The Saint and Her Fool

Titel Seite

Christmas in the Forest

The Word of Honor

The Hall of Fame

The Home of Pillars

How Festivities are Celebrated

The Day of the Lilies

Rosemarie

The Castle of Silence

The Blue Dwarf

The Orchids

The Minister

The Friends

The Church Room

The Heavenly Meadow

Letters

The Plum Manikin

Summer in the Country

Iphigenia

The Old Song

Of Queens

The Black Ribbon

Thorstein Castle

The Burden of Gold

The Next Day

Two Worlds

Shower of Gold

The Swan Maiden

Silence

The Best Gingerbread Recipe

The Lesson

On the Wings of Sanctification

The Dream

Clouds

Chapter 34

Heinz Frederick

The Scalawag

The Roman Meadow

The Golden Ribbon

The Professor

Mart

Dialogue

The Reunion

Sacrifices

Of Heavenly Gardens

The Saint and her Fool

The Most Beautiful Painting

The Decision

The One Hour

Going Home

Visiting Prisoners

Of Heinz and Gisela

The Surprise

The Oratorio

Under the Veil of Gisela

Titel Seite

Agnes Günther  

The Saint and her Fool

A mystical tale of boundless love

To all the women who know the secret of serenity, courage and wisdom. Especially dedicated to our beloved mothers – teaching us the true meaning of these words through their unconditional love.

And to Heide Ruopp – our inspiration and guide, who kept us going throughout the years.

***

Bibliographic information published by the National Library: The German National Library lists this publication in the detailed national bibliographic data, available online at http://dnb.d-nb.de

The Saint and her Fool – Written by Agnes Günther: Original Edition (Erstausgabe) 1913    

English Translation:  Adelheid Cihlar, Sabine Egeler

Translation copyright © 2016:  Adelheid Cihlar, Sabine Egeler

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction, in whole or in part, in any form.

For more information:

www.maeuslegeschichten.de (Cihlar)

www.4ma-egeler.de (Egeler)

***

The unique success story of a novel

The overwhelming triumph of Agnes Günther’s German novel

"Die Heilige und ihr Narr"

is a tale in itself.

In the whirlwind time we live in, bestsellers are often short-lived. This was not the result of the German success novel "The Saint and her Fool", which can still be purchased today in the 145th edition. It was the only novel by Agnes Günther, published two years after her death. Her inspiration came from her surroundings; descriptions of the castle locations in the book were within her reach and she often wandered the paths written in the book. Though the story is well-known as trivial literature, it captures the emotional mystic of perpetual love; a sentiment that is now often regarded as a fairy tale.

The first edition was released in May of 1913 and the book quickly conquered the hearts of the public. The mainly female reading audience in postwar Germany was captivated by the story of Princess Rosemarie, a tenderhearted young woman with an infinite force of mystical spirit, and her unwavering love for the handsome but impoverished “Earl of Ruins”, Harro von Thorstein. The novel reached sensational sales figures from the beginning.

The number of printed copies in German exceeded the million mark, as was the story filmed three times in 1928, 1935 and 1957 and has been translated into eleven other languages, but never into English.

After three generations, this task has been taken on by the author Adelheid Cihlar (born in Montreal, Canada) and translator Sabine Egeler (born amidst in locations in the book, in Crailsheim, Hohenlohe).

Our wish is to make this extraordinary text accessible in English, for lovers of fine literature. Step with us into the “old-world” of royalty, treachery and forgiveness, and -above all- the passion of undying love.

Slip under the mystical  Veil of Gisela with us.

*************************************************************************************

Preface by Prince Philipp of Hohenlohe-Langenburg

“A unique book" - this is how the 1913 published German novel "Die Heilige und ihr Narr” by Agnes Günther (1863-1911) has been described. Still being in print today with the 145th edition and, so far, translated into eleven languages, indeed proves the exceptional success of this novel.

The author lived in Langenburg from 1891-1906, as the wife of the local pastor, where she wrote her first and only novel, inspired by the charm of the countryside and castles.

Adelheid Cihlar and Sabine Egeler, now present this exceptional novel in English – a task that has been long overdue.

Agnes Günther has aptly described our homeland Hohenlohe in all its beauty. The surroundings emphasize this tale of spiritual passion and allow the readers a glimpse into the fictional lives of a 19 th century aristocratic family.

Christmas in the Forest

For days, a dense fog lingered among the trees in the forest. Now a sudden drop in temperature, a bitter chill has transformed the thick dampness and embellished the trees, attiring each in a rigid, yet glittering, festive Christmas gown. The old stone pines, standing high on a vast hill, seem to be decorated for the holiday season with their icy pine cones hanging down like jewellery. Their branches are low, bent to the ground by their heavy burden, forming a secret nest in which, one could imagine, a freezing little rabbit or fawn might find shelter.

The birch trees are covered with countless crystal beads and white frost clings to their feathered branches, in particular where a leaf bud awaits the oncoming spring. It is as if the trees are longing to have their May in the midst of winter although the bloom, now, is silver.

Each mossy spot along the path, the thorn bush there with its red berries still shining out from under its crystal branches, each one of them has put on festive attire. How dainty and delicate is the thistle with its silver crown, and the blackthorn has become the masterpiece of an elf silversmith. All is quiet; only here and there a fine tinkling can be heard, or a sigh, as a branch shakes off a portion of the load that has become too heavy to bear. The beech trees seem to have resumed their canopy over the path, as in summer, only now creating the fine white, silver and crystal dome of a forest cathedral above. A wonderful soft light glitters through the misty grey sky, the mere hint of a frosted golden sun.

The hazel bush has been decorated with silver ribbons, their peculiar coils and curves connecting the branches. These are the silky cobwebs of a spider which now hangs lifeless as a withered leaf over her still sleeping child. And how amazed would the diligent spinner be to see the wondrous result of her cocoon. A bird flutters up and a cloud of tiny silver stars whisk up into the air, only to settle down onto the ground, trimming the path that had been so bare and brown.

High on the hill, upon which the old stone pines stand, a tall man appears and strides towards the cathedral of beech trees. He is dressed in an olive green waistcoat and has a shabby felt hat on his curly brown hair. From under the old hat his grey-blue eyes shine out in admiration of the splendor surrounding him. The first impression of this man might only take in his remarkable tall and muscular appearance, but a mere glimpse into his eyes would reveal his most striking feature; for these are eyes that not only see but, rather, behold, as if absorbing the reflections of the forest: the fine silver-clad rows of beech trees, distantly illuminated by the frosted light of the sky.

„Eyes, my window to the world … take it all in. Oh, eyes, behold as much as you can of the world’s golden abundance,” he sighs, making no difference that the abundance before him was silver right now.

He leans against the mighty beech tree, allowing the silence and serenity to embrace him, and it is as if the trees and bushes are holding their breath; as if something wonderful, something mystical is happening, something that could change the course of life. The only sound that can be heard is the fine tinkling and sighing of the branches from near and afar: the heartbeat of the forest.

Could it not be that the veil has torn for an instant; the veil that separates us humans from the world around us which we sense is there when we are able to be silent? The veil that keeps us from the silence that descends from the stars at night or settles on us in the stillness of a forest, a place which had been sacred to our fathers. Had they been so foolish as to treasure these surroundings?

Oh, why have you become so shy, you delicate, brown roe? How far apart from each other, how secluded are the children of the world, how lonely is the heart that beats within. Neither animal nor plant really know you, they shy away from you, yet the same stream of red liquid life flows through your heart as does through that of the animal there. You love that four hundred-year-old oak tree, battered and blown from many a wild and stormy night, its lightning-scorched branches now winding like giant snakes up towards the sky. This giant is like a friend to you; you have known him since childhood when on dark autumn evenings, following your father through the forest, you used to gaze up in timid amazement. If one morning you were to find the ancient tree broken and dead on the ground, you would mourn for it as for a good, old friend. But the tree knows nothing about you. The human being wanders in loneliness between all that is life and death, living for the moment, enjoying the blossoming in May and dreaming his silver dreams in winter.

The man stares down to the very end of the path, to where it vanishes in a fragrant veil of mist, as if something were about to come out of it. A longing rises in him, a burning desire that springs from loneliness. Suddenly he sees a small maiden scurrying through the mist, wrapped in an old, brown shawl, the ends trailing along the ground, gathering all sorts of flora, thorns and scraps of frozen moss. She seems to be in a great hurry and she disappears behind the hazel bushes. He knows that beyond these bushes there is a tremendous drop and only a small, icy path leading down. He takes long strides toward the bushes.

„Wait! You cannot go down there!”

A snap, then a child’s faint scream pierces the eerie stillness.

„Hold on! Hold on to a branch. I shall come and get you.”

Half dragging himself, half sliding he descends and finds her in a hollow, blown together with a pile of leaves, lying there in a small, brown heap. Getting hold of a sturdy branch, he reaches for her with his other hand as she stares at him, fright in her chalky white face.

„Here, take my hand, I shall not harm you. Don’t be frightened. Have you hurt yourself?”

„No.” Her voice sounds timid and quite startled.

„Well, then, give me your hand.”

She shakes her head.

„Where in the world are you going?”

She turns, indicating with her covered head the mountain slope on the other side where the forest rises again in icy magnificence.

„This is not the way to get there. Where do you come from?”

No answer.

„Are you from Berklingen?”

A timid answer: „No.”

„No? Your dialect is not as spoken here, otherwise you would have said na.”

She must be a foreign child. She seems to be lost. There are no lumbermen in the forest at this time of day for they have finished their work and gone to their little houses with the pointed gables, to where the children are eagerly waiting for their fathers to set up the Christmas tree.

„Are you looking for your father?”

Now she shakes her head in vigorous denial.

„So definitely for not him,” he mutters.

He lets go of the branch and, stumbling and sliding down, reaches the small nest where the child is crouching and glancing swiftly from side to side as if seeking a means of escape. But she soon realises there is none because she is caught up in the icy, thorny blackberry bushes behind her. Then, with a sudden jerk, she attempts to flee and the trail of her shawl with all its gatherings gets torn off. Nonetheless, he is able to grasp her and as much as she resists and flails about like a small bird held in a hand, he manages to pull her up. Now she is standing with him on the path, trembling, and her face is as white as snow. He smiles at her and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a large, rosy apple which he holds out to her as an offering of peace.

„Here, take it and tell me where it is you are planning to go. Then I shall show you the way, wondrous little lady in your ragged dress.”

Her brown shawl has been quite badly torn by the thorns. She doesn’t want the apple and he puts it back into his pocket though it seems his gesture, or maybe her glancing into his blue eyes, has built a bridge between them.

„Oh, what fine features your face has! And what has happened to your left leg? It looks quite cold, having no boot on it as your right leg does.”

„I couldn’t get it on and I was in a hurry. It isn’t cold at all.”

These are the first words she speaks and, again, he notices that it is not the dialect commonly spoken here.

„And where are you going?”

„Nowhere.”

„I see. Nowhere. Well, that is where I am planning to go, too; so we are both going the same way.”

He nods encouragingly, puts his hands in his pockets and strolls along beside her, still keeping an eye on her so that she cannot slip away. Reluctantly, as if it might be good to have a companion on the way to Nowhere Land, she follows him, this strange little person in tattered cloth. Her legs are stained with traces of ice and thawed dirt; on her right leg she is wearing a boot buttoned down wrongly, on the left, only a stocking with a big hole exposing the white skin of her knee. As he walks with her, he picks up the scent of her shawl. It is the odour of poverty, the odour of seldom-aired, stuffy rooms, pickled cabbage and numerous other common things. The bridge of her nose is very finely, almost proudly shaped, her eyes are large and bright and when she closes her delicate eyelids, it seems as if her eyes shimmer through like tiny stars.

„So you have run away.”

She seems startled and a big yes is written across her face. His laughter is filled with warmth.

„When people go to Nowhere Land, they mostly come from somewhere they didn’t like.”

„And I am not going back.”

„Were you treated so badly?”

„No, not badly. I couldn’t say that.”

She seems to trust him more with each minute. For a while they walk together through this enchanted forest and he waits with the sensitivity for the soul of a child which some people have, knowing that a child’s mind may stray by being asked too many questions and that trust is more likely to be gained though friendly patience. But her steps have become hesitant and slower, and as she passes a pile of brushwood covered with a layer of ice, she sits down on it and says very politely, as would a well-bred maiden, „I thank you very much, I shall stay here.”

„Tired?”

He takes a seat across from her on a stone mound and crosses his long legs.

„May I now serve the apple, my little lady?”

Her eyes light up and a small hand reaches out hesitantly from under the tangle of fringes as a light blush covers her cheeks.

„Thank you. It looks good.”

And now she begins to speak: „Once, Seamstress Rose gave me an apple and I hid it under my sheets until night when everyone was gone. Wasn’t that nice of her? She has red hair and lives in a small cottage where huge, red flowers bloom during summer. She has nine brothers and sisters and when she comes home in the evening, she sews clothes for all of them.”

„What a busy little Seamstress Rose! And where is this cottage with the huge, red flowers which I assume are mallows?”

„First you get to a green field and when the sun is shining, the field is full of white stars and little yellow crowns, and then you come to the tall trees that reach up to the sky and sigh.”

„That sounds wonderful! I think it would be best to continue on our way and visit Seamstress Rose. She will surely have another apple because I have none left, and this seat is cold and my legs are stiff.”

But she shakes her head. „I want to stay here or else I shall have come all this way for nothing.” Her gentle eyes shine now in sweet and utter confidence. „I do not want to go back. I shall wait for nightfall and I am not hungry anymore because you have given me your apple.”

„You want to stay here overnight and you are not afraid! You are taking on quite a task! Don’t you know that people fall asleep and never wake up again in severe coldness?”

„I shall not fall asleep. I am waiting, you see. Look at the trees there and the white lilies and the silver crowns, the crystal twigs and the strings of pearls and ribbons. Why have they dressed up so beautifully? They are all waiting, knowing something special will happen; they know it well. And earlier a deer passed and looked at me and it also knew.”

„You feel it as well, don’t you?”

He nods to himself. This child has something sacred about her. Sitting there, she also reminds him of a rose so delicate, yet bearing protective thorns.

„What is your name?”

„I have many names but not one of them seems right. At night I think I know the right one but by morning I have forgotten it again. My father calls me ‘poor little thing’ but I don’t want to be called that. So I just left; but I only realised that this is the real Christmas forest once I found myself in it.

„Well, I shall call you ‘Saint Rose’.”

He leans forward and lifts the small child, despite the pungent odour of her shawl, onto his knee, wrapping his jacket around her colder leg, the one in the stocking with the big hole. Now she is not afraid at all anymore and she is playing with his brown buckhorn buttons.

„You know the story of the Christkind, of Baby Jesus who brings beautiful presents? It is all a lie. They are all from a catalogue: the dolls and wagons and soldiers … everything. If it was the real Christkind, he would know that I do not want any new dolls that know nothing about me or of how I feel.”

„Your old dolls know you well, do they?”

„Of course they do! Every night I put them to bed and I never leave them lying about! But at Christmas they are all taken away and are given to the bad children and if I see them again somewhere, their clothes are all dirty. And Lilla, my doll with the beautiful curls, had only one eye left and her arm was broken. Now I no longer play with dolls.

„So they have spoiled your pleasure of playing with dolls, poor little Rose.”

She continues her explanation: „The real Christkind who knows what is in my heart does not come to me. That is why I have come into the forest. Listen to how the tree is sighing! If there really is a Christkind, he has to be here. And even if I were to fall asleep, at least I shall never have to return home to be laughed at because they think I am foolish. I can never find the right words, the ones they want to hear; I can never speak the way other children do.

However, the Christkind would not let me fall asleep. He would come along and bells would tinkle, fine and delicate … Can you hear them? Since I arrived in the forest, I have been hearing the bells and I have followed their ringing to this place, and have come so far that I cannot turn around, come too far to go back now. Or, maybe, if I did fall asleep here, my mother would come and fetch me; she is lying in her silver coffin, with my little brother snuggled in one arm. He has always been allowed to be with her while I have had to learn and study hard and lie all alone in my bed, crying silently lest anyone hear. Maybe she would take me in her other arm and I could stay with her in her silver coffin. Then people could laugh as much as they wished and I would not hear them because there is a thick iron door that seals the silver coffin and no one may open it.”

„Their laughter hurts my little Rose that badly?”

„Surely you know how that is? They all laugh at you, too!”

„They laugh at me? Do you know who I am?”

„You are the Earl of Thorstein Castle. They call you the Earl of Ruins.” She cocks her head. „Why don’t you feed the mice? They are surely nice little mice that sit quite upright as decent people do and would eat out of your hands. You offered me the apple quite generously.”

„So that is what they call me. It’s always good to know all your names,” he mutters. „The Earl of Ruins … You know so many things, little lady. Your mother lies in a silver coffin, poor little Rose; but I still do not know where you are from. Now, then, why do you think I do not feed the mice?”

„Sometimes I listen to the conversations that go on in the sewing room, the room facing the huge linden tree and I have steps up into the tree. Margarete, a plump woman with a small beard like a man, said that it was a shame that you had to live in such ruins. She said you were so poor that it was apparent to anyone who came to visit you just how poor you were by the way even your mice scuttled around with their eyes full of tears.”

Now, he laughs aloud, his deep, hearty laugh bellowing from his strong chest, drowning out the stillness of the forest. She seems almost frightened but then she suddenly joins in, her fine, delicate laughter like a bird’s wing gently stroking the strings of a harp.

„No, they have exaggerated.” He smiles at her. „And I promise to make sure that the mice get proper food.”

„Then I also once saw you walking with your servant, a man who looks like an Arabian figure from a tale in my red story book, and I felt so sorry for you because you are so poor and taller than anyone else I have ever seen and not even your little mice get enough to eat. And now it is not true! People often lie!”

Who could this wondrous child belong to, this bundled-up little rosebud whose mother lies in a silver coffin? She couldn’t be from the village; that is surely too far away. Her words sound so strange and she falters occasionally, as if it isn’t the language she is used to speaking. What twist of fate might this unfortunate child have suffered to have brought her into this forest alone? The forest workers are wont to wander from town to town. There is not a house in the ancient town or in the small, nearby villages that is not inhabited by families with roots overseas. They all have a history of fates, these forest workers; they often gain money and success and lose them both again.

But this child doesn’t seem to belong there. He could surely force out of her where she is from, but he so enjoys listening to her fine, fairy-tale voice in this enchanting forest. He should actually recognise those fine facial lines, those strikingly long eyelashes; it is like a puzzle which he is on the verge of solving.

He will make sure she gets home safely. Maybe her family deserves to worry about her a little. They seem to know nothing of what is in her heart. Strangely, he feels his own heart hoping for something: Maybe she is a poor abandoned child who had lived among strangers, people who couldn’t care less about this delicate rosebud, his little Saint Rose.

Immediately, he scolds himself for being a dreamer. Children who get new dolls and toys from a catalogue each Christmas and their old playthings passed on to ‘bad children’ cannot belong to poor people.

She tilts her little covered head towards him and presses it against his chest for she is tired now and sighs contentedly as if speaking of all this has been a great relief to her. She seems to feel safe and secure, as if the white circle of trees surrounding them with their mystical silence shelter her from all harm and have promised to watch over her forever. Perhaps the Christkind will truly come to her here.

The pale grey sky begins to change colour beyond the feathery branches which, even without their gown of leaves, are dense and tangled, thus only allowing a fine, bright glitter of light to sift through. First, a faint red paints the forest floor pink, a rosy carpet of light, sparkling against the branches and twigs in sheer crystal elegance amidst fluffs of white snow. Then the pink becomes darker and turns to purple. Wondrous hues of violet blend with tones of grey and evolve out of the whiteness. Silently, they both look upon this heavenly splendour. Little Saint Rose almost stops breathing because she feels he must come now. From where, she thinks she already knows. From where the path turns directly into the glowing colours, a heavy silver burden weighs down the beech tree branches so that they form an arch over the path. It is through here that the Christkind must come.

Oh, how her belief, the indelible belief of a child, shines in her grey eyes. Isn’t the ringing coming closer? Her brown rags are covered in tiny, silver snow stars so that it could be Cinderella’s dress, sent from her mother’s grave. Her pupils widen, their grey irises now delicate rings around black centres, and she slides down, takes his hand and pulls him along with her. There, deep below the hanging pine trees, is an archway of golden fire. As if opening the doors of heaven, it leads to the gothic silver hall of trees, the most beautiful boulevard in the world. Now it is evident: This is what they have been waiting for – the trees in their silver armour, the delicate fawn and the bird which had shown her the way, fluttering ahead in his red-feathered cap.

Snuggled together, they stand there, and the child wraps her little arms around the man’s strong arm that is hanging down by his side. At this moment a fine golden thread connects one heart to the other, a ribbon woven with the gold from heaven’s gate. And with the child’s head nestled in his hand, he feels a surge within him, as if touched by the finest fabric in a divine bond. He turns his eyes towards her, still half blinded by gazing into the fiery appearance of the golden arch. The shawl has slipped down and her enlightened face, shining in blessed expectation and delight, is surrounded by her shimmering golden hair. He sees a fiery ring glowing around her head and feels a shiver go through his soul as if it had touched a celestial being.

Then the arch fades away, a final flame in the sky covering the forest in a glow as of thousands upon thousands of red, withering roses. And now grey shadows arise, turning the trees into ghosts. The oak tree seems to be winding its snake-like arms ominously up towards the dark sky. This moment, this unique moment, is over. But not quite yet because the little maiden with her golden mane and resembling a butterfly just emerged from its brown sheathing, speaks in a high-pitched but solemn voice:

„Oh, aren’t you glad that everything is true? And that we saw the Christkind?”

„Did you see it?” he asks softly.

„I saw the golden arch and the bright sky and then after that, red wreaths hanging all over the forest. The angels cast them down from heaven! Did you not see the red roses aflame and looking so beautiful? They were all over the trees, and the bush over there had seven golden crowns.”

„I saw it all. And you, my little Rose, you were also wearing a crown.”

„I was wearing one, too? Am I still wearing it?”

„Now it has faded away.”

„See how the trees are now turning grey and wrapping themselves in veils because they would like to go to sleep. I, too, am tired now. I am so tired I feel like crying. Tired, I think, from feeling overjoyed.”

„So you feel... overjoyed?”

„You know, when you are so full of joy that it hurts.”

„My little Saint Rose,” he says, his voice deep with compassion. „We must hurry now, I shall carry you.”

He tears off his waistcoat to cover her with it and lifts her up into his arms that are now only clad in white shirt sleeves.

„Don’t you need a little girl in your ruins? I do not eat much. But you mustn’t permit anyone to enter and you must promise that no one will see me. Otherwise they will come and take me back because they need to have me, even if I am only a girl. It is such a shame that Mother did not take me with her and leave my brother here instead.”

„They need to have you?”

He looks into the pale little face that is framed by golden hair and lying on his shoulder and it is beginning to dawn on him: the fine line of the nose, the eyes a touch too big, the face with those high cheekbones … the Royal Family of Brauneck!

„Your Highness! For heaven’s sake! How long have you been away from home? Is there no one out searching for you?”

„Why are you speaking to me with such formality all of a sudden? Then I shall have to speak formally to you, too. I have no one else I can be informal with, no one to confide in, when Father is not at home.”

Poor little Princess, poor lonely little Saint Rose; he has no choice but to take her back to her golden cage. So trustingly she wraps her arms around his neck while he hurries home in long strides. He is indeed aware of the fact that the Duke of Brauneck’s only daughter lives in the old castle with its mighty towers that hover over the lovely valley. He also knows that the Duke is mostly elsewhere, only returning to his residence for formal occasions or for hunting, and that the child is often alone in the castle. People whisper about this child with a certain shrug of their shoulders so he had imagined the girl to be a sort of imbecile and a bitter disappointment to the Royal Family. The Duke only has this one child, but once, ten years ago, there had been two sons, one who had died at the age of three and the other who had passed away along with his mother only a few days after he was born; and all three had died of diphtheria. Up to now the Duke had not remarried, yet this would be necessary if he wished to secure the survival of the family line.

But why haven’t the hunters and their dogs swarmed out into the forest? Why aren’t the storm bells ringing in the village churches? They must be looking for her! But, of course, she has walked for hours to get here and they could not possibly have imagined her making it this far. He is startled at the thought of what might have happened to her, had he not felt drawn into the forest today. He had gone out to quench the loneliness in his heart with the splendour of the forest so as to forget the burning within him, this bitter yearning for just one single tender-hearted soul.

„Are you asleep, my little Rose?”

„No, it is so nice to be carried by you. You are taking me to your ruins, aren’t you? Like Snow White beyond the seven hills! Of course, you are not a dwarf but rather almost a giant and you can look down on everyone and I would like to grow as tall as you are. You are strong and you do not have to fear the darkness.”

„Maybe I do fear the darkness. Maybe I am afraid.”

„Now?”

„No, not now.” He feels as though it is a lie. „But should your father no longer have a child?”

„You do not have a child either.”

„Every child stays with its father.”

„So I shall have to return? Oh, do not say that! I do not want to. I would rather stay here even if the trees are now terrifying in their sheets of white. Dead people surely look the same, as stiff and white as in the nightmares I sometimes have. I shall stay here. Now that everyone is upset with me, they will all speak at the same time and their voices will sound like menacing saws and I shall not be permitted to hold my hands to my ears. And I have ruined the cape.”

„How well you speak, Rose, and you think you will not find the proper words? Why don’t you explain everything to your dear father?”

„Why should I? They expect me to be especially well-behaved when he is at home. You should know that it is not good behaviour to whine about things to Miss Whart.”

„My dear Rose, your German is wonderful. It is all in your own style. You surely have a Miss Whart to speak English to and also someone for French?”

„Mademoiselle went to Anvers during her vacation and Miss Whart has a migraine and Miss Braun – well, this is a big secret and I am only telling you because you surely do not gossip – she went to Karl.”

„I see, to Karl.”

„He will certainly marry her one day and then she will buy herself a velvet sofa so she will not have to be ashamed when visitors come. Every decent person needs one.”

Now she is greatly startled, realising that he most likely does not have a nice-looking sofa in his ruins, and winces at the thought of having perhaps hurt his feelings. She quickly kisses his ear, which is directly at her lips and also not as unshaven as his face.

„I am only talking about women, you know.”

„Stop that,” he replies almost harshly, „and tell me how you were able to disappear. I do hope Miss Braun did not take you along to Karl.”

Now he does seem to have taken offence because he surely does not have a velvet sofa.

„No,” she continues, rather intimidated. „Babett was supposed to play with me but then her mother came to visit her. She lives far away and her mother began to cry and spoke of so many things; a cow and a Jew were part of the story. They spoke so fast and strangely that I really did not understand very much. Miss Braun has forbidden me to learn the dialect. She says it is common and vulgar.”

He mumbles something under his breath – it sounds like ‘arrogant womenfolk’.

„Go on then!”

„Then Babett went to get something for her mother, something out of a book for which you can get money and her mother was very happy and she left so quickly that she forgot her shawl. This was when I could not resist and I wrapped myself in it, just like the laundry workers do when it starts to rain. I had only pulled on one boot when I became frightened and ran down the servant’s stairs. I did not meet anyone. Then I went through the park where a gardener called ‘Who is there!’ after me and then I reached the moat. But the bridge wasn’t down so I walked over the ice.”

„You walked over the icy water of the castle moat?!”

„It was lovely. I could see the water below the ice and it gurgled as if someone was laughing down there and a fish swam by and there was a big hole and I walked around it …”

Now he knows why no one has come looking for her here. The water in the moat is only slightly frozen over and in places there are underground springs where the water never freezes, not even in the coldest winter. He would like to believe that a guardian angel had watched over the child as she went across this path of utmost danger. He can also visualise the river between his forest and the meadow’s edge; and a deceptive surface of ice and all the men out there with their torches and long sticks searching for a little body that is almost frozen stiff. The Duke is due to arrive tonight on the 8 o’clock train. And they will have to receive him with this terrible news. This man who has already lost so much, what more must he be made to suffer on this dreadful Christmas Eve?

He walks along as quickly as he can, but on a foggy night like this it will take another hour for him to reach his ruins and only from there can he send word. This frail child needs shelter as soon as possible. The Duke of Brauneck would surely rather claim his child at the ruins of an Earl than from the house of a peasant. The Pastor of the village is unmarried, and quite odd and uneasy with people and he is surely going over his sermon for Midnight Mass. He would not know how to deal with an unexpected guest invading his privacy.

The fog seems impenetrable and had he not known every step along the way, it would have been impossible to find his way back. He accuses himself bitterly for not having rushed home immediately.

She wants to know so much about him, so much. With the pure instinct of a child she feels that she has found a friend.

„Why do you live in the ruins and why are you so poor? Did you come into the forest for the same reason as I did, to look for the Christkind?”.

As they walk along, he finds himself answering her questions, telling her his thoughts. Hesitantly, at first, for he is not used to articulating his feelings; then as he goes on, he seems to be speaking to himself as lonely people do when they open their hearts. He speaks of that fateful night when a terrible fire destroyed the castle that his father had leased to an aristocratic huntsman, for his father and this huntsman had both been officers in the same regiment. And of how his father had been full of self-reproach and had never been able to get over having rented out the castle in order to finance his son’s service career in Berlin. They had not had the heart to return to the ruins which had been their family home for generations. When his father died, he felt isolated in those northern regions of his homeland where the sky always seemed to hang so low and dark that even the walnuts there seemed like tropical fruit. This darkness began to settle in his heart and soul.

Then he speaks on of how he began to paint, first painting the grey cloudscapes above the northern plateaus and then, by memory, the castle of his ancestors, his dear father’s loss. And of how, more and more, everything in his life was turning into bitter misery and exile; how he sought consolation in his canvas and his colours in an attempt to suppress his yearning for his southern woodlands. It was the kind of homesickness that spins fine, grey threads around your heart and squeezes your soul in woe, a feeling that only those who have experienced can understand, a longing that cries out for familiar surroundings and an unbearable sense of being crushed by foreign walls, those walls that separate one from beloved memories: the bittersweet scent of sloe in the fields on the first hot day in April, and the castle well that once murmured, accompanied by birdsong and the harmonica played by the stableman on a Sunday. A singing well like this did not exist in his world anymore, only in the memories of his heart.

He remembers how the sunset would illuminate the ancient walls, turning the windows into golden eyes that peered out into the woodland. This picture of sound, colour and smell was so much more present to him than the walls of the barracks with their grey surroundings and stormy clouds, or than the lifeless sun that turned endless, cold days into nothing but bare lines of ruthlessness. His suffering made him numb to life around him, revealing a bitter inner truth that drove him to the point of bringing it all to an end. No, he does not tell the child that he had held the pistol in his hand and that only the swift intervention of a loyal orderly had prevented the fatal act.

Now he speaks of how he resigned from the military and attended the Academy of Arts in Berlin. He really couldn’t say what he had lived off. He had had a small sum of money from the Duke, to whom he had given his father’s hunting grounds, as well as some occasional earnings (had his father known!) from painting wallpaper. And he recalls how he had had to accept the disgrace of falling below his social class, enduring the mockery of his fellow students, long-haired artists who gave him titles such as ‘Mister Earl’ or ‘Lieutenant off Duty’. They had continued to ridicule him until he grabbed one of them, the most impertinent of the lot, and held him out of the window into the rain in his outstretched arms until the man winced and whined. He had lived in cheap and remote quarters, isolated by a tremendous loneliness, the kind that seems all the greater in a vast city amongst millions of inhabitants.

All this time he has forgotten that he has a listener. He assumes the child has fallen asleep for she does not move anymore. But he is mistaken. She is wide awake and has been absorbing every word, collecting it all in her fine heart, where it will be well kept. And when the right moment comes, it will then ascend from the heart, surely to the amazement of the listener. Her beautiful mind has been creating pictures to match the words, worlds apart from reality yet with the inner truth of life as it is.

Art being a stern mistress, only seldom is he content with his work. Then one hot evening, he remembers, the sticky air was filled with the stench of city courtyards. He was listening to the sounds of women bickering noisily, of drunken men chanting, of a child crying pitifully when he suddenly realised that he could not go on this way. It struck him with utter force: Oh, to smell, just once more, the scent of hay carried up on the evening breeze to the mountain-top castle from the valley below! Am I still alive? Is this still the human condition or is it the cage of hell in which we all live chained together?

He left that same night with only the clothes on his back.

From Wurzburg on he travels as a craftsman, and the way he speaks of the journey, it is indeed similar to the accounts of his ancestors – the hardship of those who had starved and fought in the desert with Kaiser Friedrich or the ones who had lived with the Dutch, much like frogs, in the flooded country during the Spanish Liberation War – as they no doubt later related to their children in front of a warm kitchen stove in the comfort of home.

„I am lucky: I arrive home on a rainy day. Rain drops are dripping from the trees onto my head and the sound of wetness all around is like a gentle murmur to me, and the clouds are caressing the meadows. How refreshing the linden trees smell to my soul! I am glad that a veil of rain conceals my view of the gaping emptiness where once the steep, dark roof could be seen. It is evening and I say to myself: Now you must walk around over the rubble so it won’t seem quite so bad in the morning. I claim the keys from the forester to open the gate, which is still intact. He seems very pleased to welcome me although there is something rather mysterious about his manner. The old gate opens with a creaking noise, a sound I yearned for and often heard in my dreams, and I feel as though I have never been gone.

For a moment I close my eyes and clench my teeth against what I know I am about to see, yet holding on in my mind to how it had once been to pass through this gate: The towering castle walls would rise into sight and the two dogs come running to greet me and then I would hear the sound of Father’s cane tapping. However, as I open my eyes, the scenery is completely different from what I had expected: The forest has begun to take possession. There, against the stone wall, is the well, still intact and murmuring a melody mingled with the sweet song of a blackbird. There is a wild rosebush hanging over the well and one of the linden trees is still alive; its treetop is bear on one side but covered on the other by thousands of yellow blossoms. It smells like home. The forester leads me through the rubble and along a wall of loose stones, which he had piled up himself, to a place where several charred beams had collapsed, thus forming a roof. Then I pass a high wall built of boards, behind which there is a door that opens onto an enclosed courtyard. In former times, this was where the servants used to sit. And this large, lofty room with its four, thick-walled window niches has remained undamaged, although the windows are concealed by heaps of rubble. The green tiled stove is still there, and the table, the long benches, the old tin work; the chamber, too, where the servants stayed when they had guard duty; and an old, but sturdy bed and a green enamelled washbasin … which I proceed to fill at the singing well. And with this water I wash the sorrow from my body and my heart. And although the forester, who discovered the place last year while tracking down a fox, does not want to have me staying there overnight, I know I have to.”

