by Bill Peschel
It was then I realized that silence had descended on the tableau and that our clinch had progressed from the functional to the pleasurable. The finely dressed gentleman looked bug-eyed at me from underneath his smokestack topper. The force of his glare encouraged me to disengage from the woman, who looked at me now with a puzzled have-we-met-before aspect, and I composed an apology in German to the company. I bowed to the gentleman and turned to her to begin my little speech when she cried out in French-tinged English:
“Of course, it is you. Mark Twain! Oh, you darling man!” and she cradled my face in her hands and kissed me soundly.
I could feel myself blushing furiously but kept my counsel. It was a pleasant feeling, being bussed by a beautiful female. That she was unknown to me lent a piquant flavor to the moment. On the street I would have had to discourage her attentions, but we were secluded and I reasoned that foreigners did greet each other differently overseas, and it would have been rude to suggest that I found her action distasteful.
She receded, still keeping a caressing hand on my cheek and murmuring my name. I struggled to restore a semblance of equanimity to my features. I acted as if this sort of thing happened quite a bit in my line. That I didn’t succeed—that I must have looked pretty pleased with myself—was seen in the gentleman’s face. He barked a question at the woman and she replied in her imitation of a soft-spoken steam kettle. He cried, “Bah!” and stalked out the door, slamming it behind him. She went on talking to me as if she hadn’t been interrupted:
“I knew I wasn’t mistaken! If Dietrich wasn’t in such a state I would have introduced you to him. Excuse me, I must keep my voice down to preserve it”—and she reverted to her soft hiss—“Are you coming to Isolde? You must have a box, oh, I see you have one. Then you must come back afterwards so you can meet the company. Dear me! You dropped your money. Let me help you collect them.”
We scrambled about the carpet, picking up the coins, until we both ended up on our knees to find the small pfennigs. A glitter of light from around her throat caught my eye. It was a confection made up of a band of diamonds worn around the throat, with alternating loops of pearls and rubies that had fallen from the recesses of her most un-morning-like dress.
She then caught me staring—at her necklace. She blushed, and I stammered that we should suspend our pursuit; my family would not be impoverished by the few coins we had missed. I raised her to her feet and she caressed her necklace back into place and replied:
“This is one of Dietrich’s baubles. He wanted me to wear it during the performances but we—never mind. What are you doing in Heidelberg?”
I explained my mission, and she clapped her hands in delight and rose up on the balls of her feet.
“That’s marvelous! I have your Sketches and Roughing It but Innocents is still the tip-top. I laugh when I see the American excursionists; they act just as you portray them. And you saved my life with Gilded Age. I was starving in Paris when I landed the role of Laura Sellers in the production, and that’s where I met Dietrich and that got me the part in Isolde.”
I must confess that this gushing pleased me, even if it was for my early works. She was amiable, cheerful, and spirited, and unencumbered in places by clothes usually worn at this time of day. I even forgave her participation in a pirate production of my play, from which I never saw a penny. I asked for her name, and her mouth formed a pretty little “oh” that she covered with her gloved hand.
“What you must think of me? I did forget my manners, didn’t I? Please forgive me. We creatures of the stage should not mix with genteel company without plenty of preparation. I am Irene Adler, of the New Jersey Adlers.” I laughed at her comic imitation of the way Americans simpered abroad. She had even copied our nasal drawl that set us apart.
I said I found this surprising; not just to meet a fellow American, but one who spoke English like a Frenchwoman.
“That comes from living in Europe for too long. French was the first foreign language I learned, and whether I’m in Paris, or Rome, or Vienna, or Heidelberg, my voice still believes it is in France. If I lived in England or back in America, I should lose my affectation. But lately I have spent so much time rehearsing Brangane—she’s Isolde’s maid—I swear I’ll be speaking only German from now on.” She expelled a small cough and added, “I’m famished. I simply must have coffee. Would you care for a cup?”
