The Left-Handed God

by I. J. Parker

  Frau von Langsdorff directed the chair to be placed just opposite herself and close enough that their knees would almost touch. She smiled at their guest. “Perhaps a glass of that lovely wine you have so generously provided? Since it’s a holiday and I’m a wee bit faint still? Bring the good glasses, Augusta.”

  Augusta returned to the parlor and took two wine glasses from the cupboard. They dated back to better times and had not seen the light of day since her brother’s last stay.

  She thought often of Franz and grieved. They had not had news in months, but her mother thought this was due to the difficulties of getting mail from the theater of war. Perhaps so. Both he and their mother seemed to consider his military service quite safe for officers, and he was an ensign.

  She took the glasses to the kitchen, wiped them with a clean cloth, and watched Herr Seutter open the bottle and pour.

  “Only two glasses?” he asked. “Will you not join us?”

  “I rarely drink wine,” Augusta said.

  “But, my dear Augusta, you would make me very happy if you joined us in our little celebration. Surely you will not turn down an old friend’s request?”

  “Go ahead,” said her mother impatiently. “It’s the New Year after all. Get another glass and pull up that stool.”

  Frau von Langsdorff had hardly tasted the wine but seemed already in high spirits. Augusta could hear her tinkling laughter all the way to the parlor. She was ashamed of her ill feelings toward Herr Seutter who had, after all, brought them delicacies they had not tasted for many months. And he had also lifted her mother’s spirits and caused her to laugh again.

  She made an effort to be pleasant. This became easier as she sipped the warming wine and consumed a little ham and cheese with the soft white bread and then nibbled a slice of the very rich almond cake, all helped along with another glass of wine or two.

  When Herr Seutter finally recalled other obligations and left‌—‌on this occasion bending over Frau von Langsdorff’s hand‌—‌it seemed quite natural that he should take Augusta into a brief fatherly embrace in the hall.

  *

  The basket of food lasted through January, and so did Herr Seutter’s visits. Augusta’s mother took to baking dainty cakes and tarts and added ribbons and laces to her caps. Herr Seutter was not as welcome to Augusta, but his frequent generous gifts‌—‌which included a delivery of firewood‌—‌and her mother’s pleasure forced her to be civil. Still, she found excuses to leave them alone together as much as possible.

  Toward the end of the month, an official-looking letter arrived for Frau von Langsdorff. It bore a military seal. Inside was a brief communication to the effect that Ensign Franz von Langsdorff had been wounded in the battle of Freiberg, October 29, and wished his family informed. It was to be hoped that Ensign von Langsdorff would continue to make good progress and be able to write himself.

  “God in Heaven!” cried Frau von Langsdorff, turning pale. “Wounded? How can that be? Franz is an officer. How can he be wounded? Perhaps he was careless, but you would think they would take better care of the young gentlemen.”

  Augusta would have laughed, had this been a laughing matter. Even if her mother had managed to suppress her maternal feelings with foolish assumptions about military campaigns, she should have tried harder herself to talk Franz out of this desperate undertaking.

  Wondering where he was, whether in a hospital or private home, she looked at the letter more closely. She could not make out the name of the town, but when she saw its date, black fear seized her. The letter was more than two months old! What if Franz had died from his wounds and the news had not reached them yet?

  She looked at her mother who was wringing her hands helplessly and felt only anger. “Mother, this letter was written two months ago. Why have we heard nothing else? What has happened to Franz?”

  Her mother gaped at her. Then her mouth went slack, and she burst into tears. “No!” she wailed, raising her hands toward heaven. “Dear God, don’t let me lose my Franzerl! You’ve taken my husband and left me poor. You cannot take my son, too. He’s all that I have left.”

  “You have me, Mother,” Augusta snapped, ignoring this paroxysm of grief. She was casting about for some way to get more information about her brother’s fate. In the end nothing occurred to her but to ask Herr Seutter’s help.

  “Oh, yes,” agreed her mother quickly, dabbing at her tears. “Of course. He will know what to do. Run to the dear man and tell him I need his wise counsel.”

