The Lightstep (3 page)

Maria von Adelsheim was happy – happier than she had
been for a long time, because there was peace at last, and
her brother would come home.

She was sitting on one of the long settees in the library of the
house at Adelsheim. At her back a great window let in all the light
that the dull day would allow. Around her, bookshelves reached
up to the high ceiling. Over her petticoats she wore the grey-green
dress that her mother had chosen for her that morning. Its
skirts spread widely around her. Her hair was piled and
powdered, and there was powder on her skin, for she and her
mother were receiving a caller today.

Maria did not give a fig for the caller – the elderly, fat, black-clad,
self-satisfied Carl Joseph Baron von und zu Löhm, who had
travelled out to Adelsheim to pay court to Mother because of
Mother's influence with her cousin, the Canon Rother-Konisrat.
But Maria did not have to entertain him herself. Her task was to
look decorative, and to read aloud to her mother's pet poet, Icht,
because there must be poetry in the air before Mother would
breathe it.

Lady Adelsheim was at her desk, a tiny figure dressed in warm
pinks, which stood out artfully beside the greens that she had
picked for Maria to wear. Her hair, like Maria's, was powdered
white and piled high above her head; there were letters before her
and a pen in her hand. She was discussing religion and politics
with the Baron Löhm. The Baron understood well the kind of
talk that best pleased his hostess. Even so, he did not have her
undivided attention. For Maria knew her mother was also
following her reading, and might choose to correct her at any
moment. At the same time she was directing her secretary, Müller,
in undertones. And in a second or two she would turn to deal
with fat, old, frock-coated Tieschen, who had bustled in from the
front door with something he needed to tell her.

Löhm, Icht, Maria, Müller and Tieschen: Lady Adelsheim dealt
with them all, and all at once, as though she were the Emperor in
Vienna surrounded by the ambassadors of Powers and Princes, by
subject aristocracies and even lowly citizens of the Empire, all
demanding attention. She dealt with Maria in French (which she
considered the superior language), with Löhm in French laced with
Latin, with Müller and Tieschen in German, and with Icht in either
French or German depending on the subject, because Icht's poetry
was written in German and she would adopt that language whenever
she was telling him how she thought he might improve it.

Thus (in French): 'My dear Löhm, you astonish me. One
would think you and your kind would usurp the very place of
the Church!'

'I will not deny, my Lady,' said the Baron, 'that to teach men
to be holy and good, in their own interests, is the aim of
Christianity itself. But these days the promotion of virtue is actually
hindered by the structures that were created in its name . . .'

(Lady Adelsheim simultaneously, in an undertone and in
German, 'No, the letter from Holz, Müller, I told you so quite
clearly . . .')

'. . . not within a generation, to be sure, but far more surely
than by feats of arms.
Tantae molis erat Romanam condere gentem.
Long before the first Pope took his seat, the ancients were hewing
their own paths to virtue, as you will know.'

'I believe they hewed a very maze, my Lord.
Quot homines tot
sententiae.
For the whole truth was not revealed to them . . .'

And Maria, reading aloud in French, emulated the voice of a
man,
'Sing me your song.'
And in the plaintive tones of a woman
who loved, she answered,
'I sing. But you do not hear me!'

'Maria,' said her mother immediately, 'even for a heathen concubine,
that is too much. Icht will tell you that you must maintain
a certain distance from the work even as you appreciate it.'

'Oh indeed,' said Icht, the poet, who was sitting bolt upright
in his seat because he could never let his spine touch the back of
a chair in Lady Adelsheim's presence. 'Indeed, my Lady. And yet it
is a work of passion, there is no doubt of that. Some passion must
be allowed.'

'Passion impedes the mind,' said Mother. 'It is not possible to
be truly virtuous if one is also passionate. Maria knows that quite
well. Baron, you contrive to sound most reasonable. Yet the Abbé
Barruel will have it that your kind were secretly responsible
for the Revolution itself. Am I to suppose that this was an
error?'

'I sing,'
Maria read,
'but you do not hear me'.