When I agreed, she replied, “Hook in, then!” and arm in arm she led me to the dense atmosphere of the beer-hall down the street. There, we saw a singular sight. A group of students were swilling lager, smoking their long pipes, and singing, when a professor appeared at their table. The students, as a group, rose politely and doffed their caps, and the professor responded with a bow. He seated himself at the table, was quickly served, and engaged in spirited conversation with the young men.
I hauled out my notebook to record my impressions. Miss Adler said, “So this is how a writer composes. Do you take your notebook everywhere? Do you record everything?”
“Only what I have a mind to record. How long have you lived in Heidelberg?”
“Am I material for your notebook?”
“Depends on what you say.”
“I should answer charmingly, but that would require lying. Since I cannot be charming and honest at the same time, for you I shall be honest and say only for the summer.”
“And before?”
“Everywhere. I was fourteen when my mother brought me to Paris from Red Bank to learn singing under Madame Marchesi. I always liked to sing, and my mother encouraged me. My father was a glove-maker. He would take the steamship down the Navasink to Manhattan to sell his stock. After he died, she decided I needed to come to Europe. I have been on my own since I was seventeen.” A shadow passed over her face momentarily, and then she brightened. “But you must still consider me a Jersey girl, even if I do sound like a Parisian.” Then she said something I have rarely heard anyone utter: “But enough about me, what can I do for you?”
I paused before answering, struck by the notion that Miss Adler was a woman who listened. That is a rare trait. Most animals don’t listen to us; it would not be to their benefit or pleasure. Cats, rarely; dogs, always; men and women, only occasionally. If we listened more than we talked, we would say less and learn more.
I detailed for her my wanderings about the town, seeing the Castle with its extensive grounds and its buildings both ruined and functional. I described the Tun, the giant barrel displayed there, built hundreds of years before to store wine, now empty but still a startling sight. I had visited the university and glimpsed student life and how they conducted classes. I had tramped through the forests and collected folk tales. I only expressed regret not learning more about the duels that the student clubs indulged in.
“Then I shall be your guide. You must see a duel. I know just the boy. Gunter is a student in the White Corps, and he would be happy to demonstrate how they train and fight. He has been in two duels already and is considered one of the best swordsmen in the university.”
We set a time to meet on the morrow and parted. I walked slowly back to the hotel with my notepad out and jotting down the particulars of the day. It had been a fine afternoon, and tomorrow promised to be better. There is nothing like the approval of a pretty woman to set a man up. It is a balm to the soul. It was also this self-satisfaction that led to the trouble.
I was so taken up with thoughts of Miss Adler and the details of the day that I didn’t see the man jostling me. I looked up, and before I could react further, several men grappled me off the street and into an alley, where they could attend to my business in private. I was startled and became as limp as three-day-old celery. They were working men, in white shirts, vests and cloth caps. They muttered in German something that sounded like demands for information, but what they wanted I could not fathom. They’d launch a sentence at me, and I would set to untangle the genders of the words and transplant the verb from the end of the sentence to its proper place. I would
get halfway through the process when they’d fire another barrage at me, only louder. They had apparently learned this trick from our tourists; if you don’t get an answer, shout. In frustration, they flung me against the wall, and my head fetched with a crack, so I decided to stay there awhile.
The lead tough had a face like well-used leather, dark and sagging. He thrust his hand inside my coat and borrowed my identification papers. He muttered something in his guttural dialect and I heard my name here and there. That started a roundelay in which the other two men contributed in the form of questions and assertions. Considerable language not fit for print was used to describe me, and then they resumed seeking my opinion.
We were interrupted. An officer of the law stood in the head of the alley, hands on his hips, and barked orders at them. He was not interested in anyone’s questions. He was not interested in what we were doing there. He did not approve of us and wanted us out of his sight. Raus! Leatherface tossed my papers to the ground, gave me the evil eye, and sauntered down the alley and out of sight. This left me alone with the police officer, who picked up my papers, examined them with a critical eye, and launched an intense discussion about my choice of companions before sending me home.