„Oh, I want to hear the singing well! Please take me there.”

„Now that you have heard everything, my Rose, listen to my secret. I assumed you were asleep. If people were to hear my story, they would laugh at the insane Earl of Ruins. I had known, though, on that first night in the old servant’s bed: He who owns such a precious home as I do – a home that was once the greatest fortune to so many souls, a home where so many battles were fought and blood was shed so their children could live in peace and where these souls found their final resting place in the shade of its trees – should never, ever abandon it. A home such as this requires loyalty and its heirs have a duty to maintain it with all their might for future generations.

The Earl who built Thorstein Castle, stone by stone, with the help of his peasants eight hundred years ago had surely also suffered hard times, maybe not as difficult as its present Lord who now lies in rubble on a servant’s plank bed. But if he were to walk through the door now, with his leathery, tanned face and the armour helmet on his head, I would like to think I would be able to withstand his critical gaze. That is why, from that point onwards, I have not had a moment’s respite, knowing that the crows are circling over their destroyed nests. They have called for me, the fathers of the past, and will not leave me alone. They have chased me along the northern countryside where the clouds hang so low. They were there, too, while I was wandering around the suburbs of Berlin between millions of lights and crowds of homeless people. They have touched my heart to make me understand why a human being becomes restless and bitter, and lacks a sense of responsibility: The German heart cries out for a home.

If there is no one left to remember the morals, deeds and sorrows of those who went before, then the soul goes on a quest and becomes restless, trying to stuff itself with all manner of things until it spills over. All this tears the soul to pieces and can never bring fulfilment. I would like to rebuild it again, my home; I had often quarrelled with Father about this. It is to be rebuilt the same as before: the tower, the palisades, each corner and every angle. My father and forefathers are surely looking down grimly and laughing at me, not even caring to mention the million required or asking if I plan to earn the money by painting wallpaper.

They would surely say: Why do you need a fortress? Do not think for one moment that you could achieve, with all your efforts and plans, what we have been able to do! We built the way we did because we had no choice. Against whom would you bring out your guns and cannons? You have no reason for that now. With this realisation, my dream faded away and I lay on my plank bed and cried like a baby.

Now it will be a solidly built house even if it means I shall never be able to afford a new bed and have to sleep on those old planks for the rest of my life. I have begun the work with my own hands, sweating out the misery I felt in Berlin. Just like the first Earl of Thorstein, who had built the castle with his own hands, I have had to strain each and every muscle in my body to lift those huge, heavy stones. What better explanation could there be for the fact that my forefathers were all so broad shouldered and strong? Nowadays, when children seem to be born with a round ticket for the world tucked into their tiny hands, there must be those who know where they belong and what they are living for. And will maybe die for.”

„But you must build up your roof once more, where the sky is so empty between the trees, so you will be able to look up again with joy in your heart,” whispers a rather dreamy, wispy little voice.

He is startled that she has been listening so well. Well, she will surely have forgotten it all by tomorrow. And now suddenly there is a warm, golden light gleaming through the branches of some elderberry bushes. The Earl of Thorstein knocks at the shutter and a woman’s head appears. The poor woman is so shocked by the news she has just heard that she cannot withhold it a moment longer and speaks even before she knows why he is here.

„Have you already heard, Milord? The little Princess, the poor child, who isn’t quite right in her head, she drowned in the moat! They have been looking for her with poles and torches for hours.”

„Nonsense, Frau Scheiterlein! Hurry now and gather Peter’s stockings and Sunday shoes in a basket und bring them to my dwelling – immediately!”

Taking long, hasty strides, he continues his way along a row of tall trees, passing a wall. Then he arrives. The child’s heart is beating so fast from the sound of the woman’s loud voice and she has crept deep into her bundle of cloth. And now there is the squeaking and groaning of the gate as it is opened and closed.

„It’s the well, the singing well! Look!” she whispers.

But the well is not murmuring; it is asleep. There is a light glowing through grey stones; a large room opens up as they step in and absorb the cosy warmth and delightful scents. A huge, impressive Christmas tree is set up in a bed of moss and stones and under the tree there is something wonderful, something to make a child’s heart jump. Now he gently lets her slip down. A tall servant is standing there in front of his master, looking at him like a faithful dog calculating his every move in advance. The Lord of the Manor hastily takes two sheets of paper and scribbles down a message.

„Make it before eight o’clock if you can, Mart!”

As the man leaves in a hurry, he lets Frau Scheiterlein in, holding Peter’s stockings.

„My dear Frau Scheiterlein, how does one feel to be a lady-in-waiting? Would you please dress the Princess?”

Gesturing wildly with her arms and spouting incomprehensible words, the woman accompanies the child into the salon with its four window niches. There, in one of them, the girl sits down and puts on Peter’s stockings under massive protest, however, for the stockings are scratchy, and in the meanwhile the Earl washes up in the only other room. She doesn’t really look more elegant in these stockings: They literally seem to be standing on their own. And Peter’s shoes are found to be too small and thus deemed unnecessary.

Now the next question is raised. „Frau Scheiterlein, what can one cook?”

A match is struck and a blue flame heats up the kettle. Frau Scheiterlein knows how to cook a lot of things quickly, like pancakes or egg dishes; but she recommends a good, hearty porridge – simply the best in all life’s difficult situations, whatever their ups and downs. She does a curtsy, then rushes out and soon the crackling of a fire can be heard.

The brown shawl, having now been peeled off and carried outside for a good airing, a very frail maiden appears, dressed in a blue velvet smock with traditional lace around her fine neck. However, no matter what she were to wear, people would only notice the flowing mane of pale golden hair that drape both sides of her face.

„If you become as heavy as your hair, you will be just fine, my little Rose. Some warm tea is on its way.”

But she does not want anything. Her pale cheeks are flushed and her eyes are shining eagerly. Yes, she has arrived in the Christkind’s Kingdom and here under the Christmas tree is something so unbelievably beautiful. She moves towards the tree as well as she can in her thick, grey stockings, but he holds her back.

„One moment, little Rose! Close your eyes tightly.”

There she stands, perhaps for the first time in her young life, a blissful child full of expectation. For all these years she has only had the very latest and prized achievements of the highly developed German toy industry bestowed upon her. Now, for the first time, all the Christmas bells are ringing in her heart all at once and she keeps her eyes closed so desperately, so tightly that she has to make a fist with her fine little hands. A match crackles and a fine, luscious scent of wax fills the room.

„Open your eyes!”

There stands the tree in the radiance of ten candles, for it does not have any other decoration. Under the tree the work of wonder shines out in the gentle red light: a manger, not in a stable but in a miniature ruin built of grey stones, a stone slab for a roof, the cracks stuffed with moss. And bathed in a gentle pink that glows through a ruby-coloured fragment of glass, embedded into the stones, are the holy figures. They are made of coloured wax and modelled by the blessed hands of an artist. The Princess lets out a deep sigh of delight.

„The Christkind! Does my brother lie like Baby Jesus in the arms of my mother in her silver coffin?”

Under the gentle pink glow, Mother Mary can be seen lying peacefully on a bed of silky-soft thistle down with her new-born child in her arms. She seems to be sleeping and the small, rosy head is snuggled against her breast. With one hand she is covering the child with her soft, light hair, as if this is a curtain for the cradle. Joseph is bending down over them with the most splendid expression of love and devoted care. A boy and a small maiden in rags are set up along a path of moss and grey lichen leading to the entrance. A grey donkey and a red-brown cow are peering out of the shed.

Little Saint Rose kneels down in front of all this magnificence and marvels at its splendour. Standing behind her, the Earl of Thorstein seems to be enjoying his piece of work, too, through the eyes of the child.

„There should be angels as well, but I had difficulty with the feathers. Now where exactly do their wings grow out from, I wonder?”

„Did you make this?”

„It was a great waste of time, no doubt, but there must be a present for everyone at Christmas. All these past years there has been nothing for Christmas but pure misery. But now I am the lord of my own castle again and I want to be generous to myself. In addition, it is the same as in Dürer’s case: The Child of the World also lies in ruins.”

Now the kettle is whistling.

„Oh, please, let me stay here. I cannot take my eyes off Mary,” she whispers and hugs her knees tightly. Sitting on the old, woollen carpet, the child seems to be celebrating her most treasured Christmas ever. The Earl also kneels down, then stretches to his full length on the floor next to her, a steaming teapot beside him; an image of utter contentment. The child is huddled up, nearly motionless, her shining hair almost touching the floor, her elbows on her knees. She perceives everything with total delight; she doesn’t have time to drink tea. This is a special day in her life, like none before, so wonderful and so long lasting, as if it could never end. The actual time is seven, and glancing at his watch, he calculates the possibility of the good news arriving before the bad.

„Whom did you made this for?”

„Well, for me and my children.”

„But you do not have children and you do not need any.”

„I see. Why do I not need children?”

„Look at beautiful Mary. When children come, they are noisy and they touch Mother Mary. And when they are gone, I am sure your dear cow will only have three legs left.”

„You do not trust me to keep order with my children?” he asks, stretching out a long, powerful arm and flexing his muscles.

„You do not need children for you have me.” She is half fearful, half defiant as she speaks these words and her voice wavers.

„I shall only have you another hour, my little Rose.” A shadow has fallen upon this wondrous Christmas joy. „One more hour and then I hope that your father will be here, your dear father.”

She flinches as her brows draw together in a frown and her eyes become clouded. „You have called for him.”

„They are very concerned about you.”

„Now he will be angry, angrier than he has ever been before. And then he will say what he always says: All she does is cause pain and sorrow, the poor little one.”

„No, he will surely not say that anymore. You are so much joy to him, dear Rose, I am sure of that. This time you will find the right words and make him understand.”

„Will I?”

„I am certain you will. You now know the right words, the ones you need to express what you feel. He will understand.”

„Is it because you have found the right name for me? Please tell him that my name is Saint Rose, but tell him when I am not present. You are so much wiser than all the others. Please tell me, does Mary know about her child’s future when she holds him so tenderly in her arms, covering him with her hair? If I should have a baby, I shall do the same so evil people cannot see my child. Do you think she knew what would happen to him?”

„No mother knows that.”

„My mother had surely not known either otherwise she would have taken me with her. Baby Jesus grew up and people made him suffer. Is it true that she was forced to stand there and watch while he suffered his death?”

„Little Rose, please don’t cry! You have been through so much today.”

She looks at him with soft, bewildered eyes, tears still running down her cheeks.

„But mustn’t you cry at the thought of it?”

There is complete silence in the large room, only the sound of rustling in the pine tree, as some wax drips down from the candles, which are burning down so fast. The child does not await an answer. She gazes into the rosy pink glow, at the sleeping Mary and the sheltered child. It is the kind of silence which has become so rare in our hurried and harried world full of good and evil; a silence which turns into the sweet tones of a harp in our souls, capturing the sounds of eternity within. It is this moment of silence which ties the bond of love between them, the golden ribbon from heaven’s door that they had seen in the crystal forest.

As for his wounded soul, it is the soul of an artist which feels in pictures and tones, so he closes his eyes and visualises again the boulevard leading to heaven’s door and Saint Rose with the sun-crown on her head. She is walking with him to a heavenly site, golden in its glory and representing the vision of his lost home. As they arrive at the very threshold of this beautiful image painted by the hands of Christ, his father is standing there, looking out for his tired, sinful, homesick and lost son. And a deep sigh emerges from the bottom of his heart as if freeing him of all guilt and his soul releases the arrow which had speared his heart.

Frau Scheiterlein enters with the steaming porridge in a brightly glazed bowl. The child only manages to eat a few spoons full of it; too much has assailed her little heart today.

„Take me in your arms. I wish to look into the crib.”

For a short moment the child’s large, grey eyes dance in the light of the smouldering glow. Then, as she closes them, a vivid dream spills over her.

From a distance, a familiar voice finds its way into her colourful images: „My darling, my poor child! Who would ever have thought she would do such a thing!”

„Father...” she whispers from afar, and lets the dreamboat of her mind take her away to new shores, until it comes to a halt on the grey banks of morning.

Chapter 2

The Word of Honor

A chocolate-coloured coachman appears and hands over a message to the tall servant in his woollen coat, who is just shovelling a straight path from the gate to the entrance of the ruin with a snow shovel.

„Urgent message,” he growls. „Need an answer immediately.”

The servant takes the message in his calloused, huge hand and goes to the door, being already directly in the midst of Thorstein Castle. The Earl is working at his easel, with coloured chalk on grey construction paper. His forehead wrinkles as he reads the letter. It is an amiable invitation for today’s Christmas Eve festivity in Brauneck.

My little girl seems to fervently hope for your appearance.

The Earl of Thorstein turns the invitation card in his hand with grim embarrassment, thinking of his worn-out jacket. His hand runs nervously through his brown, curly hair.

P.S. After the ceremony, it will be just among us.

Between the lines, he discerns her begging eyes.

„No objection could be raised to this” he mumbles, „despite the old coat,” and with long steps he hurries onto the yard outside where the coachman is trying to communicate with his servant, with the so typical characteristic mixture of contempt and condescension of these people. He straightens up to a correct body posture when he sees the Earl coming.

„Inform His Highness that I will attend.” The Thorsteiner does not unnecessarily deal with paper and ink. As soon as the coachman disappears, he speaks out in a thundering voice:

„Mart! Bring me the boxes four and five!” His strong voice vibrates and wakes up the well, which murmurs softly. This is necessary, for the servant is almost deaf.

In former times, when his hearing had been better, he used to be a worker for the Earl’s father, and then he had become a servant in the castle and even though his master appreciated him because of his strength and his loyalty, his increasing loss of hearing made it difficult for him to get along with the other servants. They teased him or maybe he had just assumed they did, and the red-haired Minnie ridiculed his shy love until one day, he found himself in a severe situation, due to his strength and suppressed anger, which could easily turn him into a dangerous man. One evening, as he was sitting in a semi-dark barn beside a wagon full of hay, he heard the muffled voices of the maids and workers laughing and he heard the high voice of Minnie and the deep one of the handsome Beckenkarl. He believed to hear his own name and his dull pain suddenly changed into hot anger.

That same night, he did not appear for dinner and had a terrible nightmare. He sees the hedge along the castle wall and a body lying with his face in a puddle of blood. On the side, staring, is his mother with her black bonnet, in her arm the large, silver lined hymnbook, exactly the way he likes to remember her, but she lifts her hands in the air with a horrified expression.

The next morning, he gave notice with such wild gestures that he was let go, although there was urgent need of servants and workers. He returned home, even though he could only visit his mother on a hill with the black cross, at her grave. He worked as a simple labourer; a gloomy and inaccessible person, whom children fearfully avoided.

One day, he finds his former master’s son, sitting with his easel in a meadow. The Earl recognises him at once and greets him in a friendly way. His voice reminds the sad man of the nice memories during his years as a servant, where he had been without affliction, a cheerful person and a good soldier.

Some days later, after work, he appeared at the ruin and began to clear away the stones, sort out the rubble and throw out what was not needed into the deep moat. When the Earl came out, he would salute and then continue with his work until late at night. He refused to accept any recompense, for he said it was his free time, in which he could do as he wished. He continued his work for some time, hardly accepting bread or water. It seemed to please him to be close to a person he had known from this earlier time in life.

Due to some sold drawings, the Earl was soon able to afford a day labourer. Mart began to build himself a steep staircase from the beams he found among the rubble, leading from the ground to a niche in the wall of the castle keep. He broadened the opening so he could squeeze himself through. Then he constructed a spiral staircase leading farther up to a cosy room, which had been used as a loft for the pigeons. There he made himself comfortable, together with the pair of doves, which he dearly loved. This draughty place was where he now lived and on Sundays, he hammered and worked on it to make it a home. The doves had their separate little space; bits of window glass could be found everywhere and he constructed their own little sheltered look out.

Climbing about dangerously, he managed to lift up a bed, his chest, a treasured hand mirror and a large framed painting. It was a painting of him wildly galloping on a magnificent white horse in bold and daring position and a raised sabre. On his collar, a small photography of his young, ambitious face had been glued on. This painting was his most precious treasure, besides his mother’s silver lined hymnbook, which he had protectively wrapped into a red handkerchief in the chest.With great difficulty, he hung up the painting on the rough wall, set up his bed and chest and his home was more or less furnished. The Earl brought to his attention that his way to work would be much longer now, but Mart shrugged and replied that he only planned to do paid labour during winter-time, when refurbishing the ruin would be difficult. The rest of his time he wished to live and work in the ruin. This would surely make up for the free room.

At first, the Earl had feared the fact of having another mouth to feed, but there seemed to be a magic power in this homeland. He had hardly been able to afford life in Berlin on his own, but it was indeed now possible to nourish both of them and with time, he was even able to pay Mart a small wage, so that he could stay.

It was their second winter together. The one pair of doves had multiplied into a swarm of wings, gracefully turning their circles over grey walls and dark forest peaks. Mart’s loving dedication was only for the white feathered doves; any colourful creature would mercilessly end up in his cooking pot, for Mart was now responsible for preparing the sparse food for the two ruin inhabitants. There was always work for him to do; splitting wood until way into the night was also one of these deeds, which his master shared with him in the beginning. A kitchen was built around one of the half-damaged, giant fire-places located next to the courtyard-room and the stables were repaired; now the home of a good-natured brown cow named Selma, and a stray, almost starved fawn Mart had found, wandering aimlessly around through the rubble and had nursed it with a bottle.

They were fed with the grass of the castle moats and meadows, where Mart and his master made hay. Since Selma’s nourishing milk was a supplement to Mart’s cooking, the two men were looking healthier by the day. Mart’s sinister expression also looked much brighter. He retained his airs and graces towards his master, as he had done towards his father, the old colonel, and he left the ruin only for urgent errands. Sunday afternoons were always dedicated to the improvement of his home. The spindle stairs, only to be used by the sure-footed, still led steeply up, but a pipe could now be seen sticking out of the wall where smoke emerged on winter Sundays. Then, a roaring fire burned in the old stove and enlightened and warmed up the whitewashed, high room, leaving the pigeons cooing softly with content. Mart sat there with his pipe and some craftwork in his hands, imaging a picture of complete contentment.

Mart appears with a case from former times, still showing the name of the regiment. He takes out the Earl’s only suit and it is quite noticeable to be the only presentable suit, in comparison to his usual plain clothes. Some elaborate brush strokes by Mart and the Thorsteiner constrains himself into the unusual clothing with a sigh. At that moment, he remembers little Saint Rose’s broken doll; should he go and search for a compensation for the broken little Lilla? For this, he would need to go to the village; maybe some shops would still be open for those who needed a gift at last minute. He packs wax-remains and various items, throws on a cape over his magnificence and entrusts his castle to the awestruck looking Mart.

Mart usually takes the way across the forest and down the icy hill, but this was not possible anymore, so the Earl has to follow the road, an almost two-hour walk. After one hour, the long-stretched mountain with the castle appears in front of him and a beautiful park, now snow-covered in the dark, winds around the castle. Between two round towers a fine renaissance gable is seen, a jumble of large and small roofs built toward the castle walls over the centuries, as a necessity or for architectural reasons, it shows now a friendly and lively setting in comparison to a former dull scene. It is now a gentle gleaming silver band of snow-covered roofs and towers. Under the grey sky, out of where snowflakes float down, the castle looks so far away from life, so fairy tale-like, that characters of Grimm’s Fairytale book, such as all the golden haired Princesses, the faithful and foolish sons of Kings, bad Kings, smart Queens, could have lived there.

With the eyes of an artist, he takes in the elegant architectural styles of various epochs. On an extremely plain looking, modern tower, the blue and white banner is fluttering, announcing the presence of the Duke. Where would Saint Rose’s little empire be? How beautifully she fits into this castle; the final touch of elegance, a fine blossom, maybe too delicate to come out of such a dignified old branch of dynasty. Did she find the proper words today? He was sure she would not be punished; on the contrary, the Duke was just greatly relieved to have his daughter back, almost proud of the boldness she had demonstrated. Who wouldn’t have given her credit for this? However, it had surely been helpful that Mart’s good news had arrived before the bad news.

Now the way winds up ancient steps, one of those that make us wonder how people and horses could ever have possibly used this route. Then snow-covered gardens and a quiet street appear, surrounded by tall narrow-gabled houses. An ancient gate-tower can be seen next to a baroque house, where centuries ago the knitting guard Serenissimi, as the painting from Spitzweg shows, had sat. Opposite the cute shop of Georg Haring, to the delight of the town’s youth, where promising boxes with tin soldiers , a jumping jack and a tiny cardboard carrousel are waiting for a buyer. The tall Thorsteiner has to stoop down to enter the shop and a friendly woman welcomes him with a look of surprise.

He looks squarely at her. „I am in search of a doll.”

„Sir, we are out of dressed dolls and the other ones are not noble enough for ladies and gentlemen!” She has only one, but unfortunately an accident had happened, explains the woman and regretfully pulls out a beautiful doll from a box, with lovely blond curls, but the little nose is badly damaged.

Harro of Thorstein beams. „Splendid, I will take it. Only this unsightly gown, which this poor wench is wearing, is quite plain. You cannot visit the palace in this condition, little doll-without-nose.” But then he remembers Seamstress-Rose, with all her sisters and brothers.The box under his arm, he walks along the street, where a sign hangs over stone-steps, an unfortunate looking ox with an axe stuck in his head. Here he finds a warm, comfortable corner, where a friendly woman offers him to sit down. She herself returns into her steaming kitchen, to govern over numerous pots and pans.

“You are joining the other gentlemen for dinner, Milord?” she calls up to him.

„I shall eat up here.” He does not desire the company of the old-established sophisticated men such as the Postal Administrator, the Notary Public Commissioner and the District Court Judge, whose daily mid-noon reunion is a single boredom. The woman’s smile is bitter-sweet and she promises to do her best.

It is good that little Rose is not able to watch the following task, a quite cannibalistic work of art. With his pocket-knife, Harro crushes the doll’s silly-laughing face so that the eyes of small beads fall onto the table.His black coat hinders him and the contents of the box he opens, could ruin it. He discards himself of the coat and now, in white shirtsleeves, he busily works with a fine cutter on a slice of boxwood. Half an hour later, this gentle giant of a man, in his shirt sleeves, appears before the startled mistress with a small frying pan – which also came out of the box – to melt his glue next to the roasting goose. „Well, Madam, aren’t men’s cooking simple? How fortunate we are to have you as a cook; the goose smells delicious, by the way.”

The excited innkeeper, today there are many guests due to a big funeral, opens the door, sees the man in shirt sleeves in the kitchen and shouts: „This is the last time I have let Martin go home on Christmas Eve! Hey, you there, carry up this suitcase to room number seventeen. Standing around in the kitchen is forbidden!”

„Yes, Sir, immediately. Madam, please take care that the glue does not boil over, the smell would be quite unsuitable for your kitchen.”

Before the eyes of the gaping servants, the Thorsteiner Lord shoulders the suitcase of Herr Lohrmann, noodle manufacturer from Offenbach am Main, and carries it up to room number seventeen, where he delivers the suitcase with a friendly smile to him.

Herr Lohrmann mumbles: „I only give gratuity on leaving.”The Thorsteiner nods with a grin and hurries back to his glue, which seems to have the right temperature and disappears up to the salon again. Now there is yet to solve various problems; the carved disc of wood is properly adjusted under the golden curls, until the eyes do their duty with opening and closing, and then the actual work begins. The slightly warmed wax is poured over the disc. Now he models with his long artist hands of which every finger seems to have its own mind. With astonishing rapidity, a child’s face arises from only pre-shaped contours; a fine nose, apple-round cheeks, a mouth with an awakening smile, wide eyelids lower over the staring eyes. In their glassy blue, he paints a mysteriously dark colour line, which makes them look so real. A bashful maid enters the salon, doing a small curtsy and holding a half cold bowl of soup. „Pardon, my Lord, it is quite busy down there….”

He nods in consent and finishes his work. He has created a smaller image of his little Rose; the face seeming even younger and surrounded by the shining blond hair, only without the outline of slight pain which he had noticed in the child’s face yesterday and had immersed in his memory. He eats his semi-cold food in a great hurry because now he has to visit Seamstress-Rose, who lives near the high trees along the forest. He rushes out and takes long strides towards the village.

There, he meets children, wearing their new capes and muffs and most of them are chewing some cookies or gingerbread. Among them he even sees a red-haired sister of Seamstress-Rose and follows the child home. The seamstress is rather astonished to see the visitor on Christmas Eve. With a book on her lap, she sits amidst her Christmas gifts and looks at him with a friendly smile, fiery red hair surrounding her face. When he shows her his piece of art, she claps her hands in delight. „How lovely it is! You could think it is our little Princess, only that the Princess does not look as rosy and happy.” Time is too short for a fancy dress, but she still has material for a fine, white smock. She begins to rummage in a chest, cautioning the young brothers and sisters not to touch the lovely Princess doll. All the while she chatters: „Everyone likes to do good for the Princess. She is so gentle and kind and her life is not always easy. Lately, she has lost so much weight and the Misses and housekeepers are not always friendly to her.”

Harro is sitting on a chest with crossed legs and he lifts up the youngest red haired child on his knees, giving it a bumpy ride. This seems to please the seamstress and she speaks quite trustful.

„She likes Miss Braun the best because she laughs with her and lets her sometimes do what she wishes to do. But she is a bit careless. She probably is to blame that the Princess had been able to run away. She would not have dared to go, if Misses had been around. She is a horrible woman. She says that the Germans are pigs and the Princess seems to want to act like a pig also. This is because the Princess does not want to take a bath each morning. You can hear the poor thing screaming and whimpering through the whole palace wing. The child certainly does not do this out of disobedience; the Princess has no bad side to her. Who knows, if she did not run away because of this?”

„Who bathes the child?”

The seamstress looks up, startled. The Earl’s face looks as though he is suppressing tremendous anger. Dear God, had she said too much?

„Fräulein Braun,“ she answers, now intimidated. She seems to be in quite trouble already. Yesterday, she was frantic. The Duke did not want to investigate yet, whose fault it had been, but the Misses blames it on Fräulein Braun and she blames it on poor Babette.” In the meanwhile, her busy hands do not rest and it seems that the doll can be presented as a gift.

In the big hallway in front of the Duke’s private room, facing the magnificent Tournament Court with its three stone galleries and the famous collection of antlers on the wall, the Duke walks up and down with the Dominion Counsellor, a small, spindly man. The light reflecting the snow shines into the corridor, through the glazed facade facing the courtyard. The yellow glass eyes of a stuffed wild cat sparkle out of a niche and a slight breeze rustles the outstretched, silver-grey wings of a heron, which hangs down from the ceiling

„And now, Counsellor, please help me to choose. For heaven’s sake nothing trivial, the matter must have a personal touch.”

„Rahr and Brendel have sent their selection, since Your Highness wants a gift for the Magistrate – perhaps you will find something among it,” mumbles the counsellor.

„Oh, it is always the same; the relevant gifts are always the most difficult. A committed gift could be misunderstood by the Thorsteiner. His father was a most pleasant neighbour to me. What a pity that his son has ruined his life because of the fire.”

The Dominion Counsellor shrugs; expressing his own view seems not opportune at the moment.

„And if we looked through the older things? Artists are said to have joy with antiques.”

The two men walk down a spiral staircase, leading to the lower gallery, which is open to the courtyard and a cold breeze whisks through the room. At the end of the corridor, a small dark room appears, the walls lined with built-in iron cupboards. The Counsellor goes to fetch the keys and the Duke steps into the deep niche under the barred window. Outside, the snow fall has increased and the forest can only be faintly seen, shimmering against the bare wall of the mountain. The Duke wistfully gazes out and his handsome dark eyes lose the hardness, which they sometimes show. His hair and beard are trimmed and still dark brown, his striking facial features with the pointed beard and slightly protruding eyes appear in the shadows of the dim snow light as if out of an old painting, as he leans against the niche. His face has a somewhat tired expression, lined with the fatigue of generations, which have witnessed many centuries of turbulent and often so pitiful German lives; a history of royal bloodline, carrying the responsibility for the outcome of the nation, not as light-hearted as the humble people in the little village. He feels as if the last grain is running out of the hourglass; how soon will this generation be embedded to rest forever. To where so many have gone ahead and now sleep in shining tin caskets, covered with coats of arms and phrases, inside of a dark, wooden chest. So many, that there seems to be only one more space beside the coffin made of silver, in which the Duke’s only happiness in life rests. Why had his thoughts wandered back to this time of unbearable mourning? Is this due to the mystic moonlight, shining against the snow or because of this dark room, where so many hidden treasures of the past lie? Precious gems and gold that had once shone on white young bosoms, draped around fine foreheads, never to shine again on the hands and bodies of the ones now gone in eternal absence.

Here lie the emeralds, which his wife had worn to the splendid royal festivities. There they are… the Counsellor has come with the keys and a large book. The bracelet embedded on white velvet – the green stones glitter as they always had, as they had once on the delicate arm of his beloved wife, the arm that had circled his neck with loving gestures. The Duke gently picks up the bracelet and lets it glide through his fingers.

„This will once belong to my daughter.” His hand is slightly shaking. „Close this box; I had meant the older things.”

The Counsellor now opens a box very reluctantly because actually only he, with his secret enthusiasm for precious collections, and this book, have witnessed the contents. These things all have a connection to the fate and fortune of the past. Among the items, some of their usage unknown today, blazes some barbarous-looking ruby jewellery, mounted in a baroque work of silver. Hanging blood-drops, one might think. Strangely adorned must the woman have been, who had worn it. The Duke takes out the necklace, it has no date on the fastening in comparison to other pieces of jewellery, just a small cardboard label with printed letters:

Jewellery of the Countess of Brauneck, Milady of Thorstein † 1678.

„The Lady of Thorstein, of course!” exclaims the Duke. Now it occurs to him of having heard that an old relationship existed. He will certainly not give away the necklace, but there surely should be something with the coat of arms of the Thorsteiner family.

„End of the seventeenth century, Your Highness,“ says the Counsellor. „Times were poor then, amazing that there is so much left.”

„What was the name of Lady Thorstein’s husband?”

„Heinrich Friedrich, Your Highness, and here is his ring; it seems that it belonged to the jewellery. Also a ruby only that it is set in gold, but the work of the jeweller seems similar. The same cardboard label on the ring but a different handwriting; written by a clumsy hand which might have been used more to handle a sword than a quill and just two words which surely express grief: My son †.”

„So the son died before the father; did this Heinrich Friedrich have any significance to the history of the house?”

„No, Your Highness, only that he was the father of the first Earl.”

The Thorsteiner coat of arms is engraved on the gold plate which lies under the ruby and shows the words: God’s Will has no Why.

The Duke sighs. „God’s Will has no Why. The ancestors must have had more faithful hearts. Is this the only piece that bears the coat of arms?”

„Just a headband, ancient, Carolingian work, in gold; she had indeed been an heiress, the Lady of Thorstein. Duke Heinrich Friedrich had also worn quite a bit of jewellery. He must have been an elegant person during the seventeenth century. Bracelets, necklaces, shoe buckles, hat buckles. Apparently all this had never been used again and everything is marked with „My son †” on labels.

The Duke thoughtfully weighs the ring in his hand.

„Actually I would have preferred something other than a ring. Well, this man had no other significance?”

„He died very young, the only son.”

The Duke looks at the label. „The only son; must have been bitter, yet he had had a grandson. Now please close the boxes, these old things always seem to bring misery with them. Write an entry in the book and add the label; I am very content to have found something appropriate.”

To himself, the Duke thoughts go on: This gift with his own coat of arms surely will not make the Earl feel awkward; accepting it not as charity to his humble life circumstances, but because he has done the greatest of service for me. If he paints portraits, I could order a painting of the little one and should it turn out to be unsatisfactory, it does not have to be put on display. But I am reluctant to ask him of this immediately, making it look like gratitude. He could feel offended. He has surely chosen himself to live this way, but it is only polite not to remind him of his status. What had made him return to the ruin? He could have had a career in the military and surely he would have been welcomed into the aristocracy. This magnificent figure of a man! Even in his worn-out clothes he looks handsome! And so tall; it is difficult not to feel inferior having to speak up to his towering frame.

The Duke walks, with the ring in his hand, along the gallery into the so-called Princess Corridor where the upper windows lead out into a courtyard. He notices some antlers on the wall, which have been hung here from another room: Usually, only white powdered beauties of the eighteenth century were hanging on these walls, painting next to painting. But also a stout gentleman with a red nose in a plum-coloured, frilly waistcoat, staring widely with puffy eyes. Now he had lost some of his aura, a wide crack in the canvas was running down his face; he was named „Coachman Hack” after the red-faced coachman who toted the luggage, because his cucumber-nose was found slightly non-decorative for formal events. The Duke just stepped into the small courtyard, when the door is boisterously opened and his daughter runs to greet him. She has just escaped from the hands of Fräulein Braun and she is already wearing her festive dress of lace and white silk, fragrant and fresh with a silver shimmering blue satin sash. Despite all this splendour, her face is darkened by a shadow, only her large eyes beam of expectant joy.

„Papa, I heard you coming, I wanted to come to you sooner,” she calls

out excitedly, „but Miss Brown had not finished my bow. I always hear you walking along the hallway, when you come, and when you are gone, I hear you, too.”

The father’s face, which had been smiling, slips into a frown and he says in a stern voice: „Absent people cannot be heard walking.”

He leads her into a large, friendly, but rather plain room and sits down with her at the round table with a green table cloth, which he pulls away so the surface of the old oak table top is visible. Then he laughs:

„Darling, this is your kingdom now, in former times it used to be mine; there still should be my scribbling on the table. We hated the cloth; it always lay crumpled in the corner. Look! This antler was scratched in on a hot summer’s day during a Greek lesson. And now, are you looking forward to tonight?”

