naples, rather than drive the long way through M . . . ; in Naples, he’d do his best to avoid the additional trip to Constantinople; and since, if all else failed, he was resolved to pretend to be too sick to travel, he assured them that, barring any unforeseen eventualities, he’d definitely be back in M . . . in four to six weeks. Hereupon, his valet reported that the horses were harnessed and the carriage ready for departure. The count took his hat, strode before the marquise and reached for her hand. “For now, Julietta,” he said, “I’m somewhat reassured,” placing his hand upon hers, “although it was my most ardent wish to have married you before my departure.” “Married!” the family cried out in unison. “Married,” repeated the count, and kissed the hand of the marquise. And when she asked if he was in his right mind, he assured her: “The day will come when you will understand why.” The family was about to protest, but he staved off any such response by smothering each member in a farewell hug, begged them not to give another thought to his remark, and leapt into the carriage and drove off.