assortment of friends, the four dark brown Nubian boys. New brothers , Papa had ventured. Mummi was none too happy with this addition, and the under-governesses were fit to be tied.
Baroness would not even participate. “This is not to be tolerated,” she’d let Mummi’s lady-in-waiting know, and Mummi had agreed.
“I can only beg your forgiveness, Wilhelmine, for the duke has, once again, seen fit to add myriad complexities to all of our lives.”
Karl , I wrote, leaving a space in front of his name. Imagine the joy in my heart upon receiving your missive . Crumple.
Meanwhile, Nené was preparing for our first autumn ball of the season. If a cotillion lay in her future, she must, according to the dance master, practice. Practice, practice, practice.
Life in Munich was quite busy, and even from my sequester, I watched out the window as carriages came and went. Papa had agreed that while the turmoil surrounded Uncle Ludwig’s palace, we would house some paintings in our halls, and four large men hauled in an enormous picture, one replete with angels and battles and swords and blood. There was the Messiah in the very middle of this painting, about to stab Himself with a dagger, and in the very corner, a suspicious character fleeing the scene. I had heard from the maids that the villain in the painting was a Jew, and it was best that while the revolutionaries marched on Uncle’s castle, we be the keepers of that one.
In all the mayhem, most pronounced was a renewed battle between my parents. Papa’s screams at Mummi echoed off our castle walls. “You were born an old lady, Ludovica.”
And Mummi: “You have made me that way, Duke.” She did not approve of the parties day and night in Papa’s beer hall. The peasant girls he danced with. The trick riding in the newly converted circus. “And if you get trampled in a drunken heap under your horse, what then?” she wanted to know.
Karl, my dearest apple , I wrote. My pumpkin . My strudel.
The odd turns of the heart were a curiosity, but in my newfound state of smitten, I vowed that my own heart would never grow cold. Once I loved, I promised, I would never unlove. As if in agreement, the locket-watch ticked against my breast.
Against the far wall of the nursery, Gackl was playing cards with the blackamoors. “A king beats a queen,” he said. “And there, that’s a one-eyed jack. If you see it first, you pound it with your fist, then take it.”
The boys nodded solemnly, periodically twisting their heads round to look over their shoulders. They did not sit cross-legged on the floor like my brother; they crouched on their haunches.
Beside me lay the heavy French history books Baroness Wilhelmine had deposited earlier. Thank goodness my bleeding time gave me a reprieve from the lesson desk. Next to the books were compresses and a vessel of herbs and boiled water to soothe my cramping. The books made a perfect lap desk for me, upon which I wrote: To Karl the handsome , and then, To Karl my cousin , and then, Your Grace , Your Most Eminent, My friend . Crumple, crumple. There were now no less than a dozen papers, all twisted into balls, scattered about the floor. Ink stained my fingers. I made thumbprints on the paper. Lip prints, too. Practice, Nené’s dance master had said. Well, one day I would kiss this archduke; I was sure of it, so why not practice that as well?
I had indeed witnessed Papa kissing someone other than Mummi. Once, at Possi, he’d left the dancing during a party, and I went to search for him. He’d promised we could play music together, and I had my tambourine ready. I wandered through the parlor, the library, the music room—no Papa. Finally, in the breakfast pantry, there he was, on the baker’s table, on top of one of the neighbor girls. The one who brought the milk to our house in the early morning.
When I returned home I conveyed the occasion to Baroness Wilhelmine, and she told me, “Your father cannot help his charms,
Baroness would not even participate. “This is not to be tolerated,” she’d let Mummi’s lady-in-waiting know, and Mummi had agreed.
“I can only beg your forgiveness, Wilhelmine, for the duke has, once again, seen fit to add myriad complexities to all of our lives.”
Karl , I wrote, leaving a space in front of his name. Imagine the joy in my heart upon receiving your missive . Crumple.
Meanwhile, Nené was preparing for our first autumn ball of the season. If a cotillion lay in her future, she must, according to the dance master, practice. Practice, practice, practice.
Life in Munich was quite busy, and even from my sequester, I watched out the window as carriages came and went. Papa had agreed that while the turmoil surrounded Uncle Ludwig’s palace, we would house some paintings in our halls, and four large men hauled in an enormous picture, one replete with angels and battles and swords and blood. There was the Messiah in the very middle of this painting, about to stab Himself with a dagger, and in the very corner, a suspicious character fleeing the scene. I had heard from the maids that the villain in the painting was a Jew, and it was best that while the revolutionaries marched on Uncle’s castle, we be the keepers of that one.
In all the mayhem, most pronounced was a renewed battle between my parents. Papa’s screams at Mummi echoed off our castle walls. “You were born an old lady, Ludovica.”
And Mummi: “You have made me that way, Duke.” She did not approve of the parties day and night in Papa’s beer hall. The peasant girls he danced with. The trick riding in the newly converted circus. “And if you get trampled in a drunken heap under your horse, what then?” she wanted to know.
Karl, my dearest apple , I wrote. My pumpkin . My strudel.
The odd turns of the heart were a curiosity, but in my newfound state of smitten, I vowed that my own heart would never grow cold. Once I loved, I promised, I would never unlove. As if in agreement, the locket-watch ticked against my breast.
Against the far wall of the nursery, Gackl was playing cards with the blackamoors. “A king beats a queen,” he said. “And there, that’s a one-eyed jack. If you see it first, you pound it with your fist, then take it.”
The boys nodded solemnly, periodically twisting their heads round to look over their shoulders. They did not sit cross-legged on the floor like my brother; they crouched on their haunches.
Beside me lay the heavy French history books Baroness Wilhelmine had deposited earlier. Thank goodness my bleeding time gave me a reprieve from the lesson desk. Next to the books were compresses and a vessel of herbs and boiled water to soothe my cramping. The books made a perfect lap desk for me, upon which I wrote: To Karl the handsome , and then, To Karl my cousin , and then, Your Grace , Your Most Eminent, My friend . Crumple, crumple. There were now no less than a dozen papers, all twisted into balls, scattered about the floor. Ink stained my fingers. I made thumbprints on the paper. Lip prints, too. Practice, Nené’s dance master had said. Well, one day I would kiss this archduke; I was sure of it, so why not practice that as well?
I had indeed witnessed Papa kissing someone other than Mummi. Once, at Possi, he’d left the dancing during a party, and I went to search for him. He’d promised we could play music together, and I had my tambourine ready. I wandered through the parlor, the library, the music room—no Papa. Finally, in the breakfast pantry, there he was, on the baker’s table, on top of one of the neighbor girls. The one who brought the milk to our house in the early morning.
When I returned home I conveyed the occasion to Baroness Wilhelmine, and she told me, “Your father cannot help his charms,
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