Throughout his works, Döblin has a penetrating eye for political power and the pretensions of status. The first excerpt lampoons the minor royalty of the Holy Roman Empire (despotic within its realm, helpless outside it); the second presents an outside view of the astonishing success of the Jesuit reductions.
The Count of Pfalz-Neuburg (from Wallenstein Part 1)
The rebel Bohemians are defeated, but across the Empire the thorny question of how to reassign the Electoral crown of the Protestant Frederick (the Winter King) occupies noble minds. Catholic Bavaria is pushing a strong claim, likely to lead to a wider war. And now an outsider appears on the scene…
State visit to Yapeyu (from The Blue Jaguar Part 4)
The Jesuits have created safe havens (‘reductions’) for the indigenous population, with royal and papal protection; but the success of the Jesuit Republic arouses anger and concern among other Whites.
The Count of Pfalz-Neuburg (from Wallenstein Part 1)
WHEN it became known among the German princes that the fugitive Palatine Frederick had been banned, the venerable Count Palatine Philipp Ludwig of Pfalz-Neuburg, in his sunny secluded corner of the world, was quite shaken.
Rummaging in packets of diamonds, brooding over carved cherry-stones, picking out and tucking away his cups of rhinoceros horn, he trembled when he heard about the war, for he was of the same noble house as the august outlaw on whom the King of England had bestowed his daughter. He shuffled on an ebony cane through wide gloomy corridors to his chancellery, with murmurs and hand-wringing sought counsel from his chancellor, Sartorius of Dillingen. Lying heaviest on his heart was the profound secrecy surrounding it all, his chancellor would say nothing, various cipher-keys essential to the affair were lacking, even his sons were not in the picture. Especially the son who had married a princess from ducal Bavaria, for he was proud and ambitious, a penniless have-not without his father, his eye always on the glories of the court in Munich, nothing but scorn for that fusty backwater Neuburg.
“War is a grave-digger,” the old man on the worn satin bench muttered to his chancellor with fervent emphasis. “It lays in their coffins people who were just now dancing upright on two legs, and poor devils like us it takes out of our boxes, airs us so that people, commoners and nobility, stare amazed to see us still alive. Philipp Ludwig of Neuburg! Oh, isn’t Wolfgang Wilhelm, that brave lad who took the Bavarian lass to wife, on the throne now? No, old Philipp Ludwig still tends his tidy little garden, like anyone else enjoys his medlars, amaranthus and daisies. Well, well. He saw off the plague, the ergot and the Bohemian sheep-pox. We live, chancellor, toothless, clutching our walking-cane, fingers bent, knees crooked, guts not working. Our head sleeps half the day and all night, so we scarcely remember to eat or praise God. We would have died long ago but for our footman who brings a glass of wine and massages our legs from time to time.”
“What will Your Serenity do?”
“Wait, Chancellor, as before. We have time, though we are no longer young. Patience, patience, you can run twenty miles and cough up your heart, we’ll still be behind you. The world will come to us soon enough.”
“If Your Serenity commands, I shall first draw up two plans regarding our claims on the outlaw’s estate.”
The man in the wolfskin half-turned his unsteady head, thin mouth open, glared suspiciously: “There’s no need to plan. What sort of plans are these. Nothing comes from plans and planning. Listen to me. There should be no upsets. Let it be. See to it that the secret is well kept. Nothing in writing, for Jesus’ sake, nothing in writing.”
“And if Your Serenity were to be surprised by sudden events, by foreign interference?”
He shuddered, waved his hand dismissively, tugged at an earlobe as he interrupted: “No, no, chancellor, you must not say such things. Nothing will happen to surprise this old Neuburger. We haven’t yet come so far. We shall not start off on that foot. Away with you and your plans! No more brooding on that topic. My God, why do I have to speak of this. Is my whole lineage to be overthrown? We must wait. I shall let you know when I need you to think, when I need your help.” On the way out he stroked the back of the other’s hand, smiled sweetly, bleated softly, mumbled.
The chancellor made his slow bent way up the steps to his writing-desk, sat down with a sigh, played with the paper-knife. Mistrust was all the old man could express; inwardly he was in a fever. No one was allowed to share it. Avarice had consumed the once merry man, he was either collecting diamonds and curios, or burying them in iron chests and cases in the garden. He begrudged every guilder spent on improvements to the palace, new livery. Some years before, he had given his consort a quite unprincely funeral, shamelessly declaring it had been her wish, the wish of the princess who little by little had ossified in the face of his greed and carping in silent Neuburg; she had barely survived to see the marriage of her eldest son, who now kept his distance from the court. She knew the count would bury her like a beggar. Now anyone could steal from him; he forgot what it was he had just been handling; the few servants who remained packed the things away as they tucked him up where they found him.
In the next few weeks the count, who cocooned himself summer and winter in wolfskins, was surrounded by scraps of paper that he snatched at greedily as soon as he awoke and hid about his person in pockets, slippers, hose, behind a stove that he was passing unobserved.
One day, peasants appeared in the palace forecourt with their unkempt heads, plain angry faces, clumsy boots, cock’s feather proud in their little caps, raised complaints against two officials, a treasurer, spoke with lengthy pauses, kept waving their arms. Too much bad coin was coming into the realm; they would not buy salt at double the price but wherever it was cheapest; the Jews should be driven out; the treasurer was imposing road-tolls everywhere, but they wanted to pay only where the road was good; officials should be banned from unauthorised woodcutting in communal forests.
The old man scolded his gardeners as he stood with the chancellor in the forecourt: why had they let these peasants in, fresh white sand had just been spread. They should not think to retrace their steps through the park, trampling everywhere and making a mess; they must be led around the palace, down the kitchen path in single file. “What are you doing here?” he cried sniffing, tugging at an earlobe, “don’t you know your place? Why aren’t you at your work? You must go back where you came from. Do you wretches know what you are? Idlers, cowards, scandal-mongers! Trampling over my paths! Off with you! I’ll set the hounds on you.”
And as they filed slowly mulishly past with twisted faces, downcast eyes, bowing to him, the old man reviled them red-faced, spat: they mustn’t gamble away their money, sit gossiping in bathhouses. Dardanian cards, cinque, sesse, the carpet-bug! Those damned scoffers and scoundrels who lure them from their villages, acrobats sword-swallowers, vagrant females, and you won’t pay your dues to your betters! Carousing like soldiers and gentlemen of means!
