Heinrich von Kleist - The Marquise of O—

A few days later the Commandant received a letter from the Marquise about this newspaper item in which she begged him, with the deepest respect and affection, because she had lost the grace and favour of being allowed in his house, kindly to send the person, who—on the 3rd in the morning—would reveal himself to him, out to her in V—. His wife had just got up when the Commandant received this letter and noticed clearly from his face that he was in a state of total confusion, for if he was being deceived, what motive could he attribute to their daughter, as she seemed to make no request for forgiveness? Emboldened by this, she revealed a plan she had long carried in her breast, beset with such doubt as it was. While the Commandant still sat staring at the sheet with a blank look on his face, she said that she had an idea. Would he allow her to go out to V— for one or two days? In which case she would, if the Marquise already knew the unknown man who answered her through the paper, know how to put her in a situation in which she would be bound to betray herself, even if she were the most cunning deceiver. The Commandant answered with a sudden violent movement and tore up the letter. She knew he wanted nothing to do with their daughter and forbade her too from keeping any kind of society with her. He sealed the torn-up bits of the letter in an envelope, wrote out the Marquise’s address and gave it to the messenger as his answer. His wife, secretly angered by such wilful obstinacy, destroying as it did all possibilities of elucidation, now decided to carry out her plan against his wishes. She took one of her husband’s grooms and drove with him out to V— while her husband still lay in bed. When she came to the gate of the estate, the porter told her that no one would be allowed in to the Marquise. The Colonel’s wife replied that she knew about this ban, but that he may as well go and announce the Colonel’s wife to her. To this he replied that it wouldn’t help because the Marquise would speak to no one in the world. The Colonel’s wife answered that she would be spoken to by the Marquise because she was her mother and that he’d better not delay any longer and do his duty. However, hardly had he gone into the house to make this, as he saw it, vain attempt, when he saw the Marquise come out of it, hurry to the gate and throw herself on her knees in front of the Colonel’s wife’s carriage. The latter, helped by the groom, descended from it and, considerably moved, lifted the Marquise from the ground. Overwhelmed by her feelings, the Marquise bowed deeply over her mother’s hand and led her, tears flowing copiously, respectfully inside her house. “My dearest Mother,” she cried, offering her the divan, standing before her and drying her eyes, “to what happy accident do I owe the deep pleasure of your company here?” Looking at her daughter and embracing her affectionately, the Colonel’s wife could only say that she came to apologize for the cruelty with which she had been expelled from the paternal home. “Apologize!” said the daughter, interrupting her and wanting to kiss her hands. But her mother avoided this and continued: “Not only did the answer to your announcement that appeared in the latest editions convince myself and your father of your innocence, I also have to tell you that the person himself came to the house yesterday, to our great and happy surprise.” “Who has…?” asked the Marquise, and sat down next to her mother. “What person showed himself?” she asked, and expectation tensed her every muscle. “He,” said her mother, “who wrote that reply, he in person, to whom you directed your appeal.” “Well then,” said the Marquise, her breast heaving. “Who is it?” she said again and again. “That,” replied the Colonel’s wife, “I will leave you to guess. Just think, as we sat at tea yesterday actually reading that strange newspaper announcement, a person we know only too well burst into the room with despairing gestures and fell at your father’s and then at my feet. Not knowing what to make of this, we asked him to explain. His conscience left him no peace, he said. He was the shameful one who had betrayed the Marquise and knew how his crime would be judged, and if revenge was to be taken, he had come to submit to it.” “But who is it?” interrupted the Marquise, “Who? Who?” “As I said,” her mother continued, “it was a young, otherwise well-brought-up person whom we would never have associated with such low behaviour. However, you will not be shocked to learn, my daughter, that he is from a humble station and lacking all the qualities you have a right to demand from a husband.” “All the same, my excellent Mother,” said the Marquise, “he cannot be completely unworthy, because he threw himself at your feet before he did at mine. But who is it? Who? Who? Just tell me.” “Well then,” rejoined the mother, “it is the groom, Leopardo, who Father recently hired from the Tyrol and whom, if you noticed, I have brought along to introduce to you as your husband.” “Leopardo, the groom!” cried the Marquise, and pressed her hands to her brow in a gesture of desperation. “Why are you shocked?” asked her mother. “Have you reasons to doubt?” “How? Where? When?” asked the Marquise, at a complete loss. “That,” said her mother, “he will divulge only to you. His shame and his love, he says, enable him to tell no one but yourself. But if you want we can open the door to the anteroom where he is awaiting the outcome of this with a beating heart, and you will see if you can unlock his secret while I leave.” “God, heavenly Father!” cried the Marquise; “I once fell asleep in the noonday heat and when I awoke I saw him walking away from my divan!” And she put her small hands over her face, which was glowing with shame. At these words the mother sank to her knees in front of her. “Oh, my daughter!” she cried, “Oh, my