Little Rose nestles herself against him and looks up thoughtfully. „I don’t know yet.”

„You are not certain? We had always known this for sure; Aunt Helen, Fedo and I, we had a calendar and each day we tore a day off. Fedo had drawn a fine fellow with a fat nose, resembling the man in the painting out there.”

„You mean Coachman Hack?”

The Duke laughs aloud. „That is his name – well, he looked quite similar, and we let the paper hang from his mouth, as if he could eat the hours. That was our calendar. It wasn’t quite nice, but we thought it was funny. And now you don’t know if you should look forward to tonight?”

He sighs deeply. Under this sigh, her thin shoulders flinch, as if she has been pricked by a thorn. „Did you also have a word of honour, father? I mean, when you were a child and so cheerful with your siblings and the calendar man.”

„Darling, how do such ideas evolve in your mind? I cannot imagine that we dealt with such important words then. What do you know about a word of honour?”

„I know quite a lot of it; you spoke to me about it this summer, when Uncle Fedo was here.”

„Should I have spoken to you about anything like that?”

„You spoke to Uncle Fedo of a man and a word of honour and I asked you, if all those people, with their armour and braids, in the paintings out in the large hall, had their word of honour, too. And you replied: Yes, and they kept it, otherwise their portraits would not be hanging out there.”

The Duke seems to remember.

„You are a wondrous child, your thoughts leaping without sense; this was so long ago and you remember it still today…and what does it have to do with you?” If the father had looked into her golden framed face, he would have seen the tears in the grey, soft depth of her eyes. But he just continues impatiently: „You have no idea what you are talking about.”

He reaches into his pocket to get the ring. „Darling, you may give this ring to your tall friend from yesterday; put it under the Christmas tree. But not immediately, first you shall look at your presents – I have seen all the wonderful things – give it to him when I give you a sign. Do you like the ring?”

The little girl takes the ring in her pale little hand and nods: „I have seen it many times before!”

„Has the Counsellor shown it to you before?”

„Oh, no. It is a handsome, young man who wears it. I can hear him laugh; he has such a merry way of laughing. You know, sometimes he jumps up the spiral staircase in the evenings and he wears colourful ribbons and glittering things. He looks so elegant, with his long, black curly hair and with eyes as tender as yours, father, when you think of Mama.”

„When have you seen someone with long curly hair?”

„The night before yesterday, when Fräulein Braun and I went up to the red velvet room.”

„Darling” he says sternly, „if you know so much about the word of honour; a lie does not agree well with it.”

For a moment, it seems as if she wants to cry, but suddenly she smiles; just like a sunray which comes out from behind a dark cloud.„Harro is coming for sure and I may really give him the ring?” Surprised, the father sees her eyes light up. What an incomprehensible, mysterious child; it is quite difficult to follow her thoughts. He remembered what his sister had once said, in her rather blunt way: „Your little girl is as mad as a March hare. You must see to it that someone teaches her to be strong and realistic for the world outside of these walls.”

In the large entrance hall, Harro is facing a long embedded mirror on the wall, which reflects his whole figure. The mirrors in the ruin only admit a limited view.

„With elegance disfigured beyond recognition,” he mutters and beckons to a servant. „Can you please add this to the gifts for the Princess?” The servant nods and disappears with the wrapped up doll. Almost at the same moment, the Duke, with his little daughter by the hand, enters the hall to greet the Earl in a most friendly manner.

„What a pleasure that you have found time to spend the evening with us! To some extent, we both live a quite isolated life and we must be content with this one little lady.”

Harro is startled as he sees his Saint Rose; the child looks pathetic. She seems so frail, as if she could barely stand on her own two feet and yet, her pale grey eyes seem to blaze in devouring flames. He feels a longing to lift her onto his arms and ask her: „What is the matter, my dear little Rose? Let me help you.”

But today, he has no right to the child. They walk along the many rooms to the Great Hall where the room is illuminated by the burning candles on the trees that have been set up. The large, vaulted hall with its pillars and gilded heraldic animals, now throw strange shadows along the walls. Solemn stiff figures, almost all life-size on the walls and the light of the candles are flickering in their painted eyes. In the background, there are several women, among them a distinctive English Lady, surely Miss Whart, whom Harro regards with sincere distrust. A pretty woman with black hair and rosy cheeks in a silk blouse and a gold belt is probably Miss Brown. A long gift table stands between two enormous pine trees, the third pine, the largest and most beautiful one, is situated separately in front of a painting of a strong and bold looking, middle aged man with dark hair. It is by far the most vivid painting of the gallery; a soldier’s head, broad chest in brown leather jerkin, a long sword in his hands.

Under this tree seems to lie the presents for the little Princess; everything that could be found in an elegant toy warehouse. Three in velvet and silk shining dolls, trolleys and trains, a fur-covered horse. This is from Aunt Helen. Accompanying this present is a letter which states: „If the girl ever has the courage to ride this horse, send me a telegraph immediately.” With a shy glance, she hardly looks at all this magnificence; standing motionless, holding her father’s hand. Then, she walks towards Miss Whart and the others with the timid attempt to lead them to their gift-table. But the Miss takes her from her father’s hand and whispers something to her. The Duke shrugs and asks Miss Whart: „Is this really necessary?” Then he sighs. „Well then, my Darling, please try.”

So small and fragile she stands under the Christmas tree, looking like a helpless, injured dove in her white dress, that the tall Thorsteiner feels mercy burning inside of him, as if an injustice is happening to someone so utterly defenceless. She is only supposed to recite, the poor girl! Then, he can hear her tender, high strung voice echoing through the hall and it feels as if all the eyes in the paintings, hanging on the wall and which seem to be alive tonight, are turning to look at her as the wax candles crackle in the background. Piteous and memorized sound the words of the English psalm… then her voice falters and she stops. Miss Whart whispers forcibly into her ear, a few more faltering words, the Duke begins to frown, her narrow face shows enflamed cheeks and her anxious eyes looking at Harro for help…then she throws back her golden mane, her eyes firmly fixed on her friend and she begins anew:

„There were shepherds in the field and it was with them the amount of the heavenly host praising God and saying: Glory to God in the highest and peace on Earth and goodwill toward men”.

„Come here, my precious little one,” the Duke joyfully calls out „carried it through for the first time!” The performance seems not to have been as Miss Whart had wished; she looks angry.

Then is the time for all the lovely presents to be given to the ladies and girls employed in the castle, who then leave with their treasures, curtseying thankfully on their way out. Only Miss Whart and Miss Brown stay and escort the Princess to her seat.

„It is tradition,” explains the Duke. „First we always bestow the others, and then it is our turn. ”The Duke saunters over to his table, where he finds the gift from his sister, which he looks upon with his mouth smiling and his forehead frowning and shows it to the Earl. His gaze then strays and he lays his hand on Harro’s arm. „Now, just look at her, such a pity. Whatever I buy for her, it is never the right thing.”

The child is standing at her table full of presents, with her hands on her back. Miss Whart is showing her a new doll, dressed in a frilly, rose-silk dress. Fräulein Braun winds up a miniature dancing couple, set in a box of velvet, which immediately begin to spin to a waltzing melody. Suddenly, life comes into the small child; she rigorously shoves the rose-silk doll away and cheers out in utter joy.

„Oh Daddy, oh Harro, look at it, at the lovely doll, it is laughing… oh, may I keep it, for always and forever?”

„Has something finally found your approval, Darling? How lucky we are!” For a moment little Saint Rose glances at Harro, and then she throws her arms around her father.

„May I keep it?”

„Don’t be foolish; of course, it is all your own. Let me see what pleases you so much. Well, that is lovely, Darling, one should think it resembles you. If only you had such healthy, chubby cheeks!”

Little Rose holds the doll tenderly in her arms. „What is her name, Harro?” She does not seem to doubt for a moment where the gift has come from, yet she avoids showing her preference for this one gift, so as not to hurt her father’s feelings. Harro appreciates her sense of tact, because he had been a bit concerned if his gift wasn’t an inappropriate gesture. The Duke nods to Miss Whart, as Harro and Saint Rose agree upon giving the doll the name „Snow White”, and the English woman withdraws herself from the room. The Duke returns to his table and takes up a gift he had shown to Harro; a framed picture.

„Her mother….my sister had it made for me for my travel-case. Unfortunately, such well-meant presents bring also melancholy with them.” It was a beautiful, friendly face with golden hair and warm brown eyes that reflected the innocence of a child.

„A resemblance is hardly to be recognized,” speaks the Duke, a bit lost in his thoughts.

„Not really.” The Earl answers kindly. „But in such copies, the characteristics of a person are often obscured.”

He actually considers the painted picture as quite dreadful and cannot understand the emotion, with which the Duke looks at the colourful porcelain doll image of a woman. Maybe the painting brought some fading memories back to life. The Duke and little Rose have disappeared behind the Christmas tree and are whispering. While Harro’s glance drifts from the picture of this frail woman to the prominent war hero’s profile on the wall, he can see through the branches that father and daughter exchange something.

He feels the blood rush to his head. Could it be that they are planning to bestow him with a gift? The Thorsteiner is one of those people, who like to give but do not like to receive anything. He had not considered that! He would surely not have come then! That he himself has given is already forgotten. Inhibited, he looks towards the door, pondering over a reason to escape under some excuse. Was he a servant supposedly to be paid with a gratuity for his performance? People who are uprooted from their sphere of life are always hypersensitive; the Thorsteiner was about to commit a great mistake, not the first one in his life.

He begins to move to the door, but little Rose is already walking towards him from behind the Christmas tree; her subtle, resilient steps with her white satin shoes, her shining eyes searching his and she solemnly is carrying a ring in her pale hands. A red flash of sparkling light reflects from it. A strange feeling touches his soul with incredible impact.

You have experienced this before! You have seen this before… the solemn hall with the golden animals sitting on pedestals, the pale little elf with the blood ring in her hand, the walls of which the painted eyes stare in reddish glow. Vanished is his anger, almost fearful solemnity descends into his heart. The child takes his hand to put the ring on.

“From your Saint Rose, hoping I shall always be in your heart.”

He can feel tears building up in his eyes. „Thank you so much, my little Rose.”

He then thanks the Duke in true sincerity. Anyone who knew how the Thorsteiner thought about receiving gifts would have been truly amazed. Then, as the Duke explains about the ancestry of the jewel, he seems even close to being ashamed. The gift was chosen in deep kindness and gratitude und did not emphasize the present gap of friendship, but a former unity.

„And now we shall eat, Earl Thorstein and you, my little one, you eat with us and your Snow White shall also attend. I am so pleased that you have finally found something that you really wished for.”

„Oh, Daddy,“ pleads Rose, „something else before… but you may not look…” She disappears behind the trees, after having taken a new brocade blanket from the Duke’s gift table. For a while, they can hear her rummaging. The Duke is beaming. „Yesterday’s escapade did her well; I have never seen her so lively. Last Christmas had been heart-depressing, how quiet she had been. However, one never knows the outcome of her surprises. Are all children this mysterious?”

„The outcome of a child’s heart is always delightful,” Harro replies, „however, maybe they feel the need to explain what is on their mind. From an idea of a child to the final result, always represents a big step.”

„Now, you may look.” Her voice resounds from behind the tree. The branches of the tree hang down very low and partially hidden by these branches, is Rose. She is lying on the floor, the brocade blanket wrapped around her delicate body except for a beautiful, pale little bare foot peeking out of the folds. In her arms she is holding the baby doll, around which she has draped her golden hair like curtains to a cradle. Her eyes are closed and her lips are smiling. She whispers: „Harro, come behind me to be Joseph.”

It did not need any explanation; his impression of the Madonna and the crib is exactly in position, even the folds of the vestment so completely reproduced that he is amazed.

„You have done very well. It is Mary with her child.” The Duke seems a bit embarrassed. „Well, did you really have to take off your shoes and stockings? How fortunate that Miss Whart does not see this.”

The little girl lifts her head. „Oh, Harro, why don’t you be Joseph? Oh, please, be him. Take Miss Whart’s blanket and the billiard cue stick shall be your rod. “

„Little Rose, I cannot just take Miss Whart’s property.”

„Take off your waistcoat, Harro ….”

The presumption of standing here in these surroundings in his shirt sleeves startles him tremendously. The dinner bell saves him.

„Come, Harro, our little lady shall follow once she has become decent again,” says the Duke.

Little Rose realizes that her precious thought has not been perceived. Father had not seen Harro’s manger, that was surely why. And she would so like to make amends.

„Daddy, I would like to ride on the horse so that you can telegraph to Aunt Helen,“ she cries and runs with her bare feet across the shining parquet floor.

The painted eyes on the walls have seen so much today ... in the dying light of the candles, which have burned down to stumps of red, dripping wax, the eyes seem to come to life in the flickering shadows. Harro rushes to raise little Rose onto the saddle. As he grasps her under her arms, her face suddenly changes into a deathly pale color and she cries out in pain, sitting on the saddle with her bare feet stretched out as if in agony.

The Duke shouts out: „Take her down, something is wrong with her!” He hurries away to send a servant to Fräulein Braun. Harro has taken her in his arms and lays on the couch.

„Darling, have I hurt you?“

„Oh no, Harro,“ she whispers ... „Oh, not you, surely not you.”

„My little Saint Rose, tell me, what is wrong with you…” His mind wanders to a suspicion.

„Why do you not want to bathe? “

„Have you heard my screaming?“ she asks.

„Tell me, child, what has happened to you.“

„I cannot. Not ever. Do you see how the man with the sword is looking at me? I would not be worthy if I told. I want to be as they are, just like all of the honorable descendants.”

„But Rose, you are feverish. Those are only paintings…please trust me.”

The Duke comes back in, quite breathless. „I cannot find Fräulein Braun; now I can imagine whose fault it was yesterday that my daughter was able to leave the castle!”

Harro takes him aside. „The Princess seems to have some sort a secret which she does not wish to reveal; it seems to me that she is injured in some way. Would it not be best to send for the doctor? “

„But he was here this morning and has checked her thoroughly. He was pleased that she had survived the unexpected journey so well. Injured? Yesterday? “

„No, it seems to be something that has happened before then.”

The Duke’s voice is dark and angry, as he shouts out: „Where is this Whart woman, she shall come if Fräulein Braun cannot be found!” His voice wavers, as he glances at his daughter. „My little girl always has had a hang to telling myths; she has such an overflowing imagination. „

„Believe me,“ says Harro so insistently that the Duke looks at him in astonishment.

„The child has some sort of dark secret that is tormenting her; physically and mentally.“

„What could that be…oh, I never seem to be able to enjoy this child longer than a few moments.” He then looks up. „There you are at last, Fräulein Braun! Bring the child to bed and send immediately for the doctor!”

He mumbles to the Earl as he turns away. „Let us go into the salon and wait for report.”

Smiling at his daughter he says: „Go to bed, sweetheart, I will be up soon to kiss you good night.”

The dining room, in which they go into, is paneled in dark wood with, again, many portraits on the walls. A golden light shimmers from the electric lights of old Venetian chandeliers onto a friendly decorated dinner table, specked with red carnations and green prickly leaves of holly. They lead a conversation about local interests and the Duke’s last hunting event, as he has leased the Thorsteiner hunting grounds. The Duke sometimes falters in his words, seemingly listening for footsteps to approach. By the time the dessert is served, the Duke seems to be quite uneasy and speaks to the Earl in a sorrowful tone:

„You have now seen deeper into my grief than most people... I do hope that, you as my kinsman, as the English say, will indeed make no use of this. My daughter seems to be my greatest sorrow, more from year to year. Since she has lost her mother…it is as if a dark cloud hangs over her life, she is often ill; but not only physically, but she is also mentally unbalanced in some peculiar way.”

„It seems to me,“ Harro begins humbly, „as if the child has a highly poetic temperament. She brings everything in her mind to life and describes this with quite relevant terms. The poplar trees are giant trees that sigh; a fine observation; thinking of how the wind catches in the branches, especially in old poplars. The child has a tender soul, which reacts very strongly and her features are so strikingly beautiful, as if this face has royalty in it, though I cannot find any resemblance in your family line.“

„You think my little girl is beautiful? No one has said anything near that so far; but I assume artists have their own views of where beauty can be found. I cannot see it; she always looks so pale and unhappy.”

„In a few years…“ says Harro von Thorstein thoughtfully.

„Oh yes, waiting for the years to go by, I have been waiting in vain for years, that has not done me good.“

„The Princess is very well aware that she makes you worry and suffers also.“

„This child should know that?” wonders the Duke naively, who usually refers to his daughter as his sorrow stone. „How is it that she has so entrusted you, she is usually so shy of strangers.“

„She was uprooted from her familiar surroundings; her bold venture has strengthened her self-consciousness.“

The Duke gets up impatiently. „How much longer must I wait? Where is that doctor?”

As if he had been eavesdropping, the doctor suddenly appears, looking quite excited.

„Milord, the Princess is in terrible anxiety; she urgently requests someone with the name Harro. An examination is impossible; I fear she might have convulsions, if I force it. It seems as if one of the ladies is also trying her best to keep me from examining the Princess.”

The Doctor seems offended. „Can this Harro be found?”

Harro has gone respectfully out into the hall when the Doctor arrived, but he could still hear the conversation.

„This Harro is the Earl of Thorstein. I cannot possibly … „

The Earl can feel his blood rush to his head. What cannot possibly be done? The Duke surely thinks he is not worthy to help at the bedside of the Princess, even though it being an emergency, as if he is not genteel enough.

The Duke approaches him reluctantly, seemingly embarrassed.

„It appears that you must again be the savior of my dear daughter.” He sighs. „She wants to only see you. The greatest tyrant is a sick child!”

The Thorsteiner’s voice is thick with emotion, so that the Duke is very touched.

„Thank you, Your Excellency; I am sure I will be able to help the Princess. I have once cared for a sick friend quite awhile. Although, I have been so alone all these years… „ His feelings take over. „I have been a suffering soul, having no pleasure for so long and then this tender little treasure, opening up like a blooming flower in a deep winter night, making me now behave quite foolish. My excuse is my loneliness and my overload of emotion is surely due to the kindness I have experienced today…” His last words are choked.

The Duke takes his hand; he is moved by the words of this man. He had thought it would be too much to ask of him, to go through such trouble again for his daughter. He had not imagined how involved the Earl has already become, how the child has touched his heart.

The child is lying in a shell-shaped bed that stands in an alcove, and has pulled up a silk blanket to her chin, her hands trembling feverishly. Her father bends over her.

„I have brought you your friend, Harro, what do you want from him?“

„He must protect me and not let anyone take my blanket away!”

The Duke shrugs his shoulders helplessly.

„And he must wrap me in my blanket and carry me around just like yesterday and tell me about his house.“

The doctor nods and whispers to the Earl: „Do the will of the little one, it is important that she calms down as soon as possible, and try to persuade her to let me examine her.”

He wraps the child in the blanket and his touch is so sensitive, as if he has done nothing else all his life. Then he walks with long, careful strides up and down; the golden hair covering his arm, her head resting on his chest.

The Duke has gone into another room; sitting at his old desk, his fingers tap nervously on the table top. An impossible situation; the whole house full of women, and he has to engage this, until yesterday, stranger.

„I could employ three women and the matter would be the same.”

Miss Whart appears briefly, inquires if she is needed and leaves again. She is, after all, hired only as an educator. Fräulein Braun seems to have completely lost her head, always bringing the doctor the wrong things, asking for the third time if she could now go to bed, she had been up all of last night and Babette is here, if something is needed.

The doctor says dryly: „You stay until I dismiss you.“

She hastily turns away, in her pretty silk blouse, and sits into a niche by the window, sulking.

Meanwhile, Harro walks up and down and speaks of the ruin, of Selma the cow and how his Saint Rose must get well very soon, to be able to see Selma and hear the singing well. And for this, it is necessary that she must entrust herself to an examination.

She winces. „I cannot, Harro ... O Harro, I am not permitted to; think of my word of honor. If I do not keep it, they will think I am not worthy, the decedents in the paintings, the beautiful girl and the man with the sword.”

„Your word of honor? My Rose, that is something much too heavy for such a small girl to carry, none of the old Braunecker family would ask that of you.”

Harro is standing at a window now; he listens to the scratching sounds as the branches of a large tree scrape against the window.

„Can you hear the sound of the tree, as if it is alive and speaks aloud? It is saying liar, everywhere just lies. My father thinks the same. I have told him that I have a word of honor.”

„Rose, darling, if you do have one, small as you are, then the situation is quite different. Have you made this promise to others or just to yourself?”

„I have spoken it out. It is very difficult when you are young, and one must suffer. “

„Poor little Rose,“he says softly. He knows he must not dissuade her from her path of mind; it would be an injustice not to take this quivering little child very seriously.

„A word of honor can be made under conditions that do not apply at a later time,“ he says. He feels quite ridiculous giving her this explanation.

„I know nothing about conditions, Harro,“ she says pitifully.

„Never mind, it is enough that I know. Whom have you given your word of honor to?”

He hears something and as he turns, receiving no answer, he realizes that the woman in her pretty silk blouse has disappeared from the niche.

„Darling Rose, rest awhile, I will get your word of honor back.”

„Oh Harro … „she wraps her arms around his neck before letting him go. He hurries out, runs down a corridor at random, a spiral staircase, four steps at a time; somebody has to be here! As he looks up, he sees Fräulein Braun in her pink blouse disappear around a corner... four more steps, and then he grabs the woman’s sleeve.

„Hey you, where are you going so quickly, has the doctor permitted you to leave?“ The young woman begins to stammer a few words and then starts to cry in a shy way, of how young girls often try to arouse pity. But he isn’t touched by it. He feels ridiculous, standing here on the stairs, bargaining for a word of honor and yet it seems so life threatening for his delicate Rose.

„Have you abused your position in such a vile manner and accepted a word of honor from the Princess?“

The woman sobs out that she knows nothing. „The Princess doesn’t know what she is saying. You cannot believe what the child says, she is of unsound mind!”

„She is much more of sound mind than you.” Harro grits his teeth and his face is as if chiseled in stone.„Has the Princess been injured or not?“

„She has done it herself and now wants to blame it on others! Let me go, Milord, I am without blame, I am defenseless… Milord should not be so cruel. The child is not normal and sees dead people, ghosts and all that, where everyone with education knows there are no such things!„

„So, I will take you to the Chief District Judge. He has a room for educated and uneducated; there you can sit in your nice pink blouse, until they have found out the truth. If you have no guilt, you need not fear anything… these men know how to bring out what they need to know. Or would you prefer to tell me right now what I want to hear? To declare that you have done the Princess injustice by taking a word of honor from her and will give it back to her immediately!”

„Oh no, my God, I am innocent! Yes! Yes! I give it back, just please let me go!” At the same moment, he lets go of her arm and leaves her standing alone on the staircase.

The Thorsteiner whispers a few words into the child’s ear, then calls:

„Doctor, you may examine the Princess now, Babette is with her. Fräulein Braun is useless; I have sent her to bed.“

The Earl joins the Duke in the room outside and both of the men cringe at the woeful whimpering of the Princess. The Duke’s face has turned quite grey.

„I am shocked…please…you must stay the night with us. Such a betrayal! This English woman had only the best of references, her virtues had been so praised.”

The doctor comes out; his face is a dark red and he waves the Earl to go in.

„Please, the child is still very emotional, she asks for you.“

Harro sits down at the bedside of his delicate little Rose, Babette is dabbing her forehead with a cold cloth. The doctor reports to the Duke; quite reluctantly and embarrassed about the whole situation, hoping the Duke would not give him any blame for this horrible incident. He had been fighting a scarlet fever epidemic in the villages all week and had not come to the castle. This morning, he had only seen the girl for a moment.

The child is now willing to speak, after such a long and painful silence, and her little heart surges as she tells her friend:

„In the evenings, when I cannot fall asleep, they sometimes lay warm, moist towels on my breast to make me sleepy, but then Fräulein Braun put one on me, directly from steaming water and I cried out, it is too hot!. But because I always cry, she didn’t remove it right away. It felt like fire on my skin and when she took it off, I was red and burnt all over. I cried a lot and so did Fräulein Braun, you know, because of Karl, because if this was found out, she would surely be sent away and Karl would not marry her. She will then never get a man and a velvet sofa and she will be alone until she is old and wrinkled. She would have to look after strange children for the rest of her life and never have any of her own. If this happens, she will want to die…just go into the deep water and when she is found they will have to break all her bones to get her in a coffin because she will be already stiff. Oh Harro, I couldn’t be to blame that poor Fräulein Braun’s bones all be broken! So I promised I would say nothing but she did not want to believe me... so I gave her my word of honor. All the Braunecker descendents have a word of honor, as I do, even though I am small and not yet confirmed in church. That made her happy and so I was, too, and she stopped crying and said all will be good. But Miss Whart insisted on having me bathed every evening and so the burnt skin only became worse with each day. It hurt so and I could not tell the doctor without breaking my word of honor. Oh, Harro, have I broken it now? Must Fräulein Braun go into deep water?”

„No, she has given you your word back and I promise you, darling, nothing will happen to her and you have kept your word as a real Braunecker does. If the Lord in the painting could, he would salute to you for your courage and strength. Now that you have opened your heart, sleep tight and be assured, all is well.”

As her eyes close, she whispers: „Please tell my daddy I am not a liar, that I couldn’t help it.”

Then someone touches his shoulder. The Duke is standing beside him, staring down at his pale child, bathed in her golden hair, hugging her new doll, the rosy wax image of herself.

„Come with me, let the child sleep now.”

Outside, his voice is cold.„What can I say to this story? That I should be so betrayed by these devilish women! No wonder they had wanted to leave the room so early. My dear daughter, she had not entrusted me.” The Duke walks with long strides up and down. „She trusts you more than her father.”

„She hadn’t wanted to say anything to me either; because of her word of honor.”

„What should a word of honor have to do with this horrid event?”

„She gave it and it has been agony for her to keep it from you.”

Then he goes on to tell little Rose’s promise and her conviction to be as worthy as her descendants. With each word, the Duke’s eyes become softer and shine with admiration at the picture which is now drawn of his daughter.

„To see my little girl from this point of view, I have always thought of her as weak. But you do not know everything of what goes on in her mind?”

„How could I? This little Saint Rose seems to have many secrets.”

The Duke smiles wearily. „Are you always such a friend of children?“

„I seem to understand them better than most adults. Upon this, we met in a rare hour when we were both looking for our special Christmas Day. I have secluded myself from the outside world for so long and your child has somehow brought me back, being so vulnerable and yet courageous… a gentle aura surrounds her, something delicate and yet mysterious.”

Outside, the wind hisses and roars through the trees in the winter night. Harro stares through the window, into the darkness, in a sense of contemplation and abandonment from the world around him.

The Duke follows his gaze and takes his hand.

„I need your help, Harro von Thorstein. Please help me find a way to reach the heart of my daughter, she needs a family and misses motherly love. You seem to understand her and she trusts you.”

Chapter 3

The Hall of Fame

The next morning, Miss Whart is whisked off by ten o’clock with all her baggage in two heavily loaded carriages. She babbles something about speaking to Her Majesty's Ambassador as she huffily boards her carriage. Only Seamstress Rose stays at the bedside of the Princess. Harro disappears back to his ruins, where he intends to stay until he might be called for again. He is aware that the morning light is not as dark as a mournful evening and surely does not wish to appear, as if he is indispensable. He also has work that needs to be done. But all the rolls of wallpaper, waiting to be painted, and cracks in the walls, needing lime and paint, have disappeared from his thoughts. He stands in front of all the work and as if by chance, he looks at his hand, staring at the flashes of red sparkle. He has never worn rings – not even his father's signet ring. During his time in Berlin, he had laid it aside, feeling it was not suitable for his living circumstances at the time and could interfere or even injure, if worn during manual work. He could not take his eyes from it and had to think of the engraving the Duke had shown him: God’s Will has no Why. Had the ancestor, who had worn the ring before him, also felt anguish in his life?

The glittering red light of the ring disturbs him, here in the midst of all this unfinished work. It looks so festive that he does not feel like working and he decides that he also deserves a day of rest, just as others do. The rolls of wallpaper seem to sullenly rustle their disappointment, as he throws them in the corner. They lay there in their pale, grey color, looking quite unsightly, near an unopened package. Harro has not painted on canvas in a long time; his last painting had not been accepted by the Art Association and was sent back to him in this package. The Christmas tree hides the annoying sight.

Yet, he has to work for his daily bread. Most of what he earns from painting, flows inevitably into the bottomless pit; the renovation of the castle. He never rests. There has hardly been a Sunday afternoon where he takes time for idleness, allowing himself a contemplative cigar and enjoying the company of the only friends he has: the words from a few pages of his favorite books.

His devoted effort is rarely rewarded. He is not able to create a hue of inspiration; his colors seem lifeless, clearly needing a good model to capture some beauty.

He knows where the good models are; in Paris… Rome…no one in this rural idyll would ever model for a painting. But those were impossible thoughts.

„You seem to be very indecisive,” he chides himself. „One can only wish for a certain kind of life and then it should be done with assertiveness. But you stare mesmerized at a heap of rubble and put each of your hard earned pennies into this ruin without seeing an end. For the money you have spent on lime to keep the stones together and wages to have it done, you could have had six weeks in Paris. A man like you, who claims to be an artist of life, living on porridge and prunes! You want to have everything and you succeed in nothing.”

This usually happens, when he comes to rest; two longings inside his breast quarrel over the sense of what he is doing.

„Even the simple task of painting wallpaper cannot be done without your mind wandering! You think of the lake outside and the black pines surrounding it, then you see a woman emerging out of the water, creating shimmering rings with each step…the customers do not want to have water rings on their wallpaper! You don’t want to draw them! So why do you paint that way? People would surely just get dizzy looking at your shimmering rings…to hell with wallpaper…I will surely not put any up on my walls…if they ever get done.” He scoffs at himself. „And surely with inlays of silver and pearl and some gold mosaic…you fool and dreamer!”

But today, the two voices inside of him seem to be peaceful and the master of his artist-soul leads him to a large, empty canvas, which he had set up days ago. It is pulled over four wooden stakes and tightened with nails. He begins his work, starting with chalk, and the more his strokes of color begin to enlighten the canvas, the brighter the fire of passion sparks from his eyes. No, this time he will not ignore the divine inspiration burning inside of him. Lost in his actions, he hardly acknowledges how the short winter day comes to an end. A red flame of receding light encases the castle keep, until only a dull glow penetrates the glass of the window in the room.

Then he hears the clacking of oncoming hooves and Mart hurriedly runs out to open the gate. The Duke rides in and gracefully jumps down from his beautiful brown, almost golden colored thoroughbred. Harro hastily pulls off his linen loincloth and covers his work of art with a sheet. He has hardly glanced at his work himself and surely does not want foreign eyes to fall upon it.

„I do hope I am not interrupting your work, Count Thorstein, you cannot always be diligent; one must also take time to rest.”

„I have just stopped, Your Highness, the light is receding.” He gestures to Mart. „You may trust your horse to my servant; he is an old trooper and knows how to treat such a valuable specimen.”

The Duke looks around. „You surely have enough room here; you should also have a horse.”

„If it could live off empty tubes of paint and torn wallpaper,” sighs Harro wryly.

The Duke takes off his gloves and smiles. „You should come to see my little girl, she is doing much better now and is painfully asking for you.”

Harro doesn’t meet his eyes. „I am very busy...here, please, Your Highness, this is my parlor.”

They have entered the largest finished room in the ruin, having much space for everything the Earl owns on comfortable accessories. An embroidered floor-covering colors the room, in which a small table, covered with a red velvet cloth, stands. On the table is a beautiful silver

tea set, from the old country, which he had been able to salvage. This old silver seems to still have the scent of noble contentment. On the wall hangs a picture, captured in a dark frame; the castle keep of Thorstein, rising over the tree tops, with white doves flying in a swarm through the evening light. The red stone walls seem to breathe out warmth, against the dark, steep roof of the castle in the cold shadows.

„That is wonderful,” exclaims the Duke. „You paint landscapes?”

„Among other things.”

„Portraits?”

„I haven’t yet found a model that would stay still long enough.”

This does not sound very enthusiastic, are the Duke’s thoughts. Then he says: „My little one needs to be cared for. For the moment, she is quite happy with her new doll, which no one is allowed to touch, and this seamstress woman looking after her, but she will need new supervision. I could go mad thinking of the recommendations these women had, only the best, and yet my poor little girl had been at the mercy of their incompetence! I should have let my sister Helen look at these specimens; she surely would have seen through them. Oh, how can I trust the next ones?”

„Maybe a Lady of nobility, who has had children herself.”

The Duke lights a cigarette. „A Lady, of course...not so young, more like a grandmother...from society, friendly...in a black silk dress and bonnet with stories of life and love. She would fit perfectly to my young lady with her old fashions and solemn way of seeing things.”

Harro’s face colors slightly.„If an adult had kept his word of honor under such suffering of this given word, then one should pay special tribute to a child for doing so.”

„Certainly, but you must admit: how should my child get through the world’s pain and injustice, if anyone, who is cunning and unscrupulous enough, may abuse her? There are so many people who depend on us and not all of them have the best intentions.”

Harro’s voice is soft. „The delicate, noble and sensitive ones are always defenseless.”

„Would you know an elderly woman for my little one? I am aware that this is indeed a commitment for a lady, not knowing, if this could work out for both sides.”

„I might know someone suited for the Princess,” answers Harro hesitantly. „She actually isn’t very old and would only be available for a few years.”

„That would surely be enough; the most important years are now to come for the child. Who is it?”

„An officer’s widow of noble gender; her son was my comrade, fell from his horse and was seriously injured. He died after a long time of misery. He was a fine man, had a brave heart, I was sorry to lose him as a friend. His mother tended to him until his death; he had been everything to her. Now she is alone. Her daughter married, immigrated to the colonies for a few years and upon her return, they will live together again. I have no idea if she would accept such a position, but she wrote to me some time ago, that she did not agree with being so alone and asked if I might need a housekeeper in my new castle. Unfortunately, I had to tell her that my castle has not been yet established for women.”

„I can surely be of help to you, Count Thorstein, if you need specific things for the structure of your new home.”

Harro seems uncomfortable. „Thank you, Your Highness, I need no help...there is no hurry, my plans are not finished yet.”