The next day, I breakfasted with a troubled conscience and sauntered to the opera house. It was a fine, warm day to view the town, and the rustle of leaves followed my steps down the hotel and past the Castle. Miss Adler was in excellent spirits, and my worries eased as we spent the morning strolling about Heidelberg. She was a fountain of facts and I rapidly filled the pages in my notebook. I also kept a weather eye out for the myrmidons. This was easy because loafers were thin on the ground in German towns. Doing nothing was considered a civil offense and subject to interrogation by the police. Everyone went about their business as efficiently as a machine.
She led us down a passage too narrow to admit wagons to an undistinguished building of brown stone. This was the home of one of the student corps. The door was opened to her knock by a cheerful chubby student. I was surprised. From Miss Adler’s description of her friend’s prowess at dueling, I had expected an Adonis, a Scaramouche, a d’Artagnan; not what appeared to be the son of a beer-garden owner who was groomed to inherit the family business. But the decoration on his cheek, a horizontal slash that was healing nicely, represented his membership card in the fraternity.
Gunter clearly did not expect to see her there. From the few words I picked up and his gestures and nods, I could tell he asked who I was and what I wanted. Adler settled him with a kiss on both cheeks and reassured him that the silverware and plate were safe from me.
The building had that air common to student clubs. The atmosphere was infused with a faint cheesy smell of stale beer and unwashed men. Gunter led us through the rooms and described—in some English and with Miss Adler translating the rest—the corps system in Heidelberg, the students with the different-colored caps, and the etiquette that determined when to ignore each others’ presence and when not to. Members of the corps gathered in the main hall for drinking and revelry, and there were rooms devoted to meetings, study, and treating the wounded. He led us downstairs, where there was an extensive gymnasium devoted to practicing swordsmanship. Three students were present in their padded practice armor. Two stood face to face at sword length, slowly rehearsing their movements, while the third boy stood by and offered advice. The presence of three scars on his face, including a deep cut in the jaw, denoted his status as Senior Boy.
As I explained in Tramp, a dueling scar was a sign of honor and courage, and every member of the club was expected to earn one. To duel, you had to be insulted. For most students, that is not a problem; they’re capable of insulting someone merely by the way they said “Guten Morgan.” But there were the well-behaved boys who never get into a contretemps. Gunter explained that a mock reason had to be devised for their challenge to be issued and accepted.
Gunter led us to a long tall wooden rack where the weapons were displayed. He took them down and explained their purpose. The students used long swords with a basket hilt that shielded the hand from cuts. He handed me a mask the duelers used, with large leather pieces that protected the forehead, eyes, and nose, but left the cheeks and chin exposed. They were held to the face with leather straps that buckled behind the head. He put on the leather apron that shielded the torso and legs, slid on a glove with padding all the way to the shoulder and asked us to strap him in. Thus shielded, he approached a tall pole with a padded top about the size of a human head and began slashing vigorously. I winced at the rapid thwacks inflicted on it. I had seen and heard of plenty of duels out West, but I had never felt the need to experience one myself, even when I was invited. I glanced over at Miss Adler to see how she was taking this violence. She had cocked her head like an art connoisseur judging a new oil painting.
He had me put on the heavy leather clothing next. I whaled away at the head for several minutes. Gunter was encouraging; stopping me several times to show the right angle at which to slice open a cheek, or split the chin. At his invitation, Miss Adler attempted a bout, but without the leather equipment. Since she was my height, Gunter didn’t need to lower the post. She attacked with vigor and was breathing hard after a dozen strokes. She fatigued visibly, for after the last swing she missed the head by a large margin.
I said to Gunter, “In a real bout, she would be a deadly opponent—to herself.” He looked puzzled, whether at Miss Adler’s behavior or my own I couldn’t tell, but he translated my sally to his fellow club members, and I was gratified to hear their laughter.
