The Marquise of O–

Heinrich von Kleist, Nicholas Jacobs

• Publisher: Pushkin Press
• Year: 2019
• Print ISBN:
  9781782275299
• eBook ISBN:
  9781782275305
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Classics
• Index: Literature

A vivid new translation of a timeless classic: Kleist's tense, ambiguous novella about an unexpected pregnancy In a Northern Italian town, a young widowed noblewoman of impeccable reputation publishes a peculiar announcement in a newspaper: she has found herself inexplicably pregnant, and would like the father of the child to make himself known so that she can marry him. The Marquise of O- is the dizzyingly comic tale of how she came to this extremity. It is a story of layered ironies, of events misreported and passions at cross purposes. Nicholas Jacobs' fluid new translation captures the novella's restless pace and complexity, as each masterful twist of Kleist's prose plunges us deeper into the ambiguities of truth and human desire. Heinrich von Kleist was born in 1777 into a Prussian military family in Frankfurt an der Oder. He entered the army at a young age, serving in a Guards regiment under the Duke of Brunswick. He later studied law and philosophy in his hometown before doing clerical work for the Ministry of Finance in Berlin. Kleist wrote poetry, philosophical essays, plays, short stories and novellas, most famously Michael Kohlhaas and The Marquise of O-.

The Marquise of O—

IN M—, AN IMPORTANT TOWN in Northern Italy, the widowed Marquise of O—, a woman of impeccable reputation and mother of well-brought-up children, made it known through the newspapers that she had inexplicably found herself in a certain condition, that the father of the child she would bear should make himself known, and that out of regard for her family she was resolved to marry him. The woman who under the pressure of irremediable circumstances took such a strange step, risking universal derision with such fortitude, was the daughter of Colonel G—, Commandant of the citadel outside M—. Some three years before, she had lost her husband, to whom she had been most ardently and tenderly devoted, during a journey he had made on family business to Paris. At the behest of her excellent mother, the Marquise had, after her husband’s death, left her house in the country where she had lived outside V—, and returned with both her children to her father in the Commandant’s house. The following years she spent in deep seclusion, devoted to the care of her parents and the pursuit of art, literature and the education of her children, until the — War filled the surrounding region with the soldiers of almost all the European powers, even Russians. Ordered to defend the citadel, the Commandant urged his wife and daughter to withdraw either to the Marquise’s country house or to his son’s, near V—. However, before the women could weigh up the choice between the danger of remaining and the horror of what they might be subjected to in open country, the citadel was overrun by Russian troops and called upon to surrender. The Commandant told his family that from now on he would act as if they were not there, and responded with bullets and grenades. The enemy in turn bombarded the citadel, set fire to the magazine and captured an outwork; and when the Commandant, once more challenged to surrender, hesitated to do so, orders were given for a night attack and the fortress was captured by storm.

Just as the Russian troops, covered by heavy siege artillery, forced their way into the Commandant’s house, its left wing caught fire and the women were forced to leave. His wife, hurrying after their daughter, who had gone down the steps with her children, shouted that they should keep together and take shelter in the lower vaults, but a grenade exploding on the house at that precise moment caused total confusion inside. The Marquise came with her two children to the forecourt of the castle where the shooting, now at its heaviest, was already lighting up the night, forcing her, out of her mind where she should turn next, back into the burning building. Here she was unfortunate enough to meet a band of hostile riflemen just as she was intending to slip out by the back door. At the sight of her they suddenly fell silent, slung their weapons over their shoulders and took her with them while making the most abominable gestures. Tugged and pulled this way and that by the terrifying pack fighting among themselves, the Marquise vainly shouted for help to her trembling women servants, who were escaping through the door. She was dragged into the rear courtyard of the castle where, subject to the most shameful mishandling, she was about to sink to the ground when, at the sound of her screams for help, a Russian officer appeared and with angry thrusts scattered the dogs lusting after their booty. To the Marquise he seemed like an angel from heaven. He struck the murderous beast who was embracing her slender body in the face with the hilt of his sword so that blood poured out of his mouth and he staggered back; then, politely addressing her in French, he offered her his arm and led her, rendered speechless by all she had witnessed, into the other wing of the palace not yet consumed by the flames, where she proceeded to sink to the ground completely unconscious. There – when her frightened women reappeared, he took steps to send for a doctor, made assurances as he put on his hat that she would soon recover, and returned to the fighting.