As their mutterings faded into the distance, he spat again on the paths and steps, gave a nasty laugh: women were behind it with their sinful coveting of finery and baubles; does you good to chase the witches from the fields. The chancellor, as he strode through a courtyard gallery, murmured: the officials should be better paid. The prince replied testily: “All right, all right. Those fellows should know who rules here. No retreat. Do we let the world grow over our heads, Sartorius?” Mumbled about the Bohemian sheep-pox, of which he had been spared.
He stood at the balustrade leaning on his cane for almost half an hour, whistled through his teeth, ignored the chancellor, made vigorous gestures. Drew his cloak tight about him, looked up at the chancellor. In the chancellery, his voice a whisper, he ordered the astonished man to drop everything; in a week they would set off together on a journey.
Philipp Ludwig did not take formal leave of his sons; he gave out that he would join a hunting party with his neighbour, the Margrave of Burgau. The major-domo and all the court servants stood shaking their heads as he climbed into the carriage, accompanied by a retinue of five men. Before doing so he sniffily reminded the chancellor’s deputy to keep an eye on “those wily peasants”. He took along as much coin and precious items as could be loaded onto a baggage-cart; half a day’s journey from town they were joined discreetly by two squads of horsemen that he had hired as escort. In such state he crossed the counties of Scheyern, Pfaffenhofen. Then the axle of the baggage-cart broke outside the inn. Cries and laments from the count, trussed up like a calf, immobile under his fur cap, embroidered Italian shirt, padded doublet, lambskin stockings. He feared that word might leak out, suspicions might be aroused in Neuburg, his sons might smell a rat, the escort might plunder the cart. He snuffled his way out of his tent of furs with the stiff silent chancellor; should they dismiss the escort, they’d hired a goat as gardener; but then they’d be at the mercy of lurking soldiers and ruffians. He pressed a mandrake root into the chancellor’s hand, he himself clutched two in each fist: “Hold it tight so that nothing will happen.” The escort was required to wait forty paces behind while the cart was jacked up.
Two days later, via Dachau and Nymphenburg, they were approaching Munich. The Count Palatine, over-active, highly-strung, dared to emerge from his dungeon of furs, dripping sweat. From time to time in the carriage, his thinking not at all straight after much chatting arguing and sounding out, he would play his latest trump: that here in Munich one could not proceed so informally, as if it were the private business of any Tom Dick or Harry; that one could not show oneself directly, sending footmen and runners to secure lodgings from a steward of the Residence, arrange a visit, make a return visit, gifts counter-gifts audiences banquets drinks for the retinue, rides merry-go-rounds. Done so, such a grave affair could easily be rendered ridiculous, become bogged down in endless talk and courtesies. In short, he had totally given up any idea of a personal consultation with Duke Maximilian, totally and completely.
So what should happen, the perplexed chancellor wondered; better perhaps to turn back. Well, continued the count, he had totally abandoned the idea. Speaking personally. It was his opinion, a private matter for him alone. He wouldn’t stop anyone from harbouring a different opinion or idea; on the contrary, everyone was duty bound to come out with it, make a case.
So close to their goal, the spires of the Holy Virgin gleaming in the distance, a horribly embarrassing fear had sprung up that the whole situation was beyond him; the Bavarian Duke was an intimidating person; he imagined with horror that they might lay hands on him, the venerable Count Palatine, somehow give him a disrespectful welcome. Even before entering the city gate he felt overcome with repugnance, a confusion of painful images; saw himself on a chair in the splendid ducal Residence, hard of hearing, unable to respond to the finer points of Maximilian’s words; a nerve-wracking spectacle.
He had cushions placed under his back, the curtains closed, ordered a slower pace. This drought in Bavaria, he complained. Anyway, if it had to be, he would observe Maximilian from afar, beard him, flush him out. He blinked at his tensely ruminating chancellor, that glum worthy figure: perhaps you should go first, somehow? The man wrung his hands, the words hot in his throat: “What are we doing here, Your Serenity? Good Lord, this whole journey, the long journey; and Your Serenity must be exhausted.”
“Yes, exhausted. In a nutshell, Chancellor. I am exhausted. Even worse, completely useless. All I need is a bed. I am an old man.”
He asked the chancellor for his cushion too: “You’re a clever man. I couldn’t have a better companion. We’ll take a little snooze.”
As the furious chancellor counted off the minutes of their approach to the north gate of the city, the count lay in a half-doze, mumbled contentedly that whatever happened nothing should be rushed, anyone could see he was tired; the other should manage the rest of it. When his half-closed eyes met the chancellor’s gaze, he repeated softly: “You take on the rest. You have my full authority.”
“But Your Serenity.”
“Chancellor, you needn’t bother me with questions. I have complete confidence in you; as I have always had, though I might not often express it. In the decades you have served me, you have learned enough of my principles of government. You have long since secured for yourself – no, don’t be modest – independence in matters of administration.”
The man turned away, inclined his head, flushed, pressed a finger to his temple.
The count called for a halt, slept half an hour. Refreshed, he smiled at the other as they rumbled on: “I really do think, when I look at such a learned and well-bred man, that you could conduct the government of Neuburg entirely to my satisfaction. I could not wish for a better successor than you. How tired I am. But the whole house is feeble, rotten.”
When the chancellor in his shock asked leave to walk beside the carriage – he hoped to gain time for reflection by slowing the pace – the old man reclining within looked at him, languidly raised his right arm: was he squeezing the mandrake tight; that was the main thing, then nothing would happen, Maximilian no doubt had none, so the advantage was theirs. Anyway, he knew something; the basic point was that the chancellor would be act for him with Maximilian. “Face him calmly. Don’t be overawed by his ways. You’ll sound him out, it’ll be easy. The day after tomorrow, or perhaps a day later, we’ll go home, if the weather holds.”
“And you, Your Serenity?”
“Us? We are a foreigner, a guest of the Count Palatine of Neuburg. Don’t worry about it. We shall give you directives once we have restored our strength.”
Again the man wrung his hands: it would not work, the count as his companion, it went against all respect, for Heaven’s sake, such confusion, such confusion, tempting God’s wrath.
