Irretrievable (3 page)

It was now the end of September 1859, and the harvest had long been gathered in. The swallows that nested round the arcades had left, a breeze was rising and the flag on the flat roof fluttered lazily to and fro. They were sitting under the front terrace overlooking the sea, with the big dining-room behind them; Julie was preparing the coffee. The countess was sitting at a near-by table talking to Schwarzkoppen, the principal of the seminary at Arnewieck, who had walked over, half an hour ago, with Baron Arne, to take advantage of the beautiful day and partake of Holk's hospitality. Arne himself was strolling to and fro on the paved floor with his brother-in-law, stopping every now and then, entranced by the scene before his eyes: fishing-boats were setting out, the sea was gently rippling and overhead the sky hung blue, without a cloud to be seen, unless it were the black plume of smoke of a steamer on the horizon.

“You were right after all,” said Arne, “when you moved up here and built your ‘temple' on this spot. I was against it then because moving and changing house seemed to me something improper, something modern that …”

“That was only suitable for the proletariat or a petty civil servant, you said.”

“Yes, I imagine that I must have said something of the sort. But meanwhile I have undergone conversion in many things, including that. However, be that as it may, one thing I do know is that, even if I am the same in politics or religion or agriculture, which are after all the most important things for people like ourselves, I still have to admit that it is quite delightful up here, so airy and healthy. I really think, Holk, that when you moved up here, you must have added fifteen years to your life.”

At that moment coffee was handed round by an old retainer wearing gaiters who had been in service with the count's father. Both of them took it and drank.

“Quite delicious,” said Arne, “to tell you the truth, almost too delicious, especially for you, Holk. Coffee like that will take five years off the fifteen that I just promised you and those dull dogs who believe in homeopathy—highly respectable people, of course, but strongly against either Moka or Costa Rican—would perhaps subtract a little more. Apropos of homeopathy, have you heard of the homeopathic veterinary surgeon who has been in Lille-Grimsby for the last few weeks?”

And walking slowly up and down, the two brothers-in-law continued their conversation.

Meanwhile the countess was discussing quite another matter with Schwarzkoppen, who had left his parish in Wernigerode many years ago to come to Schleswig-Holstein on appointment as principal of the seminary. He had the reputation—and appearance—of a solid churchman, but—what was of almost greater importance for the countess—he was at the same time an authority on educational matters, matters which had recently become burning questions for the countess, as Asta was sixteen and Axel almost fifteen years old. Schwarzkoppen was now being consulted yet again on these delicate questions—and was making the most circumspect replies. When the countess perceived that, perhaps out of consideration for Holk, he was not prepared to give her his whole-hearted support, she let the matter drop and turned to another of her favourite projects, which she had also frequently discussed with the Principal, the erection of a family vault.

“What is happening about it?” asked Schwarzkoppen, glad to leave the question of education.

“I still haven't dared discuss the matter,” said the countess, “because I am afraid my husband will refuse.”

“That is a mistake, my dear countess. Such a fear is always wrong, because, although it is intended to foster good relations, it always leads to discord and conflict. And there is no need for either. If you can't find better motives, you must play on his foibles. After all, as you have yourself often told me, he has a passion for building.”

“That is true enough,” replied the countess, “and this castle is living proof of it, for it was hardly necessary; rebuilding the other would have been quite sufficient. But however much he likes building, he still has his own preferences and what I'm planning to do is not likely to appeal to him. I am quite sure that he would rather build a badminton court or one of those fashionable roller-skating rinks or anything rather than a building connected with the Church. And as for building a vault, well, he hates the idea of death and he always wants to postpone what the Scriptures call so beautifully ‘setting your house in order.'”

“I know,” said Schwarzkoppen. “But you ought not to forget that all his likeable qualities as well depend on just such weaknesses.”