„When you are finished with your planning, do let me know“, urges the Duke. „I would also be grateful, if you could ask your acquaintance to consider the position. I would still need an Englishwoman, it would be a shame to let the child forget the language she has learned so well, but she needs a confidante above all.”

„I will, although I am not sure if it is the sort of position she was thinking of.”

„Well, we will see.” The Duke pauses shortly. „Come to dinner tomorrow, Count Thorstein, and we may discuss this further.”

„I must decline, Your Highness, I need the day tomorrow for my work, having been so idle today, but I will surely come by soon to see how the Princess is doing and will let you know the answer of my acquaintance.”

„My dear Count, are you always so guarded?”

Now, he is alone again, lighting a cigar and inhaling the smoke with deep breaths. The thought of taking offered loans makes him shudder. No, he would rather spend the rest of his days between rubble, before his pride would let him accept charity.

„What would happen, if these old walls kept you incarcerated until your death? The world does not need you.”

It is a sorrowful thought in this dark winter night, which is now accompanied by the howl of mournful wind. The small lamp illuminates only one corner of the dark chamber. There is no thinking about continuing his new work of art and he knows, he mustn’t do so in this doleful mood. His inner flames have extinguished and he now realizes that he had not had lunch and is quite hungry. Mart has gone to town and he has no wish to prepare anything just for himself, so he decides to drink a tea to chase the coldness away. He strikes up a blue flame, just as the door bell chimes through the winds of the storm. The Lord of the castle must open himself and finds the postman standing outside; today he has a registered letter with him. He signs the receipt under the flickering light of the entrance door, which seems to puff out in anger as he slams the door. Harro gropes his way back to the room in darkness, his fingers touching unfinished and unpleasant things he had tended to ignore. Angrily, he comes back to his room, where even his blue flame has stopped burning.

Harro flings himself into his chair, leaving the mail aside on the table, and mutters: „Dreadful....what a damp, cold and dark home I have created for myself; the most pleasant scent is the cigar smoke.” He reaches for the mail. A small amount sent for a whole series of wallpaper designs falls out of an envelope and he snorts: „I should have saved the time for better things...to fabricate wax dolls would be more profitable.“ Then a newspaper, an offer from a life insurance company, which he flings into the corner with an unruly laugh, and a thick letter, the writing uneven and simple; the writing of a child’s hand.

My dear Harro,

I am writing to you so that you know I am fine. Seamstress Rose is sewing a silver dress for your Snow White.I wanted a dress made of real silver, but she said that cannot be done. Maybe in Paris. I am very fond of Snow White; I saw right away that you had made her, she looks almost as beautiful as the Mother Mary you made.You could have played Joseph, Father would have understood.

Everyone is gone. Miss Whart, Fräulein Braun and Babette must stay in the sewing room.As soon as I am better, I will visit you to hear the singing well and pet the roebuck.We do not have a singing well and not such a nice manger, but we have a linden tree. Did you hear it, when I was sick? If the tree is angry, it thrusts its branches against my window and swishes and hisses and then goes back to sleep.In the spring, it wakes up again. It has a thousand hearts; soft, green ones and they too swish and swoosh softly when the wind comes and the sunshine lives there in the green-golden house. Then it takes on yellow tufts that swing and everything around comes to visit. It is like a wedding; the tufts swing and the hearts beat and it sounds, as if violins are playing and even the ants put on white wings that they need not work anymore and dance along. The moon rises when the sunshine is asleep in the green-yellow house, then I am not allowed to visit, but I did once. You know how it was? The wedding guests had gone to bed, the violins were still and you know what the linden tree was doing? It was crying! With all its hearts and tufts and the moonshine cut into the tears and everything turned silver. Had you known the tree this way? I had to tell you this so you will also know the secret. I am telling you, because you believed in me and knew I do not tell lies. That is why you are my friend, dear Harro, and I can tell you that I know there is a dress made of silver and there are golden shoes. The linden tree knows it too, but it also cries out the truth when it is alone with the moon at night.

This is my story of the beautiful linden tree.Your Saint Rose

His anger dissolves, the great room is no longer dark and the scent around him seems to be sweet. It is as if the linden tree is all around and the night is bright, he feels delicate little arms wrap themselves around his neck und can hear the fine, tinkling voice. „Why do you cry, my linden tree?”

Harro gets up and paces in long strides through the room, up and down. Mart has fed the large stove with a great portion of wood and comfortable warmth spreads out while the wail of the outside winds harp their songs between the huge fir trees. The lamp casts a glowing light and peeping out of the corner are the beautiful black eyes of the small roebuck that came inside with Mart, twitching its fine nose. The kettle whistles its willingness to warm from inside and all this enchantment encloses Harro as he stares at the bare wall, a picture slowly appearing before his inner eyes. This picture takes possession of his inner soul, which had been chased today in breathless haste.

The image of a large trophy room with white pillars appears in his mind; a strange, golden beast squats with a blurred coat of arms in its claws. Ceremonial walls present themselves with figures of knights and ladies, vague shadows, only the eyes seem to embody life. At the end of this hall of fame, a distant light source illuminates the form of a frail child with wide, dreamy eyes. A cloud of pale hair, falling like floods of water around the face and narrow shoulders, it stands on pale, bare feet, the hands raised beseechingly, yearning to be held. The child bears a strange jewel, from which a stinging red light penetrates his mind. A deep breath ...and the image is gone.

Harro closes his eyes and gropes his way back to his seat in the dark corner of the room. There, he rests his head on his arms, an ardent desire filling his heart. I must succeed! If there is a God, he should hear my plea; but with one God for the millions on earth, what can a tiny earthworm be to him! Lonely is the heart in his chest and left powerless, when the wild roar of emotions leave again. He groans. So much to comply with! The arms of his soul reach out into the dark night...where...how...Then he straightens up. I am a fool; as if ever an answer would come from blind pleading; not even knowing what this plea is for. It is time to grit your teeth; you are an ambivalent man and you must find out what you want. The stones around you are wailing and you have a gift...given by whom? Search deep, the answer is inside of you. I know now, what must be done and I must do it with fervor.

The realization that he would be able to reach his goal makes his breast swell up with bliss. A Catholic would light a candle for the Saint, who has given him this insight. He needs to thank someone.

Then I will light a candle for you, my dear little Saint Rose.

Chapter 4

The Home of Pillars

The castle on the hill and the small town below both seem buried under deep snow with dark, grey clouds hanging low in the sky. In the early dusk, lights begin to glow through the high castle windows. Today, one room has been illuminated after a long time of darkness: Frau von Hardenstein, the new governess of the Princess, has arrived and is getting settled in her room, waiting impatiently for the Earl of Thorstein to arrive at the castle, to greet her in her new home. She is not quite the image of the lady in a black bonnet, which the Duke had pictured; she seems still quite energetic and full of life. Her face shows no sign that the scythe of life has cut deeply into the garden of her soul. Only once in awhile, a glint appears in her blue eyes that reveal a suffering, which will never disappear from her heart.

Harro arrives and after a warm greeting, he looks around the large room. The windows are set back into deep niches and the room has all sorts of cozy nooks and corners. The high ceiling of plaster is held by grey sandstone pillars, which are decorated with all sorts of drapery that makes their solemnity look quite whimsical.

„Do you like your small kingdom here, dear Mama?” asks Harro, knowing she likes it when he calls her as her son had.

„Oh yes, quite nice, although I must say I will need time to get used to sleeping with these huge, stone pillars; when I wake up in the morning, I surely will always be startled, thinking I have my bed in a church. I have decided to sleep behind those green curtains; in my bedroom there is also a large pillar, looking so severely down on me that I have chosen the niche.”

„Maybe it would help to remove those ridiculous curtains; it looks as if the columns wear panties …but then it would really look like a church in here.”

„It seems as though this room has once had a special meaning. The ornament on the ceiling indicates this and it seems to have had even a fourth pillar that has been removed.” She smiles. „It is a nice room; I will surely feel quite at home here.” She ushers her guest over to a few chairs and they sit down.

„When I met with the Duke on premises of first class in Würzburg, we had quite a long talk. He was very kind and showered me with an abundance of advice, admonitions, requests and warnings, always looking a bit skeptical, as if I still might be hiding a dagger under my garments. It was all a bit intimidating, but I fought the feeling of running away, knowing you would not be far. Even if this should only be for a trial period of time, I am so looking forward to seeing you often, Harro, and I hope this fact does not boost your vanity.”

Harro laughs. „Oh, you will surely be getting enough of my humble presence, as the Princess is also so eager to visit me in my ruins; the Duke has allowed her to come.”

„My dear Harro, you always seem to find a way to help the lonely and distressed; this time, it is not a poor musician, not a lonely, grieving mother, but an enchanted Princess.”

„That is the right word for this child; she has indeed enchanted me. And with the poor man, you surely mean my friend Hans Friedrich, a truly gifted musician. Though it is actually the other way around; he was the one who had helped me, when I was in need.”

„I have heard that you came to his help when he had been in utmost peril; being harassed by quite dangerous villains.”

Harro laughs heartily. „Dangerous? Weak and decadent riffraff they had been; a mere suggestion of boldness had chased them away.”

„They could have been armed!”

„Such scoundrels are not able to impinge anything; pistols could be just shaken from their hands. No, my friend was the one who had come to my help with his wonderful music, in the gravest time of my life. I had not acknowledged that until after he was gone, then everything seemed to descend upon me. But your description of the enchanted Princess is incisive. It seems, as if a colored and yet sorrowful looking motley of a jester is hanging over her real entity, as in the fairy tale story of Thousand Furs. When it is taken off, something so graciously beautiful appears that the sun and the moon are amazed.”

„Oh, Harro, and you would so like to come to her rescue?”

„If I only could! Her poor little soul has been so tormented and misunderstood; it is no wonder that her father fears hidden daggers.”

„And after her rescue? What then, Harro?”

„The serfs do their duty and then are forced to leave.”

„You can be certain, the day will surely come that you will be advised to do so. The better your disenchantment goes, the safer it is for you.”

„Dear Mama, I will not need to be advised to do so, I will know when the time comes. But for now, I relish this wonderful little Rose, as long as she needs me. I have been so empty inside, like a wounded animal in a cave, an amusement for others. To have found such a lovely flower that seems to be withering away…I cannot distract my thoughts from her. I am painting her now… she is so fragile. Have you seen her feet? So fine and delicate; please do see to it that she does not wear the wrong shoes that might deform them.”

„I do hope this is the interest of an artist speaking.”

„Don’t you think she is beautiful?” he urges.

„Surely she is…her hair is very beautiful, but there is something disquieting in her eyes, as if they were not hers. They seem to change color and when they are dark, it looks uncanny. It is said that she is somewhat strange; having such poetic ideas and an extremely vivid imagination.”

„I know, and for this she has been offended and called a liar, so that it has even reinforced her to hold onto this own world of hers.”

„Well, we will see, how our little Princess develops…now tell me how you are doing, Harro. How are your grim old aunts? Are they still angry with you?”

Harro chuckles. „Oh, aunt Marga is already knitting socks for me again and because I usually wear long socks and short trousers, my legs having a quite respectable length, she has work to do. She seems to have the idea that I am not yet fully grown and always sends along some of the left over wool, tightly sewn into a linen bag. She surely is afraid that I do not look proper enough to attract the attention of any respectful woman. Isn’t that sweet of her? Aunt Ulrike also seems to be softening up; I can see her bold handwriting here and there in her sister’s letters to me. It is not more than a question mark or an underscore between the sentences of Marga and at the bottom of the letter; she only includes the energetic and impressive letter U.„

The Duke has requested Harro to paint the Princess, which he accepts with utmost pleasure. He acquires only the best of materials for this grand project. A veiled easel now waits in the study and when the Princess peeks into the room, her eyes light up as bright as when she had seen the Christmas tree in the Thorsteiner ruin. All the different paintbrushes, the small bottles of liquid paint, the long, white linen smock; how funny will Harro look wearing it! Frau von Hardenstein has provided herself with a large ball of silver-grey wool, which she plans to entangle and hopefully knit something nice during the painting sessions she will be allowed to watch. It is a tremendously thick bundle of fluff, so that they have all the time in the world, a blissful thought for all those involved. In the bedroom, the most beautiful dresses of the Princess are laid out for the artist to choose from. The Princess climbs onto her dresser, where a large mirror hangs, and critically considers each selection. What she sees, is an image of what she has often looked upon with malaise. She hears her friend coming and gets down off the dresser, a bit abashed.

„My darling, where are your colorful wings? You look slightly distressed.”

She clings to his hand and gently kisses the sleeve of his painter smock and Harro feels uncomfortable, not knowing in what depths her thoughts are.

„What do you like best, my little Saint Rose?”

„My grey dress, Harro, it is not among the others because it has been sorted out to give away. Please, Seamstress Rose must bring it back.”

Said and done; the seamstress appears shortly afterwards, holding a simple, grey dress in her hands. Although it is cut quite plain, it is made of wonderful velvet that shimmers and reflexes each streak of light. The Princess brushes a golden streak of her hair over it.

„Magnificent!” he shouts enthusiastically. „Get dressed and come inside my studio.”

Then, as she sits on the white stool, upholstered with faded green silk, he feels the need to ask her: „Why have you chosen this specific dress?”

„I was wondering that myself,” says Frau von Hardenstein. „I cannot say that I approve of this choice. She would surely look much prettier in a white dress with colorful ribbons in her hair. You have such a nice white dress, lined with red velvet; why don’t you take that one, Julianne?”

Harro looks up in astonishment. „Is that your name, my dear Rose?

„No, my name is Charlotte Julianne Marie Rosalie and none of these are the right ones. Miss Whart had called me Juliet and Mademoiselle July, which also was not right.”

„The Duke always calls her Little One.”

„Poor Little One,” rectifies the child.

„None of these names seem to be right for you. Why had they not given you a traditional German name? One from the line of your ancient ancestors, your golden hair surely is proof of this. A friend once told me that in the coastal cities of the Holy Land in Acre, where the crusaders had lived, the most treasured Arabian children were born with blond hair. That sounds even more like you, so magical. They would have called you Griselda or Gerhildi, Willmina or Gisela…What is wrong, my Rose?”

„I felt such a stabbing in my heart when you said Gisela.”

„But child, you suddenly look as pale as a ghost.”

„You must never say that name again.” Her voice sounds gravely serious.

Frau von Hardenstein lays her wool aside, hastily stands up and gives the Lord of Thorstein a look of warning.

He seems to understand that he has in some way troubled her. „Here, now sit down and make yourself comfortable and as soon as you feel good, I will say when we begin and you must then hold as still as possible. You need not be silent; you can tell me anything you like. Maybe about the linden trees or other beautiful things you have discerned.”

Little Saint Rose nods that she is ready and immediately begins to speak, in her solemn yet tinkling voice:

„On the linden bole, this is named so, because there had first been a bastion built there, long before the linden tree had grown.”

Harro laughs. „What a lovely phrasing.”

„Oh, the first words are always given by Master Cantor, because the beginning is always the most difficult for me and you wanted to hear an essay, as my letter had also been one.”

„So, the beginning has been made, let your imagination proceed.”

Saint Rose bends a knee, embracing it with one hand, tilts her head slightly to one side and looks up at her friend with a trace of a smile. Harro restrains himself from shouting „stay just like that”; he wants to wait until she has completely forgotten herself. His artist eyes are shining in expectation.

„On this linden bole had also been a tower. Do you know something about it, my Rose?”

She begins hesitantly. „There is a red brick tower. All the guest beds in it are made of fine wooden planks. When a king or a commanding general comes, the best bed with blue silk is prepared for them. The windows are barred, a green bush is brought to the top of the tower, like a hat, and in the summer it even carries little red berries. Then all the birds can eat from it and this pleases the tower, with its watchful eye. When the chambermaids clean the rooms, there is a bright red light shining from the windows, similar to a face and quite funny to look at. At the very top of the tower is an empty room that they call the witch’s room; the door to this room can never be closed, it always opens itself at night again. The witch does this, they say, but she is long dead and it is said to be all superstition.”

„Now, Master Cantor surely had liked that phrase,” Harro suspects.

„It is from him,” she confirms proudly. „I have remembered that well. So, that is why no one should sleep in the room, even if all the guest beds are occupied and there is no more room in the castle. The door keeps opening again and again, middle in the night. The tower also has a staircase that goes around in circles, like all stairs in towers. They are called spiral staircases. The stairs lead right down to the middle of the earth. Shall I continue?”

Her eyes wander, a bit uneasy, to Frau von Hardenstein, but she has put away her knitting and is immersed in a book, or at least it seems so. Harro nods encouragingly.

„The tower is a thousand years old. In the midst of the earth, the tower is not as friendly as above, where the bush sits. Perhaps it has forgotten what is so deep down, otherwise it could surely not laugh with one eye and nod with its bush head, when all the sparrows come to visit. Maybe it does not know what had happened a thousand years ago, because it now has to guard the beds. Once, someone had gone down the stairs.”

„Darling, I beseech you; stay exactly like that for one moment. Lord, what a sight! Can you sit still and keep speaking? Tell me; was it a knight, a butler?”

He wants to capture the divine features expressed in her face. His paintbrush flies.

„Go on, my Rose!”

„It was not a knight. It was…she.”

„A woman?”

„I cannot see her face. She holds her hand in front of herself, so as not to bump into the grey stones. Her hand is white and her face even more. Her hair is as mine, only much more golden, and falls all the way to her knees. Behind her is someone, but he is not permitted to touch her, he is also afraid to do so. There is a long corridor in which a large pillar stands. Some light is burning; a yellow and a red one. The stones are now black and rough and she stands beside the pillar. Her dress has become white, it had been black before that.”

„Your story is a bit gruesome, my love, and you have become quite pallid.” The child stays silent, as Harro continues painting in fervent devotion. Yet, he wants her to keep speaking; her face shows too much sorrow when she is silent and her father surely does not want to see her painted like that. „Is that already the end of the story?”

„Oh no!” Her facial features begin to open up again, just like they had in the winter forest.

She begins to speak quietly. „There had been the night, when someone died. The linden tree has yellow tufts and because she is dead, no one recites: Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair, so that I may climb the golden stair - woe, woe, gentle wind, carry off the cap of the prince so blind, over the nettle bush, standing there alone. No loving hands comb my hair, so they do not break and I may spin them on a spindle and see them dance into fine threads, so fair.

Then the room is empty and a cross can be seen in the courtyard. Special herb bushes grow there; one is named heartache and the other neverhappy and the birds are singing never again. Never again.“

Her face is now sheltered by the book and tears slowly slide down her enflamed cheeks. Her small shoulders quiver under the grey-silken blouse.

„There are only people who sigh and those who torture. One is never alone. Never. One always has to do everything right, in English and in French, yet nothing ever improves. The only escape is to climb through the window, because a bar is missing. No one knows and one can climb out onto the linden tree. The moon is shining and one may cry with the tree; then, to snuggle up in the arms of the tree and sleep so blissfully, because it smells so sweet and holds one secure in their dreams. The good Lord does not scold, for he knows very well how it is for a lonely soul. It is so nice and warm and the linden tree shines in tears that make one’s eyes sleepy and the fragrance caresses the lonely body. Then it murmurs and swishes. A fine tinkling can be heard…and there she is. The moonlight reflects her silver dress and around her neck is jewelry of hanging drops. Around her hair lingers a white haze and she looks directly into one’s eyes. She knows everything. She knows…woe, woe, all alone…never again. The greatest joy mingles with greatest sorrow. She is there until one falls asleep.”

Then, little Rose is silent. All is quiet; the only sounds to be heard are the strokes of Harro’s paintbrush. Frau von Hardenstein is no longer in the room.

He looks up and lays down his brush. „I think that will be enough for today; to keep drawing would only ruin what has been created. Please go and look for Frau von Hardenstein, my Rose, I would like to say goodbye to her before I go.” The girl reluctantly goes out, but is right back.

„She is not alone; I do not wish to go to her now.”

Harro packs his items together, hangs a cloth over the painting and forbids the child to peek. Then, Frau von Hardenstein comes in with a shining smile on her face. „Are you leaving already, Harro? Why didn’t you come to get me? I would like to spend some time with you in my dwelling of pillars.”

„I did not want to intrude, dear Mama, when there is someone with you.”

„Oh, no, I was alone.”

Harro looks down at his Rose and she colors a dark red. As he walks on, saying a good bye to the child, his expression is a quite serious one. Where upon the girl shouts out in her highest voice:

„You gave me your word that you would never say that about me!”

„I have said nothing, little lady, my mind should be allowed to conclude a thought.”

Dear Harro, you must come over today, even if towards evening. You seem to have done something disastrous yesterday…

writes Frau von Hardenstein the next day. It is indeed evening, by the time he arrives at the castle and no little Rose runs to greet him. Frau von Hardenstein welcomes him with blushed cheeks.

„It seems I cannot do my job well, I am not able to understand the child. She hasn’t touched a bite to eat since yesterday, no matter what I say to her…with good or stern words. The child is so willful! I have never seen such a stubborn little person in my life. I even threatened her that I would leave, if she did not obey, but she only said, then Miss Whart would just come back, as if she did not care one way or the other. I had imagined she liked me…”

Harro rushes by and finds his Saint Rose sulking in a chair, her Snow White doll wrapped in her arms. She sits completely still and looks very pale and miserable.

„Darling, why do you bring such sorrow to Frau von Hardenstein?”

„I am also sorrowful.”

„I can see that; it seems to be so bad that you do not even want to greet your dearest friend. Shall I leave again?”

„You may, it wouldn’t help anyway.”

„Should I really? How do you know if I will ever be back?”

She suddenly stands up and stamps angrily with her little foot. „I refuse to be obedient anymore, I will only do what I wish and you are not allowed to hit me.”

„My love, why do you so offend us; we have always shown you love and understanding.”

„You have offended me!”

He seems speechless. „Have I? How can you say that?”

„You looked at me and your eyes said; liar!”

„If you would like me to treat you as a sensible little woman, then you must behave yourself accordingly. I sent you to get Frau von Hardenstein and you said she was with someone, although she had been alone.”

Frau von Hardenstein pulls the reluctant child gently towards her. „Child,” she says in a kind voice. „Who should that have been, with me?”

The child’s face twitches painfully, and then she wraps her arms around the motherly widow and whispers into her ear. Harro looks out the window. When he turns back, she has the child on her lap and is kissing her golden hair and her pale little hand, with tears in her eyes. She dabs the tears away and stands up.

„Harro, the Princess is a good girl again and will now drink her milk and go to bed. Please go into my salon in the meantime, I will be with you in a moment.”

Harro goes over and strides up and down between the pillars, which now look more respectful, having gotten rid of their ridiculous panties. He looks up to the stucco ceiling and breathes out gratefully; he had felt quite awkward minutes ago. The ceiling stares back down at him; everywhere weeping angels, hourglasses, thick floral garlands. One angel is quite plump, with long curly hair and seems to be heartbroken, crying into a large handkerchief. What tearful people up there, he thinks…there has been so much weeping in these old walls that some of it must catch on to the residents. Maybe it is a good thing that not all old walls keep standing over so much time.

At last, Frau von Hardenstein comes back.

„I have kept you waiting so long. Are you looking at the troubled folk up there? I have had my share of seeing them. This is indeed a strange dwelling and I sometimes even miss the absurd panties I have taken down. So, my dear Harro, you have been reason for all this.”

„So?”

„Oh, Harro, this whole affair has such a sad touch, as if the angel statue up there with a handkerchief knows the grief incarcerated in these walls. Hadn’t you listened to the child and its story yesterday, while painting? About the woman who walked down the stairs until the middle of earth?”

„Of course; about heartache and neverhappy and the bird neveragain. The child has the soul of a poet.”

„But when she spoke of all this…oh, Harro, with her fine, delicate voice – God, I may not be poetic….but the way it sounded…the words so full of fervency: never happy and never again. I had to leave the room, it all sounded somewhat ghastly from her tender lips.”

She takes a picture from her drawer and holds it to her breast. „Harro, this room had once been a funeral chapel, though that is not the point. How can I describe something, there are no words for? I, myself, have felt…how can I say this…a presence in these rooms. I have often felt solemn and yet light-hearted between these walls. Why should I not live in a chapel of rest, when my heart feels the same? I did snap out of this stage at one point, but the child has often been here and seems to have also felt the presence. Do not ask me to explain, but the child was right. I was not alone.”

For a moment, there is a dead silence in the room, as if the shadows in these walls never retreat, no matter how much sun shines into the room, the shadows are always there. Then Frau von Hardenstein clears her throat and says in a resolute tone:

„Enough of this now! I have only one more thing to say: I will stay here until they either dismiss me or I feel my job is done. This all fits together; these walls, the child and I. You know I am no one who forces themselves onto anyone, but I have felt these shadows. This child is able to see the souls of those departed, which means she is destined for death or is a lost soul herself, something that is frightening for most people. Didn’t you see her eyes when she was talking and how pale she had been? You shouldn’t encourage her to keep speaking of these things, it horrified me.”

Harro almost cries out these words; „But she has a poetic way of describing such things…it would be an injustice to bury this in her.”

„You should have heard her, Harro! She didn’t want to live among us any longer…she would rather be together by those with their light feet. Oh, please, let this poor enchanted child come back to life. Believe me, if you want to help the child, we must not let this side of her grow.”

„I bow to your wisdom, dear Mama. I am willing to tell my dear Saint Rose I did her wrong; that I will keep my promise and not ever think wrong of her again.”

„She will not be content again with anything less, Harro.”

Chapter 5

How Festivities are Celebrated

The sky seems flawless in its clear blue color, the pigeons are sunning themselves on the wall and the first yellow buttercups peep out between the stone blocks. Mart has swept the courtyard; clean enough to defy any inspection. A bouquet of snowdrops, the timid harbingers of spring, decorates the windowsill of the quite presentable living room. The teakettle is sparkling, all the rolls of wallpaper have disappeared – the ruin awaits a Princess. The carriage rolls up and Harro helps his little lady out. Her eyes shine at how nice the ruin looks, having been there in her thoughts almost daily.

„Oh, Harro, the well! It is wearing a splendid green velvet coat. Please, let the well sing for me!”

He pulls out a harmonica and begins to play the song - Who is your creator, you beautiful forest - in a quite inartistic manner, and the well begins to sing.

The tones reverberate, omitting the false ones, and catches a fine sound, creating a melodious song that sounds like the fingers of elves playing on silver strings.

Rosemarie claps her hands. „Oh, how wonderful – I knew it would sound this way!”

Frau von Hardenstein is sitting on a chair that Harro has brought outside for her. Her eyes see the ruin quite differently than those of the Princess. The high walls, the windows peeking over piles of rubble; it all seems more like a dark dungeon to her.

Finally, the pleasures of the courtyard are exhausted and they go inside. Little Rose peels off her coat and dips her nose deep into the fragrance of the bouquet of snowdrops.

„It smells so wonderful here, Harro!”

„Does it? I thought it smells of turpentine and old rags.”

„Oh, no. The strongest scent comes from those.” She points at the fresh pine branches, some of them sagging from the weight of large cones.

„Ah, the decoration! I freshen it up every week. I should have some benefit from owning a whole forest.” He gestures to the seating. „The American armchair is for Frau von Hardenstein and for you, my delicate Rose, Mart has made a chair measured out for your size and has painted it red.”

The child rejoices, as she hurries to the chair. She sits down and bounces up again, circling it in awe. It seems hardly possible, how much the child has changed in the last weeks. She seems so full of life and this will surely intensify, with spring on its way. Harro is also in a resplendent mood. She tucks a snowdrop into a buttonhole of his brand new looking jacket and they begin to make plans; summoned by the scent of snowdrops and pine needles. Of how Saint Rose will live on the linden tree, when the foliage sprouts and she will be sheltered in the safety of the leaves.

In able to celebrate each coming festivity with expectation, she shall enjoy a surprise along the ramparts. Between the stone slabs, one can find a sturdy string with a loop. It is held down by a stake, hidden amidst the ivy. Saint Rose shall tug on it for the first time tomorrow; not every time will there be something found, often it is pulled in vain, but there are other wonderful findings. From the first of April, little Rose must look for a surprise every day and when she least thinks of finding something, there will be the branch of a blooming blackthorn, signaling the first celebration of the spring season, even if it snows.

And how is this celebrated? When the branch is put into water and the eyes are closed, a delicate scent ascends and you suddenly find yourself on a flourishing mound, covered with white blossoms over grey stones.The second Spring Festival is celebrated outdoors. This is signaled by the finding of the fresh, green twig of a beech tree, wrapped in a bouquet of primroses. The bridle path that leads to the Roman meadow must be followed, along a grassy forest trail. Fir trees stretch their long arms over the way and in between, are the beech trees in their festive, bright green apparel. The sunshine leads the way with golden specks and a butterfly, a swallowtail, flutters slowly ahead, like a blessed soul on its way to heaven.

The month of May celebrates the Flower Festival. There is a glade in the midst of old oak trees, where huge bouquets can be picked and brought home to enlighten each room. Then, the Summer Festival follows. The fields are golden and there is a path to follow; one walks between the highly grown corn and wheat, as if in a rustling tunnel. The summer celebration can only begin, when the Princess has found this trail, which changes with every year. In these golden fields, red poppies, blue cornflowers and sturdy, purple carnations stand out, not tolerating other flowers between them. Saint Rose must wear a wreath of cornflowers. Reaching a secret hiding place, there is nothing visible but the golden harvest, seemingly touching the blue-grey sky. An ancient stone lies there, with the engraving of a proud stag with majestic antlers and when Saint Rose arrives, there will be a small tin jug waiting for her, shining in dull silver, filled with cider. As well as a basket with sweet gooseberries, fresh bread and butter, all wrapped in green cabbage leaves. What a feast! The Princess must bring along her own silver cup and on arrival, also must hang her little cornflower wreath on the string, as a sign that she has found the golden house.

Now comes a grand day indeed! It will not be told what may be found on the string-the symbol will be very special on this day. The Day of the Lilies is all the information given about this festival.

The Fall Festival follows. It could be that potatoes are roasted in a fire, creating a picturesque smoke trail into the sky, so that Rose cannot take her eyes off it and her little fingers and the tip of her nose will be sooty from the smoked potatoes.

The end of the seasons is celebrated with the Farewell Festival.

This requires high boots, a raincoat and a green velvet cap. The finding is a linen bag filled with hazelnuts. Only a small part of the world can be seen, as one goes out into the white mist. The fields are bare now, only covered with stubbles, where little mice with moist fur scurry through the remains of once prosperous surroundings. Narrow trails seem vast of life, leaving only the prickly blackberry bushes with their last dark and glossy berries. The world around seems to be secretly veiled in a white haze, bringing life around to a standstill. A meadow appears which shines in an emerald green through the misty air. There still are small groups of autumn flowers, looking a bit lost, but yet still blooming in a bright, amethyst blue. The veil is slightly lifted as the forest wall is seen, guarded by two tall, dark pines.

The feast enhances in beauty. Now, a gold tone shimmers, a clutter of beech trees can be seen, shining through the fog like matt golden feathers. Each tree seems to be enchanted, as if by magic. The dark green has turned into sparkling yellow and red and these colors tear the misty veil apart, as a flash of sunlight glares onto the path, leaving it covered with pearls and diamonds. The birch swishes in its pure gold color, the maple is as red as blood. Between the almost black pine branches glows a sky of blue. The path is sprinkled with golden leaves, which allow you to walk so softly that not even the deer had heard you coming and now look up in astonishment. The way leads on and on, through flaming purple and gold, emerald green meadows and fragrant pine trees until you reach a high, grey wall. The wall is sheltered by a linden tree with a yellow crown, nodding its treetop towards the sunshine. The sky opens up in its brightest blue, shiny as elegant silk.

The path leads through a gate, past an old forester`s house, decorated with deer antlers, until a stone staircase winds its way between dark, ivy covered walls up to the courtyard. Castle Schweigen has been reached; the castle of silence. This castle belongs to Saint Rose. She may enter each room, drink from the golden cups, open the cabinets with silver inlays, perhaps she even can sleep in the four poster bed with the shaky canopy crown and its beautiful silk curtains, embroidered with all the flowers, the real and the imaginative ones. Provided she is not afraid, because such an old canopy always is a bit ghastly. In a vintage mirror, with a greenish bronze frame, she can look at her fine nose, a good way not to let vanity dominate. At an alcove with three windows, the Princess can sit on a high, stiff chair. One window overlooks the crimson golden forest mountains and the other ones face sunrise and sunset. Twines of ivy frame this special seating place; even one branch of ivy has found its way into the room. With this, all the wonderful festivities come to an end.

„Oh, Harro, you never speak of the real world, you only speak of heaven.”

„Don’t be foolish; what do I know about heaven? Beauty is all around us, in our world, you just have to know where to find it!”

The Princess, who is sitting on her red stool with a cup of milk in her hand, comes back to life and nods sadly, tossing her golden mane of hair.

„But when the corn is golden, it is time for studies and when the cider is made, one is not allowed to drink from the pitcher, out of which it tastes best, for that is seen as common; something only peasants do. To eat outside should only be done at a picnic; but here, most people are annoyed at the mosquitoes and angry about what the cook had forgotten to pack in the basket.”

„My dear, you surely do not think you can celebrate these festivities with just anyone? Far from that! If you take the wrong people along, then the mosquitoes will sting and the expensive umbrella will break and the way is too far, much farther than assumed, and behind the raspberry bushes dresses are torn and bracelets are lost, as if swallowed by the earth. Then surely a thunderstorm will come, and only because the wrong people are there. This is something that could have been foreseen. That is my own special knowledge, which I have gained from experience.”

„But who are the right people?”

„The three of us, of course! Let us make a toast to this with our tea-cups”.

But the child is not yet content. „Oh, Harro, if only this was true, at least one of the festivals! The branch of the blackthorn is true.”

„My Rose, the branch has been adjusted to the cord with so much effort. Should this be in vain?”

„And the Day of the Lilies? Will it really be like that?”

„With each festivity something new is revealed; that is what is so exceptional. You must be surprised with each new gift.”

„Oh, yes, I love surprises!”