  *

  Herr Seutter’s was the finest house in Lindau. His family had made its money in trade and banking, and when their former house had burned in the great fire some thirty years ago, Jakob Seutter’s father had called on an Italian architect to rebuild it. The new house was five stories high, and its façade managed to combine princely splendor with bourgeois probity. The yellow plaster walls bore elaborate frescoes, many large windows looked out on the square, and broad, curved steps led to carved double doors that were set between two pairs of slender Corinthian pillars supporting a handsome semi-circular pediment.

  Augusta felt intimidated as always, but today she overcame this and ran up the wide stairs to knock loudly on the massive door. It was opened by a middle-aged woman in a black bombazine dress and starched white apron. Short and top-heavy, she was all bosom and arms and large head made larger by her black, frizzed hair and starched cap. She looked sharply at Augusta from black eyes like small elderberries and pursed her lips.

  “Yes?”

  “Is Herr Seutter at home?”

  “Who wants him?”

  “I’m Augusta von Langsdorff. Herr Seutter is a friend of my mother’s. We need his advice in a family matter.”

  The elderberry eyes narrowed. “Family matter?”

  Augusta blushed. “Please inform your master.”

  The woman snapped “Wait” and slammed the door in Augusta’s face.

  Augusta stood and shivered, humiliated by the curious looks from people in the market below. Only tradesmen, servants, and maids were left standing outside.

  A moment later the door opened again, and Herr Seutter himself appeared. “Maria, for shame! You should have asked our guest in.” Herr Seutter smiled at Augusta, and bowed her in with effusive apologies.

  “What a happy surprise,” he said warmly and raised her cold hand to his lips‌—‌quite as if she had been a lady. “How cold you are!” He warmed her fingers between his hands. “There’s a nice fire in the good parlor.” He helped her with her cloak and gave it to the woman with the elderberry eyes. “Put this away, Maria, and then run instantly and bring us hot chocolate and a few of your almond cakes.” Tucking Augusta’s arm under his, he said, “Come, my dear, we’ll soon have you warm again.”

  The “good parlor” in this house was truly a salon. It was large and bright, and the parquet floor was laid in a French pattern and so highly waxed that Augusta was afraid she would slip and clutched his arm more tightly. White stucco garlands wreathed the ceiling, doorframes, and windows, and the walls were painted a soft blue. On the floor lay a thick carpet, and a settee and dainty chairs stood there, all covered in sky blue velvet. Elsewhere she saw inlaid, bow-fronted chests with marble tops, small gilded tables, and‌—‌oh, wonder!‌—‌a painted harpsichord.

  Her host said, “I’ve had this room refurnished recently. Do you like it? It was a dark place only suitable for a crusty old man living by himself, but I had a notion to make it more pleasing to female eyes. You will know better than I if it was well done. Pray let me have your advice.”

  “Oh, it’s very beautiful,” said Augusta, a little dazed. “Mama would think it quite perfect.”

  He chuckled. “Ah. But you? What do you think?”

  “I think it’s the loveliest room I’ve ever seen. And what a very beautiful harpsichord!” She let go of his arm and went closer to admire the Greek maidens with fluttering veils who danced around the outside of the instrument, and the many black and white k
eys, a whole six octaves of them.

  He followed her. “By any chance, do you play, my dear Augusta? I confess it cost me a good bit of money, and I have no use for it myself. I lack the finer skills, you see.” He blushed.

  She looked at him, wondering why he should have bought the instrument, and saw both pride and shame in his face. How odd, she thought, to have so much and yet feel so inadequate. “Mama plays beautifully,” she said, then corrected herself, “I mean, she used to play. We no longer have an instrument.”

  “Ah! But you? Do you not play a little? Would you? Just any little thing, so I can hear what it sounds like.”

  Eight octaves! Augusta’s fingers itched to try it. “It’s been years, and I never was very good.”

  “Please? As a great favor?”

  So she sat down on the bench, and after a moment he sat beside her to watch as her stiff fingers picked out the notes of some songs she remembered: “Nachtigall, ich

  hör dich singen” and “Ach, Blümlein blau.” As she used to do years ago for her parents, she sang the ballads softly as she played, and her heart melted at the memory of happier times‌—‌until that memory reminded her of Franz, and she dropped her hands in her lap. She was ashamed to have forgotten so quickly and, rent by a sudden conviction that Franz was dead, she burst into tears.

