Selected Prose of Heinrich Von Kleist

by Heinrich von Kleist

  Held up by unavoidable business in Naples, Count F . . . had in the meantime written twice to the marquise, enjoining her, come what may, to hold by the silent nod of assurance she had given him. As soon as he managed to decline the subsequent business trip to Constantinople, and his other affairs had been settled, he promptly left Naples and arrived in M . . . just a few days after the promised date. The commandant received him with a look of great consternation, said that pressing business called him away from home, and asked the forest warden, meanwhile, to speak to him. The latter took him to his room and, following a summary greeting, asked if he knew what had transpired in the commandant’s house during his absence. Turning pale, the count replied: “No.” Hereupon, the forest warden informed him of the shame the marquise had brought upon the family, filling him in on all the details, of which our readers have already been apprised. The count struck himself on the forehead. “Why were so many hurdles put in my way!” he cried out, forgetting himself. “If only we’d been married, we’d have been spared all the disgrace and misfortune!” Gaping at him, the forest warden asked if he was mad enough to want to be married to this shameless hussy. The count replied that she was worth more than the whole world that reviled her; that he absolutely believed the pronouncement of her innocence; and that he would ride on to V . . . this very day to repeat his request for her hand in marriage. And he promptly grabbed his hat, bid farewell to the forest warden, who thought the count had lost his mind, and stormed off.

  He mounted his horse and galloped off to V . . . . But when he dismounted at the gate of her estate and sought entry to the courtyard, the gatekeeper informed him that Madame la Marquise was receiving no one. The count inquired if this rule established for strangers also held true for friends of the family; whereupon the gatekeeper replied that he had not been informed of any exceptions to the rule, and in the next breath added with an ambiguous tone: “Might you be a certain Count F . . . ?” To which, with a searching look, the count replied: “No,” – and turning to his servant, remarked, albeit loud enough for the gatekeeper to hear, that under the circumstances, he would stop at an inn and notify Madame la Marquise of his arrival in writing. But in the meantime, as soon as the fellow turned his back, the count turned a corner and snuck around the wall of a sprawling garden that stretched behind the house. He stepped through a gate he found open, traversed the allées, and intended to climb the ramp to the terrace at the back of the house, when he espied out of the corner of his eye the lovely and mysterious figure of the marquise herself in an arbor hard at work at a little table. He approached her stealthily so that she could not notice him until he stood in the arbor gate three steps in front of her face. “Count F . . . !” she said, startled, tearing open her eyes, and the red blush of her surprise flushed her cheeks. The count smiled, stayed standing a while without budging from the gate; and hastened then to sit down beside her with such a quiet certainty so as not to arouse her fear, and before she even had a chance to decide how to react in this strange situation, he swung a gentle arm around her dear body. “How ever, Sir Count, did you manage?” asked the marquise – and peered timidly at the ground. The count replied: “I came from M . . . ,” quietly pressing her to him, “and slipped through a rear gate I found open. I thought I could count on your forgiveness, and so, let myself in.” “Did they not tell you in M . . . ?” she asked, not budging from his embrace. “They told me all, my dearly beloved,” replied the count; “but, absolutely convinced of your innocence as I am . . .” “What!” cried the marquise, rising and trying to slip out of his embrace; “and you’ve come nevertheless?” “In spite of the world,” he continued, holding her tight, “in spite of your family, and even in spite of this blessed little being,” pressing a warm kiss on her breast. “Be gone!” cried the marquise. “I’m as convinced of your innocence, Julietta,” he said, “as if I were omniscient, as if my soul dwelt in your bosom.” The marquise cried: “Let me go!” “I’ve come,” he said, not letting go of her, “to repeat my request, and if you will heed it, to find bliss in your reply.” “Leave at once!” cried the marquise. “I order you!” and tore herself free of his arms. “My dearly beloved! My most precious!” he whispered, rising again, and following after her. “You heard me!” cried the marquise, and turned, eluding him. “A single, secret, whispered word is all I ask!” said the count, and abruptly reached for her smooth arm that had managed to slip free. “I wish to hear no more,” the marquise responded, gave him a violent shove, scurried up the terrace ramp and disappeared.

