Читать книгу The Blue Flower - Candia McWilliam, Penelope Fitzgerald - Страница 10

IN the Hardenbergs’ house there was an angel, August Wilhelm Bernhard, fair as wheat. After plain motherly Charlotte, the eldest, pale, wide-eyed Fritz, stumpy little Erasmus, easy-going Karl, open-hearted Sidonie, painstaking Anton, came the blonde Bernhard. To his mother, the day when he had to be put into breeches was terrible. She who hardly ever, if at all, asked anything for herself, implored Fritz. ‘Go to him, go to your Father, beg him, pray him, to let my Bernhard continue a little longer in his frocks.’ ‘Mother, what can I say, I think Bernhard is six years old.’

He was now more than old enough, Sidonie thought, to understand politeness to a visitor. ‘I do not know how long he will stay, Bernhard. He has brought quite a large valise.’

‘His valise is full of books,’ said the Bernhard, ‘and he has also brought a bottle of schnaps. I dare say he thought there would not be such a thing in our house.’

‘Bernhard, you have been in his room.’

‘Yes, I went there.’

‘You have opened his valise.’

‘Yes, just to see his things.’

‘Did you leave it open, or did you shut it again?’

The Bernhard hesitated. He could not remember.

‘Well, it doesn’t signify,’ said Sidonie. ‘You must, of course, confess to Herr Dietmahler what you have done, and ask his pardon.’

‘When?’

‘It should be before nightfall. In any case, there is no time like the present.’

‘I’ve nothing to tell him!’ cried the Bernhard. ‘I haven’t spoiled his things.’

‘You know that Father punishes you very little,’ said Sidonie coaxingly. ‘Not as we were punished. Perhaps he will tell you to wear your jacket the wrong way out for a few days, only to remind you. We shall have some music before supper and after that I will go with you up to the visitor and you can take his hand and speak to him quietly.’

‘I’m sick of this house!’ shouted the Bernhard, snatching himself away.

Fritz was in the kitchen garden patrolling the vegetable beds, inhaling the fragrance of the broad bean flowers, reciting at the top of his voice.

‘Fritz,’ Sidonie called to him. ‘I have lost the Bernhard.’

‘Oh, that can’t be.’

‘I was reproving him in the morning room, and he escaped from me and jumped over the window-sill and into the yard.’

‘Have you sent one of the servants?’

‘Oh, Fritz, best not, they will tell Mother.’

Fritz looked at her, shut his book and said he would go out and find his brother. ‘I will drag him back by the hair if necessary, but you and Asmus will have to entertain my friend.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘He is in his room, resting. Father has worn him out. By the way, his room has been turned upside down and his valise is open.’

‘Is he angry?’

‘Not at all. He thinks perhaps that it’s one of our customs at Weissenfels.’

Fritz put on his frieze-coat and went without hesitation down to the river. Everyone in Weissenfels knew that young Bernhard would never drown, because he was a water-rat. He couldn’t swim, but then neither could his father. During his seven years’ service with the Hanoverian army the Freiherr had seen action repeatedly and crossed many rivers, but had never been put to the necessity of swimming. Bernhard, however, had always lived close to water and seemed not to be able to live without it. Down by the ferry he was forever hanging about, hoping to slip on board without paying his three pfennig for the crossing. The parents did not know this. There was a kind of humane conspiracy in the town to keep many matters from the Freiherr, in order to spare his piety on the one hand, and on the other, not to provoke his ferocious temper.

The sun was down, only the upper sky glowed. The mist was walking up the water. The little boy was not at the ferry. A few pigs and a flock of geese, forbidden to go by way of Weissenfels’ handsome bridge, were waiting for the last crossing.