“His likeable qualities,” she repeated. “Yes, he has plenty of those, almost too many, if you can ever have too many likeable qualities. And he would certainly be an ideal husband—if he had any ideals at all of his own. Forgive my play on words, but I cannot help it, because it is the truth and I must say it again, he thinks only of the present and never of the future. He refuses to face anything that might remind him of it. Ever since Estrid's funeral he has not once been back to the vault. That is why he doesn't even realize that it is completely dilapidated, although it is, and a new vault will have to be built. I say ‘have to be,' and if I did not make every effort to avoid personal or offensive remarks, I would point out to him that it's not a question of fearing that he might be the first, that I should like to be …”

Schwarzkoppen tried to interrupt, but Christine paid no attention and went on: “I want to be the first; but I insist, for my part, that my last resting-place must be one that I like and not a crumbling and tumble-down …. But there's no point in surmising what I would or would not say. For the moment I'm more interested in showing you some water-colour sketches of my design which Fräulein Dobschütz recently did for me, at my request. She is so good at drawing. It is a small covered forecourt with Gothic arches and the paved floor forms the roof of the vault. What I think most important, although this little sketch doesn't, of course, show it properly, is the paintings to decorate the walls and ceiling. The sidewalls with a Dance of Death, possibly in the style of the one in Lübeck, and angels and palm-leaves on the curved surface of the groins. The lovelier the better. And if we can't afford the best artists, then we shall have to be content with ones who are less good: after all, it is the thought that counts. Dear Julie, excuse my troubling you but will you please fetch us that sheet of paper …”

Meanwhile, Holk and Arne had continued their stroll and eventually reached the gravel path which wound its way to the near-by steps of the terrace leading down to the sea. Here there was a bower of cypresses and bay-trees with a marble seat in front and the two men sat down to smoke their cigars in peace, something which the countess did not really allow indoors, although she never forbade it. Surprisingly enough, their conversation was still about the amazing veterinary surgeon, which can only be explained by the fact that Holk, in addition to his love of building, possessed a passion for fine cattle. He was not a great farming man like his brother-in-law and, indeed, made a point of not being one; but he was fond of his cattle, almost as a sort of hobby, and enjoyed seeing them admired and telling stories of fabulous yields of milk. For this reason, the new veterinary surgeon was an important person for him, but he was continually being assailed by doubts as to the latter's homoeopathic methods. Arne was reassuring him: the most interesting thing was, he said, not that the new man was making successful cures—others were able to do that—but how and with what methods he was achieving such cures. It all amounted to nothing more nor less than the final triumph of a new principle and, through the treatment of animals, the success of homoeopathy had at last been proved beyond all doubt. Until now, all the old quacks had always been able to talk of the power of the imagination, meaning, of course, that it was not the minute doses themselves that were effecting the cure; but, thank God, a Schleswig cow could hardly be accused of possessing any imagination and if she were cured, it was by the drugs and not by faith. Arne enlarged on this point, at the same time emphasizing that there were other factors, not directly connected with allopathy or homoeopathy, in the cures effected by this new surgeon who had recently arrived from somewhere in Saxony to stay in Schleswig for a while. Amongst these factors was the most meticulous cleanliness, verging on luxury, so that one must have modern cow-sheds and in some cases one even needed to use marble mangers and racks made of nickel. Holk was almost in ecstasies at hearing this and was so anxious to tell Christine all about it that he threw away his cigar and rejoined the others.

“I have just been hearing the most interesting things, Christine. Your brother has been telling me about the homoeopathic cures of the new veterinary surgeon from Saxony who studied in Leipzig. I stress Leipzig, because it is the stronghold of homoeopathy. Really marvellous cures! Tell me, Schwarzkoppen, what's your opinion on the matter? Homoeopathy has something mysterious about it, something mystic. It is certainly most fascinating and by its
mystic
quality, just the thing for Christine.”

Schwarzkoppen smiled: “As far as I know, homoeopathy has nothing to do with anything mysterious or even very wonderful. It's simply a question of small or large quantities and whether you can do as much with a grain as with half a hundredweight.”