“My dear chap,” the count gave a good-humoured yawn, eyes closed, “bear up. We have commanded it, so you are free of any responsibility before human or divine authority.”
“But in Jesus’ name, respect, respect for Your Serenity’s rank. What will His Highness the Duke of Bavaria and his glorious court think of me when I claim to negotiate independently in the name of the ruler of Neuburg.”
The count palatine heard this with satisfaction: it would not embarrass him, at least not much, he would set it all in motion, of course there would be some embarrassment – “To Your Serenity’s house, your relations, your ancestors.”
“True, it is embarrassing, bitterly so. It does no justice to the house. But it must be. We accept responsibility. We command you to represent us to the best of your ability while we are indisposed.”
The chancellor tramped uneasily alongside. On a sudden whim he kissed the wrinkled hand resting on the carriage door, humble, deeply humble, silently begging forgiveness for all that the future would bring.
The escort dismissed, admitted that evening by the watch at the Schwabing Gate, recorded by the clerk as Chancellor Sartorius of Neuburg together with sundry respectable attendants, they secured lodgings at the famous Sign of the Ostrich. The count tripped clumsily along beside his perplexed chancellor, inordinately complacent. He laughed out loud when he saw how every day in the church of the Holy Virgin the locals burned several hundredweight of candles to Saint Benno. In the Winemarket stood the imposing Assembly House. In the Old Court, in a room in the War Chamber, Privy Counsellor Jocher heard the Neuburg delegation out. In the presence of the great strong dignified man who accompanied them with overdone courtesy to the stairs, the chancellor could barely keep countenance.
“We shall await the decision,” declared Philipp Ludwig. A rented chair carried him half the day through the town; the count could not stop laughing. How they put everything on show, hide nothing away: pictures ornaments tapestries, building upon building, four-storied houses, elaborate façades, churches full of treasure. “Hold your purse close,” he whispered to Sartorius that evening in their bedroom. “What fools these are. Our nephew Maximilian has lots of money, lovely lovely money. But see: he does not deserve it. He throws it away.”
From the duke’s surly monosyllables, Jocher was able to convey to Sartorius, who listened respectfully, a laborious explanation that consequent upon the proscription against the Palatine, the power of election of course reverted to the emperor, who would delegate; if he were not to bestow the power on the said outlaw again, then on a brother, or on a specified close relative, and so on. It was all a matter for the emperor and the Court Chamber; this august institution was worthy of the highest regard; let no one doubt that his rights lie there and with His Elected Roman Majesty, as if in the lap of God.
Before they left, Jocher, having on his return visit at the Ostrich encountered the ancient simpleton who was Sartorius’ travelling companion, sent them a smarter man who knew his way around Munich. This fellow, oaf that he was, the same afternoon ensconced himself without so much as a by your leave in the count’s room, hurled the precious trunks down the stairs, and that evening, when the count returned and spluttered outraged along with the utterly bewildered and helpless chancellor, made fun of him in front of the servants, mocked him and ordered the trembling man to vacate the room. In his fury the count palatine ran this way and that down dark passages, after a lively exchange of words was deposited by the gallant outside the front door in his nightcap, candle in hand, clad only in a nightshirt. For the whole night he sat stunned in the porch. At first cock-crow the door was opened by women hauling cans and pails to the stables at the rear and shouting, shouting fit to raise the dead, and already he was back in his chancellor’s former room, rubbing knees and legs and holding vigorous whispered imaginary conversations with the gallant. But as the day went on the count became adamant that he must save himself from any influence Sartorius might have picked up from the gallant; he would guard his rights himself, did not wish to be patronised; and with that he ordered their immediate departure.
They were accompanied by this man for two hours out of Munich, with merry chat and pleasantries. The fellow revelled in this opportunity to maltreat an ancient visitor from foreign parts. It came literally to nudges and pokes behind the chancellor’s back; in despair he noticed much of this but was warned by signs and winks from Philipp Ludwig to keep silent.
The count’s wagon then turned aside into lightly wooded country; for hours he slept on soft palliasses beneath the tilt, having first eaten and drunk his greedy fill. Upon waking he asked about the presents Sartorius had received in Munich. A little chest was opened for him on the grass verge; it disgorged a silver bleeding-dish, a tall majolica vase, a gilded bronze candle-holder in the shape of a lion. He turned the pieces this way and that, tapped them so that the straw fell away. After he had supervised the repacking, and been lifted back onto the wagon hunched in his furs, and the escort had ridden close again, he ordered that they should proceed to Regensburg, the Danube. His eyes flashed:
“Do you think I was intimidated by that scoundrel? The response of my nephew Maximilian was quite agreeable enough to me. The duke is merely being elusive. Hushing things up is the tactics of this world, where claims of legitimacy are at stake.” He giggled happily: “Go home, my nephew said. When one is old, there is nothing more fitting than to die. Neuburg is so lovely, has such lovely gardens, greenery, fields, so much livestock, no lack of cows for butter and cream and milk. The forests are full of deer and pheasant as far as Burgau and Dillingen; trout swim in the streams, and pike and carp. Go home, and admire your diamonds.” He rubbed his nose, mumbled from his bed: “A sly response from Master Max of Bavaria. Did Mr Sartorius discover anything remarkable in his city of Munich?”
“Sufficient, Your Serenity. Riches in all their variety.”
“And what did you think of it?”
The chancellor kept silent, he was pleased to let his master preen himself.
“Outrage was what I felt. I praise war. For me, war seems to offer more justice than the law court in Vienna. If the unruly Palatine had not met with that big battle by Prague, then – yes, then I’d still be dead too in the end, that would have been my mortal fate. And to the end of my days I’d have thought myself happy, because I could stick my hand up to the knuckles in a pouch of precious stones. And instead –” He glanced up venomously, spat over the door-sill.
The chancellor inclined his head: “It is fortunate that Your Highness did not appear in public in Munich.”
“It would have caused scandal, ructions in open conversation with the duke.” He weighed the box of presents in his hand, asked suspiciously whether the chancellor had not received a second box, forgotten.
Philipp Ludwig travelled on to Vienna completely unannounced; the names of the privy counsellors and chamberlains and their personal relations were all unknown to him; he thought to storm in like thunder and lightning; no preparations needed for the flash. On the barge that bore him down the Danube he set up his coat of arms openly on deck. Disembarking outside Vienna, he approached the city with little show of his noble status; he growled angrily at Sartorius: “I come here for justice. Don’t fret about it.”