  He was already halfway up the ramp, intending, come what may, to bend her ear, when the door was slammed in his face and the bolt, shoved with a frenzied exertion, was slid shut. Wavering for a fleeting moment, unsure of what to do under such circumstances, he considered climbing through a window left open on the side of the house to press his case until he succeeded; yet however difficult in every sense he found the thought of retreating, this time necessity seemed to demand it, and furious with himself for having let her slip out of his arms, he sidled back down the ramp and left the garden to look for his horses. He felt that his attempt to have it out with her eye to eye had failed hopelessly, and trotting along, composing a letter in his mind that he was now doomed to write, he headed back to M . . . . Come evening, in a state of utter dejection, dining at a public house, he ran into the forest warden, who immediately asked him if he had succeeded in his proposal in V . . . . The count replied tersely: “No!” and was quite tempted to follow with a bitter word; but for politeness’ sake, he added after a while that he had decided to address her in writing and would do so shortly. The forest warden said: “I see with great regret that your passion for the marquise has robbed you of your good sense. I must assure you that she has in the meantime pursued another course of action.” And ringing for the latest newspapers, he handed him the paper in which her appeal to the father of her child appeared in print. As the count read her words, the blood rushed to his face. He was riddled by a flurry of emotions. The forest warden asked if he did not believe that they would find the person whom Madame la Marquise sought. “Undoubtedly!” remarked the count, poring over the page with all his heart, greedily gobbling up its meaning. Thereupon, after pausing for a moment at the window to fold back the paper, he said: “Very well then! Now I know what I have to do!” And turning back to the forest warden, he said with a perfunctory smile that he hoped he might have the pleasure of seeing him soon again, bid him farewell and left, reconciled to his fate.

  Meanwhile, there was a great deal of agitation in the commandant’s house. His wife felt deeply embittered at the savage severity of her husband and at her own weakness in bowing to his tyrannical will and allowing him to cast out their daughter. When the shot resounded in her husband’s chambers and the daughter burst out the door, the mother fell into a faint from which she soon managed to rouse herself; but at the moment she came to, the commandant could find nothing more to say than that he regretted that she’d endured the shock for naught, and flung the fired pistol onto a table. Later, when the conversation turned to the commandant’s demand for their daughter to relinquish her children, she timidly hazarded the reply that no one had the right to do so; and trembling in the wake of it all, with a weak and stirring voice, she asked that outbursts be henceforth avoided. The commandant made no reply to his wife, but turning to the forest warden, foaming with rage, he cried: “Go, get them for me!” When Count F . . . ’s second letter arrived, the commandant instructed that it be sent on to the marquise in V . . . , who – as they later learned from the messenger – promptly, upon receipt, set it aside, and muttered: “Very good.” At a loss to understand any of it, and particularly the marquise’s inclination to enter into a new marriage with total indifference, the mother sought in vain to give voice to her bewilderment. The commandant continued to clamor for silence in a manner that resembled an order; and in the course of one such altercation, removing a portrait of his shameless child that still hung on the wall, he insisted
that he wished to wipe her from his memory, and declared that he no longer had a daughter. Whereupon the marquise’s curious inquiry appeared in the newspaper. Deeply stirred, the commandant’s wife went with the paper she’d received from the commandant to his room, where she found him at work at his desk, and asked him what in the world he made of it. To which the commandant replied, without raising his pen: “Oh, she’s innocent alright!” “What!” cried Madame von G . . . , flabbergasted, “innocent?” “She did it in her sleep,” remarked the commandant, without looking up. “In her sleep!?” gasped Madame von G . . . . “You expect me to believe such an unlikely story? The lunatic!” cried the commandant, shoved his papers aside and stormed out.

  The next day at breakfast, the commandant’s wife read aloud the following reply in the latest issue of The M . . . Intelligencer, still hot off the presses:

  If Madame la Marquise of O . . . will be so good as to be present at the house of Sir von G . . . on the 3rd of . . . at eleven o’clock, the man she is looking for will fling himself at her feet.

