Selected Prose of Heinrich Von Kleist (2 page)

Josephe had been on her way to death, already very close to the place of execution, when the entire apparatus was suddenly smashed to pieces in the crashing collapse of buildings. Her first panic-stricken steps thereupon carried her toward the nearest gate; but she soon returned to her senses and turned around to head back to the cloister where her helpless little boy had been left behind. She
found the entire cloister already in flames, and the abbess, who, in those moments that were to have been her last, had offered succor to the newborn, crying outside the gate for someone to help save the boy. Josephe staggered undaunted through the burst of smoke that blew toward her, into the building already collapsing all around her, and just as if all the angels in heaven stood guard over her she safely reemerged with him from the portal. She wanted to fall into the arms of the abbess, who had clasped her hands over her head in joy, when the saintly lady, together with almost all the other sisters, was killed in a most ignominious way by a falling gable. Josephe fell back in horror at the terrible sight; she hastened to press the abbess' eyes shut and fled, altogether consumed with fright, to save from the teeth of death the precious boy that heaven had given back to her.

She had only taken a few steps when she encountered the crushed corpse of the archbishop that had just been dragged out of the rubble of the cathedral. The palace of the viceroy had been leveled, the court of law in which she had been condemned to death stood in flames, and at the site where her father's house had been a lake now bubbled over, spewing a red hot steam. Josephe pulled herself together to keep going. She bravely strode with her precious booty from street to street, chasing the misery from her breast, and was already almost at the city gate when she spotted the ruins of the prison where Jeronimo had been held. At the sight of this she tottered, about to fall unconscious in a corner; but at that selfsame moment the collapse of another building behind her that had been damaged by the tremors drove her upright again; fortified by her fright, she kissed the child, wiped the tears from her eyes and staggered to the gate, blind to the horror that surrounded her on every side. Once she'd made it out
into the open, she soon concluded that not every resident of a fallen building was necessarily killed in its collapse.

At the next crossroads she stopped dead in her tracks and waited to see if a certain someone, after little Philip the dearest to her in the world, might yet appear. But since that person did not turn up and the fleeing mass of humanity grew from moment to moment, she continued on her way, then turned again and waited; and shedding bitter tears, she slunk into a dark valley shaded by stone-pines to pray for his soul which she believed to be departed; and it was here in the valley that she found this beloved person, and so found bliss, as if it were the Valley of Eden.

All this she now told Jeronimo with great emotion, and once she'd finished speaking, handed him the boy to kiss. Jeronimo took him in his arms and hugged him with immeasurable fatherly love, and weeping over the unfamiliar little face, sealed his lips with unending kisses. Meanwhile, the loveliest night had fallen, a wondrously mild, scented night, so silvery and still as only a poet could have dreamed up. Everywhere along the riverbed, in the shimmer of the moonlight, people had set up camp and were in the process of preparing soft beds of moss and leaves to rest their weary bones after the torturous day. And since the poor wretches were still weeping – one over the loss of his house, another over wife and child, and a third over the loss of everything – Jeronimo and Josephe slipped off into a dense thicket so as to sadden no one with the sound of the secret jubilation of their rejoicing souls. They found a splendid pomegranate tree, its branches spreading wide, covered with fragrant fruit; and on its topmost branch a nightingale piped its voluptuous song. Here beside its trunk Jeronimo sat down to rest, with Josephe on
his lap and Philip on hers, all under the cover of his coat. Scattered lights filtered through the tree; its shadow brushed past them and the moon faded in the dawn before they fell asleep. For they had countless things to tell each other of cloister garden and cold prison cell, and how they had each suffered for the other; and they were deeply stirred when they fathomed how much misery the world had had to suffer to permit their happiness!

They decided, as soon as the tremors stopped, to make their way to La Concepción, where Josephe had a trusted girlfriend from whom they hoped to procure a small loan, and thence to ship off to Spain, where Jeronimo had relatives on his mother's side and where they planned to live out their days. Hereupon, after showering each other with kisses, they finally fell asleep.