The first enquiries he initiated were at the Stuben Gate, where there was a large baths. He despatched a footman to the bath-master to ask confidentially where a notable hostelry might be found on one of the main streets or markets. The bath-master, when he heard the name Count Palatine of Pfalz-Neuburg, suppressed his annoyance, set down on the flags the jug of water he was sprinkling over hot stones, and stepped out half-dressed, left arm clutching a bundle of twigs, to bow deeply to the sullen man in his fur-lined lair; the shabby retinue at once shoved him back. He had to think long and hard for a suitable lodging. His muscular assistant, like him half-naked, came out. He swung up onto the fat dappled nag that on payment of a few pennies he had led by the mane from a stable; rode off without bridle ahead of the chair with the two foreigners – the footmen trudged through the mud and filth. He had a towel over his shoulders, cried “ho, hoah, ha-ho!” and rang a bell at every crossroad, into windows, inviting all to visit the Schröpfen Baths for a blood-letting, stopped frequently, engaged passers-by in loud conversation. The count waved aside the chancellor’s apologetic deprecatory remarks as if he heard and saw nothing. “Here to obtain our rights. Leave it.”
In his vaulted house chapel on St Urban’s day, wading ankle-deep through roses of many colours, Abbot Anton of Krems-minster, shaking fragrant red petals from the shoulders and sleeves of his silken cassock, received with a smile the Count Palatine of Pfalz-Neuburg, a limping man, hard of hearing, dressed in extraordinarily unclean clothes and furs, who inclined his head briefly, raised his hat, and with evident relief allowed his shabbily liveried footman to lead him from this flower-hung-strewn-filled space into a lofty circular anteroom. Sunlight poured through stained glass down onto the flags; the kindly abbot pushed a foot-mat towards the visitor; two chairs on the flags in the play of light; walls that soared over their heads to meet high above; echoes repeating every loud word.
The count hummed and hah’d: on a recent visit to Munich he had to his regret failed to secure the support of his relation and august nephew, dear Duke Maximilian, who had made a pretence of indifference to a weighty matter of family interest. The Prince Elector Palatine having in the name of the Empire been pronounced outlaw, perhaps further impositions of authority might arise, for the sake of the Empire, over the Electoral College and even perhaps over electoral lands; he was here to assert his lineage for the similarly enfeoffed line of Pfalz-Neuburg, a claim founded on the Golden Bull, laws of the House, laws of the Empire; was not ashamed to admit it. The abbot, casting down his eyes, enquired about written proofs. And then more: so, he had been in Munich, and (if he may) with what chief purpose. To shake the Duke of Bavaria’s hand for his bold stand against the Bohemian rebels, to manifest his loyalty to His Imperial Roman Majesty. And then? Nothing more, as a venerable prince of the Empire he had felt compelled to express his gratitude, and to encourage matters to take a swifter course, should Maximilian show himself equally bold in disputing consequences as he was in defence of the Empire. Well? Well, Maximilian was a knight, a warrior of the old school. Diplomacy did not sit well on him; nothing more could be expected of him.
Anton shook a red petal from the wide sleeve of his cassock; with a smile drew it across his lips, crushed it in the fingers of his left hand; promised to give careful attention to the documents. And how were the august family in Neuburg, of whom he often heard such happy news from the provost of Ellwangen. The count, clutching his cane, lent an attentive and suspicious ear, gave half-answers; fearful that attempts might be made to influence him, had himself escorted by the footman back to his sedan-chair. The abbot gazed a long while at the seat vacated by the count, shook more rose petals from his cassock, summoned a scholar in a brown habit: let the Bavarian envoy Jesaias Leuker be sent for, he would speak with him, tell him of this curious visit, think what it portended.
MIDDAY in the hall of the Novitiate building of the Society of Jesus at St Anne’s, before a performance of the “Heroic Knight Sir Michael”; the small silent abbot amid a throng of students from the House of Lilies in light blue cassocks, black gowns from St Anne’s, glittering Court finery, amid garlands, rustling scarves, scabbards, expectant smiles. Leuker knew nothing of the Neuburg visit to Munich, and was not a little shocked – they walked, heads bowed, across to the old church, the emperor would attend the play – when all of a sudden it occurred to him that Marcheville, the French chargé d’affaires, a nimble shifty fellow as elegant as he was ambiguous, had been in Vienna five days already in possession of huge sums and with quite impenetrable purposes, but no doubt making private calls, his purpose obscure, including in the Herren-gasse where the curious Neuburger was lodging. And the abbot himself was equally shocked. Beneath the ancient tomes of the church library he wondered if His Grace the Duke of Bavaria might have let slip, inadvertently or on purpose, something that had reached the ears of that wretched little count palatine, and awoken in him the silly notion that something was in train regarding the outlaw’s electoral lands and electoral rights. Leuker sensed a slightly uneasy note in the dignitary’s voice; he laughed heartily, more heartily than he had intended. Or perhaps the little Frenchie himself had some relevant knowledge; what lay behind Marcheville’s appearance on the scene, his lurking around the little count.
They stood uncertainly facing one another in the church porch. Leuker reflected soberly that his master would be upset to know that someone was exercising influence over the stupid Neuburger, a relation of the House. This man, wandering aimlessly and probably half-demented around the Empire, letting himself be used, could only pose a danger to the reputation of the House. Anton sighed, shook his hand; to be sure he was a curious man, this count of Pfalz-Neuburg, “but you yourself know that Marcheville is in fact even more of a curiosity. Marcheville has no feel for German particulars; he wants something. There is something he knows better than you or I.”
“He’ll make fun of the old man in the presence of his entourage,” the Bavarian smiled. And this offhand comment from the mouth of canny Leuker caused the abbot the greatest unease: his companion must know as well as he that Marcheville never indulged in fun, so Leuker must know more than he did. And there he stood, with his brazen smile.
After a few courteous words Anton hastened back into the hall, to be met by a wall of song. Ferdinand glanced benevolently at him from his raised purple chair. Learned Leuker, stocky, glowing with health, hardly greying, had to linger half an hour before he could make his way back by the garden path. Perplexed not about the demeanour and exertions of the wretched moribund Neuburger, but about Marcheville and his obscure activity behind the half-dead fool’s back; Marcheville his friend, almost his friend! And Bavaria had already bagged the emperor! Including the electoral rights! With France’s approval!