  Struck dumb before reading this incredible announcement to the end, the commandant’s wife skipped the last line and handed the paper to her husband. The commandant reread the announcement three times, as though he did not trust his eyes. “For heaven’s sake, tell me, Lorenzo, what do you make of this?” she cried. “The shameless hussy!” he replied, leaping up from the table. “The two-faced liar! Ten times the shamelessness of a bitch in heat paired with ten times the slyness of a fox still can’t compare to hers! Such a put-on! With two such innocent eyes! A she-wolf in sheep’s clothing!” he fumed and couldn’t calm down. “But what in the world, if it is a ruse, could she possibly hope to prove?” his wife asked. “What she could hope to prove? To shove her shameless deception down our throats, that’s what!” the commandant replied. “I’ve already learned it by heart, that little fable, that the two of them, she and he, intend to perform for us here on the 3rd, at eleven o’clock. ‘My dear little daughter,’ I’m expected to reply, ‘I had no idea, who could ever have imagined, forgive me, please accept my blessing and be happy.’ But I’ve got a bullet ready for whoever crosses my threshold on the 3rd at eleven o’clock! It would be more seemly to have him thrown out by the servants.” But after reading the announcement again, Madame von G . . . declared: “If of two inconceivable options I must give credence to one, then let it rather be a fabulous twist of fate than the baseness of my otherwise irreproachable daughter, this I . . . ” But before she’d finished speaking, the commandant snapped: “Do me a favor, will you, and shut up! I won’t hear another word!” and left the room.