  “God bless me!” cried Herr Seutter, putting his arm around her. “Oh, my dearest girl. Please, tell me how I may serve you, how I may help. Oh, please, do not cry. It breaks my heart to see you so.”

  Augusta turned to him‌—‌somehow she found herself embraced‌—‌and sobbed into his blue vest. After a little while, during which he made soothing noises and stroked her back awkwardly, she sat up again and brushed away her tears. “Forgive me, sir,” she said, sniffling and embarrassed. “It’s only…‌the song brought back happier days…‌and I forgot my reason for coming to you.”

  “I should not have asked you to play. Pray forgive me, my dear. I would not have caused you pain for anything. Come away from the stupid instrument and tell me what is wrong.” He led her to the settee and made her sit beside him, taking both her hands in his. “Now then, what brought you?”

  He regarded her with such earnest and kind interest that Augusta felt guilty for having disliked him. “We got this letter, sir,” she said, taking it from her pocket and handing it over. “Franz has been wounded. But only see how old this letter is. And there has been nothing else. Not a word.” Her fear and grief brought fresh tears to her eyes.

  He tutted and squeezed her hand. “Please don’t cry again, my dear Augusta. I cannot bear it. Let me see what this is all about.” He read the letter twice, while she twisted her hands in her lap. Then he nodded. “Well, the post is very unreliable in wartimes. No doubt, your brother has recovered and is back with his regiment. I saw in the Gazette just a day ago that there will be a peace finally. It’s quite definite. Your brother will be home in no time, you’ll see. But meanwhile I shall make inquiries and report back to you and your Mama.”

  “Do you truly think so? That there will be peace and Franz will be home? Oh, I’m so glad.” She smiled at him through her tears. “Thank you for your help. We were so worried, Mama and I.” She echoed her mother’s words, “We have no one in the whole world except Franz.”

  He took her hand again. “My dear girl, you wound me. I’m your most devoted servant. Yours and your Mama’s. You may call on me for anything. At any time. You made me very happy today by coming here and letting me be of some small service. That you trusted me…”

  The door opened, and Maria banged into the room, shoving the door closed with her hip while balancing a tray with porcelain cups and dishes and a silver chocolate pot. These she set on a small table, gave her master and Augusta a very sharp look, and left the room, slamming the door behind her.

  Augusta flushed and snatched back her hand. “Thank you, sir. I must not trouble you longer. I’m afraid I’ve made extra work for your housekeeper.”

  “Nonsense. Maria has worked for my family for thirty years. It’s made her a little peevish sometimes, but there’s no harm in her.” He poured a thick, fragrant liquid into two cups, then looked at her helplessly. Holding up his large hands, he said, “I’m not much good with dainty dishes. Would you mind?”

  She liked him for it and took up a cup with its saucer, added sugar from a silver container, and offered it to him with a smile, then took her own.

  Now, chocolate was in short supply in the Langsdorff household, and Augusta was very fond of it. This was especially rich and sweet and creamy, though Herr Seutter seemed less interested in the chocolate than in watching her. He smiled, nodded, and plied her with small cakes. Since he took such pleasure in her enjoyment, Augusta warmed to him a little more. Just so her father had urged her to eat when she had been a little girl and they had still been able to afford small delicacies. But she remembered her mother and, replacing her empty cup on the tray, she rose. “The chocolate was delicious, but I mustn’t leave Mama waiting. She’s terribly worried, and I don’t feel right enjoying myself while she’s miserable.”

  He nodded. “Quite right. We must remedy that immediately. Maria!”

  Maria reappeared, looking as angry as ever.

  “Wrap up some of the chocolate powder for Frau von Langsdorff. No, make up a small basket. Put in fresh cream and sugar and your own receipt so that she may taste it right away. And a few of the little cakes also.”

  Maria folded her arms. “There’s no cream left. I used it all‌—‌except for a bit to put in the sauce for your veal tonight.”

  “What do I need sauce on my veal for? Pack it up, pack it up.”

  Maria flung out of the room as Augusta protested that there was no need, that she did not want to upset his household, that they could very well make their own chocolate.

  He put a hand on her shoulder and smiled down at her very kindly. “Hush, my dear. It gives me great pleasure. I know quite well that you and your Mama are used to better things. Allow me then this small indulgence.”