excellent girl,” and she threw her arms round her. “And I, oh, worthless that I am,” she said, and buried her face in her daughter’s lap. The Marquise asked aghast, “What’s the matter with you, my dear Mother?” “You must understand,” her mother continued, “oh, you purer than the angels in heaven! You must understand that not a word of what I just told you is true, because my rotten soul could not believe in the innocence that protects you, and I had to use such a shameful trick to convince myself of it.” “My dear Mother,” cried the Marquise and bent down to her, deeply moved with happiness, and wanted to lift her up. But her mother said, “No—I’ll only rise from your feet if you can forgive my miserable behaviour. Oh you wonderful and unearthly creature!” “I forgive you, my Mother! Stand up!” cried the Marquise, “I implore you.” “You heard me,” said the Colonel’s wife. “I want to know if you can still love me and honestly respect me as before?” “My adored Mother,” cried the Marquise, and in turn went down on her knees before her. “Love and respect have never left my heart. Who could have trusted me in such extraordinary circumstances? How happy I am that you are convinced of my innocence.” “So,” said her mother, standing up with her daughter’s support, “now I will really do everything I can for you, my dearest child. You will have your child at my house and, if you were expecting to give birth to a little prince, my care for you could not be more tender and dignified. I never want to spend a day of my life without you. I defy the whole world and will accept no honour but take over your shame if only you can love me again and forget the harshness of my rejection.” The Marquise tried to comfort her with endless caresses and assurances, but evening came and midnight struck before she succeeded. Next day, when the old lady’s emotion, which had brought on a fever, had calmed down a little, mother, daughter and grandchildren returned to M— again as if in triumph. During the journey they were full of happiness, joked about the groom, Leopardo, who sat forward on the box, and the mother told the Marquise that she noticed the Marquise went red whenever she looked at his broad back. The Marquise responded with a gesture, half sigh, half smile, and wondered who would finally appear to them on the morning of the 3rd at 11 o’clock! From then on, the nearer they came to M— the more serious their mood became in anticipation of the crucial events before them. The Colonel’s wife, who didn’t reveal her plans, led her daughter, once they had descended from the carriage in front of the house, back into her old rooms, told her she should make herself comfortable and that she would be back soon, then slipped away. After an hour she returned with a rather flushed face. “No,” she said. “Such a Doubting Thomas!” and she spoke with secret satisfaction. “Such a Doubting Thomas! Did I not need one full hour to convince him? But now he just sits there and sobs.” “Who?” asked the Marquise. “He himself,” answered her mother. “Who else has the greatest cause?” “Not Father?” cried the Marquise. “Weeping like a child,” the mother replied, “so that if I hadn’t had to wipe my own tears from my eyes, I would have burst into laughter as soon as I was outside the door.” “And all because of me?” asked the Marquise, and stood up; “and I’m supposed to—” “Don’t move!” said her mother, “Why did he dictate the letter to me? He must come and look for you here if he ever wants to find me again, as long as I live.” “My dearest Mother—” the Marquise pleaded. “Pitiless man!” the mother interrupted her. “Why take to a pistol? But I implore you. You mustn’t go to him,” she continued, pushing her daughter into her seat again. “And if he’s not here before this evening, I will move elsewhere with you tomorrow.” The Marquise called this behaviour harsh and unfair, but her mother replied, “Calm down!” because she had just heard weeping coming from afar. “He’s coming!” “Where?” asked the Marquise, and listened. “This heavy breathing… Is someone outside the door?” “Of course,” said her mother. “He wants us to open it for him.” “Let me,” cried the Marquise, and tore herself from her chair. “But if you love me, Julietta,” added the mother, “stay there.” And at this moment the Commandant entered holding a handkerchief to his face. The mother shielded her daughter from him and turned her back on him. “My dearest Father!” cried the Marquise, throwing her arms out towards him. “Don’t move!” said her mother. “Listen!” The Commandant stood in the room and wept. “He should apologize to you,” she continued. “Why is he so extreme? And why so stubborn! I love him, but I love you too. I respect him, but I respect you too. And if I had to make a choice, you are better than him and I’ll stay with you.” The Commandant bent double and howled so loudly that the walls echoed. “But my God,” cried the Marquise, suddenly giving way to her mother, and took out her handkerchief to let her own tears flow. “He can’t speak!” said her mother, and moved aside a little. Then the Marquise arose, embraced the Commandant and begged him to calm down. She cried hard herself and asked him if he didn’t want to sit. She wanted to pull him down onto a chair, pushing one towards him so that he could sit, but he didn’t answer and could not be moved. He wouldn’t sit and merely stood, head bowed deeply to the ground, and wept. Holding him upright and half turned towards her mother, the Marquise said he was going to fall ill. Her mother herself, because he was on the edge of going into convulsions, appeared ready to lose her resolve. However, as at the repeated requests from his daughter the Commandant had finally sat down and she had sunk to his feet with repeated caresses, his wife began talking again, saying that it served him right and that he’d now surely come to his senses, withdrew from the room and left them alone.