Proud steeds are known
By the brand they bear,
The arrogant Parthian
By his tall headpiece,
Happy lovers I know
By looking in their eyes.4
“You’ve guessed right,” I replied to Petronius and gave him my tablets. He read my verses. A cloud of pensiveness passed over his face and dispersed at once.
“When I read such poems,” he said, “I’m always curious to know how those who were so struck by the thought of death died themselves. Anacreon assures us that Tartarus terrifies him, but I don’t believe him—just as I don’t believe the cowardice of Horace. Do you know his ode?
Which of the gods restored to me
The one with whom I first campaigned
And shared the horror of mortal combat,
When we were led by desperate Brutus
In the pursuit of phantom freedom?
With whom I’d forget the alarms of war
In a tent over a cup of wine,
And my locks, entwined with ivy,
I would anoint with Syrian myrrh?
Remember the hour of dreadful battle,
When I, a trembling quiritis,
Fled and shamefully dropped my shield,
Making vows and saying prayers?
How frightened I was! How fast I fled!
But Hermes suddenly covered me
In a cloud and whirled me far away
And saved me from a certain death.5
“The cunning poet wanted to make Augustus and Maecenas laugh at his cowardice so as not to remind them of the brother-in-arms of Cassius and Brutus. Say what you like, I find more sincerity in his exclamation:
Sweet and seemly it is to die for your country.”6
Maria Schoning
ANNA HARLIN TO MARIA SCHONING,
April 25, W.
Dear Maria,
What has become of you? It is more than four months now that I have not received a single line from you. Are you in good health? If I had not been constantly occupied, I would have come to visit you, but you know: twelve miles is no joke. Without me the household would come to a stop; Fritz understands nothing about it—a real child. Maybe you have gotten married? No, surely you would have remembered your friend and given me the joyful news of your happiness. In your last letter you wrote that your poor father was still ailing; I hope that the spring has helped him and that he is better now. About myself I can say, thank God, that I am healthy and happy. The work goes so-so, but I still do not know how to set prices or bargain. And it is time I learned. Fritz is quite well, but for some time now his wooden leg has been bothering him. He walks little, and in bad weather he moans and groans. However, he is as cheerful as ever, still likes his glass of wine, and still has not finished telling me about his campaigns. The children are growing and getting pretty. Frank is becoming quite a fellow. Imagine, dear Maria, he is already chasing after girls—isn’t that something?—and he is not even three years old. And what a rowdy! Fritz cannot stop admiring him and spoils him terribly; instead of calming the child down, he eggs him on and rejoices at all his pranks. Mina is much more composed; true, she is a year older. I am beginning to teach her to read. She catches on very quickly, and it seems she will be pretty. But what are good looks? Let her be kind and reasonable—then most likely she will be happy.
P.S. I am sending you a shawl as a present; put it on next Sunday, dear Maria, when you go to church. It was a gift from Fritz; but red goes better with your dark hair than with my blonde. Men do not understand these things. Blue and red are all the same to them. Forgive, dear Maria, my babbling away with you. Answer me quickly. Give my sincere respects to your father. Write me about his health. I will never forget that I spent three years under his roof, and he treated me, a poor orphan, not as a hired servant, but as a daughter. Our pastor’s wife advises him to use red pimpinella instead of tea, a very ordinary flower—I’ve found its Latin name—any apothecary will show it to you.
MARIA SCHONING TO ANNA HARLIN
April 28
I received your letter last Friday (read it only today). My poor father passed away that same day, at six o’clock in the morning; the funeral was yesterday.
I never imagined that death was so near. All the time recently he was feeling much better, and Dr. Költz had hopes for his full recovery. On Monday he even strolled in our little garden and went as far as the well without getting out of breath. Returning to his room, he felt slightly feverish; I put him to bed and ran to Dr. Költz. He was not at home. Returning to my father, I found him fallen asleep. I thought that sleep might calm him completely. Dr. Költz came in the evening. He examined the sick man and was displeased with his condition. He prescribed him a new medicine. During the night father woke up and asked to eat; I gave him soup; he swallowed one spoonful and did not want any more. He fell asleep again. The next day he had spasms. Dr. Költz never left his side. By evening the pain subsided, but he became so restless that he could not stay in one position for five minutes at a time. I had to keep turning him from one side to the other…Towards morning he quieted down and lay asleep for two hours or so. Dr. Költz left, telling me that he would be back in a couple of hours. Suddenly my father raised himself a little and called me. I came to him and asked what he wanted. He said to me: “Maria, why is it so dark? Open the blinds.” I became frightened and said to him: “Father, don’t you see…the blinds are open.” He started feeling around him, seized my hand, and said: “Maria! Maria, I’m very ill…I’m dying…let me bless you…quickly!” I threw myself on my knees and put his hand on my head. He said: “Lord, reward her; Lord, I entrust her to you.” He fell silent, his hand suddenly felt heavy. I thought he had fallen asleep again, and for several minutes I did not dare to move. Suddenly Dr. Költz came in, removed his hand from my head, and said to me: “Let him be now, go to your room.” I looked: father lay pale and motionless. It was all over.
The good Dr. Költz did not leave our house for a whole two days and arranged everything, because I was not up to it. During the last days I was the only one looking after the sick man, there was no one to relieve me. I remembered you often and bitterly regretted that you were not with us…
Yesterday I got out of bed and was following the coffin; but I suddenly felt ill. I knelt down, so as to take leave of him from a distance. Frau Rothberg said: “What an actress!” Just imagine, dear Anya, those words gave me back my strength. I followed the coffin with astonishing ease. In the church it seemed extremely bright to me, and everything around me swayed. I did not weep. I felt suffocated, and kept wanting to laugh.
He was carried to the cemetery behind St. Jacob’s church, and in my presence was lowered into the grave. I suddenly wanted to dig it up then, because I had not finished taking leave of him. But many people were still walking about the cemetery, and I was afraid that Frau Rothberg would say again: “What an actress!”
How cruel not to allow a daughter to take leave of her dead father as she wishes…
On returning home, I found some strangers, who told me it was necessary to seal all of my late father’s possessions and papers. They left me my little room, after taking everything out of it except the bed and one chair. Tomorrow is Sunday. I shall not wear your shawl, but I thank you very much for it. I send my regards to your husband, and kiss Frank and Mina. Good-bye.
I write standing at the window, and have borrowed an inkstand from the neighbors.
MARIA SCHONING TO ANNA HARLIN
Dear Anna,
Yesterday an official came to me and announced that all of my late father’s possessions must be put up for auction for the benefit of the town treasury, because he had not been assessed for his true worth and the inventory of his possessions showed he was much richer than had been thought. I understand none of it. Lately we had been spending a great deal on medicines. I have only 23 thalers left for expenses—I showed them to the officials, who said, however, that I could keep the money, because the law had no claim to it.