„That we will see; it takes quite an imagination to celebrate these surprises! Rest assured, the pitcher full of cider is no fata morgana. To think of it as common! To be in the forest and quarrel over what a cook has forgotten is common! There will surely be flocks of mosquitoes; the gnomes of the forest chase them forward, in order to clear their territory of unwanted guests.”

The child’s laugh is joyous. „I have a silver cup which I will take along.”

„One more thing, my Rose; you must not overjoy yourself, as you once did in the forest. This is something you should not let become a habit!”

The child promises to do her best.

Frau von Hardenstein then says: „I am also anxious about all these things we will do together, but now, Harro, please show us what we have actually come to see. We wish to see the painting!”

Harro reddens slightly. „No one has seen it yet…what anguish for my artist heart! I beg you; please do not criticize right away, for I am yet like an egg without a shell. I will only let others look upon it, when I feel it is perfect. I can endure any amount of praise, but you surely should not shy away from saying the truth. Have you ladies noticed the solemnity that surrounds us? The decoration...” he points at the pine branches, „the flower arrangement...” he nods towards the snowdrops, „and for those who really know me; my attire. Please acknowledge the new green cuffs on my jacket, which indeed indicate something special. Today is also a day of festivity. It is indeed a special day, when dear Mama first sets foot on my fatherly halls. This event, of course, must be celebrated as something special and I declare today to the Festival of Revelation. You, my dear Rose, may unveil the painting by pulling on the cord there; but for heaven’s sake, do pull straight down so that the first glance is not awry.”

Rose is pale with expectation as he stands up; taking her in his arms, he says solemnly: „My dear Saint Rose, I have been able to paint this only because of you; you are my greatest inspiration. Now pull!”

The cover falls. The painting is already in a golden frame, it`s colors shine so deep and warm, ennobling the common room in a festive glow. The child stands in front of the painting and it is almost to be feared that her joy becomes too intense. She shall partake in the magnificence of the painting; she, who had always been pitied as a poor little child, who had only been a burden and grief to everyone.

Frau von Hardenstein pulls her chair forward, until she sits directly in front of the canvas.

„Harro, it is beautiful and yet outlandish...what is the meaning?”

The child turns around and says reproachfully; „That can clearly be seen!”

She wraps her arms around Harro’s strong, hanging arm and leans her golden head against it.

„If you know this with such certainty, darling, then just say it.”

„It can be recognized at once as the Hall of Honor! They are all in it; those asleep in their crypt, who have their paintings watch over them. See the look in their eyes? The gaze of the knights and of the women in silk dresses, holding carnations in their white hands? All these eyes are looking at me. The golden animals on the white pillars listen and hold their breath. They must guard the house and ensure that no one comes into the house who lies or breaks their word. Then, the wandering little soul, who carries a red flame in a silver goblet; she is so fragile and because the bearing is so heavy, the little one seems to suffer. Everyone is watching her, for if she drops the goblet and the red light goes out, then that is the end of everything. This is why the golden animals hold their breath.”

Harro puts his hand on her frail shoulder and gently strokes the golden hair.

„Why does the child stretch out her hands so pleadingly?”

„Well, if no one helps her, she will drop the goblet. That is why she is walking with her red light; barefooted and searching.”

„She will not drop it as long as she lives!”

„Do you think so, Harro? But what if she dies? Then the light comes to an end and all is dark. The animals will fall asleep, never to wake again and anyone who desires to, may get in.”

Harro bends down and breathes a kiss on her crown of golden hair.

„I thank you, my Saint Rose. Now, the painting is hallowed.”

Chapter 6

The Day of the Lilies

Little Rose has some wonderful findings. Harro had judged her right; she has the vivid imagination necessary to enjoy surprises. There has been the Spring Festival with blackthorns, the Festival of the Mayflowers and each festivity had its very own intricacies. The tall Thorsteiner walks as if on clouds and now holds his head of curly-brown hair high, wearing his old felt hat and smiling greetings. The forest workers and farmers hurriedly pull off their hats when he walks by. In former times, they had waited in vain for him to greet first.

He enjoys recounting his day to the attentive Princess:

„If you want to see a future capitalist, just look at me. If we wished to, Mart and I could eat chicken cutlets topped with whipped cream every day, or could take a ride on the hay wagon through the country, just as the story of the little boy from Matzenbach, if he had become king - a clever little lad, who had known about the good things in life.”

Harro has sold the painting. Not the original, only a copy of it. To be separated from the original, would have been close to profanation to him. Without him even knowing, the price for the painting increased incredibly by his refusal to sell it. It seemed to have been essential to an American millionaire, a man who had earned his wealth from breeding and slaughtering an immense number of swine, to have the painting Hall of Honour. He thought the painting would fit just perfectly to his house in Chicago. Mr. and Mrs. Vandouten, in any case will feel quite distinguished, when they show it to their visitors. Harro copied the painting for the American and he obtained more money for the copy, as they had offered in the beginning for the original. The copy also included empty emblems to it, with golden griffins and pelicans, and later on, once his daughter had maybe married a stranded earl or an impoverished Italian prince, he can let their coat of arms be painted into it.

It is not the money deposited in the bank which makes him so happy; it is the celebration of the festivities with his Rose. Frau von Hardenstein has also discovered how much pleasure there can be, in the simple joy of celebrating such wonderful feasts. She had never perceived that Harro could be so energetic about these things; this was a talent that must have dozed inside of him all along, just waiting to be let out. She herself had often been tossed around by life, never having time to enjoy any rituals. Since she married, she had moved criss-cross through her German motherland. She buried two loved ones along the way, one in the city of Dieuze and another one in Thorn. She cannot remember how often the furniture wagon stood outside her door and packers went after her belongings.

„I am beginning to reconcile myself with the pillars, Harro,” she says. „They are so very steadfast and cannot be moved. Some people would find this depressing, but it actually comforts me. I had my furniture moved around so often, always trying to find the right place. Now I feel at home and can watch in delight as the child blossoms. She has not spoken a word of any sorrowful events since weeks. Who knows? Maybe we will be able to actually bestow this Princess with happiness in the end.”

Harro seems quite upset about these words.

„Of course we are able! Who would have doubts to this? Such thoughts result from the appreciation of misery and tears. As if this beautiful earth is a place of punishment and everything that is lovely, beautiful and good must be buried in a cemetery on your „meadows of hallelujah” the moment it has unfolded. If you are so close to divinity that you have the privilege to present your own view of life, then it is my opinion to gratefully acknowledge this terrain on earth as a very beautiful one. Where, however, we often behave badly enough, but this is not the site’s fault.”

„Don’t be frivolous, Harro… and you are wearing the lily stem at an angle, although you have told me, it must always be carried straight.”

Harro is in the reception room with Frau von Hardenstein. It is late evening, little Rose has gone to bed long ago and Harro explains further to his motherly friend, how lilies must be handled if they are to bloom to their full magnificence. Frau von Hardenstein smiles and shakes her head, in slight amazement of his preparations.

On this twentieth of July, the sun shines as golden as expected for this special day and the sky is already a deep blue color, even though still morning. The Princess wakes up early, to find her beautiful white dress on her dressing table. This implies something. Could it be, is today the Day of the Lilies? She dresses quickly and slips out to the linden tree, onto a former bastion, to which one of her balcony doors open up to, with a view far into the valley. It is the most protruding mark of the hilltop with a winding river at its lowest point. Green forest mountains accompany the watercourse and just opposite the linden tree, there is the secret place, where the old beech trees descend to the water`s edge and spread their loving arms over the green golden water. The river itself seems to slow its course for a while, as if hesitant to continue flowing; high reeds and shrubs surround the other bank. The spot is called Earlsbath and there are still old stone steps leading into the alluring depth.

The linden is blossoming, leaning towards the masonry of the ramparts with its powerful trunk, the roots visible in a small earth ledge and a crown spreads majestically. The north side is also surrounded by twelve huge pine trees of which only the treetops can be seen; the branches of the last pine touch the red tower, which serves as the honorary guard over it all.The red tower itself is so huge that a Berlin apartment building with six rooms could fit comfortably into it and the windows face each direction, always providing a room with either shade or sun. Ivy winds up all the way into the crown and presses twigs through the tiniest wall cracks.

Saint Rose is in her most festive mood and hurries for her string. The end of it reaches deep under the bastion; beyond the roots of the linden tree, into a secret corner of the park.

„Oh, the string seems quite heavy! There is something attached to it, - yes, I can see it coming over the wall.”

A small wreath of roses appears, attached is a white box.

„Frau von Hardenstein!” Her excitement cannot be overheard. „Please come, look at this! „ The first task is to untie the wreath and place it where it is meant to be. To look upon the floral arrangement in the mirror is not necessary, for such adornments always fit perfectly on a head of golden hair.

Now the box shall be opened. On a white padding of silk, lies a pair of golden shoes; in such a dainty and delicate shape as never seen before. They fit her feet perfectly and little Rose can stand on her toes and move as though barefoot. She begins to dance with her golden shoes and her hair flies out under the wreath of delicate roses, as she spins.

„These are my shoes of joy! I shall always wear them when I am joyous and when I wear them, then it is a celebration.”

„Today is indeed a day of celebration, Princess; it is your birthday! You must allow us to congratulate and there is still much more to be seen.”

„Do you hear this, my old linden tree? Today is my birthday and a festive day of joy. And you are also a most beautiful tree on this day.” For the linden is blossoming on its north side today.

„Look at my golden shoes! For a thousand years you have not seen such golden shoes! Cast down a tuft, a drop of honey, linden tree, my linden heart!”

Hesitantly, she allows to be led into the reception room, where she discovers a semicircle of traditional, plain tin cups, each filled with lilies. Saint Rose breathes anxiously. „Is this for my birthday?”

Frau von Hardenstein believes, Harro`s pictorial floral arrangement is so ceremonial that it is on the verge of being also quite intimidating. It makes the small, white table, packed with gifts, almost non-essential.The child looks upon her gifts, and then she carries each one of the lovely presents, piece by piece, over to the blue sofa in the corner. Coming back, she crouches on the floor within her circle of lilies. Then, she takes off her golden shoes and places them on the now empty table, silently smiling. The next words are spoken in a whisper.

„This gift is from Harro.”

Then she puts on her golden shoes again.

What a strange child.

Frau von Hardenstein does not speak these thoughts aloud.

Harro has again overwhelmed her with his magical flowers. Oh my dear child, I fear the day that your Harro must be taken from you!

„Let us now go outside again, Princess, there is more to be seen in the courtyard. The scent of your flowers is so strong.”

„Oh, dear Frau von Hardenstein, may I stay alone with my lilies for a few moments longer? I will not touch them; I know that is not allowed. Just for a little while? I promise to do everything I am told afterwards!”

„Alright, I will walk out into the park, down the path of roses and wait for you in the courtyard. You will follow on soon. Do you promise?”

She leaves and Saint Rose is alone. Surrounded by her ring of flowers, gazing at her mother`s large portrait, she whispers:

„Can you see me, Mother?”

A long pause, as if she awaits an answer. All is quiet; only the summer breeze plays with the dainty white curtains, swaying them gently back and forth, reflecting the golden arrows of sunshine which glitter through the shutters.

„Mother” she whispers again – then she sighs softly. „She is surely sleeping so deep or is so far away. It must be very beautiful, where she is; so much that she may not desire to glance down to catch sight of her little daughter, who is celebrating her Day of Lilies. Perhaps they are playing music, the lilies, there, where you are? Each of them has a tone and you are surely able to hear them sing. I wonder, if I could dance to the tones. But it must be nice and slow, I do not like fast dances! But when one is cheerful and happy, as never before in a whole lifetime, then you simply must dance.”

She fondles the end of her long hair with filigree fingers and spreads the fine, golden waves out like a veil around her face. She begins to move her rose bejeweled head, and then lifts a delicate foot. Now, she slowly glides around the circle of lilies; bowing and swirling in enchantment.

Then, the door opens and Harro is standing there with a huge bouquet of roses. She nods at him with a smile, furthermore dancing in circles and her fine body seems like a white flame in the thin dress. He stands motionless, his eyes absorbing the vision.

Her laugh is melodious. „The dance of the lilies, Harro! This is their sound on heaven`s meadow and I am dancing to it with my golden shoes.”

Harro feels a sweltering, yet icy sensation overwhelm him.

„Come, sweetheart, Frau von Hardenstein awaits you; the scent is too strong in here.”

Indeed, there is more to be seen in the court yard; a shiny, brown pony from Aunt Helen is neighing for attention. Little Rose pets the animal with a bright smile, but in order to ride the pony she would have to part from her wreath of roses and her golden shoes. So, for the moment, she is content with feeding it a piece of sugar and stroking her hand over the wonderful, soft fur. Lunch is eaten in the comforting shade of the linden tree.

„Princess, have you said your thanks for everything and, Harro, how in the world did you manage to get these golden shoes?”

„Harro, I thank you so much; they are my shoes of joy, I will always feel blessed when I wear them. Who gave you the shoes? Was it a gnome of the forest...maybe the elves of the mist or have you found them in a well of youth?”

„Wrong guess.”

Harro leans back and contentedly begins to tell them the story, while enjoying delicious strawberries and whipped cream.

„I was in Munich last week. Strolling through the cobblestone alleys, I saw a sign on a small shop with the name Johann Nepomuk Wurmhaber, artistic shoemaker. In the window were peculiar shoes on display; exaggeratedly pointed shoes, rarified slippers in soft, colorful leather, and high heeled shoes with shining buckles. So I entered the shop and there was this small man, with fiery red cheeks, just as hunchbacked as his quaint little shop. His voice had a rasping sound to it as he bowed and said: ‘Sir, it is my pleasure to assist you in each and any century you might consider being in. The gentleman is an artist?’ I must say, I was quite surprised and yet pleased, for this had never happened to me before. Most people consider me to be an officer in civilian clothing. I replied that I preferred to stay in the present century, although I was in search of golden shoes. He did seem to be amazed at my request, but his surprise was ephemeral and his recovery immediate.

`My shoes are shoes of art, ´ he replied. `They are not mass production; they are unique and made individually.´

‘I can be of assistance in this matter,’ was my answer and presented him my wax models, one for the right and one for the left foot. I have modeled them with great endeavor; you have been kind enough to help me, my Rose, by shunning your shoes so often.

Frau von Hardenstein seems to become angry.

„Dear Harro,” she says sharply. „I fear any admonition from my side is useless, if you continue to encourage the Princess to be naughty. Only yesterday, she took off her shoes during her history lesson. I am in favor to confiscate the golden shoes, should this happen again.”

Both scolded persons duck their heads; Harro bends over his strawberries and little Rose blushes, almost disappearing behind her napkin. She feels very guilty, because even now, only one of the golden shoes is over her toes. Luckily, Frau von Hardenstein does not look under the table and Harro continues his story.

„Herr Wurmhaber was very pleased with the wax models and upon hearing that he may keep them, he promised to buy proper gilded leather. He seemed to have an acquaintance that produces valuable book covers and he asked me to specify the shape, but I desired to see his fine collection first. This could be seen in a backroom, which lead into a garden and upon lifting my eyes, I could see a profound piece of heaven above. Plaster moldings of many famous feet appeared. The feet of the dancing Graces of Canova, the Bow Stringer of Königsberg and the foot from the Greek sculpture Boy with Thorn. He placed the models near the left foot of a Greek dancer.

‘And now, Sir’ he said, his voice filled with cryptic intonation, ‘May I lead you into my chamber of horrors?’ He pulled a curtain aside and terrible objects could be seen. ‘Milord, these I have collected from neighborhood alleys and courtyards of poverty and poor taste. Heels too high, toes pointed wrong, others spread in width; it is an army of ugliness… and now we need to find a form, which avoids all these misfortunes.’ He then chose the form of these golden slippers from one he claimed he had found by looking at a drawing on the tomb of the Bishop from Wurzburg. I am not certain I believe him about the Bishop and I was amazed, Frau von Hardenstein, that the man did not want to be paid for the shoes, absolutely nothing, if only he could keep my models for his collection. One thing is a fact; the shoes are of very good quality.”

„Do forgive me, dear Harro, but these are quite peculiar and might be fine shoes for specific festivities, but they are rather shapeless.”

„I beg your pardon, Mama, the shoes have already taken the shape of her delicate feet. This is exactly what makes them so special.„

The child whines: „I do not wish to have others! It would be terrible, if my feet ended in the chamber of horrors.”

Harro suggests that the Princess should be allowed to keep them, if she promises to never again take her shoes off under the table.

Frau von Hardenstein sighs: „Harro, you are the most unqualified person for the upbringing of a Princess I can think of, and the harm that may come out of this...“

Somewhat subdued by the disapproval of Frau von Hardenstein, Harro decides to take a walk to the Roman meadow. Towards evening, it is agreed to meet up with his Rose again, accompanied by Frau von Hardenstein, at the refreshing, gurgling well. A great number of strawberries grow there and the child has a wicker basket, inlayed with wine leaves, to then fill up with sweet fruit for Harro, by the time he arrives. The ladies take a ride through the shadows of the trees and the forest`s cool breeze caresses them. The carriage stops and returns to the castle without its passengers, because they wish to stroll the rest of the way home. The figures of a lady, dressed in black, and a child with golden slippers, proceed along the mossy forest path under the shade of majestic oak trees.

They find themselves amidst an almost ancient oak grove, gnarled and bent, yet conserved and protected for the sake of the magnificent appearance. Not one that had not been touched by lightning, the branches writhe like snakes. A woodpecker is at work in the hollow crown of the oak trees. Patches of strawberry fields surround on the soil around their tree trunks and glossy, green fern sways in the breeze. Like a soft, silver ribbon the grass snake glides over the mossy ground, as a graceful deer looks up in surprise. The forest doves call out their coocoo , coocoo to each other and a small well dispels the loneliness with its sweet melody.

There is a table and a bench, where the grove opens to a gently lowered forest meadow. Now the child may look for strawberries and she goes forth and back, busy amidst the giant trees, which have been planted by long forgotten ancestors. She is not quiet for one moment, since she longs to speak to everything that comes along her way. She speaks to the small frog, saying it has the most beautiful golden eyes and also to the bell flowers, which she kisses and asks: „Are you part of my birthday presents, because you are here at the roots of these trees?”

Harro arrives and she is so full of joy that she almost spills the contents of her basket. It is filled with ripe, dark red berries, almost as large as cherries. They walk over the meadow together, where the carnations are nodding their heads and flaming red, wild roses grow higher than the Princess. The sun is glowing onto the field of red flowers and the crickets twitter their melodious music.

„Let us sit down at the marge of the trees, Harro, so we can listen to the murmur of the well.”

He stretches his long body out on the grass with a sigh of contentment. Little Rose sits between the oscillating marsh grass, eagerly skewering strawberries onto the fine reeds of the grass. Harro opens his mouth and she feeds him with neatly impaled berries; he does not even have to move.

„Harro, if I were your wife, I would always pick strawberries and feed you.”

Harro seems sleepy; he has walked in the blazing sun during his exploration of the forest, needing the brightest light to absorb all its beauty. His voice is a deep and soft mumble: „There is no room for Princesses in ruins. What to do with all the accoutrements and servants?”

„I neither need servants nor a carriage; Mart is there and I will walk with you.”

„In the bright sun and with your golden shoes?”

„You need not answer. If you try to say something, I will just put a strawberry into your mouth.”

„Continue to speak, little Rose and please do not be upset, if I doze off a little. I have been up since four o’clock this morning, walking so far and being very busy with all your surprises. Your fine voice accompanies the singing of the well.”

„One day in the future, I will become your wife, Harro.”

He wants to say something, but she immediately puts a strawberry into his mouth.

„Can`t we pretend? I will be grown up and I wear a silver dress and you have a splendid hall where you can paint. In the hall there is sunlight and shadows, each to create an atmosphere to match the mood. I will be sitting with you, quiet as a mouse, and you will paint the most beautiful paintings. Mart cooks dinner, I will prepare the sweetest dessert and in the evening, we take a walk to the Roman meadow until nightfall. Then, all goes to sleep; the moon appears and smiles at the sleeping world. Then the Lord descends from heaven and looks into the people`s hearts. They put them aside, because they cannot guard their emotions at night and He looks at what is inside their hearts. When He comes to the ruin and sees into our hearts He will say: I will put a golden drop from the heavenly well on his heart and on his eyes, so he can paint the most beautiful paintings. Then my heart aches; oh what would I give to have this be true for you, Harro! You have placed the lilies in a circle for my birthday, so everyone could see, it is indeed a celebration that little Rose is on this earth and that she brings no sorrow to others. Now you surely assume I will reveal what gift God has for me, but I also desire to have a secret…. No, not from you….but the time will come…..”

Frau von Hardenstein waves, beckoning them to come; Harro slowly rises and seems to be daydreaming. She teases him to be quite indolent today, allows him to light a cigar to this mood and in order to fend off the mosquitoes. Meanwhile, the child remembers that she still has not finished reading her father`s letter, it is so lengthy and outlandish today. She reads in silence, while Harro pensively smokes his cigar.

„Well, Princess, good news?”

„Yes, Father is very pleased. But it would not have been necessary.”

Harro looks at her and is puzzled: „What do you mean?”

„Well…my new mother. I do not need her, now that I have you.”

Chapter 7

Rosemarie

The castle and the small town are both adorned in their most festive apparel.

All the little gabled houses in this town are cleverly situated one behind the other, so that every house has a view towards the castle. Each one of them have their decorations, even if it is only a moss wreath with a blue and white paper ribbon. All along the winding main road, from the Hohenstaufen gate tower to the horse riding arena, there are double rows of young pines, connected by colorful flower garlands made of autumn flowers, such as dahlias, sunflowers and asters. There even is an honorary gateway, festooned in the green pine branches from the surrounding forest, with a well-intentioned verse above it. The mayor`s daughter is anxiously memorizing a poem out loud. Standing in the kitchen, listening, Minnie and little Fritz already know it by heart, but Fräulein Klara has difficulties and her voice constantly falters in the third verse.

„The town shines bright in celebration, with banners flattering over the valley….”

She repeatedly begins again, as her mother slips a festive white dress over her head.

Meanwhile in the castle, the servants are very busy. For this exceptional occasion, they are all dressed in scarlet red uniforms and their shoes have shiny, polished buckles. Valuable tapestries decorate the entrance to the tournament court and the armory, where the reception shall take place. How exciting for the children of the village to be able to poke their noses in the armory with its countless rifles, old swords, amours and shields. The most impressive of all, however, is a huge, taxidermy bear, mounted at the entry with an uplifted paw. The Duke once shot it in Russia and the children don`t quite trust this monstrous figure, it still looking rather threatening.

Throughout the castle there are potted palm trees and tall vases with long stems of roses. An atmosphere of expectancy has settled on everything, because today the young Duchess will arrive. The servants bustle about to have everything perfect. There are so many ingrained habits in this secluded castle that might not please a young mistress. And how will the Princess feel, how will her behavior be? The womenfolk from the housekeeping room seem to have no doubt that she will indeed rebel against this change. The kitchen is dominated by masculinity, where the prevailing opinion is, that it is quite insignificant what the Princess does or does not do. They agree that the festive meal has been excellently prepared and dinner begins with the sound of the first violin, no matter what. Whether the Earl of Thorstein would still strut around, as if he had an entitlement to do so, is the more exciting question. They watch him approach the entrance, as if self-evident that he is part of this all. And how elegant he looks! The servants flatten their noses against the glass of the windows in order to see him.

The Earl of Thorstein ambles unconcernedly through the entrance and knocks at the door. He must see how the child is. She has been bitterly disappointed, for she had so wished to be at the wedding. A wedding is said to be something wonderful; an event looked forward to for a long time, before it takes place. There is music, all the people are happy and beautiful and in festive moods. Her father had not wanted her to attend; she should wait in Brauneck until he arrives with the new mother. The fine child`s heart feels she is not wanted by her father, because the new mother had kindly invited her. And she is right; the Duke gets nervous just at the thought of the crowds, who would stare at his poor little girl and how her narrative way of speaking would be ridiculed afterwards. She might act inappropriate; from taking off her shoes up to the most impossible things. The child had felt disregarded and Frau von Hardenstein had been busy in comforting her wounded soul.

On this day, Saint Rose is wearing her golden shoes, a French rosary and her silver embroidered dress, designed by Harro. It is still not a genuine silver dress, yet effectively adorned as one. She stands on tiptoes and tugs impatiently at Harro’s arm.

„Look at me…. do you like what you see? „

Harro shakes his head in concern, more than ever before is he convinced of his inability as an educator of the Princess.

„It is rather peculiar, Harro” complains Frau von Hardenstein.

Her dress is made of Egyptian tulle which Harro had found; the material is interspersed with thinly hammered silver threads in a simple pattern. Yet, he now is abashed by the impression she makes. The dress seems to emphasize the mystery, that sacred sensitivity which always hovers over the child.

„My dear Harro,” Frau von Hardenstein whispers. „You have sculptured an antiquated angel; you can set her on any altar. You know how important the first impression is!”

„Well, then it will be just right that the new mother sees the child in a dress, which underlines her character. Nonetheless, I promise solemnly that I will never again intervene in matters of etiquette.”

Now, a distant cannon shot can be heard, the signal for their arrival, which indicates it is too late for any changes. She seems like a lucid white flame on an altar, this little Rose, are Harro’s pensive thoughts. The silver clings to her fine limbs, smooth and shiny like the skin of a snake, swaying to the rhythm of her moves and the rose wreath gives the silver and white appearance a touch of vibrancy.

Fräulein Klara had indeed paused dramatically in the third verse, but the Duchess’ beautiful brown eyes shine so cheerfully that she finds back to her poem. The horses, which have been previously trained for their current obligations by talented school boys, only become restless. The Duke and the Duchess exit their carriage and walk slowly towards the bridge, waving to the assembled people of the town, leading over the castle moat.

At the palace gate, where tapestries drape the entrance, the child stands there by herself and recites her greeting. „Welcome, Mama, welcome, Father“- just as the Duke had wished. The tail coated guardsmen step back and the Duchess answers a bit awkwardly: „Will you give me a kiss?”

The pretty, brown eyed stepmother bends down to the child, half-heartedly tilting one cheek towards her.

Little Rose has the feeling of having to speak out something special and promises:

„I will try to be a good girl as ever possible.”

The new Duchess straightens up again, glad that the uncomfortable moment is over, because all eyes are on her, especially this one moment of greeting. Saint Rose now may greet the Father and his eyes sparkle as he takes her by the hand and the three of them climb up the stairs into the large reception room.

There, the Lordships from the neighboring castles are anxiously awaiting them. The Pastor and the dignitaries of the village are also gathered and everyone mumbles a few appropriate words. The Duchess must respond and smile and speak a few words herself and it is noticeable that she does not always use the appropriate title. The Duke holds on tight to his daughter`s hand, as if to prevent her from escaping or doing something unsuitable. The eyes of the guests are fixed on the young Princess, as well as on the Duchess. Never has the child, of whom there is so much whispered about, been seen up so close. They had often caught a glimpse of her with her attendants, passing by in a carriage or in the park in her fenced off playing area. The corpulent Frau von Statten whispers to her neighbor:

„No one would have expected that a girl so lovely originates from the Brauneckers. Have you ever seen Princess Helen? No comparison! The appearance of the family tree is truly unimpressive; one must simply look at the paintings on the walls. The men, indeed, look quite reasonable, but the women…”

Rose behaves perfectly today, answering every question fairly correct and she even remembers to curtsy in front elderly ladies and the Pastor. The Duke beams with pride. He then discovers someone standing awkwardly aside all this royalty.

„Dear Charlotte, I must now introduce you to our nearest neighbor, the Earl of Thorstein; a man who is out to conquer the noble, aristocratic art.The Earl will surely be a famous painter one day and will glamorize our silent forest region with significance and a gloss of fame.”

The young Duchess looks at his imposing figure with decided pleasure. She even ventures a little joke: „He outshines us already now.”

„Surely not in your presence, Milady,” he answers and bows to kiss her hand. „Your most humble and grateful neighbor. The family of Castle Brauneck has been quite supportive to me, for which I cannot be grateful enough.”

„How nice of you,” replies the Duchess. „I understand you are here throughout the year; being neighbors, we will surely see each other frequently.”

Her eyes keep on turning back to the tall man; he is undoubtedly the most impressive of all those present in the room, where most of the men seem to be quite elderly. There is also a young prince and a cousin; both are draped in blue, silk sashes, which reflect their fresh young faces. Though this Thorsteiner...he is now avidly speaking to the child, which assures her that he is a kind neighbor. The guests are thinning out, some of them will return for dinner. The new Duchess has survived her first reception.

With a sigh of relief she sinks onto the divan. The Duke laughingly sits at her side.

„You have withstood with the necessary pride, my dear; what do you think of our little girl? How lovely she looks and she has not made one single faux pas. I am amazed. And her rosy cheeks! This Frau von Hardenstein is a jewel. Charlotte, please do find a few kind words for taking such good care of her, of how delighted you were by her behavior. Well, just look at you, my little one, you look so...”

„Beautiful, Papa?”

„Well, well...who has made you so vain?“

„No one said anything, but I saw it in Harro’s eyes.“

„Who is this Harro?“ Mama asks. „Whose gaze has been so full of admiration? Might it have been the prince?“

„No, the Thorsteiner, our daughter’s very special friend.“

„Oh, the future famous painter, or have you just been joking?“

„No, he is indeed a gifted painter and we must soon look at his painting of the child. I am sure, he is waiting for our approval and admiration of his talent.“

„Any more duties?“ pouts the young woman.

„Only the obligation to rest a bit and refresh yourself before dinner. I am sure, my dear, that you will also receive many glances of admiration, even more so than our little one. Come, child, let us show your Mama her room. I sincerely hope that everything is according to your wishes; the castle is of old structure, this cannot be denied. „

„It all seems like a maze to me, Fried, - the corridors, the stairs and, oh, the entrance! As if the spirits of your ancestors still walk these grounds. Are you certain there are no ghosts? They might be discontented with me.”

„Oh no,“ little Rose exclaims. „Surely not.“

But her father quickly cuts off further words and says: „Now, go into the summer room and wait there for me, child.”

As soon as she leaves, he turns and asks with a broad smile: „Well, how do you like her?“

The young woman secretly thinks that there has been enough talk about the child and says with a twist of shrewdness to her voice: „ It is not wise to speak of children while they are listening. It deprives them of their naivety.”

„This cannot spoil the child; she is as naive as six children.” He offers his arm to his young wife and leads her into her new domain.

„Oh, how beautifully furnished, Fried, how nice of you! And no ancestors on the walls! I thank you so much! Helen says there is no way to turn without some uncles and aunts from various centuries watching. This is why she could not bear to be here on somber days or during the winter time.”

„That is typical for Helen! She would have loved to target shoot at the portraits of aunts. She was always quite disrespectful, which had often distressed my father. She only owns paintings of landscapes and of her collection of race horses.”

They both laugh. „And yet, one continues to have portraits painted, generation after generation,” says the young Duchess with amusement. „Let us hope that this Thorsteiner is not such a modern painter who paints in moods and shadows, so one is portrayed for posterity with green hair and a blue nose!”

Her bright laughter echoes though the lofty rooms and the Duke embraces her.

Rose waits quite long for her father in the summer room. But she is a patient child and has much to think about. Especially one thought worries her. Stepmothers can love their stepchildren just as much as a birth mother, she knows this from Harro. He had told her about the famous painter Feuerbach and his stepmother; of how she had greatly loved him, and that he had created a monument for her in a wonderful painting. Stepmothers are perhaps able to be selfless, but can this be said about step-daughters?

„Well, my little girl, what brings on such a pensive expression?”

Papa laughs, his eyes shine, and the child sees that a change has taken place in him. He appears to be younger now, although he had not been old before. He walks around the room, to and fro, humming to himself in such contentment that he even forgets to light a cigarette.

„Now we are no longer alone, darling. You have a Mama! And we all may now have a pleasant life together.”

Deep in thoughts, he sits into an armchair, humming to himself as he looks towards the diminishing evening-sky. Then he turns and says in a surprised tone:

„You are still here, my little darling? I had forgotten all about you.” He remembers that he wanted to do something …what was it? Oh yes, the painting.

„Rose, your painting, where is it?”

„Over there, it has been covered. Harro says it should not be hung on the wall yet, he wishes to wait and see if you are pleased with it.”

The child walks to the painting, pulls the cover off and stands full of expectation. But the father does not say a word; he just stares at the painting, as if he has no recognition of the person looking back at him.

„This has been painted by the Thorsteiner? And this is you, my child? Where have I had my eyes?” Rose grabs a chair, pulls off the rosary from her head and wraps her hands around her knees, turning her head to one side. She knows the image of the painting by heart, even the exact expression on her face. Her father’s eyes wander back and forth from the painting to his child, but he does not speak a word.The bell is heard and the Duke rises swiftly.

„Now we will surely have to find a name among all your names.”

„But I have already a name; it is Saint Rose.”

„This might be a name for people who love you, but you must have a name, which can be written officially. Let's go to Mama and ask for her advice.”

„But Papa, you know me much better than Mama, can`t you see my name when looking at me?“

„You were so pitiable when you were baptized. We were afraid you would not see the next morning, so we gave you all the names of your godmothers, without ever really calling you one of them.“

He turns back to the painting.

„What if we name you Marie, after your mother? Or maybe combine both names ...Rose... What do you think; would you agree to ... Rosemarie, my dear Rosemarie?”

The smile on the child’s face makes the decision final.

In the large reception room, the guests are lingering in groups; the men with cigars, balancing tiny mocha cups in their hands. Harro, half-hidden behind some palms, is wryly smiling at his image in the mirror, which shows him shiny as a penny in his new tailcoat.

„All this just to please a young, royal Duchess!” he mutters to himself.“As if dressing up in this costume should exhibit our overpowering masculinity. The legs look like factory chimneys; the arms... the neck... all adding up to a system of tubes in white and black, probably a symbol of our economic success. The tail surely suggests that we genuinely are all mostly servants, with whom we share this elegant garment. The breast seems like a tombstone, the tie of such lifeless, white color. No matter if a man is large or small, thin or stout; we all look the same with a bow tie choking our throats, as if made of sheet-metal... So, you gender of power and strength; is this what this past century has made of you?“ He turns away abruptly from the mirror, as the Duke approaches.