When they awakened, the sun had already risen high in the sky and they noticed several families nearby engaged in preparing themselves a modest breakfast over an open fire. Jeronimo himself was just then pondering how he would go about finding sustenance for his own when a well-dressed man with a child in his arms walked up to Josephe and asked her discreetly: would she be willing to briefly give her breast to suckle this poor little creature whose mother lay injured beneath yonder trees? Josephe was a bit bewildered when she recognized him as an acquaintance; but when, misconstruing her bewilderment, he continued: “It would only be for a few minutes, Donna Josephe, and this child has not been nourished since that terrible hour that made us all miserable,” she replied: “I was silent for another reason, Don Fernando; in these terrible times, no one would hesitate to share what's his”; and handing her own child to the father, she took the little stranger to her breast. Don Fernando
was very grateful for this kindness and asked if she would join the little group that was just then gathered round the fire preparing a small breakfast. Josephe replied that she would be delighted to accept, and since Jeronimo had no objections, followed the man to his family where she was most warmly and graciously received by Don Fernando's two sisters-in-law, whom she recognized as two very distinguished young ladies.

Donna Elvira, Don Fernando's wife who lay on the ground, her feet badly wounded, seeing her own son being suckled at Josephe's breast, bid her most cordially to sit down beside her. And even Don Pedro, Don Fernando's father-in-law, who was wounded in the shoulder, gave her a kindly nod.

Curious thoughts stirred in Jeronimo's and Josephe's breasts. If they now saw themselves treated with such great intimacy and kindness, they did not know what to make of the recent past, of the place of execution, of the prison and the bell; and wondered if it had only been a bad dream. It was as if the dispositions of their fellow citizens had all been rendered conciliatory following the terrible shock. They could not revert any further back in their memories than to that moment. Only Donna Elisabeth, who had been invited by a girlfriend the day before to witness the spectacle of the execution from her rooftop, but declined the invitation, cast an occasional dreamy look at Josephe; but word of some new terrible misfortune soon tore her attention, hardly rooted in the present, back to that time.

There were accounts of how, immediately following the first quake, the city was teeming with women collapsing in full view of all the men; how the monks ran around, crucifix in hand, crying: “The
End of the World is at hand!” how the people replied to a guard sent by the viceroy with orders to empty a church, that Chile no longer had a viceroy; how at the most terrible moments the viceroy had to have gallows erected to rein in the looting; and how an innocent man, who managed to save himself by fleeing through a burning house situated to the rear of his own, was caught by the owner, who promptly accused him of undue haste, and the man was hanged on the spot.

At one point, amidst the liveliest recounting of simultaneous experiences of the quake, Donna Elvira, whose wounds Josephe assiduously tended, took the liberty of asking her how she had weathered that terrible day. And when, with a heavy heart, Josephe revealed a few of the most salient details of her ordeal, Donna Elvira was overcome by a flood of tears; she grasped Josephe's hand and pressed it, and with a wink, implied that she need say no more. Josephe bethought herself among the blessed souls in heaven. In a burst of emotion which she was not able to hold back, for all the misery that the preceding day had wrought, she called it an act of deliverance the like of which heaven had never released upon the world. And amidst these awful moments that had brought about the destruction of all of humanity's worldly possessions, and during which all of nature threatened to be engulfed, it did indeed seem that the human spirit itself blossomed like a lovely flower. In the fields all around, as far as the eye could see, there were people of all social classes lying together, nobles and beggars, matrons of once stately households and peasant women, civil servants and day laborers, monks and nuns: all commiserating with each other, helping each other, cheerfully sharing the little of life's necessities they'd been able to salvage, as
though the common calamity had joined all those who'd managed to survive it into a single harmonious family of man.

Instead of the meaningless chatter for which the world ordinarily furnished material aplenty at teatime, people now recounted cases of inconceivable heroism; they spoke of individuals who in the past had been but little respected in society who rose to the grandeur of ancient Romans; countless examples were given of fearlessness, of cheerful recklessness in the face of danger, of self-denial and godly self-sacrifice, of the unflinching abandonment of life as though it were the most worthless possession, which one was likely to find again round the next bend. Indeed, seeing as there was not a soul to whom something stirring had not happened on that day or who had not himself performed some magnanimous deed, the bitter pain in every human heart was mixed with the sweetest sense of gratification, so much so that it was impossible to assess whether the sum total of general well-being had not increased just as much as it had diminished.

