The Castle and the Plague

In the waning light of the day I sit by the window—if you can call that small square opening in the wall a window—and watch the sparrows pick at the dust in the dead fountain far below. I can tell that they are pecking at something by the sudden, jerking movement of their heads—small black dots against the graying stone. What is it they are pecking at? There is no food here.

I turn away and look beyond the dead fountain and the courtyard wherein it stands, like a skeletal guard, in front of the inner gate; beyond it rises the walls that have partially obstructed my view of the city since my earliest days, when I would stand up on my mother’s lap—or more often, on the shoulders of my nurse, for I was three years old when my mother passed from this world. It was a most fortunate event for her, though I often wonder what would have become of me if she lived.

As a child, I would often beg my nurse to take me up on her shoulders so that I could see just a little more of the city—just a little, little more, an imperceptible pushing-forward of the skyline. Sometimes, when I lay awake at night and savor what I can of those childish years when I was happy out of ignorance, counting the memories as a nun counts her beads, I can remember what I saw then: a city with narrow streets but colorful roofs, the thoroughfares bustling with activity even before daybreak, the marketplace covered with tiny splashes of moving color, the tall column at the center of the square and the statue of the equestrian on top, with his raised sword-tip pointing at the sun, and the avenue occupied by the marble dwellings of noblemen adjacent to the dilapidated quarters of the artisans—I say dilapidated because seen from afar, they were of indeterminate color, and on the very few occasions I have set foot in the city, my chaperone, who also happened to be my music teacher, always told the servants to steer clear of “the artisans’ den”.

But my impressions of the city derived far more from the conversation of my family than what I saw from my window. Occasionally I chanced to hear my father remark something or another about the dealings of a banker, bishop, baron, or burghermaster, but these remarks were often inscrutable, and my curiosity never got the better of my fear. Much more instructive were the ramblings of my brothers, and later on, the letters of my elder sister Laureta. Laureta, of course, told me much more of the world than my brothers ever did; Bertram was twelve years my senior, and I often doubted if he was aware of my existence or of the fact that I was often within earshot when he talked with Friedrich about the hunt, the court, and women. I know, in theory, how one spears and skins a deer, how one may please his Holiness the Archbishop even when the wine is not good, how one sneaks a baroness out of her husband’s house in the busiest part of town without being detected, and how one may distinguish between the malice of the mouthpiece and the displeasure at the fountainhead. I still remember Friedrich’s dismay when, as a child of thirteen, I asked him why the Elector of Mainz preferred half-cooked meat even though his wife had a weak stomach.

“Wherever did you hear of such a thing?” he asked. He was eighteen by then and was preparing to leave for his post under the Archbishop.

“From Bertram. Is it true?”

“Has he been talking politics to you?”

As if Bertram ever talked to me! But all I said was: “No, but I heard him say it.”

“To whom?”

“To the count of Hildeberg, two days ago.”

“You’d better not go about eavesdropping. Father won’t be pleased, and Madame Lorenza will probably be dismissed if you ever happen to mention it in his presence.”

“I never say anything to Father. But do tell me, is it true that Laureta is to marry the count?”

There was a pause before he said in a lowered voice: “Laureta knows?”

“Doesn’t she?”

“God forbid.”

“Why?”

“Now, you must seal your lips for good this time. It will never do, and these corridors echo—”

“Why shouldn’t Laureta know?”

“If you know so much, why ask me? Hurry back to Madame Lorenza, quick, before she misses you. And don’t you breathe a word about this, or Father will have you on the block.”

To “have one on the block” was a customary threat that the household used on us children whenever we seemed to pose a threat to our collective safety—safety from my father’s wrath; and now that Friedrich had the privilege of considering himself a grown man, he used it on me also.

But my suspicions were confirmed; Laureta was to marry the count, and I soon realized why Friedrich was not anxious for her to know. From her earliest childhood, Laureta had been destined for the cloister and had set her heart on it as a young girl sets her heart on her first lover. Laureta had enough of the family pride to consider that her vocation added luster to the family name—more luster than a conventional marriage. This was not without reason, since two of our aunts had been prioresses, and a second cousin was at that time reigning as an abbess—all of whose establishments boasted of enough coffers to afford them a life of luxury and commissions of art on a grand scale—and that combination, of course, appealed to Laureta. The abbey at which our cousin Joanna reigned was the richest in the southern parts of the empire, and the nuns, free from the struggles of worldly life and the admonitions of an ascetic bishop (for the bishop himself took a large share of the tithes), forgot all about living a life in denial and became as prosperous as baronesses—and happier, as Laureta used to say, for they served no husband but Christ, who is merciful. Yet Laureta served Beauty, and Beauty is the harshest of all masters.

She married the count, however, and I saw nothing of her for three years, but at least there were her letters and occasional gifts. By then I was sixteen, and for a while there was some talk of marrying me to one of my brother-in-law’s cousins. One of them, Philip von Stemp, was given my miniature, as I was given his; he accompanied his father on a visit and spoke to me courteously enough, though nothing came of it. Friedrich later said that the family had slipped into debt, and what held Anselm von Hildeberg’s head above the water was my sister’s sizable dowry. But my father did not think an alliance with the von Stemps worth the amount demanded on my account by Philip’s father.

There was a further cause for displeasure for him: Bertram’s marriage was not as advantageous as he had hoped, as the bride’s family, the von Eschenbachs, had recently been slighted by the Empress, and no one now spoke to them at court. Bertram had fled to Florence with his wife, where, according to rumors, money ran through his hands as if he had all the banking dynasties behind his back. He refused to heed my father’s summons to return to Kleveden.

Friedrich, then, was ordered to go to Florence to arrange the return of the prodigal son. He was preparing for this journey, standing at the back hall window just as he stood four years ago when he prepared to leave for the Archbishopric. He had just finished giving orders to a groom when I approached him.

“When are you leaving?” I asked.

“Tomorrow morning, God willing.”

“Are you riding with the von Eschenbachs?”

“No, not if you pay me. A worthless family if ever there was one.”

There was a pause. “You said nothing when Father married Bertram to Lise.”

“Nor did Bertram. What is there to say?”

“Then why are you going now?”

He turned to look at me full in the face. I knew that there was no need for an answer, and he did not give one.

“I want to go with you,” I said.

“What?”

“I want to see Florence.”

“Don’t talk nonsense,” he said quickly.

“Father need never know that I left. I’ve made arrangements.”

“Get those thoughts out of your head.” He began to walk away.

“Write to me, Friedrich,” I said, making a last attempt.

“If I have time, which is very unlikely,” was his answer, as he hurried down the corridor and out of sight. At that moment my life seemed to be a fragmented series of silhouettes disappearing down long corridors, their footsteps echoing daily in the halls of my memory, destined to be shadows and never substance. The first shadow belonged to my mother. The second was my younger sister Francesca, who had been sent to cousin Joanna’s abbey as a novice some years ago. Then came Laureta’s departure, and now, Friedrich’s.

His voice faded down the stone steps. Soon he appeared in the courtyard. I think I was angry with him, for I did not go outside to see him off, as was my habit; instead, I stood at the window and looked down at him, half hoping that he would look up. 

He did not. In a few minutes the clatter of hooves faded through the gate, and that was the last time I saw him—the last, that is, for five years, five long years of silence.