me. You expect - indeed it would be your duty - to answer me truthfully. You expect these things, but you are mistaken. On this Christmas Eve, the Christmas Eve of the year 1794, I shall want no confessions, I shall make no interrogations. What is the reason for this? Well, in reality, while at Artern I received a letter from a very old friend, the Former Prediger of the Brethren at Neudietendorf. It was a Christmas letter, reminding me that I was fifty-six years of age and could not, in the nature of things, expect more than another few years on this earth. The Prediger instructed me for once not to reprove, but to remember only that this is a day of unspeakable joy, on which all men and women should be no more, and no less, than children. And therefore,’ he added, looking slowly round at the sparkling tables, the wooden spoons, the golden nuts, ‘I myself have become, during this sacred time, wholly a child.’
Anything less childlike than the leathery, seamed, broad, bald face of the Freiherr and his eyes, perplexed to the point of anguish under his strong eyebrows, could hardly be imagined. Probably the Prediger had not tried to imagine it. The Brethren were experienced in joy, and perhaps sometimes forgot what a difficult emotion it is, and how unfamiliar to many. Heavily the Freiherr von Hardenberg looked up from the desk.
‘Are we not to have music?’
The Bernhard, disappointed at his father’s strange mildness, but pleased to see his elders disconcerted, shinned up the library steps used for the highest shelves, and began to sing, in what was still a child’s voice of absolute purity, ‘He is born, let us love him.’ The angelic voice was taken as a signal for the patiently-waiting household to come in, bringing with them the two-year-old Amelie, who advanced with determination on anything that shone, and a bundle of wrappings, which was the infant Christoph. The candle-flames began to burn low and catch the evergreens, there was a snapping and hissing and trails of sweet smoke as they were calmly extinguished by Sidonie. The room was still, in alternate patches, brilliant and shadowy as everyone went to search for their own tables.
Erasmus stood close to Fritz. ‘What will you tell Father now?’
26
The Mandelsloh
N OTHING . Fritz would accept what Fate and Chance sent and take the opportunity to say nothing. The distance between himself and Erasmus distressed him far more than any falling-out with his father.
At Neudietendorf he had learned, even when he thought he was refusing to learn, the Moravian respect for chance. Chance is one of the manifestations of God’s will. If he had stayed on among the Brethren, even his wife would have been chosen for him by lot. Chance had brought the Prediger’s letter to Artern quicker than could have been expected, and made it possible for him to delay discussing his marriage to Sophie until somewhat nearer the time when he might expect to earn his own living. But chance, as he knew, might at any moment restore his father to his usual state of furious impatience. He had only spoken of being joyous, after all, for one day.
On Silvesterabend, six days after Christmas, Fritz received a letter from Sophie.
Dear Hardenberg,
In the first place I thank you for your letter secondly for your hair and thirdly for the sweet Needle-case which has given me much pleasure. You ask me whether you may be allowed to write to me? You can be assured that it is pleasant to me at All Times to read a letter from you. You know dear Hardenberg I must write no more.
Sophie von Kuhn
‘She is my wisdom,’ said Fritz.
Back on a day’s visit to Gruningen, in the New Year of 1795, Fritz asked the Hausherr Rockenthien, ‘Why must she write no more? Am I then dangerous?’
‘My dear Hardenberg, she must write no more because she scarcely knows how to. Send for her schoolmaster and enquire of him! Certainly she ought to have studied more, ha! ha! Then she could well have written
Anything less childlike than the leathery, seamed, broad, bald face of the Freiherr and his eyes, perplexed to the point of anguish under his strong eyebrows, could hardly be imagined. Probably the Prediger had not tried to imagine it. The Brethren were experienced in joy, and perhaps sometimes forgot what a difficult emotion it is, and how unfamiliar to many. Heavily the Freiherr von Hardenberg looked up from the desk.
‘Are we not to have music?’
The Bernhard, disappointed at his father’s strange mildness, but pleased to see his elders disconcerted, shinned up the library steps used for the highest shelves, and began to sing, in what was still a child’s voice of absolute purity, ‘He is born, let us love him.’ The angelic voice was taken as a signal for the patiently-waiting household to come in, bringing with them the two-year-old Amelie, who advanced with determination on anything that shone, and a bundle of wrappings, which was the infant Christoph. The candle-flames began to burn low and catch the evergreens, there was a snapping and hissing and trails of sweet smoke as they were calmly extinguished by Sidonie. The room was still, in alternate patches, brilliant and shadowy as everyone went to search for their own tables.
Erasmus stood close to Fritz. ‘What will you tell Father now?’
26
The Mandelsloh
N OTHING . Fritz would accept what Fate and Chance sent and take the opportunity to say nothing. The distance between himself and Erasmus distressed him far more than any falling-out with his father.
At Neudietendorf he had learned, even when he thought he was refusing to learn, the Moravian respect for chance. Chance is one of the manifestations of God’s will. If he had stayed on among the Brethren, even his wife would have been chosen for him by lot. Chance had brought the Prediger’s letter to Artern quicker than could have been expected, and made it possible for him to delay discussing his marriage to Sophie until somewhat nearer the time when he might expect to earn his own living. But chance, as he knew, might at any moment restore his father to his usual state of furious impatience. He had only spoken of being joyous, after all, for one day.
On Silvesterabend, six days after Christmas, Fritz received a letter from Sophie.
Dear Hardenberg,
In the first place I thank you for your letter secondly for your hair and thirdly for the sweet Needle-case which has given me much pleasure. You ask me whether you may be allowed to write to me? You can be assured that it is pleasant to me at All Times to read a letter from you. You know dear Hardenberg I must write no more.
Sophie von Kuhn
‘She is my wisdom,’ said Fritz.
Back on a day’s visit to Gruningen, in the New Year of 1795, Fritz asked the Hausherr Rockenthien, ‘Why must she write no more? Am I then dangerous?’
‘My dear Hardenberg, she must write no more because she scarcely knows how to. Send for her schoolmaster and enquire of him! Certainly she ought to have studied more, ha! ha! Then she could well have written
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