  Augusta flushed. She did not mind being poor as much as she hated being made a charity case. Murmuring, “You are too good, sir,” she stepped away from him and looked for her cloak.

  “I wish you could stay a little,” he said. “I want to show you the rest of my house. I would value your advice on how to make it more comfortable. A man is lost without a woman’s gentler influence.”

  She said firmly, “I must go, sir. Thank you for the chocolate.”

  He went into the hall and returned with her cloak, placing it around her shoulders and then turning her toward him to hook the collar around her neck. She caught her breath at their closeness. When they walked out of the room together, they found Maria waiting with a small basket covered with a pretty cloth.

  Augusta ran all the way home.

  Her mother flung open the front door while Augusta was still some distance down Fischergasse. “Where have you been so long?” she called. “I’m half distracted.”

  Augusta hurried inside and handed her mother the basket. “From Herr Seutter,” she said, taking off the cloak and hanging it on its hook. “It’s to make chocolate for you. He was very particular about that and had his housekeeper add the receipt.”

  Frau von Langsdorff looked at the basket, clearly torn between pleasure at the gift and worry about Franz. Augusta took pity. “Herr Seutter said he will make enquiries about Franz, but he thinks it’s just a matter of lost mails. He says there will be peace and Franz will come home very soon.”

  “Oh.” Frau von Langsdorff’s face broke into smiles. “Oh, the dear man! Oh, he must be right. How very kind! How very thoughtful! To take such trouble with a poor widow like myself. It shows great warmth of heart, don’t you think?” She lifted the pretty cloth and peeked inside the basket. “Chocolate and cream also. And sugar. And such delicious little cakes. Ah, he knows what a lady misses most when hard times befall her. Come, Augusta, don’t dawdle. I cannot wait to taste chocolate
again.”

  Franz forgotten, she bustled into the kitchen and busied herself looking for the small copper pan and a spoon, then sent Augusta into the salon for porcelain cups.

  When Augusta came back, her mother was stirring the chocolate over the fire and humming to herself. The rich smell filled the kitchen. “You know, Augusta,” she said, “I have been very remiss. Herr Seutter has been everything that is kind and attentive, and I have done nothing in return. It’s time we gave a little supper for him. The poor man is quite alone and at the mercy of ordinary servants. I could make a fricassée de poulet aux champignons. Or a terrine. Or perhaps a ragoût de veau en paté. What do you think? I used to make a very nice ragoût for your Papa. It was quite his favorite dish. And my pastry was famous among the ladies in Heidelberg. Perhaps we could have some carrots and a chestnut purée, too. Nothing too elaborate. Just a small, elegant supper.”

  Augusta said, “Mama, we don’t have the money. And a man as wealthy as Herr Seutter would not expect it.”

  Her mother trilled the notes of a song. “Silly girl. It won’t take much. All men enjoy a little pampering. Why do you think he comes here? He’s as lonely as I am.” She handed Augusta a cup of chocolate.

  Augusta stared at her mother. The thought that a man might court her mother had never crossed her mind. She found she had lost her appetite and set the chocolate aside untasted.

  Her mother sat down and sipped. “Delicious! Drink, Augusta. The dear man. How very thoughtful he is!”

  “Mama,” Augusta said, “you cannot think that he…‌surely you would not want to marry a man like that?”

  Her mother gave her a reproachful look. “Who said anything about marriage? And what do you mean by ‘a man like that’? He’s one of the most important men in this city. And he’s a very handsome figure of a man.” She smiled and patted her curls. “Come, you must tell me all about his house.”

  Of course this was about marriage. Augusta looked at her mother, a small woman who had added weight in spite of their restricted diet and whose brown hair already showed some gray, and she marveled. To be sure, Herr Seutter was probably almost the same age, but this florid man with his bright vests was nothing at all like her dear Papa, who had been a slender figure dressed in black, with pale, elegant features and the kind, vague eyes of the scholar. The very idea was abhorrent. She would not allow it. It was a betrayal of their father’s memory. How could her mother sell herself to a man like Seutter just because they were poor as church mice and she missed the finer things? Her mother was blinded by wealth and luxuries. By a cup of chocolate!