Ever since his Munich visit, Philipp Ludwig had never been out of the Frenchman’s sight. During an intimate exchange of intelligence, the worthy counsellor Jocher had let slip some titbits about the droll events at the Ostrich during the Neuburgers’ stay. When the count palatine passed through the Stuben Gate he was already accompanied by two of Marcheville’s creatures; now the count lodged in the Herren-gasse, near the Grated Well and the Assembly House; for some days the French chargé d’affaires had been staying in complete seclusion just opposite, poring over his butterfly collection.
A neighbourly visit, swiftly arranged, was reciprocated the following day. Before Neuburg could think of requesting an audience or testing the sentiment of the Cabinet, Marcheville, quite blatantly the French ambassador, strode into his lodging to convey a particular letter of recommendation from His Most Christian Majesty as penned by his Secretary of State Puisieux. Neuburg abruptly terminated the meeting, the shock was too great, he harboured an uncommon hatred of the Gauls; to see the chargé d’affaires himself bear a clear mandate from his spirited young sovereign concerning French diplomacy towards Pfalz-Neuburg threw his composure into disarray. In the heavily curtained bay window, over a bowl of raisins, he tried to recover, Sartorius at his side, that grave man who always seemed to have just been roused from sleep. As they sat slouched informally on their stools, dipping bunches of raisins in wine, plucking and swallowing the moistened berries, the chancellor whispered dispiritedly: “How can we counter him? We have no clerks, no servants, no gifts. We lack everything.”
“I can’t hand over all my coffers for, for–” screamed the count, spitting pips, crushing stalks under his heel, “it’s all too much for me.” Sartorius agreed; it was terrible.
“Should we leave?” – “Should we not flee?” Count and chancellor spoke almost in the same breath. “We cannot know what will develop from these matters. The example of Frederick is near enough, near enough. The battle of Prague has had its effect. In my case there is no need for a battle of Prague. I do not grasp for foreign possessions; I am no insurgent.” He gnashed his teeth. “If they want to overthrow me and make me an outlaw, I’ll be an easier target. They need only wring this old chicken’s neck.”
He must pay no more visits, the chancellor decided.
“It’s so hard, so hard,” groaned the count. “We live too close, he keeps an eye on us. Are the shutters closed? Don’t let the grooms go out, my chair should remain always in the building, the horses –.” He leaned back, broken. “I know we cannot defend ourselves.”
And he slumped on the stool, eyes closed. As the chancellor cleared away the cups, a fear rose in him that the count would weary as he had on the way to Munich, leave it all to him.
The count whined: “People must be summoned, learned men, drum them up, a council of state, all properly constituted and consulted. Else I can do nothing.” His lips were dry, exhaustion in his eyes: “We must tell him this. I have no ministers with me, not a quorum anyway, I can’t make decisions without them; it would go against the grain, it’s not the Neuburg way.” He stretched his face up to the chancellor with a venomous look: “And you, you are not my minister. You are merely my private secretary. Nothing more.” The chancellor bowed: “I shall tell him.”
In the passageway the count tore the white hair at his temples. “Vienna! Vienna! Battle at Prague!”
“Your Majesty,” Sartorius knocked a while later at his bedroom door, “in Neuburg the cherries and redcurrants are ripe; and the gooseberries. The strawberries will soon be over. It’s time now. The Duke of Pomerania will soon be sending his artist with the samples.”
The next visit from the smooth noble monsieur was overshadowed by a strong mistrust, which the count made plain. He said hardly a word, the private secretary at his side took notes on a slate. To the sullen impatient man who looked only at the floor, Marcheville repeated the same grounds he himself had set out in the four memoranda to Neuburg, in re the claims of Neuburg to electoral rights and electoral lands, resting on the relationship to the last elector, on consequential enfeoffment, on the Golden Bull, House law, relevant Imperial law. His Most Christian Majesty would not neglect, the ambassador declared with a low bow, sweeping his open hands behind him, at the appropriate time to assure himself of the favour of the new Prince Elector.
Neuburg, although outwardly in control of himself at the little pre-dinner session to which he had invited the Frenchman, was shaken to the marrow. He had never thought his affair so secure. So this is how matters lie. Oh wicked world. The duke in Bavaria knows the situation; he stays silent. The emperor knows the situation; is silent. Abbot Anton of Krems-minster. He, the venerable Neuburger, true at all times to the Empire, who has done no wrong in all his livelong days, will see himself, before he goes a Protestant to his grave, brutally toppled by an emperor advised by Jesuits. Would Marcheville have approached him, literally waylaid him, if the sly Frenchie did not mean to place himself at the appropriate time in his favour? He hoped to gain a vote against Habsburg, prevent Ferdinand’s son from becoming King of Germany; that’s what it was. Nothing said about Vienna, about the Castle; no one from there had yet set foot in the Herren-gasse. And all the time couriers raced about the streets, music echoed from the Castle; footmen errand boys in every lane, none on the way to his door.
Marcheville received a haughty summons, delivered by a servant, to present himself in a few days’ time at the chancellery of His Highness Philipp Ludwig, Count Palatine of Pfalz-Neuburg. And when the envoy appeared, Philipp Ludwig pretended not to be at home; a suitably dignified reception was prepared in one of the hostelry’s larger rooms, where he had to sit on an upholstered bench facing four hired gentlemen: two foolish Magisters from the university and two shabby pettifogging theologians. In a friendly tone he advised the quill-scratching gentlemen to return later. He had seen through the ruse, assured the chancellor of his readiness to contribute to the support of the chancellery, and despite his disgust at the lack of formality in the pretender’s behaviour, without further ado offered several thousand thalers, which the count accepted as an honorarium while not making the least improvement in the condition of his household or wardrobe. A further thousand thalers, slipped to the chancellor, achieved that goal: several coaches-and-four stood at his disposal, a modest staff of servants was fitted out in Neuburg livery.