After listening in silence to the last of these accounts, Jeronimo took Josephe by the arm and led her with indescribable joy up and down beneath the shady canopy of the pomegranate grove. He told her that, given the current cast of mind of the people and the subversion of all social norms, he had abandoned his initial decision to ship off to Europe; that should the viceroy, who had always proven himself favorably inclined to his cause, still be alive, he would hazard an appearance and fall to his knees before him; and that he had every hope of being able to remain in Chile with her – whereupon he pressed a kiss on her forehead. Josephe replied that she had harbored similar thoughts; that, if only her father were still alive, she
herself had no doubt he would forgive her; but that instead of begging mercy on their knees, she would rather that they make their way to La Concepción – that city being close to the harbor, just in case – and from there, pursue in writing the business of a pardon with the viceroy, and that if things turned out as they wished they could easily make their way back to Santiago. After thinking it over a bit, Jeronimo agreed to the wisdom of this cautious measure, and reflecting on happy times that lay ahead, led her back and forth a few more times beneath the shady bower before rejoining their companions.

In the meantime the day had advanced to afternoon, and as the aftershocks of the quake had abated, the swarm of refugees had barely had a chance to calm their spirits when word spread that the prelate of the Dominican cloister planned to say a solemn mass in the Dominican church, the only structure that had survived the quake intact, to pray to heaven for the aversion of any further misfortune.

The people soon broke camp in all corners and streamed into the city. The question was raised in Don Fernando's group as to whether they ought not also take part in this festivity and join the flood of humanity. Donna Elisabeth reminded them, with a catch in her throat, what an unholy thing had occurred the day before in the cathedral; that such thanksgiving services would, after all, be repeated; and that they would then feel themselves freer to give full vent to their feelings with greater serenity and peace, since the danger would by then be long gone. Leaping to her feet, Josephe promptly remarked that she had never felt a more burning need to lay her face in the dust before her Maker, now that He had manifested his incomprehensible and sublime might in this way. Donna
Elvira enthusiastically agreed with Josephe. She insisted that they go hear the mass and called upon Don Fernando to lead the way, whereupon the whole group, including Donna Elisabeth, rose to its feet. But since the latter was perceived to hesitate with a heaving breast in all the little preparations for leaving, and in answer to the question what ailed her, replied that she did not rightly know, but that she harbored an ill-fated premonition, Donna Elvira allayed her fear and invited her to stay behind with her and her sick father. Josephe said: “Then you will surely, Donna Elisabeth, take back this little darling, who as you can see, has once again crawled into my arms.” “Very gladly,” replied Donna Elisabeth, and reached out to grab him; but the child protested bitterly against this injustice and would under no circumstances let go, so Josephe said with a smile that she would keep him after all and coaxed him with kisses into silence. Hereupon, Don Fernando, who was very touched by her great dignity and grace, offered her his arm; Jeronimo, who was carrying little Philip, led Donna Constanza; all the other members of the group followed; and in this order they headed back into the city.

They had walked no more than fifty paces when they heard Donna Elisabeth, who had in the meantime engaged in a heated, furtive exchange with Donna Elvira, cry out: “Don Fernando!” and followed the agitation of her tongue with restless steps. Don Fernando stopped and turned around, awaiting her, without letting go of Josephe's arm; and since Donna Elisabeth herself stopped a fair distance away, as though she expected him to advance toward her, he asked what she wished of him. Hereupon, the latter approached him, albeit, so it seemed, with a certain hesitation, and whispered a few words in his hear, so softly that Josephe could not hear them.
“What of it?” asked Don Fernando, “What's the worst that can happen?” With a troubled look Donna Elisabeth went on whispering in his ear. His face red with consternation, Don Fernando replied: “Enough! Donna Elvira had best calm herself down”; and led Josephe onwards.