  A few days later, apropos of this announcement in the paper, the commandant received a letter from the marquise in which, since she was no longer welcome in his house, she requested in a respectful and moving manner that he be so kind as to send the person who appears there on the morning of the 3rd, out to her estate in V . . . . The commandant’s wife happened to be present when the commandant received this letter; since she could clearly read from his expression that he had lost all reason in this regard – for what possible motive should he now impute to their daughter, supposing it was a ruse, as she appeared to make no plea for his pardon? – thereby emboldened, she decided on a plan of action, which she had mulled over for some time now in her doubt-ridden breast. She said, while the commandant still peered with an empty expression at the paper, that she had an idea. Would he permit her to drive out and stay for several days in V . . . ? In the eventuality that it was a ruse and the marquise was indeed already familiar with the individual who passed himself off in the paper as a stranger, she, her mother, would know how to put her daughter in a position in which she would be compelled to bare her heart, even if she were the craftiest conniving creature. The commandant responded impromptu by tearing up the letter. It was clear that he wished to have nothing more to do with his daughter, and that his wife not engage in any contact with her. He put the torn pieces of her letter in an envelope, sealed it, addressed it to the marquise, and handed it to the messenger, by way of return reply. Secretly incensed at his stubborn willfulness that precluded any possible clarification, his wife resolved to carry out her plan against his will. And early the next morning, when her husband still lay in bed, she took along one of his yeomen and they set out together for V . . . . Arriving at the gate of her daughter’s estate, she was told by the gatekeeper that Madame la Marquise received no one. Madame von G . . . replied that she was apprised of this order, but insisted that he nevertheless announce to the lady of the house the arrival of the commandant’s wife. To which the gatekeeper replied that such an announcement would be to no avail, since Madame la Marquise spoke to no one in the world. Madame von G . . . tartly replied that the marquise would speak to her, as she was her mother, and that he had best not tarry and do as he was told. But no sooner had the gatekeeper entered the house to transmit what he took for a futile announcement than the marquise threw open the door, rushed to the gate, and flung herself to her knees before her mother’s carriage. With the aid of her yeoman, Madame von G . . . climbed out and with some effort raised her daughter from the ground. Overwhelmed by emotions, the marquise stooped over her mother’s hand, and shedding many tears, led her into the house. “My dearest mother!” she cried, after pleading with her to be seated on the sofa, while still remaining standing before her, drying her eyes. “What fortunate happenstance may I thank for your precious appearance?” Tenderly touching her hand, Madame von G . . . replied that she came to beg forgiveness for the hard-hearted way she was cast out of her father’s house. “Forgiveness!” the marquise broke in, bending to kiss her mother’s hands. While deflecting the kiss, her mother said that, not only had the recently published reply to her announcement convinced her and her father of their daughter’s innocence, but furthermore, to their great and glad amazement, the author of that reply made a personal appearance at their house yesterday. “Who?” asked the marquise, flinging herself down on the sofa beside her mother, “pray tell me who it was?” – impatient expectation lighting up her expression. “It was him,” replied Madame von G . . . , “the one who drafted the reply, the very person to whom your appeal was addressed.” “For Heaven’s sake,” the marquise replied in turn with a heaving breast, “who is it?” And again: “Tell me who it is!” In response to which, Madame von G . . . smiled: “I’ll let you guess. Yesterday, as we sat at tea, reading that curious reply in the paper, a person of our close acquaintance stormed into the room and with a look of utter despair flung himself first at your father’s and then at my feet. Not knowing what to make of this, we asked him to explain. Whereupon he replied that, plagued by a guilty conscience, he came to confess that it was he, the vile cad who had deceived Madame la Marquise, and he needed to bow to our judgment, and should vengeance be sought he came to turn himself in. “But who? Who? Who was it?” insisted the marquise. “As I said,” Madame von G . . . went on, “it was a young gentleman, otherwise of good standing, of whom we would never have expected such a lowdown deed. But don’t be dismayed, my daughter, to learn that he is of a lower class, and altogether lacking in all those qualities which you would ordinarily have sought in a man you’d consider marrying.” “Even so, my precious mother,” said the marquise, “he cannot be altogether base if he first sought your forgiveness before mine. But who? Who? In God’s name, just tell me who it was?” “Very well then,” her mother replied, “it was Leopardo, the yeoman your father recently recruited from the Tyrol, and who, if you allow, I brought along to present to you as your future husband.” “Leopardo, the yeoman!” the marquise squeezed her mother’s hand and cried out with a look of horror that spread across her face. “What troubles you, my dear?” her mother asked. “Do you have any cause for doubt?” “How? Where? When?” the marquise demanded, totally bewildered. “This,” said the mother, “he will only confess to you. Constrained by modesty and love, he said he could tell it to no one else. But if you wish, we can open the door to your antecham