And so the count, like some mad creature shrinking from the daylight in his braided satins and sable furs, made calls at every kind of office, spoke personally with members of the Privy Council, Court Chamber, left memoranda drafted under French tutelage, memoranda to all the electors of the Catholic, Protestant and Calvinist religions, in particular the elector of Mainz as Chancellor of the Empire, all handed over to the doorkeeper of the Imperial Privy Council for attention of this highest organ of imperial justice which represented the person of the emperor himself. The members of the council’s Bench of Nobles and Bench of Procurators received visited from Sartorius.
Those who read them, Doctor Anton Wolfrath of Krems-minster as president of the Court Chamber, gentlemen of the Privy Council – Eggenberg Trautmannsdorf Breuner – were astonished by the appeal; it pushed at an open door especially in regard to its pointed conclusion: the electoral crown should on no account be transferred without taking into consideration and putting to the test the claims of Neuburg; should such a decision have already been made, he hereby lodged a formal appeal at law; only an assembly of all the electors was competent to deliver justice.
The memorandum was in part absurd and ridiculous, in part baffling; for Abbot Anton, who kept it resolutely hidden from the Bavarian duke’s meddlesome spy Jesaias Leuker, it was a torment.
So it came about that an interested party, at first unknown, took steps to rid himself of this troublesome but as yet obscure man. This party thought he should meet with a mishap. The driver of his chaise – whether accidentally or on purpose – took a wrong turning, and the count, accompanied only by a French agent, found himself in that tangle of wretched alleys in the south of the city that extended back from the gates and provided boltholes for beggars and their families. The driver landed him among such people as he asked the way outside a buskers’ yard. Two scholars rusticated for sinning gripped the reins of the lead horse, were about to speak when one of them, apparently frightened by the horse, leaped back, knocked over a man in the crowd of onlookers, who at once fell into a fit, blowing out his cheeks and foaming as only a practised fraud with a lump of soap in his mouth knew how. A woman, standing pale to one side, grasped the prostrate man’s hands, screamed My husband!, turned to the bystanders, demanded compensation. They sent away the chaise and the Frenchman and led the old count into the yard, addressing him in friendly tones. Next day a troop from the City Guard searched the alleys high and low without success; they were guided by a beggar who claimed to be the vagabond-master.
But the French chargé d’affaires Marcheville, blushed with joy when the lamentable course of the outing was described to him by his excited agent. Off he strutted like a peacock to express commiserations to Krems-minster, the Lord High Equerry, the Spanish ambassador, about his near neighbour the Count Palatine of Neuburg, his most fatherly friend, and how could it have happened, what a dreadful occurrence; he pleaded forcefully for enquiries to be initiated by every competent authority; to Oñate, the Spaniard, he dared to interject with a laugh that one could almost believe someone had an interest in putting the amiable old man out of the way; perhaps something had leaked from the chancelleries about the count’s pursuit of claims regarding electoral rights, for all sorts of rumours had been spreading. The affair was all the more distressing for Abbot Anton and Prince Eggenberg, as even the Spaniard could not brush aside a dreadful suspicion that summary justice had been applied, and laments were heard about the rather clumsy way the Bavarians had gone about the business. For he was certain that Doctor Leuker was behind it. But Anton and Eggenberg feared something much more sinister, and were glad when everyone linked Herr Leuker to the disappearance and not, as they did, his completely impenetrable Imperial Majesty. With the Frenchman trumpeting the affair all over the place, it was impossible to hush it up as they would wish; they had to put on an energetic public show of solving the case.
With extreme care the noble officials themselves set in motion a detailed investigation. Painstaking visits ensued to the principal haunts of boxers and fencing fraternities, to the Royal Cloisterhouse, the nightsoil pit. The two vagabond masters of the district where the abduction occurred were taken to the city gaol, whipped thoroughly and asked bluntly: where was the count palatine? This happened in strict secrecy; Krems-minster himself was opposed, hoping to hush it all up in case a certain Eminent Person should be behind it. They kept them a further twenty four hours without food in the madhouse behind the Hohe Markt, to reflect on the question.
The interrogation yielded nothing. But on their release they fell like wild wolves on their district: on elevated Laimgrube and the Windmill, with a handpicked gang they ransacked the beggar’s doss-house the Miracle Cellar, with its colourful households. Fleeing from derelict houses, corners of dead-end alleys, came bold grave-robbers in beggar’s garb, brown-painted Christians; they abandoned their cowls, cord-belts and pilgrim caps, flung their pilgrim staffs away as they ran; fat clumsy pregnant women ran like weasels, lost their belly-cushion in their flight. Anxious discussion among the fraternities that evening, under threat of an unexpected outbreak of fire in the district, led to information as to the whereabouts of the two unfrocked scholars and the epileptic’s wife. They revealed that the count had gone down the Danube with the conspirators and an old woman, but turned up every two or three days hereabouts; those two were waiting for a sum of money, from whom they did not know, or for what purpose, whether ransom or whatever.
Next day the boat was discovered by anxious people as it was tying up at a desolate spot on the Lower Werd near the Jewish quarter. Two men fled as soon as they touched land. On a bench, armed with an oar, sat the old bareheaded count palatine, naked to the waist, wearing the tall boots of a soldier, satin trousers of Polish style; he threatened to knock down anyone who approached. Then he jumped into the reeds behind the boat, was caught and brought ashore. The two vagabond masters spoke to him in a friendly respectful way, but he thought he was about to be done in, kept folded hands at his stammering mouth, eyes tight shut. An hour passed before several gentlemen rode up, the chancellor among them; he was deeply moved to see his revered prince in such condition, such disarray, the little wobbling half-starved belly, the podgy white-haired chest, the slender little head on the slack wrinkled neck.
Philipp Ludwig lay abed, horror-struck. When told that a substantial ransom demand had been expected, he insisted they had meant to kill him; the dreadful old woman had told him almost hourly that he would be slaughtered, he should prepare his soul, all they were waiting for was their wages for the deed. The chancellor sat by the bed racked with fear, trembling to think how the princely offspring would receive him should he return without His Palatine Serenity. Before the week was up the count departed; at Marcheville’s urging he left his chancellor behind to assert his rights.
And while the count strutted about in sunny Neuburg, endlessly ordering shouting causing confusion in conversation with sons and servants – a thorough reorganisation of taxes and military affairs decreed – then rescinded – the knock-kneed chancellor back in Vienna was chased up and down by Marcheville, mockingly teasingly dropped again, as the situation required. One day a courier raced up to Neuburg with a decision of the High Council: they had taken note of his memorandum, would in due course apprise him of progress in the matter, a declaration which Philipp Ludwig, once again his old languid self, received with a sigh. He despatched an order to Sartorius to return at once, enclosing a little note in his own hand: “Let matters proceed. Come home. I have set my hand in the game and shall not withdraw.”