„My dear Earl, the painting of my daughter amazes me ... I wish I understood more of the work of art to find the right words.“

„That this painting is truly a work of art, is mostly due to the Princess herself, as she has made it possible for me to work so effortlessly.“

„My daughter? Oh, you are much too modest! What could the girl have done to help?”

„She can sit still without appearing to be lifeless, she is able to emphasize and hold any spiritual expression. She also has a fabulous sense for color and generally does not withhold her perceptions.“

„Are you saying, she was so brazen as to judge your work?”

„Oh absolutely, Your Highness - often with scathing criticism. This is too blue, the red is too light, and the yellow seems rather unfriendly. At first, I was annoyed about the remarks, but then I realized how applicable her criticism was and humbly tolerated it. It would have been my detriment, if I had not listened!”

„You read my daughter so well ...but perhaps you know more about her than any of us. Maybe this is why I was so surprised about the painting, aside from my admiration, of course! I must say, it was as if I saw my little girl for the first time. It was the impulse to at last give her a name: What do you think of Rosemarie?“

The Duchess saunters through her new boudoir. Her morning robe, designed in Paris, is an artwork of lace and silk ribbons, a golden chain encircles her slender waist. With a content smile, she gazes at her own appearance in front of the long mirror, as she thinks of the obligations expected from her with a sigh. The decorated box of chocolates on the table reminds her of a specific duty. She rings the bell next to her chaise longue and gives the order to the appearing dark-skinned servant:

„The Princess… I am ready to see her now.“

Something seems not quite right with the girl! What it is, she is not sure. The child is always spoken of with a certain plaintive or sympathetic undertone. She looks somewhat peculiar, but that may come from the strange dress she had worn yesterday. Well, they might accept any dress, a disoriented seamstress would make, surely even demanding a costly price for her inability to design. Actually, she had imagined the child quite different; she has features that seem to reflect a distant beauty one day. Then it might be possible to catch the interest of the handsome young cousin with whom she spoke yesterday, perhaps ready and willing to take on the responsibility of the Princess in a few years.

The little girl suddenly stands at the door, with a smiling face and now luckily dressed similar to other children. She scampers forward, embraces her new mother and kisses her on the cheek. The Duchess is taken aback by so much emotion. Might the child try to win her with flattery? She turns away and pushes the box of chocolates towards her.

„Would you like to have some or are you not allowed, Rosemarie? Of course, they taste even better when it is forbidden to eat them.”

The child is not aware of any contrary regulation; she has never been spoiled with sweets. She smiles happily and begins to choose with tentative fingers and tastes with delight. The new mother also helps herself to one and they sit together quite amicably; Rosemarie on a small stool, the Duchess on her chaise longue next to a long mirror.

„And Frau von Hardenstein, do you like her?“

„I am very fond of her. She comes to my bed at night to sit with me a while and then she says: God bless you! She once had a son and he died. She always thinks of him when she says good night to me. The way she tucks me in...she then has the feeling of saying good night to him also.“

Frau von Hardenstein would certainly have been very surprised if she had heard this. Never had she spoken about her son during the good-night ritual, but Rose had yet felt that this ‘bless you’ was also meant for another child.

With a praline in her hand, the young Duchess asks:

„Is it not boring, if someone continuously mourns over the dead?”

Rosemarie does not understand and looks at her step-mother in amazement.

The Duchess feels she has moved onto slippery territory and quickly continues:

„And you surely have much to study with your preceptor?“

„He knows so very much, Mama; things that Miss Whart had never told me about. Miss Whart always said that German history is terribly boring, because we always have so many royalties, who had fought each other for provinces, and that it is impossible and also insignificant to remember it all. That is why I had only heard of Queen Mary of Scotland and King Edward’s children. But Master Preceptor even knows about the Greek and the Romans! I learn everything and when he asks me: Do you still remember what I have said? I always know it, which makes him happy because the boys do not always listen. At first, when he comes, he is like a malevolent crow and he groans and snaps: Well, then...let us simply begin, to get it over with…but when he teaches, his mood cheers up and when he leaves, he says, Fine, fine...just continue like this.”

„Oh, you seem to be extremely well-behaved. My sisters and I had very much fun in upsetting and teasing our teacher. We kept at it until his hair stood on end and his right eye twitched terribly. Megan, my sister, always felt bored with everything and ensured we kept on nagging him until he was almost cross-eyed.”

Rosemarie speaks as though she must apologize: „The boys do upset Master Preceptor quite often.“

„Yes...yes... I can imagine so.“ The young woman feels that she has not been very educative.

Then it is surely nice for the preceptor that you are such a fine example of virtuousness. Now tell me a bit about your tall friend, the painter.”

„Have you seen the portrait of me? It is so nice, but he says it lacks something. He has painted me again on a larger canvas and that is even more beautiful. But Father would not have liked that one and it is important that he has pleasure when looking at it. Father likes this one very well, but Harro is not quite content with it. It is very difficult to please both of them.“ She nods her head wisely.

„The Earl of Thorstein often comes to visit, does he? Even after the painting was finished?“ „Not so often anymore, only when he has time and it seems he is quite busy. He also comes, though, when there is a festivity. The next one is the Feast of the Hazelnuts, as soon as the thick fog rolls in. Then we will go over to the castle of silence; Castle Schweigen. Would you like to attend, too? But you will have to wear a raincoat.”

„Your father and I are planning to visit Castle Schweigen.“

„And there must be a dense fog.“

The Duchess laughs: „I do not see that this is necessary.“

„But you must, because it is the Autumn Festival. In the afternoon, the sun will shine and chase away the fog.” Rosemarie says this in absolute faith that Harro will also arrange the weather to be exactly right for this festivity.

„Frau von Hardenstein will accompany us as well.“

„As the weeping willow,“ laughs the Duchess. „Weeping willows are not to my taste.“

„And certainly Harro will take you along, if you ask him.“

The Duchess gets up and smiles, like beautiful young women smile, when they are satisfied with their image in a mirror.

„Well, he will certainly not be so uncharitable as to refuse.“ She ambles to the piano and her delicate fingers touch the keys.

„Are you able to dance a waltz, Rosemarie?“ She begins to play a contemporary waltz and sways a bit with her hips. „Lift your dress with your fingers on one side, Rosemarie, the way one does, when a partner is not available.“

The child smiles, but remains still. „I do not know that dance. I can only dance the Lily-Dance, which you surely cannot play, and the Dance of the Finches; that is a cheery dance and, of course, the young ladies evening dance - Harro likes that one best. You actually need wings for this dance and I have been begging Harro to make a pair, but he says he cannot construct them. But I believe he will surprise me with one soon. Maybe if you ask him, he will also make a pair for you.“

The Duke hears the bright laughter of the two fine voices, as he approaches the room and he feels such contentment in his heart. He enters the room, to see his new wife and his little girl smiling.

„The child is so amusing, Fried! Have you ever heard of a Dance of the Finches?“

The Duchess laughs again, but her laugh sounds a tone darker than before.

Chapter 8

The Castle of Silence

Today is the day to visit Castle „Schweigen”, for the Festival of the Hazelnuts, and everything is completely different than Rosemarie had expected it to be. It seems Harro will not attend the festivity, for no one speaks a word of him. All morning, she waited in vain, watching the sun burn the thick morning fog away. Mama does not like to get up early and the carriage is instructed to be ready at three o’clock. Rosemarie’s joy is somewhat suppressed, yet she decides to wait, but cannot imagine celebrating a festivity without Harro.

The blue carriage rolls up the cobblestone way; mother and father get in, the child in the back seat, very anxious to be well-behaved as she hides her feet from sight. She knows Mama's opinion of her shoes. For the first time in her life, the child has been able to cleverly comprehend what to do in the company of others. She had not revealed the fact that her treasured shoes are from Harro, nor has she recounted the story of how they had been made especially for her, by the wondrous shoemaker Wurmhaber.

The journey to the castle of silence, Schloss Schweigen, is quite enjoyable. They drive down into the valley, the carriage thundering over an ancient, wooden covered bridge, following a long and winding road up a steep hill. She turns her head and sees the towers of Brauneck shimmer afar against the silky blue, autumn sky. They pass through a dark and dense forest, where the wheels of the carriage roll along almost silently. The forest glows in dark and light colors of gold and purple and bluish-green. Father smiles; he seems happy and she feels that he is pleased with her.

The carriage drives further along the fields, which are being ploughed, and delicate white filaments of discarded fragments are floating through the air. Rosemarie holds a shiny red maple leaf in her hand which has fallen into her lap. She holds it against the silky sky and wonders, why the leaf dresses in such a beautiful attire just to die. Now they pass some smallhouses, a huge walnut tree, drive down a sunken road where the vines of the silvery forest cluster together with the dark red rose hips. Suddenly, they come to a halt; behind the crown of two powerful linden trees, a dark tower looms up.

„Rosemarie, you may rejoice, this is Castle Schweigen!“

„How strange,“ says Mama. „It cannot be seen until you are directly there.“
„That is why it still exists. It had not even been discovered during the Thirty Years' War.”

„God, how quiet,“ exclaims the Duchess. „Is it therefore called the Castle of Silence?“

They step out of the carriage in front of the forester's house, which seems to welcome visitors at the entrance, next to the two linden trees. High and gloomy in its dense coat of ivy, the palace looms out of the surrounding ramparts; gloomy is also the dark black castle keep with its battlements. Under the linden trees murmurs and mumbles a small well and now, as the carriage is driven down to the stables, is the gentle sound of splashing water the only sound in the enchanted stillness. From the round ramparts of the linden tree, the colorful autumn forest hills can be seen. A majestic hawk circles the sky above the deep valley. The scent of mignonette gently drifts from the little garden, which is surrounded by the ivy-covered wall. The Duke takes his daughter by the hand and pulls a silver cup from a case. He dips it into the well and says:

„Drink this, Rosemarie, it is tradition.“

The child looks up to her father, drinks from the cup and apologizes silently to him from her heart, that she presumes he is not able to celebrate feasts.

„My father and I had also exercised this custom, when I was here with him for the first time. He said it is a necessity to drink from the well, if one wants to be a real Braunecker.”

The Duchess joins them; lifting her delicate lace dress to avoid the dampness around the well.

„Tell me, Fried, which of the two is it; simplistic family nonsense, as your sister Helen says, or plain superstition?“

„Helen is an impious woman and should restrain her chatter; it is rather a superstition, I would say. I once heard of a story of a Braunecker, something about a well and a fairy, unfortunately I do not know more. May I offer you some water, my dear?”

But the Duchess has no desire for cold water, she is hoping for a tea in the enchanted castle.

„If you two are finished reverencing this well, I would like to go in. Rosemarie seems quite enraptured, as if she was in church service.“

„Yes, we are done. Rosemarie, here, take this linden branch together with your maple leaf.”

„Is that also part of the ceremony? The child looks so solemn… what a blessing that she is not a boy; she would surely feel the need to become a priest.”

A staircase between ivy walls leads up to the inner courtyard. A high gate greets them, adorned with a massive coat of arms, carved in stone and bold numbers above it of the year 1534. A gloomy hall appears, the walls decorated with huge deer heads and protruding antlers. The Duchess shudders.

„Ugh, it smells like a graveyard! Fried, I am convinced that it is haunted here, even in broad daylight. You had not told me, that Castle Schweigen is such a spooky place ... you surely do not want to say that one could live in these surroundings.”

The Duke answers somewhat embarrassed, „Well, the stuffy smell is simply the scent of uninhabited rooms ... maybe the forester’s wife does not air the rooms enough or the ivy vines are too dense. Upstairs, the air is surely better.”

„These deer heads everywhere with their staring glassy eyes and the dark, spiral staircase,“ complains the Duchess. „It is like a haunted castle from an English novel.“

„You do not like these impressive antlers? They have all been hunted down in our own forest. This stag here; the antlers branched out seventeen times! And I am happy when I shoot a young buck! This one was shot by my father at the age of fifteen years... I am certain he was very proud! Nowadays, we have trouble finding a few roe bucks - our great-grandchildren, if they want to go hunting, they might have to hunt rats.”

The Duchess is already up the stairs, bends over the railing and shouts down: „You gentlemen are still to blame! If some farmers had come and spoiled my sport, I would have done something against it, but surely not appeased myself with rats!”

Upstairs, she finds old-fashioned, yet cozy rooms, furnished with beautiful Rococo and Empire furniture. The spindle-shaped Empire tables look a bit out of place, beside the old black furnaces. The wallpaper is covered with brown square patterns, which is a horrible contrast to the blue and white starched curtains at the windows. The hideous wallpaper, the monsters of furnaces, the rough old flooring! Even the little oriel windows, which are oriented exactly towards morning and evening light with the promising of a lovely play of colors through the ivy, cannot assuage her judgment. The armchair is uncomfortable and the tiny table with inlays is shaky.

Though, she feels the Duke expects to hear something positive from her. Some sort of admiration? His gaze is disconcerted, looking at her in a strange way. As she looks into the eyes of this odd, little child, she perceives the same expression, so that father and daughter suddenly resemble each other in a disturbing way.

The Duke speaks in a tone that sounds slightly uncomfortable.„Of course, I cannot expect that Castle Schweigen means anything to you... to us Brauneckers, Schweigen is not just a castle as the others. It has an aura which arises from all sorts of old legends. The name itself seems quite outlandish; it is said that the fortune of our family has derived from Castle Schweigen.”

The Duchess suppresses a yawn.

The child, though, seems fascinated and her eyes are shining brightly. „Have they been here, father, all the people who now live only in their paintings? The man with the sword and the beautiful woman with jewelry like falling drops of blood, and the pale little boy with the bird and the small sword attached to the silver necklace? Have they all been here, father, and have they brought over the good fortune ... and why is it called Schweigen, and do the blue dwarfs all press their fingers to their lips? Why must one be silent? Does it bring happiness and luck, if you are silent?”

„It is not appropriate for a little girl to ask so much!“ says the Duchess in such a sharp voice, that neither father nor daughter have heard from her before. Their expressions are quite startled, as they look at her ... her shrill voice sounds so peculiar in the untenanted rooms, reverberating against the old walls.

The Duchess frowns and feels to be excluded from these family idols. She had always lived in chalets and villas near main cities, because her father only belonged to the sideline of his descent. Everything here is alien and repugnant to her.

„How can you make such a fuss about these old rooms?“ She sees the dismissive glance from the eyes of both, which annoys her even more. And just look at the child now? It has turned white as snow…so pale and her eyes seem to be almost black. Her small body wavers, as if she is about to topple over any moment.

„Rosemarie, why do you look so frightened? God, the child seems nauseous, alone the stench of these musty rooms can make one feel ill!”

The Duke frowns. It was careless, not to take Frau von Hardenstein along; if anything happens to the child, no one knows how to help her. He pulls her into the room.

„Come, Rosemarie, let us have some tea.“Rose allows being lead to a chair, though her eyes stay clouded and she tiptoes very softly, as if afraid to wake someone.

The tea is served from ancient, gilded cups. There are no servants; the lordships always serve themselves, which is the custom here. Even after drinking her milk, the child is pale and does not speak a word, but she nibbles at bit at the pastries and the Duke calms down. He tries to appease his young wife a bit with the atmosphere of Castle Schweigen, by telling her about his first time hunting here, with his father and grandfather. Of how they had stayed overnight and never had any encounters with ghosts or spirits of any kind.

„In the evening, we told each other glorious hunting stories of excellent dogs and magnificent horses until late at night. At dawn, the huntsman stood at the door and loudly knocked, until we fell out of the rock-hard beds, still half asleep.“ But the Duchess seems not at all amused.

„All I can perceive in these surroundings is a stuffy odor; it is impossible to dwell here, Fried! Just look at the wallpaper… and these mirrors! Had the ladies here had so little esteem of their appearance that they tolerated such mirrors?”

Little Rose gets up and walks slowly to the door; her steps still so careful as if no one, absolutely no one, should wake up and she timidly asks: „Father, may I now see the room where the little blue man is hanging from the ceiling?“

„What do you mean, Rosemarie?“

„The little man who acts like this,“ and she puts her finger to her lips and smiles, as if to indicate silence.

„There is no such thing here.“

„Please, Father, let us look for it,“ and she pulls him along, always on her toes, gently, silently ... They go through all the rooms. The Duchess stays where she is; she has had more than enough of all the musty, tasteless parlors. She lights a cigarette and sits disgruntled into one of the uncomfortable chairs and sneers at the mirrors. Father and daughter go through all the rooms and the Duke shows his daughter the paintings; all hunting sceneries in old copper-engravings and bad oil paintings of odd looking deer, boars and dogs. Rosemarie keeps looking for the little blue man, but he is not there. Not even in the last room, where the big four-poster bed stands. It has silk curtains, which are covered with the finest floral embroidery. In the silky folds, protected from the light, the faded colors still shine out brightly. Diligent hands must have worked on these for years. Under the splendid canopy is a very wide, almost comfortable looking bed of painted pinewood.

„Look, here I have slept some restless nights with my father. It was very hard – in many ways. Even by only thinking of having to go back to the plagued times of schooling, I sometimes felt tears come to my eyes, even as the big boy I was.”

She nods, then says in a bit mournful tone. „Father, why have they removed the little blue dwarf?”

„Do not be so stubborn, Rosemarie, you hear me; here was never a blue dwarf, as long as I can remember, all has remained unchanged. And woe to the person who changes anything here as long as I live! In Brauneck, surely, there must be innovations, but here in this secluded forest covert, I insist on keeping old traditions,” grumbles the Duke.

„But Father, it was hanging there before we came in.“

„Rosemarie, do not be ridiculous, and who can see through doors? And into which mouse hole should this little man have slipped in to!“

„But it is not here,“ she says, quite miserably.

„And was never there. Who told you about this?”

„No one, but I know.“

„Now I do not wish to hear any more of this,“ says the Duke sternly, „and stop whispering and walking on your toes.“

„But this is a castle of silence.“

„Oh, it has been called „Schweigen” since centuries; it was often loud enough here.“

„Well, don`t you feel ...“

„Rosemarie, you really are misbehaving today! You have been so reasonable for quite a long time now, so that I hoped you had improved your behavior – and now… must you spoil this wonderful excursion?”

The child tries to restrain her emotions; she sidles towards the bed, reaches gingerly for the beautiful curtains, kisses the silk flowers and surreptitiously wipes her tears off. The Duke watches her with his brows creased. After all his hopes; her behavior was just the same as before, and he leaves the room angrily, the child following him on her toes. She turns her pale face back to the bed, looking at the ceiling, as if the blue dwarf would have mercy and suddenly appear on the ceiling and be hanging there, eyes warning, lips smiling, pressing a finger to his lips. But the ceiling remains white. Father is angry and Mama seems to be amused, her mood getting more and more cheerful, the more annoyed he becomes. They leave to return home immediately; the ride back in the closed carriage is in complete silence.

Poor Father, are Rosemarie’s thoughts. He is not truly able to celebrate festivities.

Chapter 9

The Blue Dwarf

Father and Mama have left for Berlin and the blue and white flag is put away to hibernate for the winter. The trees begin mourning and shed their colorful leaves, the ravens are shrieking out with perception of the oncoming snow.

Rosemarie learns to sew and has nimble little hands; the needle always seems to find its way to exactly where it belongs. Frau von Hardenstein is amazed at her skills and promises her that she will soon be allowed to create her own Christmas art works. And she knows what she would like to do, she wants to embroider a pillow for the chair in Harro`s salon, with a colorful, floral pattern.

„The cushions on his chair are full of ugly worms.”

„Those are ornaments.” Frau von Hardenstein tries to emend, but Rosemarie insists on the fact that the ornaments do look like worms of all size.

They then hear Harro’s footsteps outside. Oh, how long had he been gone! He seems to be in quite a bad mood.

„Be lenient, my dear Rose, I am intolerable today. Just as an old, surly, growling badger; I actually should apologize for bringing such moodiness into this peaceful dwelling.”

„Harro, has something happened? This weather is so depressing. I suggest we turn the lights on.“ Frau von Hardenstein immediately does so.

It is very cozy in the room with its old Empire furniture. The blue curtains are drawn, the electric light glows in a small crystal glass, on the large table there is a white rose bouquet from the greenhouse.

„Harro, what has dismayed you so?“

„How kind of you to ask me, Mama…yes, I am only waiting for alleviation. Nothing world shattering has happened, other than a stone wall collapsing, almost burying me while resting in my bed. It missed by a stroke of luck, a strong wooden beam held it off from me. Though rubble and bricks did destroy most of my easels, nothing really essential has been damaged.”

„That sounds quite upsetting, Harro; must we worry about you, living in these ruins?”

„No,” he shakes his head and his eyes turn towards little Rose. „Sweetheart,“ he exclaims, „Your sparkling grey eyes have taken on a sorrowful dark color…let us speak of nicer things! We should discuss our next festival, the Feast of the Hazelnuts.”

„I have been to castle Schweigen already, with Father and Mama.“

„Oh, you were there, what a pity! I was so looking forward to showing it to you. How was it? Tell us, little Rose! Did you see the old mirror and the beautiful linden trees? We will go to Schweigen again together when the blooming of the ivy begins which must be soon now. It will be a day full of sunshine and I will summon this for our excursion. Was it nice?„
„Father and I sipped water from the well, with a silver cup. This was indeed something very special and I will never forget it. A fairy and a knight in armor were there also.”

Harro laughs aloud and slaps his thigh.

„You are a living fairytale book ... oh, how content I feel here with you and how wonderful the roses smell! And Mama is knitting something, which my Aunt Uli had called a soul-comforter. Please knit one for me also, I am in need of it in my wet, collapsing badger burrow. Continue, my little Saint Rose, tell me more of the story of the knight and the fairy.“
„It is a story that my father did not remember and I do not even want to speak of this anymore. I upset Father with my behavior and I spoiled his beautiful day, but Mama seemed pleased that I had misbehaved. She did not like Castle Schweigen at all, because it smells of ghosts.”

„How do ghosts smell?”

„Father says they smell outmoded. Harro, what are ghosts like?”

„How should I know? You must stop thinking that I know an answer to all questions.“

„Why was your Father annoyed with you? You have not told me anything about it,” asks Frau von Hardenstein.

„I was ashamed to. I was not supposed to walk on my toes and when I kissed the curtains, Father was angry. But I had to.“

„Why, my Rose?“

„Oh, Harro, I just had to! I could not speak aloud in the room she had been lying down in…the woman in the silver dress. Oh, I had not wanted to speak of her again…and a little blue dwarf was hanging from the ceiling.” Saint Rose is almost crying. „Father did not want to believe me.”

„Harro, must I beg? Please do not encourage her in this,” interrupts Frau von Hardenstein.

„Excuse me, Mama, but the blue dwarf, this must be approved of!“

Rosemarie describes the little blue man as being dressed in a blue raincoat and hood.

„And the strangest thing about the little man was a deer antler that grew out of its back, with candles on it.“

„Oh, you speak of a figure made to a chandelier ... that is why the castle is called Schweigen! My Rose, it would sometimes be quite advisable for you to also learn when to be quiet, I mean at the right moments. But I am delighted that you have the imagination to see your blue dwarf; it sounds like a wonderful lighting for a music room. Rose, I do believe you! And you know what; the little man must carry a lantern, to show us all the way through the darkness of silence. This is surely the reason for his appearance.”

Walking back home through the dark of the night, the Earl cannot help but think of the tale of the blue dwarf…maybe one of the secrets to this ancient castle with such a cryptic name. No one really knows where the name originates from. There had surely been much noise made there, by the noble men staying there during the hunting seasons. He decides to find out more about this castle of silence. Back in his ruin, he is only welcomed by the rubble of collapsed walls. He settles himself between this chaos and is determined to go back to Brauneck tomorrow, to seek out more of the history of this enchanted castle.

But there was not much to find out. For two hundred years, the castle has not been permanently inhabited. Eighty years ago, it was newly furnished and the old rubbish was thrown out. The Duke is very determinate that nothing there should be changed. It has been known as Castle Schweigen since the sixteenth century. He cautiously asks the Duke if he might permit him to rummage about there a bit.

„Count Thorstein, I am afraid you will find nothing but old pots; although the kitchen is a sight worth to see, still with all the original equipment. The inventory is listed, down to the last skewer - yes, we keep order here in Brauneck. If you are interested in old pots and pans ... amazing, what is kept over the years. Should you find something of interest; it would be my pleasure to share this with you.”

Harro has no special predilection for old pots, but on a grey, autumn day, he decides to look further into this. The sky is colorless and rain trickles down the walls of his ruin, as he pulls on his boots and makes his way to Castle Schweigen. On such a bleak day, Schweigen would surely hold up to its reputation, as to the silence it was named after. Harro walks through the dripping forest, where the rain resounds and the falling leaves rustle, descending slowly to the ground like dying, sad butterflies. The meadows shine in an emerald green, with the last freezing autumn flowers peeking out from underneath. Wearing a duffle coat with hood and high boots – he enjoys this rain forest. Each tree bears its load of rain differently; the most beautiful are the birch trees with their boughs hanging full of drops that look like glittering gems of fine jewelry. The pine forest is secluded, with a thick, fragrant roof that silently lets the rain drizzle down onto the needle flooring. A wisp of fog lingers among the tree trunks, which are surrounded by mushrooms that look just like the finest opal gold rings.

The dark walls of Castle Schweigen seem to disappear in the foggy sky and the tower looks like a fantastical creation. Harro sighs with delight. A giant castle inhabited by demons! This is the exact right weather for a castle of silence!

„I must only follow your footsteps, my dear Rose and see things with your eyes. I should be at my ruin, in-between dust and the smell of decay, trying to restore order, but to be here in exchange is more important. This is indeed a mysterious dwelling; hidden in the forest as if unseen for those who have no insight. There, out of the hatch in the wall, a little red light should break forth like an evil eye, so one can see; the demons do not sleep – they are guarding. I should not be standing here in this duffle coat, but beside a weary, white horse, dressed with iron helmet and dented armor ... and in front of me would be the ancient drawbridge. I can still see the stone fortification, in which the bridge had been secured. My Rose can surely versify what a knight does in front of this haunted castle...she would know ... I will just need to paint the picture in her mind ... Lord, what a joy!”

It comes close to worship; the way the Earl of Thorstein stands there, watching the clouds of mist and fog dancing their circles around the dark castle; a blessed hour for the fortunate ones, who have eyes that are able to behold the sights of fools and dreamers. Until a gust of wind tears apart the fog and the rain begins to furiously pelt down – he comes back to reality, remembering why he had actually come. He now feels a damp chill.

„I should not be surprised if the demons bestow me with body aches and pains by this weather, fool that I am.”

The forester’s wife is quite surprised as the Earl knocks on the door und cordially invites him to supper; she has made dumplings for her two red-headed children. The present forester has only shortly been employed in Schweigen and they know nothing of the old stories. The attic is empty; she assures that order is kept in this castle.

„I am quite sure, madam, no doubt to that.” Harro politely tries a dumpling. „I would nonetheless like to look around.” He is given all the necessary keys to get into each room.

So this is how ghosts smell. The rooms seem gloomy; the narrow windows are even more darkened by the ivy vines. The charming rococo furniture has a somber look to it and the porcelain figure of a shepherd seems to shiver.

Never has Harro seen such mirrors; it is as if suddenly a second face could be seen behind his own reflection. The ghosts seem to be everywhere; up to the highest loft, where well-maintained guest beds are stored in a chamber, benevolently waiting for the hunting season and its guests. The kitchen is very interesting, but Harro even shows little interest in the most finely chiseled brass bowls. Nowhere is a blue dwarf to be seen! Now, Harro considers his idea as very absurd, if not ridiculous, to look for it. After going through each room, he remembers seeing some adjacent buildings outside. There is an extension next to the castle with barred windows.

This is the carpenter’s work shop, he finds out from one of the red-headed children. Since there had been thieves in there, the father always has a loaded gun nearby.

„Should we go there, or are you afraid?“ The red-head girl smiles up at him; this gentleman seems so tall and strong that he surely dares to cope with any thieves, and she knows which key to use. A dark space appears; an epitome of obscurity and it opens up into a large, yet very low room, so that Harro can hardly stand upright. The barred windows give just enough light to illuminate shadows. Old tools are lying in a muddle and the low ceiling is carried by rough wooden beams.

It had surely been impossible to construct anything but coffins here, are Harro’s thoughts.

„My little helper, please go and ask your mother for a candle.”

He walks around, bending down, hands in his pockets.

„Have the demons built this as a confinement for the ghosts? This cannot have been intended for normal people, it is like a chamber from a bad dream, it gets lower and lower, until eventually you have to crawl ... a true nightmare ...ouch!”

Harro sinks to the floor, his head buzzing as if a hundred bees have flown into his ears. A line of blood trickles down his forehead.

„Well, I must say… quite what to expect from demons and ghosts!“

The forester`s little girl comes in with a burning candle, sets it on the floor and begins to whine.

„There are thieves here…you are bleeding!” And she runs back out as fast as her little feet can carry her.

Harro wipes the blood from his forehead. „Where did I hit myself so terribly?“

He picks up the candle. There… the protruding end of the beam; how can one of his height not collide with it! As his eyes begin to adjust to the light, he sees that the end is carved. He stares at the woodcarving in astonishment…Good Lord! Staring back at him is a crouching little man, holding a finger to his lips, still bearing traces of blue paint. As he continues to walk down the row of beams, holding the candle up, he sees that each end bears the sign of the figure; often damaged, only showing pieces of the head or a very faint color of blue. From everywhere, they are now looking at him; threatening, warning, smiling…as they had surely done centuries ago, in the dark, uncanny rooms of Castle Schweigen.

The forester’s wife comes in, accompanied by her two children, who are crying while hiding behind her.

„Gracious Sir, you have injured yourself! You are as white as a sheet; oh, this is such a desolate place to be.”

„Not at all, Madam, it is only important to know how to behave and people who do not use their eyes… hit their head. Thank you for the linen bandage, this will surely stop the bleeding. Do not cry little Klara, the thieves are gone and they will not be back. Once you have finished crying and your noses are cleaned, I will draw a sketching of each of you.”

„Oh…such an honor, Sir.” The woman blushes. „How generous of you! Please, Sir, let me be of assistance with your wound and offer you some hot coffee. Today is such a bleak and cold day; the chill can be felt down to the bones.”

It is pitch black outside by the time he goes, leaving two fine sketchings of the children with the forester’s wife.

„I thank you so much, Sir, and please do visit us anytime you may wish.”

Harro wanders the long way back home through the darkness of the forest. Even though he is dead-tired, he fastens a canvas over the large wooden frame, which Mart has made for the event of the Earl’s next inspiration.

His sleep is restless and before dawn, with an aching head, he stands before the canvas the next morning; still moved by the portent of the blue carvings. Should I tell Saint Rose that I have found her little blue dwarf? She has never been to the old work shop; the forester’s wife had been shocked at his question if anyone from the Royal Family had ever been there.

„I would be most ashamed to show this cryptic place to them, it is like a horrible shrine. Although I had nothing to do with the storage of these things!” she exclaims.

But the Duke should be informed, he certainly has not forgotten the child's behavior. He decides to surreptitiously tell him of his discovery: he would say Castle Schweigen had inspired him to a new painting and that he had discovered the carvings on his visit there, which seemed to refer to the name of the castle.

The child will not be told. No, he must not interfere with Frau von Hartenstein’s pedagogical principles. So, Rosemarie hears nothing about the blue dwarf and Harro does not return to Castle Schweigen, but paints his painting out of the vivid memory of this strange encounter.

It is a quiet winter that descends upon the valley; no storms of snow, just a gentle flutter of white snow stars silently cover the landscape and the Earl of Ruins celebrates his second Christmas. The Duke sees no reason for his daughter to stay alone in Brauneck, now that she has a mother again. But Rosemarie hardly arrives in Berlin, when the children of some servants in the Palace fall ill with diphtheria, and the terrified Duke immediately sends his daughter back to Brauneck. The Duchess is very much his opinion; she is actually quite content with this arrangement. And why should not the girl stay there during the entire winter? This would very much simplify all matters!

Chapter 10

The Orchids

The Duchess has returned to Brauneck. The city of Berlin has been a cure for her moodiness and her appearance is radiant; but she soon considers life in Brauneck as quite monotonous, even during the summer months. It is a promising chance to escape boredom, as she suggests that the Earl of Thorstein should paint a portrait of her.

The Duke sees no haste to do this, but the Duchess pouts and asks if he wishes to wait until she is old and ugly, just for her to fit into the row of unattractive, ghastly looking female ancestors on the wall? The Duke relents and requests the Thorsteiner of his service in this matter. The Earl is reluctant; he has no desire to be the royal jester of Castle Brauneck and searches for a pretext. His time is limited and portraits are not his forte. He surely could not paint a representational image of the Duchess. He would only be able to paint his impression and fears that he could not stylize.

This conversation is held between the two men, after a palatable dinner, during a stroll along the pathway through the fragrant line of rose bushes. Darkness has descended and only the burning, red dots of their cigars can be seen, moving up and down like fireflies.

„It is possible, Count Thorstein, that you are right with your objections; I have no clue as to how to evaluate any performance of an artist. But I do assure you that this portrait will not be a representative painting for the hall of ancestors, but only for the pleasure and privacy of the Duchess...and, of course, mine.

It is actually not custom to have a portrait painted of a woman, before she gives birth to her first son… I would have liked to wait, but ce que femme veut - veut Dieu; what women wish, is God’s wish…you surely understand. It could be painted in an oval form, such as the picture of my sister in the green room. „Harro finally promises to outline a draft and if the Duchess is pleased, only then to begin with a portrait.”

The discussion of which garment should be worn for this occasion is difficult and tedious. The green hunting dress with leather cuffs and a soft, pliable hat, as suggested by Harro, is much too plain for the Duchess. She pulls out frilly creations made by Madame Lenormand in Wiesbaden, much to the contempt of Harro, which he does not even try to conceal.

The Duchess would have expected a certain degree of responsiveness from this young and vigorous artist and she is tempted to play a harmless game of flirtation with him. He must be vulnerable to some point, this handsome Earl of Ruins. She had observed this many times, when he was together with Rosemarie; he has terribly spoiled the child and even relents to her demands. This could be quite amusing…not at all captious…and so entertaining in the endless monotony of this summer season in Brauneck. The Duchess thus is so docile, even in matters where she usually does not tolerate interference.

