The Blue Flower by Penelope Fitzgerald

.
    Some day, in the noon-tide of life, we shall both sit at
    table ,
    Each of us will be married, with the one we love
    beside us ,
    Then we shall look back to how it was in the
    morning .
    Who would have dreamed of this? Never does the
    heart sigh in vain !
    Karoline knew that ‘Never does the heart sigh in vain!’ was the sort of thing that they printed on sweet papers. But the last verse caused her anguish. There he was, her non-existent admirer, the unloved Verliebte , conjured out of her own unhappiness, sitting at table with her, indeed, all four of them were there. But the poem, at least, was for her and her alone. The title was ‘Reply to Karoline’.She put it in the drawer where she kept such things, and turned the key. Then she clasped her arms round her body as if to ward off the cold.

22
Now Let Me Get To Know Her
    D URING his two days with the Rockenthiens, Fritz marvelled at the difference between daily life in the Kloster Gasse at Weissenfels and at Schloss Gruningen. At Gruningen there were no interrogations, no prayer-meetings, no anxiety, no catechisms, no fear. Anger, if any, evaporated within a few moments, and there was a good deal of what, at Weissenfels, would be called time-wasting. At breakfast time, no-one at Gruningen slammed down their coffee-cups, and cried out ‘
Satt
!’ The constant coming and going round the tranquil Frau Rockenthien (who, like the Freifrau von Hardenberg, had a new baby to nurse) seemed an image of perpetual return, so that time scarcely declared itself an enemy.
    At Gruningen, mention of the goings-on of the French caused no distress. When George appeared in a tricolour waistcoat there was not even a murmur of surprise. With pain Fritz compared the Demon George, easy-going and noisy, with the strangeness of the Bernhard. Then again, Uncle Wilhelm’s visits at Weissenfels were anoccasion of dread, one prayed for him to leave, while at Gruningen relations and friends poured in indiscriminately, all of them greeted, even if they had been there only yesterday, as if they had not been seen for many months.
    ‘When summer comes we have the Nachtisch outside, under the lilacs,’ Frau Rockenthien told him. ‘Then you must read aloud to us.’ At Weissenfels, after meals, everyone dispersed as soon as grace was said. Fritz was not sure whether there were any lilacs in the garden or not. He was inclined to think not.
    Snowed-up for probably not more than a day or two, Fritz knew he must use his time wisely. ‘You have your wish now, Fraulein Sophie,’ he said, watching her stand by the same window in the Saal . Her child’s pink mouth was just open, as without knowing it she put out her tongue a very little, longing to taste the crystal flakes on the far side of the glass. Herr Rockenthien, thundering past with George and Hans at his heels, paused to ask Fritz about his studies. He asked everyone he met, with genuine interest, about their occupations, a habit he had picked up during his service with the Prince of Schwarzburg-Sondeshausen as a commissioning officer. Fritz talked eagerly about chemistry, geology and philosophy. He mentioned Fichte. ‘Fichte explained to us that there is only one absolute self, one identity for all humanity.’
    ‘Well, this Fichte is lucky,’ cried Rockenthien. ‘In this household I have thirty-two identities to consider.’
    ‘Papa hasn’t a care in the world,’ said George. ‘Today, when he was desperately needed by the head gardener to give instructions about the blocked ditches, he was out shooting in the snow.’
    ‘My career has been in the army, not in the vegetable patch,’ said Rockenthien good-humouredly. ‘As to shooting, it is not a passion with me. I was out with my gun early this morning in order to feed my family.’ With the air of a conjuror, he drew out of his pocket what he had evidently forgotten until now, a string of small dead birds connected head to tail with a length of thread. It seemed as though the