'You have read that already,' said Mother. 'I heard it quite
distinctly.'

'It is an error of the Abbé, no doubt, my Lady,' said Baron
Löhm. 'Although you will forgive me if I do not wholly understand
what you mean by "my kind".'

'Pish! You know quite well what I mean. You are an
Illuminatus
and a freemason. A most terrible man indeed. The church
abominates you and all your like.'

'If you perceive this, my Lady,' said Löhm, looking more
satisfied than ever, 'then doubtless you will also have perceived
that an
Illuminatus
is not in fact a freemason.'

'I have perceived that they are the same thing, only worse,' said
Lady Adelsheim, with a brilliant smile. And:
'Ja, Tieschen?'

Tieschen did not speak at once, but took a step forward and
bent to whisper in her ear. And because he did so, everyone else
stopped saying what they were saying and craned to listen.
Tieschen finished. There was a moment of stillness.

'Impossible,' said Lady Adelsheim.

'My Lady, he did say it was urgent, and most grave . . .'

'Quite impossible, Tieschen. I am occupied, as you must surely
know. He must come back another time, or write. Continue,
Maria. I am sure Icht is most interested.'

Maria lifted her book again, holding it up to make the most
of the sullen light from the window behind her. Despite the grey
skies and the tap of the rain on the windows, her spirits were
high. This was one of her favourite pieces: an allegory composed
of a dialogue between a prince and his concubine, set in some far
Arabian land where the air was warm and scented, where clothes
were light and the flesh beneath them throbbed with the blood
of desire. It was a favourite because Albrecht had introduced it to
her the last time he had been home, pointing out the references
to the power of liberty and the impending death of tyranny,
which pleased both her and him. It reminded her of him now, so
that she even imagined that the face of the Prince in the story
was his, and that she herself was the concubine, who in another
time and place might have thrilled with love for him.

And soon they would be seeing him again. He was well. They
knew he was well, because they had just had a letter from him –
one of those letters that had come every few weeks during the
long months of waiting, strengthening her and reassuring her like
lamps on a dark journey, to tell them all the ridiculous things that
had been happening to him in his regiment on the Rhine, or
wherever the campaigns had taken him. And at last there was
peace! Although Maria was sorry that the war should have ended
in defeat, she was glad that it was over. She suspected it had never
been necessary. It had taken him away. Last year, when the French
had marched deep into Germany, it had even driven the family
into exile in Bohemia, to find refuge on the estates of their distant
cousin Count Effenpanz. And while Adelsheim had survived in
their absence, many other estates and families had suffered. Now
it was over, and Albrecht would come home at last.

That was what lit her heart, as she sat in the library with the
cold fingers of the rain tapping at the window behind her; and
the piece she was reading reminded her of it, in case she could
possibly have forgotten.

'Scatter roses!'
she ordered, in the voice of the Prince. And as
the concubine:
'But you do not see them!'

'Tieschen,' said Mother once more. 'I have said that it is
impossible.' And Tieschen left to deliver her sentence to
whomever it was that had been applying to her.

By chance, Maria caught the Baron's expression. He seemed
more satisfied still. Of course he would not have welcomed
another demand on his hostess's attention. And yet his brow had
also lifted a fraction in surprise. Lady Adelsheim would normally
have accepted any caller she thought capable of intelligent
conversation, and of appreciating her intelligence when she
bestowed it on them. The Baron, Illuminatus (or not), abominated
by the church (or not), was wondering what this particular
caller had done to offend.

So did Maria, a little.

For a moment Wéry could not believe he had heard correctly.

'But – but did you not give her my message? I must speak
with her about her son!'

A frown flickered on the servant's face. Perhaps he did understand
that this stranger had something to say about young
Albrecht, who was away with the Prince-Bishop's little army. But
it plainly could not matter any more, because the Lady had said
he must leave.

'I regret, sir, that the Lady is not able to receive you today.'

'Then I must speak with the Knight.'

'The Knight does not receive visitors.'