“Obviously,” said Holk, “and then there is the expression ‘similia similibus' which everyone can interpret as he likes. And a lot of people refuse to interpret it at all—our enlightened sly old vet included, I have no doubt. He merely dispenses his tiny doses and apart from that he is mainly concerned with cleanliness in the cow-sheds and marble mangers—I dare say even that the troughs have to be kept as clean as a font.”

“Helmut, I do think that you might show more consideration in your choice of metaphors, even for my sake but particularly as Dr. Schwarzkoppen is here.”

“I agree. Incidentally, they were the exact words used by your brother when he was quoting the wonder doctor himself, although no doubt it cannot be denied that even a doctor is ill-advised to use such expressions, especially if he is a Jewish convert—his name, by the way, is Lissauer.”

Schwarzkoppen and the countess exchanged glances.

“If he happens to come up to the farm, incidentally, I shall invite him to lunch in the bailiff's house. His presence here in the castle …”

“Can easily be dispensed with.”

“I'm well aware of that and you have no need to worry. But I give him credit for having his own ideas and the courage to express them. As far as the marble mangers are concerned, it's rather stupid and I think we need only give him credit for a rather charming oriental metaphor. But he's completely right in his insistence on general cleanliness. My cow-stalls date from the end of the last century and they must go. I'm only too pleased to have an excuse for putting an end to that dreadful state of affairs at last.”

The countess said nothing and merely poked her needle in the ball of silk lying on the table in front of her.

The count was annoyed by her silence. “I thought that you would agree.”

“You know that those are estate matters in which I have no say. If you think mangers of marble or something similar are necessary, then we shall have them, even if they have to be fetched from Carrara.”

“Why do you talk like that, Christine?”

“I'm sorry, Helmut, but you happen to have chosen the wrong moment. I have just been talking with Dr. Schwarzkoppen about matters much closer to my heart, building matters as well, incidentally, and at this very moment you come and talk of building cowsheds …”

“Of course I want to build them. You always forget, Christine, even if, as you've just said, you have no say, you always forget that first and foremost I am a farmer and that a farmer has, in fact, to be interested in farming, that it is the main thing for him.”

“No, Helmut, it is
not
the main thing.”

“Then what is?”

“It makes me very sad and unhappy that where you're concerned, I always have to point out the obvious.”

“Oh, now I understand. The church needs rebuilding or is it a convent or an orphanage? And after that it will be a Campo Santo and then we shall have to buy up all the pictures of Cornelius and have them made into frescoes for the walls …”

The count rarely descended to the use of such forceful language, but there were some subjects that had the effect of making him lose his temper and forget the good manners on which he normally prided himself. His brother-in-law knew this and so quickly intervened to change the subject, which his imperturbable good humour always enabled him to do.

“Sister, Helmut, my view is that we must do the one and not forget the other. There's wisdom for you—and peace too. Particularly as you have no idea what the question is about, my dear brother-in-law.”

Holk laughed good-humouredly.

“You have no idea,” continued Arne, “and I have no idea either, although Christine normally lets me into all her secrets. No doubt this will give us the key, unless this is all meant merely to mislead me.” He picked up the water-colour which Fräulein Dobschütz had meanwhile fetched. “Charming, whoever the author of it may be. Gothic arches, angels, palms. May a man not walk unmolested even in such surroundings? And our poor unfortunate veterinary surgeon was the cause of all this trouble, a man who walks about in top-boots and the only comic thing about him is that he speaks with a Saxon accent. He ought really to speak Low German or even Mecklenburger. Which reminds me, did you know that in Rostock and Kiel they have founded a school of Low German poetry, or rather, two schools, because when the Germans start anything they always split into two at once? Hardly was the Low German school started than we had another
itio in partes
and so the Mecklenburgers are parading under their leader Fritz Reuter and the Holsteiners under Klaus Groth. But Klaus Groth has stolen a march on the other because he is a lyric poet who can be set to music and everything depends on that. Before twelve months, no, before six months are out, there won't be a single piano without a song of his perched on it all the time. I saw something on your piano, Asta, can you sing anything of his?”