Heinrich von Kleist - The Marquise of O—

As soon as she was outside, she wiped her own tears, wondered if the profound state of shock she had caused her husband might not be dangerous and if it might be advisable to call a doctor? For the evening she cooked for him everything she could assemble in the kitchen which was strengthening and calming, made up and warmed his bed so that she could lay him in it just as soon as their daughter would lead him in by the hand, then crept, because he still hadn’t come and the table was already laid, to the Marquise’s room so that she could hear what was happening there. As she listened, her ear pressed gently against the door, she could hear a light but audible whisper which seemed to her to come from the Marquise, and when she looked through the keyhole she saw her sitting in the Commandant’s lap, something he had never allowed before. At that she finally opened the door and saw—her heart now leaping with joy—her daughter, her head bent backwards, eyes tight shut, lying in her father’s arms, while he sat in an armchair and pressed long, hot and hungry kisses on her mouth, his wide-open eyes wet with tears—just like a lover! The daughter was silent; he was silent. His face bowed over her as over his first love, his mouth near hers, and he kissed her. The mother felt blessed like a saint as, standing unseen behind his chair, she hesitated to interrupt the joy of this heaven-sent reconciliation her house was once again enjoying. Finally, she approached the father and, bending round from her chair, watched him from the side again hovering over the mouth of his daughter with fingers and lips in inexpressible bliss. On seeing his wife, the Commandant looked down angrily and wanted to say something, but she cried, “What sort of a look is that!” and kissed him herself to resume the natural order and made light of all the emotion. She invited and led both of them like a bridal couple to the evening meal, at which the Commandant, despite being very jolly, wept now and then, ate and spoke little, looked down at his plate and played with his daughter’s hand.

The question was who in the world would reveal himself at 11 o’clock the next day, for the next day was the dreaded 3rd. Father, mother and also the brother, who had arrived to share in the general reconciliation, were all unconditionally in favour of marriage as long as the person was acceptable within reason. Everything possible should be arranged to make the Marquise’s situation a happy one. However, if the man’s circumstances were such that, even if helped by being considered favourably, he was still beneath the standing of the Marquise, the parents opposed the marriage. As previously, they determined to keep the Marquise with them and adopt the child. On the other hand, the Marquise seemed, whatever the case, to be in favour of giving her word in marriage as long as the person was not a villain, and thereby secure her child a father whatever the cost. In the evening the mother asked how they were going to receive the person. The Commandant thought it would be best to leave the Marquise on her own at 11 o’clock. The Marquise, however, insisted that both parents and her brother, too, should be there, because she didn’t want to share any secrets with that person. She also thought that this wish was implied in the person’s answer in suggesting the Commandant’s house as the place of meeting, a proposal which she freely admitted very much pleased her. The mother pointed out the awkwardness of the roles the father and brother would have to play, and asked her daughter to exclude the men, whereas she agreed to her wish that she herself be present when the person was received. After brief consideration by the daughter this last suggestion was finally accepted. Following a night of the tensest possible expectations, the morning of the dreaded 3rd now dawned. As the clock struck eleven, both women sat ceremoniously in the reception room, as if dressed for a betrothal. Their hearts beat loudly enough to have been audible had the day’s bustle been silenced. The eleventh chime was still reverberating when the groom Leopardo, whom the father had retained from the Tyrol, entered. On seeing him the women went pale. “Count F— has arrived and wishes to be announced.” “Count F—!” they exclaimed together, thrown from one kind of shock into another. The Marquise cried, “Shut the doors! We are not at home to him,” stood up ready to bolt the locks of the room herself and wanted to push the groom out of the way, when the Count came into the room towards her wearing exactly the same uniform, with medals and arms, as he had worn at the capture of the fortress. The Marquise thought she would sink into the earth with confusion. She reached for a handkerchief she had left on the chair and wanted to escape into a side room, but her mother, seizing her hand, cried, “Julietta—!” and, as if stifled by her thoughts, lost the power of speech. She stared hard at the Count and repeated, “I ask you, Julietta!”, pulling her after her, “who else are we waiting for?” Suddenly turning round, the Marquise exclaimed, “Who? But surely not him?” and flashed a look at him like a thunderbolt, while a deadly pallor came over her own face. The Count had gone down on one knee before her, his right hand on his heart, his head gently bowed to his chest. There he knelt, blushing deeply, looking down in front of him, silent. “Who else,” cried the Colonel’s wife in a faltering voice, “who else—did we lose our senses—but him?” The Marquise stood rigidly over him and said, “I’m going to go mad, dear Mother!” “Silly girl,” replied her mother, pulled her towards her and whispered something in her ear. The Marquise turned round and fell onto the divan, her hands to her face. Her mother cried, “Unhappy girl! What’s wrong? What has happened that you were not prepared for?” The Count did not stir from the mother’s side. Still kneeling, he took hold of the outer seam of her dress and kissed it. “Dearest lady! Merciful, honourable lady!” he whispered, and a tear rolled down his cheek. The Colonel’s wife said, “Get up, Count, get up! Comfort her, then we will all be reconciled and all will be forgiven and forgotten.” The Count got to his feet in tears. He knelt again before the Marquise, gently took her hand as if it were made of gold and the heat of his own might tarnish it. But the Marquise stood up and cried, “Go away! Go away! Go away! I was prepared for a villain, but not for a devil!”, and she opened the door of the room, avoided him as if he were a verminous pest and shouted, “Call the Colonel!” “Julietta!” cried her astonished mother. In deadly rage the Marquise looked now at the Count, now at her mother. Her heart was thumping, her face blazing. No Fury was more terrible. The Commandant and the head forester came. “I cannot marry this man, Father,” the Marquise said when the two men were still in the entrance, and she plunged her hand into a stoup of holy water fixed to the outer door, splashed with one big scoop father, mother and brother, and disappeared.

Struck by this strange behaviour, the Commandant asked what had happened and blenched when he saw Count F— in the room at such a decisive moment. The mother took the Count by the hand and said, “Don’t ask questions. This young man regrets from his heart everything that happened. Give him your blessing. Give it! Give it! And everything will end happily.” The Count looked devastated. The Commandant put his hand on him; his eyelids quivered and his lips went as white as chalk. “May heaven’s curse be gone from this head!” the Commandant exclaimed: “When do you intend getting married?” “Tomorrow,” the mother answered for the Count, for he couldn’t get a word out of his mouth. “Tomorrow or today, as you wish. For the Count, who has shown much laudable haste in making amends for his misdeed, no time will be too soon.” “So I will have the pleasure of your company at 11 o’clock tomorrow in St Augustine’s Church,” said the Commandant, bowing to the Count, calling his wife and son to enter the Marquise’s room, and leaving him to himself.