She relents to the choice of a red dress, which she considers extremely boring and even agrees to take off the waist belt; set with jewelry, pearl-embroidery and fringes. In fact, she even speaks very contemptuously of the additional adornments, distorting and spoiling the sleek fashion cutting. But to further concessions - Harro wants a nice old Venetian lace collar on her décolleté- she does not agree; she knows she has a beautiful neck, so why cover? No one wears lace collars anymore.

„I notice you would like to make an ancestress of me - anything but that! I do not wish people to be bored when looking at my features”.

In the large hall where the light is best, a studio is prepared. Rosemarie attends the progress of this event with utmost interest; to watch Harro paint is one of her greatest joys in life. But she soon realizes that her presence is not required and she must be content to look upon the progress of the painting after the sessions. When the bell sounds for dinner and Mama rushes off in all her resplendence, leaving Harro to clean his brushes, little Rose slips into the room. Harro never accepts the invitation to dinner; this would take too much of his time.

„Now comes the highest level of criticism,“ he greets her.

„Oh, Harro, I hardly could wait.“ She sits on the chair, elbows on her knees and hands buried in her golden hair; a thoughtful little elf.

„Well ...go ahead, I am prepared for everything you might criticize. „

„Harro, the shades of red glow beautifully, especially in the shadows.“

„Is the dress the main subject?“

Saint Rose nods seriously. „I do think so, Harro.“

„My Rose ...you prove to be right again. You are awful, Darling, if you continue with your cleverness ... yes, the red ... it is so intense.“ He remembers that the Duchess had sulkily asked him, if her maid should wear the dress. With a sigh, he stands behind the child.

„And what else do you have to say?“

„That it is splendid, although it is an evil red. If I ever have a puppet theater, the wicked queen will be dressed like that.”

„Princess,“ cautions Frau von Hardenstein, „what are you saying? If anyone heard you… evil colors do not exist.”

Harro’s sigh now sounds closer to a groan. „Hold back your criticism yet, Saint Rose, until I have visualized and refined the face and hands. I have been so enchanted by this color, such a lively and vigorous shade of red, but I surely need to work more on the vibrancy of the Duchess so as not to just paint a rigid still life portrait.”

„Rosemarie, isn’t Count Thorstein here and is painting Mama’s portrait? Why are you not there watching? I know you like it so much“, inquires the Duke the next day.

„Mama is not pleased with my attendance.“

„Did she say that?“

„No, but I can feel it. Father, I am afraid you will not like Harro`s painting.”

„Why shouldn’t I? Is it not good?”

„More beautiful than he has ever painted a portrait. The other portraits on the walls are surely amazed at its beauty and can hardly look away when the door opens“.

The Duke has long ago ceased to fret about such words. Today, his mind is occupied with other things; thoughts that seem cluttered through the fine texture as wisps of torn cobwebs.

„Rosemarie, I believe that your joy of watching Harro paint should not be taken from you. Go in and bring these beautiful orchids to Mama that I have sought for with greatest solicitude in the greenhouse.“

„Oh Father, you are right; the flowers will look wonderful in Mama’s portrait!“

The child rushes away, clutching the branches of fragrant flowering branches.

In the large hall, the buzzing of a captive bee can be heard in the silence. The Duchess is sitting on one of the old, straight chairs. The austere form in contrast to the soft contours of her body is so incredibly picturesque; more so as if posed in a chaise longue.

Harro stands in front of his easel and is painting with a grim earnestness. That the Duchess, who hates pensiveness, agrees to such a setting seems very strange. Quite timidly, the child enters with the flowers, holding them out as a placatory gift.

„Mama, Father sends you these flowers; you know that the court gardener does not like to give them away. Harro, look how beautiful and unusual they are.”

The Duchess frowns. „I thought you are having your French lesson.“

„It is finished already. Harro, don’t you also think they emphasize the color of Mama's dress? You said her hands needed something to hold.”

Rosemarie gently puts the stems into the Duchess’ hand and she accepts the orchids with a wry smile, obedient as a lamb.

„Excellent, my Rose, this is exactly what I was looking for.“ Harro winks an eye at her.

The Duchess sees this with annoyance. „I feel ridiculous; must this be? I am certainly not some kind of colorless flower maiden that needs this sort of sentimental embellishment! If you think my hands need something to hold, give me a brown and yellow riding crop, if it must be these colors.”

„Mama, it looks splendid and you do hold onto them as if they were more a whip than flowers. These orchids are not just regular flowers, but they appear to be goblets and small, magical animals with wings.”

„As if I would hold a whip with crawling, nasty little creatures in my hand ...! Count Thorstein, please admonish her, this young lady is behaving too impertinent!”

„She is, you are right, but this is her privilege because she is right in most cases, as in this case; the peduncle looks like glistening jewels in your hands. I beg your Highness to please believe me; it is not sentimental at all. It would never occur to me to paint you with common flowers as Forget-me-nots! „

„Well, this comforts me…. Not even with a lily?“

„Neither that ... you must consent, Milady; the flowers smell wonderful. These are plants from an enchanted forest which numb the senses, with cups that embody the source of magical potions.“

„Count Thorstein, you seem to have a poetic side; does this often happen?“

„With great reluctance, Milady, and quite involuntarily.“ Harro is standing close to the Duchess; her white shoulders seem to shine and a sparkle glints in her brown eyes. Her delicate hands fondle the flowers and he takes in their strong scent. Harro eyes wander over her shoulders and as the Duchess bends over, the soft curves of her breasts are visible under the glowing silk. It takes Harro a rather long time to arrange the flowers in her hands until he returns to his easel. After that moment, the imprisoned bee’s angry buzzing is again the only sound to be heard. The painted eyes of the portraits are staring from the walls, as the late afternoon light descends upon them.

Rosemarie is overwhelmed by an unutterable sadness. It has descended onto her from nowhere and entwined her heart with fine cobwebs. She sits there in silence and stares at the flying and sometimes resting of his paintbrush ... there, the gongs of the dinner bell ... the Duchess rises, carelessly leaving the beautiful orchids to glide to the ground. She smiles and tilts her pretty head gently, a gracious nod - a beautiful young lady who has amused herself excellently and so she swooshes off. At the door she turns and smiles enticingly again; the tall Earl is bending down to pick up the flowers, the smile he does not see. But the child has seen it.

„Go, darling, to get a vase for the flowers,“ says Harro absentmindedly. The child leaves the room with gentle, virtually silent steps, as if she fears to wake someone. When she returns, Harro is standing at his easel and paints in quiet contemplation, as if his hands moved on their own. For half an hour, he continues painting and the child stands quietly beside him with her hands folded on her back. Suddenly, she pulls at his sleeve.

„You must stop, Harro, the painting is becoming dark and gloomy.“

„Leave me alone, you know well enough not to disturb me.“

„But you have got to stop! My poor, poor father! It is enough!”

„Rose, you dare such an outburst? Why are you spoiling my pleasure of painting? Is that allowed?”

„But look what you have painted! Why have you painted such a woman for my poor father? See… the dress, just like blood, and the strange poisonous flowers… the smile on her face; as if knowing that whomever she offers the flowers to must die.”

„You are talking sheer nonsense today… poisonous flowers! Orchids are not poisonous ,“ he mutters, irritated.

Harro puts down his palette and sits onto the chair where the Duchess had sat before. Almost at once – as if a black cloud is passing across the sky - it has turned dark. Harro reaches for the orchid stems and keeps them in his hand.

„Put them away, these poison flowers!“ She tries to snatch them away from him.

„Rosemarie, you are a naughty, violent little lady today and you have spoiled my enjoyment of painting. If you had not disturbed me so, I could have achieved something wonderful. Such an atmosphere will not come back, it has been hard enough to find the appropriate mood; I have been painting the dress for such a long time, waiting for the right inspiration“.

„But it is finished, your painting.“

„Finished! I was at my best and a minute is then worth more than an hour.”

„Then come and see yourself, it is finished.“ Rosemarie walks over to the niche to turn on the light.

A slight crackling, then golden light from the chandelier on the ceiling brightens the twilight. As she glides down the hall, the bulbs glow on the old Venetian wall sconces, all of them – until the great hall is illuminated in a sea of lights.

„Never mind, Rosemarie…“ but she does not rest until the last shadow, hidden behind the pilasters and niches, is gone. The large hall shines brightly. The knights and ladies of the paintings are presented in the glare as elusive shadows, as if they are not used to the brightness. But the large painting in the middle of the hall seems to soak up the light. The woman with the magical flowers, in her dress of glowing, red silk which resembles a garment weaved by horrid fairies, stained with the blood of slain beings. The woman with a veiled smile, still concealed in secrecy, the gaze of unbounded depth in her brown eyes ...similar to the cruel smile of the Mona Lisa.

Harro stands in front of the painting, torn from the half-gloom of the shadows into the brightest light and he stares - and suddenly strikes his fist on the forehead. „By God, what have I created? From which abyss has this arisen!“

Rosemarie suddenly puts her chilly little hand on his. Wordlessly, he grabs her slender shoulders and embraces her for a moment.

„Darling ... my Saint Rose…”Then he lets her go. „Should we take a cloth of turpentine and destroy this monstrosity?”

„Oh, Harro, no… it is your most beautiful painting.“

The next morning, Rosemarie accompanies her father into the hall, where he wishes to see the portrait. She imagines her father could hear her faint heart fluttering. What will happen ... will he be terribly angry and never want to see Harro again, because he has created such a painting? Her hands are cold and her eyes are dark. But nothing happens.

Father seems amazed. „Do not tell anyone, Rosemarie, but I did not even realize that Mama is so beautiful. I presume that this is a remarkable painting and you may recount this to your friend Harro. But now I know for certain that it should not be hung in the great hall; it would make the other paintings look dull and characterless. Harro was perhaps right when he spoke of stylization. He may not be able to stylize, as appropriate for a portrait in a family collection, but he is indeed an artist of aura.”

The Duchess is very surprised that the sessions have such an abrupt end, just as she had begun to amuse herself. She is speechless upon seeing the painting; she adores it tremendously and spends countless hours admiring it. She feels to be painted in such a manner, is a supreme homage to her beauty and she is more than flattered: this Earl of Thorstein is indeed a dark horse of artistry.

One day, Rosemarie comes timidly to her father and asks: „May Harro send Mama’s portrait to an exhibition in Munich? I heard him tell Frau von Hardenstein that they have asked him, and it would be an honor for him, but he said he has nothing that is good enough.”

The Duke does not have the slightest desire to exhibit his wife, but the Duchess is absolutely thrilled. To be presented in such a fashion to the admiring world of art, this exceeds her wildest dreams. The Earl must paint the official coat of arms into the upper right side: a portrait of Her Highness - Duchess of Brauneck. She also coaxes her husband with the argument that one must help this impoverished, friendly neighbor, who had saved the life of the Princess. What a promotion would this be for his artistic work! One owes this to the man. The Duchess is quite benevolent and she gets her will; the painting is sent on a journey to most exhibitions throughout Germany.

Before their winter departure, the Duke and Duchess ride out to the Thorsteiner ruin, where the landlord is outside, working on the exterior of his dwelling. The Duchess secretly looks at the way his muscles flex on his almost bare chest and says with a smile: „You should not spend the winter in solitude, Count Thorstein, you must come to visit us in Berlin, when your painting is exhibited there. I am certain you would find much inspiration; all artists need to visit Berlin, it is mandatory for their image, I have been told. And how many beautiful women will wish to be painted by you! I will make sure you are known…just let me take care of that. I await your acceptance to our invitation, Sir; we will see you in Berlin!” The restless, fiery horse cannot be held still any longer and the Duchess whisks away in a wild gallop.

The Duke is not able to hold back his stallion and shouts out, tuning back in his saddle; „It would be my pleasure!”

Chapter 11

The Minister

For this winter, there is no question that Rosemarie will accompany the Duke and Duchess to Berlin. Although the Duchess sighs; „The climate of the city will surely not be good for her… and it will be difficult to accommodate her, as we have planned to renovate the rooms for a winter garden.”

„We will surely find a suitable room for my daughter in this huge mansion,” answers the Duke with an icy undertone, lacking his usual politeness.

Prior to the departure to Berlin, Frau von Hardenstein requests to speak with the Duchess; something she does quite reluctantly: The priest of the surrounding diocese had asked about when the Princess would take part in the confirmation lessons, as she was awaiting to receive this important sacrament in spring.

If the Princess will spend the winter in Berlin, he would like to receive the name of the local minister there, in order to arrange whatever she might need. Rosemarie would attend the final lessons for the confirmation in Brauneck and it would be wise to coordinate the guidance of these lessons. The Duchess had listened to this inquiry with all signs of extreme boredom; braiding the fringes of her chair and yawning covertly through her nose.

Suddenly, she seems to be quite interested. „I must ask you, Frau von Hardenstein; is not Rosemarie confused enough… what two different religious teachers must bring about! One of them is surely orthodox as the other is liberal; that would certainly confuse Rosemarie with her twisted ideas. I consider this method to be wrong. I shall talk to the Duke about this.”

The Duke is quite astonished as the matter is presented to him. The Holy Confirmation. Rosemarie… his little girl! Of course, she is thirteen now and the lessons will go on for two years, by then she will turn fifteen. No, two different methods of lessons would undoubtfully be bewildering for Rosemarie.

The Duke invites the priest from the parish of Brauneck for dinner and afterwards, when the men retreat to enjoy a cigar in the summer lounge, the matter is discussed. The Duke barely knows this minister. He has been the priest of the congregation for some years, but the Duke seldom is in Brauneck. Not to attend church on Sundays had been a regulation his father had strictly followed, only allowing the visit of the Bishop every few months, directly in the castle of Brauneck. The Duke`s father had always made sure his sons were aware of their status of royalty – never to mix with the peasants in the town below. „It is mandatory to believe, but not to worship!” had been his statement to this. The Duke had never attended a service in church; seldom had he believed it would be possible to put his manners into the hand of God.

None the less, he believes that his daughter must receive a proper education, in all matters and subjects. He represents the opinion that an aura of religion suits a woman very well. A liberated woman appears to him as aesthetically unsatisfactory – almost vulgar.

However, the conversation is a bit different than expected by the Duke. The Herr Pastor asks, if the Princess might be on the same level of knowledge as other students of the schools in the vicinity of Brauneck? Rosemarie`s preceptor had insured him that he in no way had ever, nor would have the wish, to instruct lessons of religion ... and Frau von Hardenstein had also affirmed not to be employed as a teacher, as not having these qualifications.

The Herr Pastor suggests that it might be best for him to question Rosemarie himself; to find out how extensive her religious knowledge is. Then it would be much easier to elaborate of how her further studies should be structured.

The Duke considers this clergyman to be a quite tedious and pedantic man and fears, that his inquisitive manner might intimidate Rosemarie so, that she would not be able to answer appropriately.

„My little one, I fear, is very shy; she seems to be bashful when it comes to strangers and tends to express herself in an outlandish way. It is of importance that you take this into consideration.”

The priest smiles in an especial way and says:

„May I reassure Your Highness, that you in no way must feel uncomfortable. Master Preceptor has informed me, how unusually talented and studious the Princess is.”

The Duke seems quite stunned by this statement; had Rosemarie’s tutor recounted the similar in his presence, he would have considered him obtrusively polite and hypocritical. Though, that he had spoken about his daughter in this way to others, amazes him greatly. His little one…his poor little girl, with her confusing ideas, should she suddenly have the talent to be perceptive in her studies?

The Duke informs Rosemarie, not without sincere regret.

„He will raise some questions to you, Rosemarie, and if you cannot answer properly, you need not be upset. After all, you have been taught so many things... and if the questioning should become too disturbing for you, you might wish to apply the methods of my cousin Amy.”

„What would they be?”

„She was an orphan and brought up with us in our family. If she was asked an unsuitable question or maybe found out of some prank we had done together, then she began to whine excessively. This had always seemed to work, for she had always been the one least scolded. I must say, she has splendidly cried herself through life.”

Rosemarie looks at her father with an apprehensive gaze – the methods of Cousin Amy presupposes an alarming situation.

The dreaded moment has arrived; Herr Pastor awaits the child, sitting calmly in a comfortable chair. Frau von Hardenstein has escorted her into the room, then is asked to leave. He is a tall and gaunt man, with pitch black hair, which slightly falls into his face of sallow skin. His sunken eyes are dark grey with an odd, tranquil touch to his glance. Almost curiously still for such a young man.

The Duke`s apprehension of Rosemarie`s capability to respond are justified. She has no idea who the prophets are. Of Moses she only knows that he was found in a swimming bassinet and later on, he let frogs rain from the sky. How many books the Old and New Testament include, she does not know either. She has memorized twenty-four English psalms and she is willing to recite them, however, the Herr Pastor does not understand the English language. Rosemarie desperately searches her memory for adequate answers and she has a dull feeling, that Herr Pastor assumes she is stupid or uneducated. If only he would ask about the Greek or the Romans or German Emperors and not about the ancient Jewish religion!

Herr Pastor sighs, and then asks with a sign of mild hopelessness in his voice:

„Do you know a saying or a parable of Jesus?”

Rosemarie does not answer. Of course she knows sayings, but she is not certain, if they are from Jesus. Again, he looks at her in a quite pitying manner. She compels herself, her blush darkening to deep red and says: „I do know stories of Jesus.”

„Can you tell me one of them, Rosemarie? It does not have to be spoken word-for-word.”

Rosemarie begins to recount; in her fine, delicate voice, which so easily takes on a ceremonial tone.

„I would like to tell the story of Jesus, when he was my age. There had been a festivity in Jerusalem and all the people went to the town and gathered by a large Jewish church. Everyone greeted each other and the people were happy as they walked up the steps. Jesus and his parents were there as well. Jesus had never been there before, though as he entered the church, his heart was warm and wide open and he said to himself: Haven`t I been here many times before? He did not speak aloud anymore, he only whispered and his stride was silent, as if he walked on his toes.

The other people, though, did not care and spoke loudly to each other, for they had been there many times before. Jesus looked upon at the magnificent columns and to the gentle swaying of the heavy curtains. It hurt him that the people spoke so loud; he felt that if it were quiet, he would be able to hear and see something, as if a secret would be revealed. So he let go of his mother`s hand and walked behind the huge pillars. Behind these, there were more pillars and he walked further into a small hall. There were old Jews, reading in big books and they spoke so gently to each other. Then he thought: Oh, maybe they have an answer to what I feel so strongly, what I think I should hear or know. Then one of the old Jews spoke to him: Why are you staring at us? And another one said: Go away, boy. But yet another one said: Let him stay! And Jesus sat down and listened to what they said and they spoke of Heaven and of God. And Jesus felt a strange sensation, a feeling as if he came from there and he had just forgotten, because he was a little boy. And his heart was beating fast; he felt as if he was home again and he had always unknowingly felt homesick.

The old Jews were very kind to him and answered all his questions. But Jesus’ mother had been looking for her son and as evening descended, she was afraid. He always had been a good child and had never given her a reason to worry. She thought something had happened. Perhaps a stranger or gypsies had taken him because he was so beautiful and good. She anxiously asked all the people: >Have you seen my Jesus? < but she could not find him. Finally, she returned to the Jewish Church. It was dark now and all the people had gone home. She passed by the pillars and the curtain moved. Her eyes were filled with tears. She followed a little light between the columns. There were the old Jewish rabbis and her Jesus among them and she saw that her son was so joyful. She was happy and sad at the same time and said:

Why have you done this to us? Look, your father and I have sought you anxiously and Jesus simply replied to them, why is it that you sought me? Do you not know that I must be in my Father's house?Maria said sadly, hardly understanding his words: Shall I be without you? So Jesus went home with her. Maria constantly had to think of what he had said; that this was not his home and in her mind this thought went over and over.”

The Pastor sits completely immersed; he has hardly looked at her during her story, yet, the way he bows his head and looks at his hands, one can feel that he has heard every word. He now looks up and his gaze does no longer pity, no, not at all.

„Rosemarie, you must never change the words of this story, for they have risen in your heart. Please hold on tight to these words, we must reflect the words that Luther or other great translators have left us. Should you ever hear the St. Matthew Passion by Bach, which I wish for you, it will open a whole new world; you will hear Jesus’ words that are sung, always accompanied by the most delicate violin tones, shrouded as if with gold. Your innocent heart has found the most intimate expression of devotion and love. Always remember this, when you repeat a word of Jesus. These words bring their own heavenly melody with them, we can only spoil them.You have quite accurately quoted the verse from Luke 2:49: Do you not know that I must be in my Father's house?“

Rosemarie repeats the words: “Do you not know that I must be in my Father's house?“

„And now we should make a plan for you to learn, what the old Jewish rabbis have delivered to us.”

In the evening, Rosemarie says her father good-night.

„So, my daughter, how did it go along this morning?”

„I seemed quite uneducated at first and Herr Pastor was very sorrowful. Then I recited a story for him about Jesus when he was a child; one I once wrote in my blue booklet. This book is not for Herr Pastor to read and I can write whatever makes me happy. Each time, when Harro comes, he reads in it and asks: What is new in your little blue booklet?Harro is very wise, Father, but he has never mentioned how little I know about religion.”

„But Herr Pastor no doubt did. How fortunate, Rosemarie, that now someone seems more aspiring than your tall friend! I had thought that no one could arise the praise you have of his knowledge.”

Father and daughter are in the Duke’s favorite room; the summer room, which is so named because of its beautiful stucco ceiling. In this plaster ceiling is a particular scene; a handsome young man with an ear of corn and a sickle, representing the atmosphere of summer time in the style of the eighteenth century. The summer room faces the valley and offers beautiful scenery of the village below, the gentle river with its winding course, as well as the spectacular forest hills. Over the Duke`s desk hangs a painting of Rosemarie as a young child; she seems so much grown up now that the image of her in this portrayal has become increasing valuable to her father.

„Harro knew nothing about the celestial melody.”

„So, Herr Pastor has found numerous things to remind you that your idolized Harro does not know everything. Now I know how one must be to keep your attention. The Herr Pastor has managed to impress you, so that you find faults of your old friends.”

Rosemarie’s eyes are full of tears. „Have I done so?”

„You mustn’t be so sensitive, my dear daughter, Harro is unassailable in your heart and I am pleased that the lessons do not frighten you. Would you also let me see your blue booklet?”

„I also have a red booklet and that is all for me alone.”

„And not even Harro is allowed to read it?“

„If he wanted to, yes, but he does not wish so. He does not want to hear anything about it, neither does Frau von Hardenstein.”

„Of the red booklet?”

„No... of its contents.”

„And me? Do I also not want to hear of it?”

Saint Rose looks at her father doubtfully. „Maybe you will be upset!”

The Duke laughs: „Please bring me your red booklet which not even Harro has read, if you think I am trustworthy. Your deepest secret!”

„Yes, Father, but you must not laugh. It hurts me.”

„I will not laugh, I promise. I feel very honored, to take part in your thoughts. Just lay your red booklet on my desk. Now go, my dear, the dinner bell has chimed.”

Chapter 12

The Friends

The Duchess’ fingers restlessly rustle the pages of the novel on her lap, at the same time suppressing a yawn of boredom. Such ways of entertainment surreptitiously fade away during quiet evenings in the seclusion of the country. If she had been in Berlin, she could have gone to the opera today; maybe even a circus would be performing or she could have invited guests. In Brauneck, the evenings seem endless and tedious.

She arises with a sigh of annoyance. She could read in bed and if she falls asleep, the purpose of the novel would be fulfilled. This old castle is only endurable when all the guest beds are occupied; on such dark, autumn days this dwelling seems to transmit a quite melancholic atmosphere.

„I will retire. I wish to ride out tomorrow morning.”

The Duke gets up from his chair and politely holds the door open, though regret resonates in his voice. „So early?“

„You know how it will be in Berlin. One must sleep in advance.”

The Duke stands still at the door, watching her resplendent appearance disappear. He immediately switches off all the lights and walks down the long hallway to his own quarters. It had seemed like an escape.

„All this new furnishing,“ he murmurs, as his eyes wander, „makes one feel like a furniture dealer. Fortunately, the walls cannot be replaced.”

Arriving at his room, he lights a cigarette. On his desk, his eyes catch the sight of a red booklet; a green ribbon tied around it with shiny, red maple leaf peeking out. He laughs contentedly: Rosemarie`s secrets. He feels good knowing to be the only recipient. Of course, only because Harro had not wished to read it, but he no longer thinks of this. With a closer look, he notices a golden ribbon under the green one. What a little lady! Something very valuable must be in this booklet and his brows crease a bit at the thought of what might be written inside.

His thoughts are a bit troubled of what he might read...this friendship with the tall Thorsteiner – she is thirteen years now. Heaven, already thirteen! He often forgets her age when looking at her childlike features….some young ladies already initiate romantic feelings at that age.

Had not he himself, at the age of fifteen, thrown sweets that he had saved and wrapped in finest paper, over the castle wall to impress the thirteen year old forester`s daughter? If her secrets turn out to be an exposure of unsuitable thoughts of her friend, the Earl of Thorstein, he would be forced to bring the relationship to an end. Something which he would deplore to do, but yet surely would, for it was nevertheless best in such a situation. He takes the book in his hand...well, we will see.

The title was – The Friends - meticulously written in a clear handwriting and framed by ornaments of delicate blades of grass and mossy little twigs, glued onto the paper.

There is a secret. Not everyone knows of it. Some say it is falsehood, some laugh, some are frightened. There are people in the castle, walking on very light feet and they do not cast shadows. Only the very wise and perceptive know it is true. These beings are similar to regular people, though they glow with beauty and friendliness. Those, who catch sight of them, claim to have seen nothing and when a child affirms the appearance, they scold it a liar. Others call them ghosts. Ghosts, however, are deceased people, lying stiff and white in their coffins, which have done evil and therefore cannot sleep peacefully until God wakes them up again. Oh, how afraid we should be of them! Just the thought makes you shiver; ghosts are dreadful and one is terrified, when walking along dark hallways, where the eyes from the paintings peer down on you. This is not how the friends are.

These friends cannot always be seen, although they are there, but you can feel them. Then everything feels so much better, the blue sky is clearer, the ray of sunshine on a golden frame is radiant and a surge of cheerfulness fills your heart. You appreciate the world much more and feel pity for those, who do not have the discerning eyes to see. If I had not these friends, I would surely be a discourteous and stubborn child. To be always called a liar or poor child, one tends to have bad thoughts. Instead of appreciating the lilies and roses and wild violets, which grow so lovely, only thorns and thistles can be seen. There of two of those who walk on light feet, which I love the most. It is the Handsome One and also... She. When the Handsome One is present, I am full of laughter, I am joyous and I always want to dance. Then I hear people ask: What is the matter with this child? Today she acts quite peculiar and a bit silly. They surely do not know how it feels, if one’s heart is full of laughter. When She is present, I sometimes cry. It seems as if I am in a dream and the gate of heaven opens and an icy breeze comes over me. The Handsome One is dressed in a green robe with silver ribbons and wears bracelets and barrettes. He has long dark hair with curls that part on his forehead. He resembles the Greek Eros in the blue room, only he has a small moustache. The chain around his neck holds a small, wooden carved bird. He also has a violin and an instrument with a round curvature. With all this he plays music, though it is difficult to hear. It can only be heard shortly before sleep engulfs the body, when the linden tree celebrates the wedding of the blossoms. He is the one who had taught me the Dance of the Lilies.

She surely wishes to teach me something. Though, this is very difficult for me to understand, because I am only a child. Maybe of how I can be able to love Mama, never annoy her and never think bad of her! If She could be seen by Harro, he would paint the most beautiful painting in the world. But Harro cannot see her and I know, I dare not talk to him about her and the Handsome One; it is forbidden. Therefore, I write about my friends into my secret book. When I was a so little and still slept in the yellow crib with the rose quilt, I saw them the first time. It was dawn and the colors of the day began to dance, as they sometimes do in the awakening morning. Beside my bed had always been silk green parasol, which had been removed because Frau Braun burned a hole in it. My first glance in the morning had always been to this shield of green, for the colors of the morning light had always danced so lovely here upon. The day after, this had been removed; my eyes could only see a dark wall and the huge pillars. The walls were almost black, with greenish stones sticking out every now and then. A small yellow light was there and an angry red light. She stood in front of the first column. She was pale and her hair fell openly over her shoulders down to her knees. She has the most beautiful face. Oh, nobody resembles her in any way, so I could tell Harro: look, this is She. Her hair is darker than mine and a lock of her hair is in Harro`s ring of God`s Will. He believes that they are mine and that I had put them in there. She is like a queen. Though, when I saw her, I could not help but to let out a startled scream. It was the way her hands were hanging down to her side, as if She couldn`t lift them due to a terrible pain. Then Babette appeared and said I had been dreaming and the green parasol was put up again.

Once I saw her standing under the linden tree with the Handsome One; it was midday and so hot, and the linden tree was blooming. In some nights, She had surely been with me, as my thoughts of her had been so strong the next morning. Once She was angry with me, for I had chosen to sleep on the cold, stone floor. She stood at the end of my bed and encouraged me to get back under the sheets. This is when I saw the dark red stripes on her arms. Not just faint marks that sometimes I or even Father has. They were deep scars of once vicious injuries. Now I must write of Castle Schweigen. I went there with Mama and Father. I was supposed to go with Harro, he had promised this to me and he actually always keeps his promises, but this one he had not kept. There was a well; we had to drink from it because it is tradition and because She had often quenched her thirst there. Gisela, Gisela, murmurs the well. Oh, I was so surprised when I heard her name! I felt so close to her, and now the well also knew her name. Father and I drank from the same goblet and the water continued to murmur Gisela, Gisela, Gisela ...Father and I then walked further through the gate and the Handsome One was sitting on the stairs under the little window; he was holding his violin and his legs were swinging to faint music. I looked at him, but he did not see me. Then I went up the stairs and the stairs were creaking, as if they were to say something but could not. When entering the rooms, I knew that I had been there many times. Many, many times before. At a time when the little blue dwarfs sat on the rafters over the doors, or hung on sturdy ropes from the ceiling. Very quietly I had to go, and it was terrible for me that Mama was so loud and said „It smells of ghosts”. She was well-known in the castle. But the mirror in the dark frame had seen her face and maybe that is why it distorts all faces now. I was told to drink tea, but I could not eat, my heart was in such anxiety. As I walked through the rooms - there was a door open, I saw her. This made me tremble and I stopped and stared. A blue little dwarf hung from the ceiling, holding his fingers to his lips as if to say: silence!

Silence – the name of the castle. There was a large four poster bed with the most beautiful curtains of soft blue silk, embroidered with colorful flowers. She was lying on the bed, covered with a yellow silk blanket. Her long golden hair unfolded across the pillow and fell down over the edge of the bed. Her hands were very white, with fine blue lines; just as the lines of a leaf fallen from a tree. Along her wrists the red stripes, obvious that they were terrible scars. She lay there with this pallid color on her face, her eyes closed and she was like a monument of marble and gold. I could only assume She was dead, though She was not alone. With her was as a friendly looking old lady with a lace cap and an old man with white hair and a red scar on his forehead. The old man looked like a preacher; he was wearing a white collar, black stockings and buckled shoes. Then Gisela opened her eyes, and I saw that she was alive. She lifted her head slightly and looked up at one of the little blue men, smiling as if they shared some secret. To see this smile and the way her eyes gazed at the blue dwarf, the wooden fingers to his carved lips…it is something one can never forget in a lifetime. Her eyes turned to me, though there was no recognition, just as the Handsome One had not acknowledged my presence. A gust of wind made the door slam suddenly and when Father opened it again, everything had changed. No little man was hanging from the ceiling, the bed was empty and the mirror reflected only a bare wall. The curtains were of a fade, grey color and the once beautiful embroidery could only faintly be seen. The yellow silk cover was fringed at the edges and the walls were no longer white, but brown.

So often I must wonder, why She had appeared in Castle Schweigen; why must She, although being a queen, wander through the empty halls and who had inflicted such horrid scars on her delicate wrists? Why had the Handsome One been sitting alone on the steps outside and was not with her? Why have I so often seen her in Brauneck, wearing a silver dress that shimmers in the moonlight like the soft reflection upon still water?

The Duke pushes away the red booklet and his eyes involuntarily lift. Above him hangs a painting of a young and handsome prince, standing proudly with a long sword at his side. The gleaming of the blade seems to repel the bright rays of the full moon, shining into the room in an uncanny way.

His arm falls to his side, rattling the golden bracelet on his wrist; a gift his young wife had bestowed upon him.

„Ridiculous childish rubbish,“ he mutters to himself. „And yet this suddenly feels more like a slave chain.” He fumbles with the fastening, tugging with his strong hands in hurried force at the quite dainty lock, until a segment breaks and he is able to slip it off. He opens a small cassette and tosses the bracelet carelessly into it. On his strong, yet fine structured wrist bone, appears a ring of dark red. Surely from his tugging at the bracelet and yet…he sees it as a sign. He had always had a very faint red circle around his wrist, as he has also noticed on his daughter. Should there really be a remnant of an ancient injustice; some forgotten act that might disgrace the family? It had always been considered as a hereditary indication, just as the pendulous lower lip of the Habsburgs. Nothing had ever been accounted to him that would make him assume these marks should be a portent to an occurrence in the past.

„I must speak of this to the Earl tomorrow; he seems to know something. There should be a reason, he had shown me the blue dwarf from the castle; maybe some ancestral memories? I am sure, I can leave Rosemarie under his supervision this winter; he seems to know more of what stirs in her mind and heart than I – even without reading her lines. It will be better for the child anyway, than to spend this time in Berlin and with her young Mama; who does not care for her anyway!

Oh my dear child! My desire is to understand and be close to you. I thank you for your secret.“

In his mind’s eye, he sees his daughter mysteriously smiling at him, also perceiving the faint red marks on her delicate wrist, just as the ones on his skin.