And there he stood, like a fat old sheep in the track, too stupid
to do anything but bleat the same old bleat in the face of a world
that was changing.

'I do not believe you can have delivered my message
correctly!'

'Indeed I did, sir. But the Lady is not able to receive you.'

'Why in Heaven not? I have come all the way from Erzberg,
and with very important news. What is the matter – is she sick?'

'Sir!'

If the Lady of the house was not able to receive visitors, it
seemed, that was enough. It was not permitted to ask why. Wéry
towered over the small servant. He was nervous and angry. He
had come leagues to be here, when his duty lay somewhere else.
He was not going to start a brawl in this house, but . . .

He puffed his cheeks to show his frustration.

'Very well,' he said. 'Very well. Please have my coat and gloves
brought to me. And let the stable bring my horse to the door.'

The little servant turned impassively, strode to the foot of the
stairs and clapped his hands to summon help. And Wéry stepped
lightly into the hall behind him. One, two, three paces were all he
needed. He was heading down the corridor opposite, from which
the man had come.

'Sir!'

'Don't be a fool!' he snarled over his shoulder, and shook the
fellow's hand from his arm.
Clop, clop, clop
went his heels on
the wooden floor, echoing along the walls like the guns of
invading armies.

At the end of the corridor a door was half-open, and a
woman's voice murmured from beyond.

The etiquette of Lady Adelsheim's salon did not permit Maria or
Icht to take part in conversations between Lady Adelsheim and
someone like the Baron, but it did permit the Baron to step down
and join in whatever was going on between his hostess and the
lesser persons present. Now he was offering them his views on
the famous romantic writers of the day, referring largely to
The
Sorrows of Young Werther
for examples to support his argument.

'. . . So are we to suppose that passion – a passion so great that
the possessor of it ultimately destroys himself – should be in some
sense held up for admiration? Surely this is beyond any reason?
And if we admire it, do we not deny the faculty of reason in
ourselves?'

'But my dear Löhm, to go – as you say – "beyond reason" is
precisely what the man Goethe and his fellows would do! For
them Reason is a cage to the spirit. If you do not appreciate that
you cannot appreciate what they have achieved.'

'You said yourself, my Lady, that it is necessary to maintain a
certain distance even as you appreciate.'

'And so I do. I remain within reason, and beyond reason, at the
same time. It is merely a matter of existing in two places at once.
Continue, Maria. Perhaps Klopstock – it is Klopstock, is it not? –
has some further light for us. Although in truth I find allegory in
all forms most tedious.'

Maria dutifully returned to the point at which Baron Löhm
had interrupted her.

'My love!'
she read in the concubine's voice.
'Your steed neighs
to carry you to battle. And yet your heart trembles. What is it you see? A
spirit of the dead?'
And in the Prince's voice she replied.
'Not a spirit
of the dead, but . . .'

'But a hussar!' interjected Lady Adelsheim, in a tone of mock
wonder.

Maria looked up.

Standing in the doorway was a tall man, a complete stranger,
in the uniform of a captain in the Prince-bishop's hussars.

He was indeed very tall, and he had that leanness about him –
the hollowness of the neck, the prominence of the cheekbones –
that Maria associated with men who had been on the campaigns,
where food always seemed to be so scarce. His shoulders and
upper spine stooped a little, as if he were forever having to bend
to hear what people shorter than he were saying. His eyes were
dark, his brows bushy, his nose long and blunt – there was something
of the raptor in his look. His forehead was round and high,
and might have been creeping higher still into the beginnings of
baldness. His hair was light brown, unpowdered, and cut short.

Fat old Tieschen in his frock coat was at the man's elbow,
looking agitated.

'I am astonished,' said Lady Adelsheim, still in French. 'Is this a
hussar officer?'

A lady, on introduction to a gentleman, should offer him her
hand. The gentleman should take it and bow over it as if to kiss
it, although his lips must not actually touch her skin or glove. The
gentleman might then be introduced to any other company
present, and conversation might proceed, upon any topic that
society considered suitable.