State visit to Yapeyu (from The Blue Jaguar Part 4)
THE FATHERS became more certain and determined, like the people they took under their wing. And with certainty came greater courage. And now they were not satisfied with tribes that flowed to them from the middle reaches of the Paraná, between Paraguay and Paraná. They sent emissaries to the province of Chile, to the Indians of the south. Father Mascardi wandered that way, and founded a mission on the island of Nahuel Huapi. Father Arce went to the Panoki, and San Rafael and San Francisco Xavier were founded. Fathers Zea and Hervas taught among the Chiquito.
The colonies were blooming. And the more they spread out, the more they irritated the Whites. Indian revolts were attributed to their machinations.
A solemn day in Yapeyu on the Paraná.
It was reported from Tucuman that a royal Visitor, the counsellor Francesco Alvaro, was on his way from Cordoba and Assomption. Yapeyu was the permanent residence of the Superior of this province. Montoya wanted to receive him in Yapeyu, below the confluence of the Ibicuy river. With Montoya came the Bishop of Assomption, who was just then making a tour of the reductions.
Montoya was no longer the young man brought by Torrez to Father Emanuel. He was broad and stocky, beardless; the other Fathers too, who stayed put now and taught and directed, had done away with their wild vagrant beards. Montoya’s hair was grey, white at the temples, his angular face was lean. A fanatical severity permeated his being. The eyes under the strong brow ridge gazed out suspicious and restless. He rode, escorted by a company of native cavalry, beside the new Bishop of Assomption whom he had fetched, Felix, a lanky, venerable and handsome man of his own age.
Bishop Felix was of a different nature to his predecessor, Don Reginald de Lizarraga, who together with the very noble governor had so bewailed his sojourn in this country.
Felix, an Italian, sat on his horse like a knight and enjoyed the gentle landscape. He lifted himself in the saddle to gaze behind and to the side. They passed dense groves of bamboo that accompanied the river’s course and concealed the low growth along the deep roadside ditches, in which water stood. His face, grave and calm, exuded benevolence, a dark brown beard framed the face, melancholy black eyes queried and greeted the landscape. Now he was riding along the bank of the Paraná. Rome, Florence, Ferrara were far away, he had given up his Classical studies in order to hear no longer the hideous din of European wars. He dreamed of the magic of a southern landscape, of a great peace.
He had a particular reason to seek out the remarkable and much discussed reductions of the pugnacious Jesuits. He was tracking down his nephew, young Gonzales da Santa Cruz, who had lodged with him in Assomption and had disappeared in the direction of the settlements. What could have led my unruly secretive Gonzales, my prickly relative, to transplant himself here? It is already so long, two years, three, since he buried himself here. Despite his youth he could have been my vicar apostolic, he could have stayed for good in Assomption, where he was born. Of course, then I would never have come to ride through this remarkable, remarkable world. It is like another planet.
And when they were on the hilly grassland some miles distant from Yapeyu, they saw grass moving, feathered heads bobbed up and down in the grass, they were mounted Indians, a strong contingent. Felix turned in shock to silent Montoya, who had seen them already, and nodded calmly: “We’ll stop and wait for them. They want to welcome you.”
Then the vanguard of the horsemen, a cavalry company from Yapeyu, was with them, formally welcoming the episcopal visitor. The whole troop caught up with them at an open place back from the riverbank, strong riders armed with lances. They unfurled their flags, paraded with their mounts in tight formation this way and that. Then they halted, sprang from their horses and threw themselves to the ground before the bishop. Montoya whispered: “They await your blessing.” Felix, absorbed in the astonishing scene, raised a hand and spoke some words. At once the bodies were back in the saddle and forming up. They surrounded the guest and his escort, banners fluttered at their head, trumpets and drums sounded.
As they rode the bishop drew Montoya close, they had hardly spoken for the major part of the journey, the bishop, usually jolly and talkative, had no idea once initial courtesies were done how to approach this enigmatic man. To think of his fine brisk Gonzales among these sourpusses. Felix turned his handsome bearded face to Montoya: “Well, my dear Father, what is this? These are your people?”
“A company from Yapeyu.” – “There are more of them?”
“They sent one company ahead first. No doubt the second is waiting for you at the gate.”
“My God, and they are all armed and have horses and are trained?” – “Of course.”
“My dear Father, I had heard of it. I just never imagined it like this.”
Montoya cast a casual glance at his companion. It worked away in Felix as they trotted on slowly. I’m being received by a military power, an actual state, how alarming. These lads of old Ignatius are an outrageously assertive bunch. They even have flags. What do they gain from it. It’s quite incredible. Back home they have no idea, the eyes would start from their heads.
“Tell me, dear Father Montoya, do the other reductions have such horsemen, and armed?”
“Of course.”
“But this is dangerous. I assure you, when I saw them approaching, my heart pounded.”
“Dangerous for whom?” – “Why, for the towns of the Whites.”
“They obey us. For the rest we never have to give them orders. We just tell them what is good for them. And they persuade themselves that it is so.”
“But if they were to fall upon our towns?” – “It never enters their heads.”
“It just occurred to me.”
“Our natives have no desire to be acquainted with the sinfulness of the towns, and sensible townspeople do not fear them. Anyway, why should lions and tigers fear the shepherd.”
The bishop was shocked. “Who are the lions and tigers?”
“Not our people.”
“Our townspeople? Are our townspeople so wicked?”
Montoya’s face flickered, without looking at the bishop he said: “Not any more.”
The second cavalry company fell in at the gate. Through the gate, bearing insignia of their rank, came dark men, the corregidor, town officials of various grades. Father Vinzenze Griffi, who exercised the office of priest of the settlement, approached the bishop’s feet. And behind him, to Felix’ great joy, was his good Gonzales, he came forward to kiss the hand of the bishop, who had dismounted. The bishop took him by the arm and gazed into his face: “Nothing changed. Exactly as you were.” But he saw that he had changed. The bishop had little time to surrender to his thoughts.