Miss Adler sat down to recover her breath and she fanned herself with her hand. There were rivulets of perspiration running down her flushed cheeks that were charming to the eye. She said:—
“Perhaps Mr. Twain should try a bout with Gunter. I’d love to see if you fight as well as you talk.” I was taken aback at the suggestion, although in retrospect I should have expected it. If I had known where this demonstration would lead to, I should have turned tail and ran until I reached the Neckar, jumped in, and swam for the Rhine. But beauty has powers that women only suspect but never truly understand. A suggestion from a man that would be rejected outright would be seen as charming from a pretty woman.
We reupholstered ourselves and squared off. Gunter set his pace according to my moves. A good attack drew appreciative cries from the students, interspersed with encouragements and compliments in German. I am not a fighter. I’m sure it showed. But my blood warmed, and I puffed and preened.
Then he clipped me on my side under my arm, hard enough that I felt it through the thick cloth. He stirred a most righteous anger in me. I swiped at his head. He ducked and thrust. I whipped my blade in front of me and brushed his sword-point aside like a fly and swiped again. We crossed blades and our steel rang as if we were stage-fighting, and the cheering filled my heart with joy.
He could have launched a killing attack, but stepped back and peeled off his mask, grinning like a fool. “Gut! You have the instinct for the duel. You must have fought. I’m sure of it!”
I was breathing too hard to respond. I got my mask off with Miss Adler’s help. She kissed me prettily on the cheek. “So brave. You fought like Tristan!” She was a distraction with her hands on my chest and her bright shining eyes staring into my own. The truth never comes out in these situations. I said to Gunter, “One or two.”
“And no scars. Tsk, tsk,” he said to general laughter.
We said our goodbyes to Gunter and stopped at a beer garden where we supped on sausages, radishes and steins of pilsner. We walked outside and down the street toward the Castle. I lit a cigar, and Miss Adler hung onto my arm and chattered about my prowess in swordplay. A man turned the corner and approached us. He moved slowly, giving me time to give him an eyeful. It was the leather-faced man. My blood froze along with my breath. He had displayed himself to me and without a word or any other sign of recognition, he passed us and we separated.
Miss Adler had to have seen hi
m, but if she recognized him she gave no sign. I pointed him out to her and described yesterday’s meeting with him. Did she, by chance, know him?
She hesitated. Her cheeks colored prettily from the memory, but her attitude was that of a fearful woman. I pressed the issue, and she confessed that the leather-faced fellow was Dietrich’s servant.
The dam burst, and the story flowed from her. Count Dietrich von Nordmark was the younger son of Heidelberg nobility, a distant relation to the family that rules the Grand Duchy of Hesse. He had seen Miss Adler on stage and fallen madly in love with her. She had returned his affections, for awhile, but she had grown tired of him. She was trying to end the attachment, and was looking forward to the last performance, when she would be free to go.
“I had hoped that he would be a gentleman, but German men tend to not see the withdrawal of one’s affections as French men do. He has become more demanding. More insistent. I refused, of course, but it is becoming more . . . difficult. He sets his spies on me. There are jealous scenes. I would leave, but I need money to do so, and I won’t get paid until the end of the run. I owe so much already! I’m sorry to tell you all this,” and she brushed closer to me, purely by accident, I’m sure, and I could catch a whiff of her perfume. “I will talk to him about it. You need fear nothing from him.”
“And what about young Gunter?”
Her blushes were all the words I needed. We moved on to her plans for showing me the rest of Heidelberg tomorrow, but I listened with half a mind. I have heard this song before; a young, comely woman entangled in an affair, seeking a sympathetic ear. Not that I’m a prude. I had lived in the mining camps of Nevada and caroused in the streets of San Francisco. I dined with the notorious actress Adah Menken, who rode a horse in a sheer body-stocking so enticingly in Mazeppa. Age begets wisdom that when heeded keeps one out of trouble, especially enticing, adventurous trouble. I had a good nose for trouble, and this reeked with it.