Chapter 13

The Church Room

The winter in Brauneck is peaceful and picturesque. Rosemarie skates on the ice of the river, where it is safe, and she attends her confirmation classes with diligence. She no longer wears her hair open, for it is too long.; it is plaited into two braids bound together with a ribbon. She wears a dark blue school uniform with jacket and matching cap. Frau von Hardenstein always accompanies her to the entrance of the church room for her lessons; this room is elevated, with dark, wooden panels and indicates the awareness of spiritual thoughts. The names of long deceased chaplains and preachers are neatly arrayed along the passage; written in white letters on black plaques, each with white crosses behind their names. Once a monastery had been in the castle; founded by ancestors of Brauneck. The building which was now named the Princess Tower, a quite palatial section, had once been the cathedral chapter.

The first name to be read goes back to the year 1588. There are also some old boxes, the wooden surface untreated and without ornament or paint, and it would surely be interesting to see the contents of them. In front, there was a lectern made also of raw pine wood, with a carved crucifix.

On this desk and also on the complete surroundings of it, countless stains of ink can be seen. Rosemarie finds herself thinking, it looks as if it had rained ink. She sits on the rear pews with the girls; the boys all sit up front. Rosemarie has become very fond of this room; she feels comfortable here from the first moment. The air in this room has a special, reassuring scent. A small brown tiled stove stands sturdily on bronze metal feet, which are cast in the form of a lion, and it needs to be constantly stoked with logs. At the height of the fire, the burning fury crackles throughout the room and spreads warmth with fiery eyes and flames licking the glass like golden tongues.The best student, only called Number One by the others, has the honorary position of feeding the furnace.

It is Rosemarie’s highest ambition to be in charge of this task one day. But with a sigh of shame, she admits that she will not achieve this goal until next year...if ever. The other children, especially the girls, know so much more.

After the lessons, they recite prayers from the bible and then go home. This is a moment that Rosemarie especially looks forward to, because she is able to be just one among others. All the girls accompany her down the pathway to the castle. Most of them have another way to follow, but the girls who sit on her bench, always go with her until they reach the bridge that leads over the moat to the castle. They dare not go further, for they seem quite inhibited by the dark skinned servants standing at the entrance. In the beginning, they all walked together in silence; Rosemarie dared not to speak and the other girls seemed not sure what to say.

Though one day, the postmaster’s daughter, Eugenie, is so friendly to show Rosemarie a passage during the lessons, she simply cannot find in the bible and this gesture breaks the ice. Then, on the way home they all suddenly begin to chatter like a swarm of young birds. Their braids and skirts are whipping up and down as they skip and their tongues suddenly are not silent for a moment. Rosemarie says the least, but she smiles to what the others say and she listens so eagerly, as if she had never heard anything more interesting in her life.

The pharmacist’s daughter, Julie, writes the worst essay ever and still they all laugh together about it. They all know so much gossip from the town; of who is expecting a new baby; namely the young wife of the public notary. An expensive stroller is already waiting in their house entrance; all white with frilly ornaments and gold buttons.

One of the audacious girls wants to know if it is true, that Rosemarie always has hot chocolate with whipped cream and pastries for breakfast and if she is dressed with new clothes from head to toe daily. Rosemarie says, there is no whipped cream in the morning but she also answers, blushing, that clean underwear is surely needed each day.

Rosemarie tries her best to sway with her braids and swing the books back and forth like the other girls, but when she gets up to recite a psalm, the boys are grinning and the girls giggle. It sounds so strange; as if she is rather singing in her exalted voice. She exerts herself in order to speak in a scholastic monotone way, just like the others. As she just about succeeds for the first time, to recite almost the same as Eugenie, the Pastor frowns and says:

„Rosemarie, where are your thoughts? Only recite a psalm if you want to think about what you are saying.”

Rosemarie’s face is flushed as she sits down, hardly able to hold back tears. To upset the Pastor is dreadful for her. She seems so bitterly ashamed that she jumps up as soon as the lessons are over, grabs her coat, forgets her hat and runs away in haste to the protection of the castle. After this, he does not call on her to recite for days and surely cannot imagine, how much impact this has on the child. The Pastor has taken a special place in her heart; a space that up to then only Harro has occupied.

She often wants to talk to Harro about her lessons, but she soon realizes that he is quite bored, when she speaks of those hours of her day. Frau von Hardenstein though, listens attentively when Rosemarie repeatedly accounts each and every lesson almost word by word; mimicking every frown or smile the Pastor bestows upon her. The lessons unfortunately come to an abrupt end on Easter – she witnesses Julie’s and Eugenie’s holy confirmation. Next year, she will be sitting on the primary benches in front, still hoping, although being a Princess, she might then have the honor to stoke the furnace. Everything seems to go back to the formality, as it had been before; Rosemarie is again alone. When she takes walks with Frau von Hardenstein and meets up with some of the girls, they just greet shyly and go on their way. Father arrives back to Brauneck shortly after then, followed by Mama days later. Her arrival is quite an event; she brings along many suitcases, filled with expensive dresses and toiletries and is accompanied by a French maid. With her, more carriages appear with a whole flock of cousins; no one has more cousins than Mama. Harro seems to be quite annoyed with this invasion and hardly comes to visit anymore. All these men seem to have only one purpose in life; to spend their time with trifle amusements. They spend their days sleeping late, going hunting, playing the piano, idling through the landscape with large cameras, eating and drinking. Fortunately, they are never seen near the linden tree; Rosemarie’s very own kingdom and escape. Father also seems to be quite irritated; his forehead is always in wrinkles and his eyes seem tired.

To utter delight of little Rose, when Mama is in Bayreuth for a few days, festivals are celebrated: the Day of the Lilies and a wonderful archaeological excavation on the Roman meadow. For the first time, her father also participates and to Rosemarie’s greatest surprise and delight, he does belong to the gifted ones who are able to celebrate such feasts – the secret is to have him along by himself!

The seasons change relentlessly and it is soon autumn. The Duke and Duchess travel to Tirol for the yearly hunting of mountain goats and Harro is also invited to go along. He would have accepted the invitation, but received an order to come to Hamburg to paint murals for a wealthy businessman, and the price he had agreed to pay, just could not be ignored. Once again, it is very quiet in Brauneck, but the Duke promises to be back in Brauneck to spend Christmas with his daughter. When they come back two months later, it seems so much longer to him, because his delicate daughter has suddenly visibly grown so much in this short time that he is shocked. Mama laughs out loud when she sees her and her comment is: ‘Look at her! She is completely out of proportion and when she is grown, nothing ladylike will be left of her; a giant of a woman with the gait of a duck!’

The royal physician is consulted and he says, it is unusual, but quite possible that she has already reached her final height so quickly, but this requires caution, because the heart does not grow as fast. Rosemarie thus is protected from any strenuous travelling and always stays in Brauneck. Unfortunately, she disregards the physician’s statement and continues to grow.

When her lessons begin again, Rosemarie is not as anxious as before to have the honor of feeding the furnace. She also seems unconcerned, when the Pastor frowns or sighs at her performance during class. She holds onto her interpretations of what she reads, and when he chides her, she no longer feels intimidated but just sits down silently.

Harro comes back from Hamburg, quite delighted of the outcome from this order.

„This money helps to transform my ruin into a humble castle, my dear little Rose.”

Rosemarie’s face takes on frosty expression, as he has never seen on her before.

„I am not happy at all that you are painting the walls of the man from Hamburg. How can he order you to paint his walls! You have your own walls to paint.”

„Where are, please kindly tell me, the walls, which I can paint?Your Highness, you have certainly heard of Michelangelo, who also had painted walls for weekly wages and free accommodation?”

Rosemarie blushes a dark red. „I just do not like the man from Hamburg. If it were paintings - but walls can no longer be taken from him.”

„Who would want that? This man from Hamburg is a fine person. The ballroom, which I am to paint, lies above the river Elbe, where you see the ships pass by through magnificently arched windows. He gives me the freedom to paint as I wish; he only desires to see my sketches before I begin. If he had not granted me this artistic freedom, I would not work for him.”

„How long will you be in Hamburg?“

„All through the next summer; I will go to Paris first, somewhere around Easter. I need to enhance my art with paintings of life, do some modeling studies.“

„Well, why go there? Why must you do your model studies in Paris?“

„I have to, there are no models here.“

„The people in Paris are more beautiful?“

„Here is no one to do the modeling; who of these people here have a free spirit to be painted with rapture – they are all crippled.“

“Harro, why do people cripple?“

„Because to maim the own body to alleged perfection is said to be good.“

„Harro, is this topic of conversation so very appropriate?“ intervenes Frau von Hardenstein.

„Important as it is, Mama, it is possibly inappropriate. Do pardon my words, but questions must be answered.”

But Rosemarie is as persistent as ever.

„Am I already crippled?“

„No, my dear Saint Rose, not you.“

„Then I will ensure never to become so.“

Frau von Hardenstein rises, „Harro, we definitely should not continue on this subject. Please, escort me back to my room and you, Rosemarie, should also retire to your room; you have a few studies to finish.“

Arriving to her room, Frau von Hardenstein puts her hand on Harro`s arm.
„Don`t bring the child in too many contradictions with her environment. You will not believe what I had to listen to for the sake of her golden shoes... and now even more idiosyncrasies.”

Harro’s face takes on a guilty look.

„I certainly do not intend to be the source of her confusion, but I do think that maintaining a healthy and beautiful soul is at least worth some uncomfortable moments.“

„Oh Harro, you tend to exaggerate! When one listens to you, you would think we were all sick and ugly. But let us no longer argue. I must now habituate the idea that we no longer are privileged to have you around. How quickly the years have passed away ...“ she sighs.

„How true. I had nearly become accustomed to having loved ones around me; now I must again learn to crawl back into my cave and live a life as a lonesome badger.”

„Harro, you do not intend to discontinue our friendship? We may not always see you in such an unconditional way, though to conclude this life because of this...”

„You see, Mama, you also begin to see this in a different light ... but I am not a man of nuances, my emotions are quite steadfast, especially in friendship. Do you remember what you said to me, when you had first arrived? That one day my deeds would no longer be required...Well, I do not wish to wait for this rebuff; it is time for me to go. It would be appalling for me, if the Duke felt the need to make a legitimate complaint of my company. Rosemarie is still a child now, who can clearly be heard by her so forthright questions, but it is only a short time that her mind and feelings will heighten up with her body. The years ahead of her are those, where she will mature; up until now she has been in her dream world. I do believe she will not forget me, but if I am not close to her during this time of adolescence, she will remember me more as a nice, old uncle...a quite harmless person to be.”

„Harro, if you are right… Rosemarie is still a child, but her love for you…”

„It is much too intense, not as it should be for a dear old uncle. If Rosemarie had not grown so fast physically, I might not have been able to recognize the proper time to go. Though, from day to day she resembles a woman more than a child, although not yet in her head. It is the only respectable thing to do, for both of us.”

„Oh, Harro, you have put such a weight on my heart...but you surely know what is correct. Oh, my poor Rosemarie, she will be heartbroken!”

Rosemarie’s consecration comes closer and it is without a doubt that she is the best in the class. It has nothing to do with the fact that she is the Princess, even the boys in the first bench have no choice but to admit this. The Pastor’s voice takes on a special tone, when he calls upon her and his gaze is mellow, when she speaks. She no longer mimics the monotone, she speaks with her melodious voice and no one laughs at her anymore, although the girls still whisper about her saying the strangest things. The Pastor never seems to find it strange; he nods to her and says:

„So this is your opinion, Rosemarie.“

Elizabeth, the daughter of the town doctor, who has the fervent wish to one day conclude her lessons with a teacher’s exam, whispers to the stout Berta next to her: „Rosemarie always has an opinion! That is because she is a Royal from the castle; if we said the same thing, it would be wrong.”

But little Berta shakes her head: „That's not how the Pastor is; he is fair to all of us in what he says. He accepts her opinion, because she so seriously believes in what she says.”

Frau von Hardenstein sometimes looks with inquisitive eyes at the child, when she sits immersed over her books.

Tomorrow, the Duke and Duchess are expected to return. They return earlier in order to have enough time before the benediction, although the weather is still rough and the blackthorn bushes are still wearing their white dress, and Harro’s departure is only days away. Rosemarie seems quite nervous about the upcoming big day that she had pushed the fact aside that she would not see him all summer long. But the closer the day draws near, the more depressed and quiet she becomes. Frau von Hardenstein can’t help but wonder, if it is Harro’s absence that troubles her, or maybe the strenuous lessons and upcoming confirmation ceremony. One evening, sitting beside Rosemarie’s bedside, she asks her in a soft tone:

„So tell me, child, what dispirits you so.“

Tears rise in Rosemarie`s eyes. “Oh, Frau von Hardenstein, I am so unhappy.“

„Tell me what troubles you; it will make it easier.“

„I, oh, I ... you cannot help me ... I do not wish to be confirmed.“

Frau von Hardenstein gazes, in speechless astonishment, at the bitterly weeping child.

„But I always hear with such joy, how the Pastor benevolently acknowledges your ardor for the lessons and now you do not want to be confirmed! What are your doubts?”

„I must promise things ... and I do want to so much…and now I cannot.“

„Is it the vow that makes you sorrowful? I must agree...it is quite an important step for a young heart such as yours. I will speak to the Pastor tomorrow; he is a kind and understanding man and you can tell him what you feel. He has actually offered to do this before. You may trust him to understand.”

„How can I, - when I can say nothing to him ... I would like to, but I can not ... „ She begins to cry bitterly.

„Why do you think you cannot tell him what you feel?”

„Oh, because of Harro.“

„What does Harro have to do with it? He sometimes says things that sound thoughtless, but he certainly would never doubt your religious beliefs.“

„No, certainly not ... But he does not want to do what – according to the Pastor- all pious men do. He wants to live all by himself and he never speaks a word about Jesus. If he believed in Him, he would speak to me about it. He always says, 'I do not understand,’ or ‘that you will have to ask the Pastor.’ And if he never wishes to speak of Him, the golden band will tear, which God has connected up his heart to His kingdom“
„My dear child, I just do not see what that has to do with your confirmation. This all can indeed change when Harro has found a loving woman.“

„Well, don`t you see how we are drifting apart more and more - until he is all alone! I am among those who walk the heavenly path and he is alone out there and if the gate of heaven closes and he stays ... all alone ...in the darkness.“ Rosemarie`s delicate body trembles as she cries. „His golden ribbon must not be torn ... I cannot leave him alone, I must stay with him.“

„Rosemarie, please stop crying. Wait until tomorrow. Tomorrow the Pastor will visit you and you can speak to him. But do promise me that you will not speak of Harro.”

„But Frau von Hardenstein, that would be as if I wanted to deny Harro.“

„Hush now, child. Try to sleep and put it in the hands of God.”

The Pastor is sitting opposite to Rosemarie at the old, round table, on which a twig of sloe lies and fills the air with his bitter-sweet fragrance. The stone slabs under the linden tree are covered with golden sunshine. Over on the forest heights, white clouds are sweeping over a blue sky. Sometimes a cloud covers the sun, casting a shadow and then the gold vanishes on the stones, filling the elevated room with a sudden twilight. Rosemarie is nestled in a large chair, her face as pale as the light. She looks so pure and innocent in her long dress, her thick braids wrapped around her head. The fine lily-white little neck rises from the small neckline of her dress, as if a tender flower rising from dark soil. Her eyes reveal that she had been crying that night; she is shy.

„You have always been such a joy to me, Rosemarie,“ begins the Pastor. „Not only could you always understand what we have studied, but independently you rethought and reflected in your own words. I must admit, you have often surprised me. Notably in the fact that no difficulty was evaded; this is rare for girls, but you have always pursued a topic a bit further than the other children. Lately, I have noticed that you have been somewhat depressed. I also have talked to your kind governess, whom you owe so much, and I would love to answer any questions which you might have, if I am able to. Even we clergymen have not solved all the questions, Rosemarie.“

He smiles faintly and his gaze goes down to his hands as he sits in silence, respectfully waiting for Rosemarie to find the courage to speak. But she is silent. As he says without looking up: „Do your vows trouble you?“

„Oh Pastor, I cannot, I cannot say them ... I was quiet when the other children recited them.”

„They are words from ancient times, Rosemarie. It often grieves me that our church does not find or allow new phrasing for these commitments. They are from a long forgotten time and do not always conclude the major religious beliefs of our congregation. I have often tried to express, how every time and age has its special knowledge of God and that some phrasings live much longer, than their associated contemplation. But this is not what you need now. I can see that all this is affecting your strong belief; do not cry, Rosemarie. I know that you can express your thoughts very well in writing. Write to me of what you have learned to think of in your heart, in as few words as possible, I will grant you every freedom. Write down, what you would confess to God, if you had to, in your own words. If you wish to do it right now, so I will wait, I have time, and you might then find a question for me ... or would you like to send it to me? „

„I would rather write it now.”

Rosemarie stands up and fetches a sheet of paper from her green leather folder. It is a sheet from the new ones, with an imprinted crown, and she writes, apparently without any hesitation as if transcribing something. Oh, she has thought about everything so often in the past days and nights, struggling with these thoughts and tormenting herself.

„I believe in God, who created the world with all the soil, sun, stars and human beings. I thank Him that He made ​​the earth so beautiful; lush forests, the clear blue sky, clean trickling water, the loveliest flowers and the wind that caresses it all. God has also made ​​the erupting mountains, wild storms, the bitter death, the loneliness, the agony – For this we must thank Him for all; He sent Jesus into the world; and he has let Jesus know the pain, the loneliness, bitter death. I want to serve him as I love him, and my heart is sad, because I love him still not enough.“

Her eyes lift up. „Should I write more?”

„That should be enough.”

She slides the sheet to the Pastor, who takes it and walks to the window. A shadow has darkened the room again so it seems he searches for light, or maybe he seeks to hide his expression while reading. Then he turns back to her.

„I have guessed your thoughts and see again how you live in them. Should these ancient words be so difficult for you to say? They are actually what you think; only the phrasing has changed.”

„There is something else ... I want to write it down - oh, I cannot speak it out loud.”

She takes back the paper and writes further with trembling fingers: I do not want to go to heaven; I wish to stay with those who are outside in the dark.“

Then she returns the page and hides her face in her hands. Her golden head sinks onto the table with its green cloth and her frail shoulders begin to shake. The Pastor puts his hand gently on her shoulder.

„Dear child, you seem to have more mercy than God. Who are the ones that stand in the dark? - Do you think God does not understand all kinds of sins, longings and the essence of human beings? Do you believe, he would shut the heavenly door from any longing soul, or require any vow or a certain way of thinking? And can one person know the deepest secrets and scars of others? Does not hope exist as long as one person is on earth that one day he should go and return to his Father like the lost son! And even if a person seems lost in our eyes, how can we know, how God sees him?”

Rosemarie lifts her face, tears still glistening on her cheeks, but her grey eyes shine in an almost frightening splendor. She takes the hand of her tutor:

„I do wish to be confirmed! I certainly am learning more and more to love, and if God sees everything so well ... Oh, thank you, thank you!“

„Rosemarie, you are God’s blessing to this house, if you remain faithful.“

The Pastor hastily turns to the door with long, quick steps. But Rosemarie follows him.

„Oh, you do not know what a stubborn child I am.“

„And I also hope that you will remain stubborn in such important matters.“

With these last words, he rushes out of the room. As soon as he reaches the end of the long Princess passageway, his steps become less hurried. He stops at one of the columns supporting the stone galleries that surround the courtyard and looks down into the tournament yard. A blade of grass sprouts here and there between the old stones, some clouds chase by, so that the grey stones flicker between the nuances of gleaming gold and a dreary darkness. It is as if he was talking to one of the grey columns.

„Has ever such a beautiful soul lived in these walls? Might these somber surroundings still be a beloved home because of this true heart of gold?”

On their arrival, Rosemarie runs to greet her parents happily at the entrance. She even hugs Mama with so much joy and sincerity that the Duchess seems touched.

„My lord, Rosemarie, I am not used to such endearment from you.”

She is very gracious and makes no objections, when the ceremony is discussed. Rosemarie is granted to bestow each of her confirmation classmates with a small medallion on a golden chain with their name engraved. For the dinner afterwards, only the Pastor and the Thorsteiner shall be invited. The Earl of Thorstein will be leaving for the summer and so this is also thought as a farewell gesture. All this is discussed during their evening supper. The Duchess has pulled a rose from the crystal vase in front of her and holds it lucidly at the neckline of her salmon-colored dress. Her lips curve into a hidden smile, as she watches Rosemarie’s face take on a pale color and she fiddles the flower firmly in her laces.

„The Earl of the Ruins in Paris! An incomprehensible thought. Well, I do concede that he should indulge himself to this pleasure after this long time of solitude. I am sure he will enjoy this distraction. Why are you wrinkling your forehead, Fried, or shall it be seen as inappropriate, if he amuses himself? God, he deserves it. He is an artist and has lived much too long as a saint.“

Rosemarie’s cheeks turn from white to a flaming red; something in Mama's words makes her angry. She replies to this in a faltering tone.

„Harro is going to Paris because he needs beautiful models and cannot find such here.”

The Duchess laughs gaily. „Oh, he will be lacking none of this in Paris.“

„Enough of this” warns the Duke, „you are confusing the child. Tell me how your lessons have been, Rosemarie; were you allowed to fuel the stove?”

„Oh no, Father, I would have done that badly.“

She tries to recount a few incidents, but it sounds quite tedious and the conversation comes to an abrupt end. The rest of the meal is finished in silence; the flicker of familiarity has somehow disappeared.

How quickly the days pass. Harro has not come to visit; he is no friend of farewells. He has accepted the invitation from the Duke to come to the confirmation celebration, whereupon Frau von Hardenstein receives a letter from him:

‘I will even come to church, which surely can be seen as a great obligingness, for the whole situation is very awkward for me. For most children, this public recitation and promises of things that they neither intend to nor can ever keep, for they are much too young to decide...but not for my little Rose. She unfortunately thinks far too intense about these sorts of promises, which will surely emit a disaster. On top of this, the whole ceremony is intimidating and preposterous. Adding this all together, it can only be seen as a tragedy. I have the worst memory of my confirmation. I was so awed of this event that I had only been able to choke down a few bites at the wonderful banquet given afterwards. For the first time, I wore long pants and a dark-blue robe, and my neck was squeezed into a stiff collar.

I only remember of being terribly embarrassed and eventually I had to take refuge in an empty room, where all kinds of scraps and half-empty bottles were discarded. There I sat on bags of trash and howled like a forlorn puppy, despite my long pants. So, dearest Mama, if I must be exposed to this kind of torture, I will escape. I could not bear to see my Rose inflicted to this. Prepare Rosemarie for the fact that my departure will be Monday, and on Sunday, I shall say goodbye. How you go about this, if you would rather not tell her at all and I should disappear without a farewell, I leave this to your kind wisdom. But whatever you may decide is right to do, please let me know.

„No, Harro, this is not the way ... we will not let you go so easily ...” she whispers to herself. „The child would never forgive us for this. Poor Rosemarie...by God, the man is right. He must go.”

Chapter 14

The Heavenly Meadow

The grand day has arrived. Harro stands on the balcony of the Collegiate Church, a head higher than all the other people. His mood is quite grave and with his grey eyes he seems to search, with the stare of a hawk, for the pure, delicate white figure among the other black-clad children. The Duke is in royal mezzanine and his gaze is also set on his young daughter. She stands there like a fragile lily, bending down to the might of a strong wind and now she lowers her golden head under the hand of her Pastor. Even from afar, one could see a shiver go through her body. Harro eyes absorb this shiver and they flash in deep anger; his hands clench together into enraged fists.

„Cruelty …why can`t they leave the child alone, she is truly God-fearing enough.”

He unclenches his hands as she is allowed to get up again and return to her bench, her face as white as snow. Harro regrets many things in this fleeting moment. That he is here, that he has not left before, that he has chosen this day to say goodbye.

Then, it is over without incidents and everyone crowds out through the heavy church door; all the children with their parents and guests. Rosemarie’s classmates push forward to the ornamented carriage to catch a glimpse of the Royal Family, as they step into the carriage. Oh, how unfamiliar has she become to them ... A servant drapes a white coat on her shoulders as she sits between the Duke and Duchess. She greets the children all very friendly, but it is quite different compared to before. She no longer belongs to them. The noble horses pull forward, as the carriage wheels clatter on the cobblestone. Rosemarie leans forward with an excited blush on her cheeks.

„Father, Harro is here, do you not wish to invite him into the carriage?“

„No, Rosemarie, we will see him later.“ Mama smiles secretly and says: „Certainly, it would have been very nice…“ and the carriage rolls on.

All the Lords of the surrounding castles and the Councilor meet in the reception hall. Rosemarie must get used to being addressed as Your Highness, but she feels uncomfortable. Fortunately, the Pastor, who later sits next to her at the table, still addresses her as Rosemarie. Harro is seated next to the Duchess. The table is long, only here and there Rosemarie hears the word: Paris. She is tired, she has experienced too much today, and the day is yet not over. Harro, who sometimes catches a glimpse of the pale golden hair, thinks to himself: It is good that this comes to an end today. This farewell is something dreadful and needs to be made quickly now and in front of everyone. Sentiments were surely made by the devil! Had he been alone with the child and Frau von Hardenstein, it would have been unbearable for him. Just to think of her innocent questions….

„Certainly, Milady, Versailles is of splendid structure, extremely melancholic, especially on rainy days and the great Opera; an edifice quite similar to the Madeleine Church, or was it the stock exchange...”

„You have mistaken the Madeleine Church with something else twice already; I believe that you are very absentminded, Count Thorstein,” pouts the Duchess. „Your thoughts are already in Paris.“

This dinner with trivial conversation fortunately has an end. After coffee and tea, which is taken standing, most of the guests leave and Harro believes that it is time to graciously mutter his farewell. Though, before he can utter a word, the Duke touches his arm.

„The sun is so wonderful, a true spring day; let us once again walk around the palace gardens, or rather let us stroll where the sun shines brightest. Please give us the pleasure of your company; we will not see you for a long time.”

Harro bows silently. The Duchess, though having already claimed to be very tired seems to have shed her fatigue and also has a great desire for sunshine. She walks beside Harro; the Duke leads his young daughter on his arm.

„I have had so few moments with my grown up girl, it is comforting to have you near me for a moment.“

They stroll through a huge, bare rose arch. The blue river is glistening and the view of the forest, surrounded by a misty hint of awakening, promises a sight of the oncoming sprouting of young leaves. The Duchess is followed by the rustling of her dress train, which drags over the shiny gravel. She protects her fair complexion with a fan against the rays of the spring sunshine and Rosemarie cannot hear what she says, but her laughter is obtrusive.

„Rosemarie, you are so quiet, the celebration must have tired you.“

„Yes, Father, and I can feel a burden weighing down on me. It seems to me as if I now always have a heavy weight to carry and I am not certain, I am able to bear it.“

„But child… has the Pastor put such a heavy burden on your heart?“

„Oh no, he has always made it easy for me. But see, Father, now Harro is leaving and I cannot speak a word to him anymore. Can`t you see it on his posture? He is angry…the way his hands open and close, as if he is crushing something. He always does so, when he is angry.”

The Duke laughs softly, almost cheerfully. It seems the Earl is not so thrilled to leave these peaceful surroundings for the excitement of Paris; his little girl does know the Lord of Thorstein quite well. He touches his daughter’s face gently and says:

„Rosemarie, you shall have the chance to speak to your old friend; this is only fair on this special day of parting from your childhood. I will walk with Mama.”

And suddenly, Harro finds himself freed of the Duchess’ accompaniment and Rosemarie is walking at his side. They walk beside each other through the vine alley, soaking up the warm sun and the faint scent of violets is in the air. For a moment they walk in silence, but the minutes are too precious.

Rosemarie is the first to speak: „You were in church; have you now heard the words of the Pastor?”

„Not exactly everything. He seems to be very humane.”

„What else could he be?“

„Well, he might as well be spiritual.“

„This is surely not a compliment, Harro; I can hear it in your voice.“

„The tone of my voice I cannot control. I have never learned to lubricate a flute, which tones play too harsh.”

„Harro, I was so happy this morning, when the sun appeared in the sky. I had dreamt of Gisela and I never do when I sleep, only in my daydreams. She had been walking through beautiful meadows, which shone in an almost florescent green color, filled with tiny flowers that looked like stars and she smiled at me. Her feet were bare as she came upon fresh, spring water, splashing out from between mossy stones, forming a small lake below. She lifted up her robe and stepped into the water with her delicate feet. I asked, 'Why are you doing this' and she said: I have walked on so many nails, blades and hot iron and steel that my feet need quenching. ‘Oh, my poor Gisela’ I shouted, `Why did you have to do this?´ That is not the worst of it, it is much worse, if one allows impurity to take over. She bent down and lifted the hemline of her dress, which was as clean as a pure white cloud and began to wash it. I said, 'but it is spotless white’ and she answered; yes, from tears, from all of my tears. Then she reached out her hand to me and asked: Where is Harro? I was shocked and turned around, and you were not there.‘They did not let him in!’ 'I cried out and I fell to the ground crying.”

Harro listens with profound seriousness. „Rosemarie, you have an artist's soul, I imagined to be in your dream. You feel the colors, you see pictures.”

The Duchess and the Duke are walking closely behind them.

“What are the two of them talking so excitingly about? Rosemarie cheeks are glowing.“ The Duchess seems to be sulking.

„You no doubt heard it; of heavenly meadows and of tears.“ The Duke is smiling.

„You were able to describe the colors to the soul of a painter: the pallid and yet vivid woman, the way the water had a life of its own, the surroundings filled with the hue of heaven. And what was the lovely song you began to sing?” Harro’s voice is gentle.

Rosemarie sings in her melodic voice:

Give solace to those who fear a loss

Send them Your obeisance and your grace,

And a heart to be patient

„That is lovely, my Rose, so you have also learned things of true beauty.“

„I have learned many beautiful things. I am so glad that I have been confirmed, I did not want to be at first, and this surely was the reason for the dream. I had been afraid, Harro, afraid to lose you because of this.”

The Thorsteiner feels a peculiar stab in his heart.

„Afraid to lose me…“ Had he really spoken the words or had it been only a soft whispering?

„I thought I would be on the heavenly meadows and you were… out there.“ The child suppresses tears.

„Out there seems to be a bad place to dwell, but that is not what I hope, my dear Rose. I actually assume, there must also be very fine people out there; those who might not bow to a Hallelujah, and yet are not visitors of hell. Asphodels also grow there and a river that whispers, never to forget.”

„Isn`t it a bit inappropriate; this intimate tête à tête?“ The Duchess rustles impatiently with her dress.

“Let them…it is a spiritual conversation. I have now heard the word hell - before they were in heaven. It is much more suitable for this day than your Parisian reminiscences.”

„To forget, Harro, is what I am afraid of.“

„Oh, sometimes sipping a bit oblivion does quite good,“ he mutters.

„What do you wish to forget?“

He seems startled at her question.

„Oh, Harro, our time is so short. Mama is impatient, I feel it. How often will you write to me? Every week? I will be counting the days until Christmas. And Harro, do remember the fact that I cannot go to the heavenly meadow without you. Just as Gisela asked me: Where is Harro? is what God will also ask me. Today I have promised to God that I will serve him. You heard it. Serve God and my Lord Jesus for the rest of my life.“

The high, solemn voice can be heard through the lilac bushes, which separates them from the others. As the Duchess moves forward, the Duke puts a firm hand on his wife's arm and says through clenched teeth:

„I do not wish Rosemarie’s devotion to be disturbed. Do you hear me, I will not tolerate it! The morning will begin a new life for her and there is enough time for that.”

„Yes, I have heard your promise,“ replies Harro.

They are facing each other, the delicate, fluctuating figure in a white dress and the tall man with his dark brows pulled together. „I heard it; all the children promised the same.“

„And it is vital that we all keep this promise. I had felt something celestial touch me in this moment. I have done this with all my heart”

„I am sure of that,“ says the Thorsteiner quietly, „and I sincerely hope that you may find solace in doing so.“

„Though never without you, Harro, I am always searching for you. If I ceased to live, like in my dream last night, I would have to come back again to look for you. Oh Harro, you have been so good to me. Without you, my garden was shrouded with tangled vines, stinging nettles and poisonous flowers. Do you remember how you painted my portrait in the trophy room? This is how I will be as long as I live. I will carry my love to one day bestow God with my soul when I am dead.”

„My beloved Saint Rose, please be silent. You do not know what you are saying. This is unbearable… let us go to your father, my dear child with your sacred soul.”

He turns and moves away from her in long, hasty strides. Rosemarie follows him slowly, lost in her dreams. The Duke and Duchess come through the alley of roses; a golden evening light could already be seen in the sky. Together, they climb the steep steps to the sundial. The Duke speaks a few words about tomorrow's departure and the best train connections for the Earl. They go through the armory, where Harro has left his coat. No servant is there and the Duke himself helps him put it on. The Duchess is smiling; Rosemarie’s complexion is as white as her dress. Harro murmurs a goodbye to the Duchess, kissing her hand, saying something of his thanks for the invitation. He looks quite pale now, or is it just due to the shaded area after all the spring splendor outside?

„Well, I hope we will see you again next year, Count Thorstein, do not forget us.”

Now Harro bends over Rosemarie’s hand; she is standing deathly pale and upright, trying to endure the greatest pain of her life as valiantly as possible.

„Once again, may I express my thanks for everything, and now I wish Your Highness the most wonderful years of youth ... all the best and ...“

„Do not speak to me like this!“ His formal way of addressing her cut into her heart like a dagger. „I will stay who I have always been for you, as I have always and will always love you.”

She reaches up and wraps her arms around his neck, pressing her head of golden hair against his chest; sobbing uncontrollably.

Harro’s face turns ashen, as he pulls her away with gentle force and leads her to her father, his voice sounding desperate.

„Milady, Your Highness… I implore you to forgive me; I have not wished this to happen. I had no idea… You must think I am a man who has abused your trust, and you have shown so much kindness to me.”

„Harro, you must not leave like this, we believe you ...“ The Duke also seems upset.

„I humbly thank you for your understanding, Sir.“

Harro turns and rushes down the steps.

The Duchess does not have eyes for the agitated Earl of Thorstein; she is staring at Rosemarie, with an eerie flickering in her eyes. The child has thrown herself down and is sobbing bitterly.

Chapter 15

Letters

My dear Marion,

Our week in Kiel is over; this northern spot in Germany where the largest sailing events take place. It was very