ber, where he stands waiting at this very moment with a beating heart; and you may see if, once I’ve left the two of you alone, you can manage to extract his secret.” “God in Heaven!” cried the marquise, “I once awakened from a midday slumber and caught sight of him slinking away from my couch!” Whereupon she buried her shame-red face in her small hands. At these words, her mother sank to her knees before her. “Oh, my daughter,” she cried, “Oh, my most precious!” wrapping her arms around her. “Oh, the contemptible creature that I am!” she wailed and buried her face in her daughter’s lap. “What is it, mother dearest?” asked the bewildered marquise. “Oh, you more pure than angels,” the mother continued, “know that none of what I just told you is true; that my corrupted soul could not believe in the innocence you radiate like a glow of goodness, and that it took this cunning ruse to convince me.” “My dearest mother!” cried the marquise, bending down to pick her up, infused with joyous emotion. “No,” the pained woman replied, “I will not budge from before your feet, my radiant, godly daughter, until you tell me if you can ever find it in your heart to forgive my base behavior.” “Me forgive you, dear mother? Rise up, I implore you!” cried the marquise. “You heard me, daughter,” said the anguished Madame von G . . . , “I need to know if you can still love me and respect me as before?” “Oh my dearly beloved mother!” cried the marquise, and likewise fell to her knees before her. “Veneration and love for you never faded from my heart. Who, under such inconceivable circumstances, could ever have believed me? How jubilant I am now that you’re finally convinced of my blamelessness.” “Now then,” replied Madame von G . . . , rising with her daughter’s aid, “let me pamper you, my best beloved child. Come lie in waiting in my house; and were I to welcome a young lord from your loins, I would care for you with no more gentleness and respect. All the days of my life let me no more stray from your side. The world be damned; I want no other honor than your shame, if only you will take me back into your trust and flush from memory the hardness with which I cast you out.” The marquise sought to comfort her with endless endearments and promises, but darkness fell and midnight struck before she finally succeeded. The next day, once the old woman’s emotions that flared up into a fever during the night had settled some, mother and daughter and grandchildren drove, as if in a triumphal march, back to M . . . . They had a most pleasant journey, joking about Leopardo, the yeoman, who sat up front on the coach seat; the mother whispered to the marquise that she noticed she grew red in the face whenever she glanced at his wide back. The marquise replied with a stir of emotion, half sigh, half smile: “Who knows who is going to show up on the 3rd at eleven o’clock!” Thereafter, the closer they got to M . . . the more serious their moods became in prescient anticipation of decisive events yet to come. Once they had alighted in front of the house, Madame von G . . . , who made no mention of her plans, led her daughter back to her old room; said she should make herself comfortable, she’d be right back; and slipped away. An hour later she returned, having worked up a sweat. “Lord, what a Thomas!” she whispered with a hint of joy in her soul, “What a doubting Thomas! Did it not take me all the sand in an hourglass to convince him! But now he’s sitting and crying.” “Who?” asked the marquise. “Him,” replied the mother. “Who else but the one with the greatest reason for tears?” “Not father!” cried the marquise. “Like a child,” replied the mother, “he wept so hard that I’d have burst out laughing once I got out the door, if I hadn’t had to wipe away my own tears.” “Because of me?” asked the marquise, and stood up. “And you want me to wait . . . ?” “Don’t you dare make a move!” said Madame von G . . . . “To think that he dictated a letter. He will come here and seek you out if he ever wants to see me again as long as I live.” “My dearest mother, I beg of you!” the marquise pleaded. “Pig-headed!” her mother cut her off. “To think that he reached for a pistol!” “But I implore you!” “Not on your life!” replied Madame von G . . . , pressing her daughter back into her chair. “And if he doesn’t come to beg forgiveness before nightfall, I’ll move out with you to your estate.” The marquise called such a resolve hard and unjust. But her mother replied: “Calm yourself!”–As she heard the sound of approaching sobs: “He’s coming!” “Where?” asked the marquise, and listened hard. “Is there someone standing outside my door? That heavy heaving?” “Indeed,” said Madame von G . . . . “He wants us to open the door for him.” “Let me go!” cried the marquise, and leapt up from the chair. “Hold on, Julietta,” said her mother, “if you trust in me, stay where you are.” And at that very moment, the commandant burst in, covering his face with a tear-soaked handkerchief. The mother stood firm before her daughter, with her back turned to him. “My dearest father!” cried the marquise, and reached her arms out to him. “Don’t you move from this spot, you hear me!” said Madame von G . . . . The commandant stood there in the room and wept. “He must beg forgiveness of you,” Madame von G . . . continued. “Why must he always be so violent! And so pig-headed! I love him, but I love you too; I honor him, but you too. And if I had to choose between you, you are more admirable than he, and I would stay with you. The commandant bent all the way to the floor and wept so hard the walls shook. “God in Heaven!” cried the marquise, finally conceding to her mother’s wishes, and took out her kerchief to wipe away her own tears. Madame von G . . . said: “He just can’t find the words!” and stepped aside. Hereupon the marquise lunged forward and embraced the commandant, and begged him to becalm himself. She herself wept profusely. She asked if he did not wish to sit down; she tried to pull him into a chair; she pushed a chair in his direction. But he made no reply; he would not budge; nor would he be seated, and just remained kneeling with his head bent down to the ground, weeping. Half turned toward her mother, while holding him up, the marquise said: “He’ll get sick.” And as he fell into convulsions of crying, even the mother seemed to slip in her firm resolve. But when, giving way to his daughter’s repeated pleas, the commandant finally sat down, and she fell to his feet, covering him with unending words of endearment, his wife spoke up again, said it served him right, and that now at last he’d see reason, whereupon she walked out of the room and left the two of them alone together.