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Authors: John Dickinson
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she could will Albrecht into coming home
safe? She had made them all so sure that he would! And now she
would blame everybody, everybody and everything, because he
would not. She would even blame Maria, perhaps, sensing that
her daughter had not believed strongly enough that he would
return. As if it had been through some flaw in the wall of will that
the enemy had come to rob him of his life!
You did not love him as I did.
Furious, Maria swept her mother's letters aside. The leather
desktop, shiny, with all its familiar stains, looked up at her. For
a moment she stared at it, unseeing. Then her fingers found
more paper. They picked up the pen. She dipped it, and began
to write:
Sirs,
Today I have heard the news of my brother's death at the
hands of French soldiers near Hersheim.
I well remember how, when we first heard the news of your
Revolution, my brother and I rejoiced together. It seemed to
us a wonderful thing that a state should order itself according
to the principles of reason and equality, rather than of privilege.
Although we ourselves were privileged, we swore to each
other that we would gladly exchange . . .
Already her fingers had begun to tremble. She put the pen
carefully into its stand. There was a lump in her throat, and the
emptiness in her chest seemed to weigh within her. Breathing
was difficult. No, not difficult, but it had become a task that the
body was no longer doing by itself. Now her mind was aware of
it, and she must think about it to make it happen. Now, even
living was an effort of will.
She drew breath, and heard the sob in it. She wondered if she
was about to weep. And she thought that she would. Just for these
few moments, at last, she would close her eyes to the world and
weep, and cling to the thought of her brother, as if his ghost had
come to be with her one last time.
She had been dancing, here in the library, eighteen months
ago. There had been no partner but the lighted candle that she
held in both hands, no music but her own low humming, and no
audience except Alba, lying on the settee by the window with the
heels of his boots propped up on the arm.
He had lost much of his plumpness in the campaigns. His uniform
no longer fitted well. His neck had been scrawny, his nose
no longer just fine but sharp, and pointed straight up at the ceiling.
But he had still been alive, still Alba, just as if he always would
be. And she had danced before him.
She had danced, feeling both very grown up and rather
mystical, because she had felt the world was changing and that the
changes might yet sweep everything she had known away. One-two-
three, one-two-three, she had been thinking, and turn and
back and one-two-three . . .
'I have been waiting for you to explain what you are doing
with that candle,' he had said (speaking German as he always
did with her, in defiance of Mother's rules). 'Will you not oblige
me?'
'I'm dancing with it.'
'I can see that. Nero fiddled while Rome burned, and now
you dance while the Empire totters. But it is more usual to dance
with a gentleman, if one is present. And if the gentleman is not
present, or does not please you, it is usual to dance with a chair.
I believe you are about to set your dress on fire.'
'Then the Empire shall totter while I burn,' Maria had said, as
she turned in a figure, counted and turned again. 'But I may not
dance this dance with a man, nor with a chair. It must be with a
lamp or a candle. The candle should have a hood and this one
does not. Do not bleat, brother. I am being careful.'
'What dance is this, if men may not dance it?'
'It is the Lightstep. And it's your fault we dance it, because you
and all your friends are away, and there are too few gentlemen to go
around. So the Countess said that if we could not dance with the
gentlemen, we should dance with each other. And she had some of
the May-dances adapted for the ballroom. This is one of them.'
'I imagine the Countess was not sorry to surround herself
with beautiful
safe? She had made them all so sure that he would! And now she
would blame everybody, everybody and everything, because he
would not. She would even blame Maria, perhaps, sensing that
her daughter had not believed strongly enough that he would
return. As if it had been through some flaw in the wall of will that
the enemy had come to rob him of his life!
You did not love him as I did.
Furious, Maria swept her mother's letters aside. The leather
desktop, shiny, with all its familiar stains, looked up at her. For
a moment she stared at it, unseeing. Then her fingers found
more paper. They picked up the pen. She dipped it, and began
to write:
Sirs,
Today I have heard the news of my brother's death at the
hands of French soldiers near Hersheim.
I well remember how, when we first heard the news of your
Revolution, my brother and I rejoiced together. It seemed to
us a wonderful thing that a state should order itself according
to the principles of reason and equality, rather than of privilege.
Although we ourselves were privileged, we swore to each
other that we would gladly exchange . . .
Already her fingers had begun to tremble. She put the pen
carefully into its stand. There was a lump in her throat, and the
emptiness in her chest seemed to weigh within her. Breathing
was difficult. No, not difficult, but it had become a task that the
body was no longer doing by itself. Now her mind was aware of
it, and she must think about it to make it happen. Now, even
living was an effort of will.
She drew breath, and heard the sob in it. She wondered if she
was about to weep. And she thought that she would. Just for these
few moments, at last, she would close her eyes to the world and
weep, and cling to the thought of her brother, as if his ghost had
come to be with her one last time.
She had been dancing, here in the library, eighteen months
ago. There had been no partner but the lighted candle that she
held in both hands, no music but her own low humming, and no
audience except Alba, lying on the settee by the window with the
heels of his boots propped up on the arm.
He had lost much of his plumpness in the campaigns. His uniform
no longer fitted well. His neck had been scrawny, his nose
no longer just fine but sharp, and pointed straight up at the ceiling.
But he had still been alive, still Alba, just as if he always would
be. And she had danced before him.
She had danced, feeling both very grown up and rather
mystical, because she had felt the world was changing and that the
changes might yet sweep everything she had known away. One-two-
three, one-two-three, she had been thinking, and turn and
back and one-two-three . . .
'I have been waiting for you to explain what you are doing
with that candle,' he had said (speaking German as he always
did with her, in defiance of Mother's rules). 'Will you not oblige
me?'
'I'm dancing with it.'
'I can see that. Nero fiddled while Rome burned, and now
you dance while the Empire totters. But it is more usual to dance
with a gentleman, if one is present. And if the gentleman is not
present, or does not please you, it is usual to dance with a chair.
I believe you are about to set your dress on fire.'
'Then the Empire shall totter while I burn,' Maria had said, as
she turned in a figure, counted and turned again. 'But I may not
dance this dance with a man, nor with a chair. It must be with a
lamp or a candle. The candle should have a hood and this one
does not. Do not bleat, brother. I am being careful.'
'What dance is this, if men may not dance it?'
'It is the Lightstep. And it's your fault we dance it, because you
and all your friends are away, and there are too few gentlemen to go
around. So the Countess said that if we could not dance with the
gentlemen, we should dance with each other. And she had some of
the May-dances adapted for the ballroom. This is one of them.'
'I imagine the Countess was not sorry to surround herself
with beautiful
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