The whole area was soon completely captured and the Commandant, who only continued defending himself because he hadn’t been granted amnesty, was just retreating with diminishing strength to the entrance of his house when the Russian officer emerged looking very hot in the face and ordered him to give himself up. The Commandant replied that this demand was precisely what he had been waiting for, handed over his sword and asked permission to enter the castle and look after his family. The Russian officer, who, judging by the role he was playing seemed to be one of the leaders of the assault, granted him this freedom with guard attached, then put himself with some speed at the head of a detachment, brought the fighting to a decisive end where it seemed in doubt, and as quickly as possible posted men to the fortress’s strong points. Next, he returned to the main courtyard, ordered the raging fire to be put out, and performed wonders of energy when his orders were not followed with appropriate zeal. At one moment he would be climbing, fire-hose in hand, into the middle of burning gables to direct the water flow, the next filling his Asiatic troops with horror by entering the arsenals and rolling out powder kegs and explosives. The Commandant, who had meanwhile returned to his house, broke into utter consternation on hearing what had happened to the Marquise, who in fact had fully recovered her consciousness without the help of a doctor, as the Russian officer had predicted, and had the pleasure of seeing all of her family well, but kept to her bed to calm their excessive concern, assuring her father that she had no other wish than to be allowed to get up in order to express her thanks to her rescuer. She already knew that he was Count F—, Colonel Commander of the — Infantry Corps and knight of various orders. She begged her father most urgently to seek him out and ask him not to leave the citadel without first for a moment making an appearance in the castle. The Commandant, out of respect for his daughter’s feelings, returned immediately to the fortress, sought out the Russian officer, who was permanently under pressure from military orders, took the opportunity of talking to him on the ramparts even as he was busy reorganizing his injured troops, and conveyed the best wishes of his thankful daughter. The Count assured him that he was only waiting for the moment when he could wind up his affairs and come and express his respects. He wanted to hear how the Marquise was feeling, but the orders of several officers arrived and forced him back again into the turbulence of battle. At daybreak the commander-in-chief of the Russian soldiers appeared and inspected the fortress. He assured the Commandant of his esteem, regretted that his luck had not given his courage the support it merited, and promised him the freedom to go wherever he wished. The Commandant communicated his gratitude and expressed how indebted he was on this day to the Russians in general and to the young Count F—, Colonel of the — Infantry Corps in particular. The Russian General asked what had happened, and was utterly outraged when told of the criminal assault on the Commandant’s daughter. He called for Count F— by name. Having first pronounced a brief eulogy on the Count’s own noble behaviour, during which the Count blushed somewhat deeply, he concluded by saying that he wanted to have the odious wretches who had brought the Tsar’s name into disrepute summarily shot, and ordered the Count to say who they were. Count F— replied in some confusion that he was not in a position to give their names because it had been impossible to recognize their faces in the weak and flickering lamps of the castle forecourt. The General, who had heard that the castle by then had already been in flames, expressed his surprise; he remarked that familiar persons could be identified at night by their voices, and when the Count shrugged his shoulders in embarrassment, the General told him to investigate the matter with the utmost speed and rigour. At this moment someone pressed forward from the back of the crowd and reported that one of the culprits, wounded by the Count, had fallen in the corridor and been dragged away to a cell by the Commandant’s men and could still be found there. The General had him brought up under guard, briefly interrogated him, and had the whole pack as identified by him—five in all—shot on the spot. This done, and leaving a small garrison behind, he gave orders for the general dispersal of the rest of the soldiers; the officers returned as swiftly as possible to their regiments. In the confusion of the hurried disbandment, the Count went to the Commandant and regretted that under these circumstances he could do no more than send his regards to the Marquise as her most obedient servant, and in less than an hour the whole fortress was once again free of Russians.

The family now wondered how in the future they could find an opportunity somehow to express their gratitude to the Count, but how great was their shock when they learnt that on the same day he left the fortress he had been killed in a skirmish with enemy soldiers? The messenger who brought this news to M— had seen him with his own eyes shot through the chest and taken to P—, where reliable reports had it that he died just as those carrying him were ready to set him down from their shoulders. The Commandant, who himself visited the place and inquired about the further details of this incident, learnt only that on the field of battle, at the very moment the bullet hit him, the Count was said to have called out: “Julietta, this bullet is your revenge!”, after which his lips closed for ever. The Marquise was inconsolable that she had let the opportunity pass of throwing herself at his feet. She made the most extreme self-reproaches for not herself having sought him out following his refusal, out of possible modesty she thought, to appear at the castle, and pitied her unhappy sister-in-name whom he had continued to think of when dying, even trying in vain to establish her whereabouts so she could tell her about this unhappy and moving event, and several months were to pass before she could herself forget it.

The time had now come for the family to leave the Commandant’s house, to make room for the Russian commander-in-chief. Initially they wondered if they should not settle on the Commandant’s estate, of which the Marquise was especial...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Contents
• Introduction
• A Kleist Chronology
• THE MARQUISE OF O—
• Bibliographical Note
• Further Reading in English
• Acknowledgements
• About the Publisher
• Copyright