The people of the settlement had taken great pains to welcome the bishop and prepare the town for the royal Visitor who was to come with him, or a little later. They had brought flowers from the fields into the church, erected triumphal arches in the streets and woven garlands. And how they decorated the arches and garlands. They went fishing and hunting, caught the most splendid fish in the river, organised a drive for jaguar and deer, trapped fowl. They hung trophies from the river on fishhooks among the great palm fronds of the garlands, and these were the pride of the fishermen. They disembowelled the jaguars and deer, tied the great carcasses to the poles of the triumphal arches. Amid the green foliage they tethered colourful fowl, hummingbirds and parrots on long strings. The garlands shimmered with whole flocks of such birds. They carried huge masses of foliage into town, spread a carpet all the way from the gate to the church. Flowers, fruit, fowl in front of every door.
And so, preceded by a vanguard of cavalry, amid blaring music, the bishop entered sundrenched bell-loud merry Yapeyu. He was buffeted by cheers from the people lined up in dense crowds on both sides of the street, behind him rode Superior Montoya, Father Griffi, and his Gonzales. The Italian bishop had never dreamed of such a sight. He wondered, as he distributed blessings left and right, how this reception and his journey should be described, reported to Rome. Really you can only praise it, but it is surprising and a little bit illicit. Native infantry, and a troop with actual arquebuses, brought up the rear. The music was silenced, they were nearing the church, the cavalry moved aside for bishop, clergy and town officials. Organ sounds swelled towards them from the church. As they entered they were enveloped in the lovely clear tones of a children’s choir. Women knelt in the church, flowers at their breast, you could hear them sobbing as the bishop prayed at the altar. The Te Deum rang out.
As the bishop left the church and was led to the house that would be his for the visit – it was no different from the other houses, but they had spread soft fabrics and linens on a cot, placed skins on the floor, set up a table and some chairs – he became aware of large bowls and baskets outside many of the houses, filled with maize and other seed. On enquiring he was told: these are for sowing, they have been put here so that they too can receive the blessings he bestows as he goes through the town. And then the little creatures gambolling about the posts of the garlands like small and middle-sized dogs, but on the other hand not like dogs in their catlike slinking, they jumped at him as he went into his house, and the bishop saw he was expected to smile and say a friendly word. He smiled obediently and asked Montoya what these creatures were called. Young jaguars, he learned.
HE HAD A DAY to recover from these impressions. The royal Visitor was delayed. That evening a meal was arranged for Felix in the spacious magistracy building. For an hour afterwards he sat with three Fathers of the Company of Jesuits over a bowl of maté. Here he noticed how his Gonzales had changed. What kind of men they were, these Jesuit Fathers, and Gonzales had taken something of them on. Clever, practical men, serious, but they could laugh sometimes, they were interested in everything, but all from one angle only: the saving of souls. Which is good, but it can be overdone and tires one. It is, found Bishop Felix, in the long term – and a few weeks were already too long – tedious and miserable and tries one’s patience. He sat with these young people – for even his contemporary Montoya he considered young, belonging in the same class as Griffi and his nephew Gonzales – really only for the purpose of observing them. They are a strict company, the Jesuits, he found, the Church can depend on them, but they are infuriating. They kiss my hand, but at bottom they deny and condemn me. Oh, they are merciless. They are just like those who stand behind the princes and kings of Europe, whom not even the Pope can fend off, and who press for war against everything that is not Catholic. They know only decisiveness.
Finally Gonzales came to him next morning, and he was able to attempt a conversation with him alone. But to his bewilderment it was not Gonzales who spoke, but a young adherent of Ignatius de Loyola. That was what the Fathers had made of him.
Felix had the Odes of Horace with him, he told of the lovely new verses the Pope had crafted, translations from the Psalms of David in antique style. The young man was silent.
“Do you not play the flute still?” asked Felix, already sensing the pain a No would inflict.
“Yes,” said Gonzales, “and I am grateful to you, uncle, for the lovely instrument you gave me. All the flutes they make here are modelled on it. I teach them.”
“I am pleased. And do you enjoy it?”
“How could I not, when I see how they learn, how they follow, how light arises in them.”
“You are like Orpheus, who makes walls move with his fluting.”
“But these are not stones.”
Whatever can I say that he won’t contradict. Felix praised the boundless labour of the Jesuit Fathers, and the pleasure it afforded him to see his young nephew active in this place, which was really still a wilderness, and that he had abandoned Assomption, where a glittering career beckoned him, for this.
“What should we do,” smiled the bishop, half earnest, rubbing his delicate fleshy beringed hands, “when our youth and our pride abandon us. We Whites are still around, after all, and we live in towns.”
Gonzales stared straight ahead, pursed his lips in the old way Felix loved so well, and lowered his head firmly and with determination between his shoulders, oh he takes this from Montoya, these Jesuits, how they have ruined him.
“What is there in these towns?” asked Gonzales, “I could even say, what is there among the Whites, uncle? The Gospel does not mention Whites. It recognises only heathen and believers.” And at once Gonzales began to attack the towns, sparing not even Assomption, where he himself had been born and where Felix wanted to make him vicar-general. He spoke of Assomption and the towns of the Whites as pits of depravity.
The unhappy bishop hid his hands, which were no use to him, under his belt and would have liked to hide himself entirely: “Gonzales, really our towns have much else to offer. I too deplore them in many respects, but still I would rather hold on to them.”
But despite this mild riposte the young priest held firm in his condemnation, it was the others speaking, what sort of people are they, they are not people at all, people take a rest sometimes, but a Jesuit is a Jesuit morning, noon and night, at every hour he prods, whips, drives, what generation of men has risen up here, to whom has the Church committed herself – what actually does she seek to save through these men?
When Gonzales at last concluded his denunciations – they flew about like building blocks a boy tires of playing with – the bishop leaned back calmly, closed his eyes, stroked his soft wavy beard and pulled himself together. You must overcome every trial, even this. “I believe, my dear Gonzales, that your father would have done better to send you right away for a monk. Perhaps you still want this?”
Since Felix had closed his eyes in self defence, he did not see the curt shake of Gonzales’ head, but he heard the ejaculation: “To the monastery? Us? You’d like that, all of you!”
The bishop stood and clapped him gently on the shoulder. He had said “all of you”. So it was true.
