Die Marquise von O...

by Heinrich von Kleist

›Die Marquise von O…‹ ist die wohl bekannteste Novelle Heinrich von Kleists. In einer einmaligen stilistischen Gratwanderung eröffnet Kleist die Novelle mit einer skandalträchtigen Zeitungsannonce, die ihren festen Platz in der Literaturgeschichte hat: Darin annonciert die unverhofft schwangere Marquise von O…, dass der ihr unbekannte Erzeuger ihres Kindes bei ihr zwecks Heirat vorstellig werden soll. So außerordentlich diese Annonce, so meisterhaft das Spiel Kleists, der in der grellen Offenlegung des Skandals das Unaussprechliche an diesen ›anderen Umständen‹ in zarten Andeutungen zu belassen weiß.

Genres: Classics, Fiction, Short Stories, German Literature, 19th Century, Germany, Literature

132 pages, Paperback

First published February 1, 1808

About the author

The dramatist, writer, lyricist, and publicist Heinrich von Kleist was born in Frankfurt an der Oder in 1777. Upon his father's early death in 1788 when he was ten, he was sent to the house of the preacher S. Cartel and attended the French Gymnasium. In 1792, Kleist entered the guard regiment in Potsdam and took part in the Rhein campaign against France in 1796. Kleist voluntarily resigned from army service in 1799 and until 1800 studied philosophy, physics, mathematics, and political science at Viadrina University in Frankfurt an der Oder. He went to Berlin early in the year 1800 and penned his drama "Die Familie Ghonorez". Kleist, who tended to irrationalism and was often tormented by a longing for death, then lit out restlessly through Germany, France, and Switzerland.

After several physical and nervous breakdowns, in which he even burned the manuscript of one of his dramas, Heinrich von Kleist reentered the Prussian army in 1804, working in Berlin and Königsberg. There he wrote "Amphitryon" and "Penthesilea."

After being discharged in 1807, Kleist was apprehended on suspicion of being a spy. After this he went to Dresden, where he edited the art journal "Phoebus" with Adam Müller and completed the comedy "The Broken Pitcher" ("Der zerbrochene Krug") and the folk play "Katchen von Heilbronn" ("Das Käthchen von Heilbronn").

Back in Berlin, the one time Rousseau devotee had become a bitter opponent of Napoleon. In 1811, he finished "Prinz Friedrich von Homburg." Finding himself again in financial and personal difficulties, Heinrich von Kleist, together with his lover, the terminally ill Henriette Vogel, committed suicide near the Wannsee in Berlin in 1811.

[From http://www.heinrich-von-kleist.com/]

Reviews

[Glenn Russell · Rating 5 out of 5]

Heinrich von Kleist (1777– 1811) was a true romantic, a literary genius on fire with poetic inspiration all throughout his twenties and early thirties, dedicating himself to writing plays, poems, essays, novellas and short stories before ending his life at age thirty-four via a suicide pact with a beautiful young woman suffering from terminal illness. I dearly love each of these dramatic von Kleist tales, however, for the purposes of my review, I will focus on one story from this Penguin collection that has remained with me for years: St. Cecilia, or The Power of Music.

A synopsis of the mysterious events at the heart von Kleist’s tale runs as follows: four Protestant brothers from the Netherlands, in the spirit of iconoclasm, plan the destruction of a Catholic nunnery. Weapons in hand and supported by armed followers, they attend mass held in the convent’s cathedral on a day of Corpus Christi.

During the playing of Gloria in excelsis, the four brothers take off their hats, fall to their knees and touch their foreheads reverently to the ground; all four held in a kind of mystical bliss. The effect of the music is so strong the brothers do not emerge from their ecstatic state; rather, they continue to be held in rapture and thus lose their ability to sense and experience the outside world.

They are eventually taken to the city’s madhouse, where, dressed in the hooded robes of monks, they spend their remaining years in unbroken sublime devotion, sitting around a crucifix positioned on a small table, interrupted only at midnight when they rise to sing Gloria in excelsis. The four brothers live to be very old men, dying in peace and joy.

I have a deep, personal connection with this story I first read when a college student in my twenties, the age of the four brothers at the beginning of the tale. At that time I had one of the most powerful experiences of my life – a vivid dream where I was held in ecstasy by music from angelic trumpets while beholding a glorious vision of heaven. Of course, my experience was much different than the four brothers since my being held in ecstasy lasted minutes not years. But our respective experiences touch on two important points: 1) the brothers and I are not of the Catholic faith, and 2) the unmistakable power of music.

On the topic of music’s power, here is a quote from the nineteenth century German philosopher, Arthur Schopenhauer, “The inexpressible depth of music, so easy to understand and yet so inexplicable, is due to the fact that it reproduces all the emotions of our innermost being, but entirely without reality and remote from its pain. Music expresses only the quintessence of life and its events, never these themselves.”

Schopenhauer judges music to be the highest of the arts since it expresses the very core of life. And it is no accident the world’s mystical traditions emphasize the importance of music. Ironically, Schopenhauer was an atheist, however his view of music has much in common with many religious philosophers, theologians and mystics, a common ground speaking volumes about how our experience of music can transcend the differences created by various religions and theologies.

But the phenomenon of the four brothers differs sharply from the traditional religious/spiritual/mystical life in one critical way: the mystical experience of the brothers was so powerful that all four were held in its grip every moment for the rest of their lives; indeed, since they were never released, in a very real sense, their blissful devotion was not a matter of their own choosing. This difference cannot be overemphasized.

John Cassian writes about the Abbas and hermits who, following the example of Anthony of the Desert, retreated to the wilderness to live in silence and solitude, devoting themselves to communing with God. Cassian relates the numerous unending challenges these hermits faced, including the noonday demon – depression. But none of the noonday demon nor any of the many other challenges on the spiritual path for the tale’s four brothers.

The second quality of the brothers’ experience worth noting is its communal nature. If such a profound, life-transforming experience happened to one man, well, that could possibly be explained as an individual defect or specific medical crisis. But to have the exact on-the-spot spiritual transformation taking place in four brothers deepens the mystery of von Kleist’s story. And, at least for me, makes this tale unforgettable.


“The kiss and the bite are such close cousins that in the heat of love they are too readily confounded.”
― Heinrich von Kleist

[Jan-Maat]

Rambling Introduction
I was digging around on my bookshelves looking for something when I came across The Marquise of O, which I had previously read some years ago. It was only short and it seemed as though Fate had intervened with a capital letter so I did not resist the serendipity.

I have felt a slight awkwardness about reading Kleist as though trying to follow his train of thought could lead to his conclusion on the banks of theKleiner Wannsee . But after reading Blamberger's biography (Heinrich von Kleist: Biographie, a review here) I thought I'd run the risk...


The Story
Is a simple one, published in 1808 and set in North Italy during the Napoleonic Wars. When Russian troops storm a Citadel, the Commandant's daughter - a widow with two children - is threatened by a gang of soldiers, their officer, Count F, steps in and rescues her though during the process the Marquise faints and is unconscious. Some days later Count F offers to marry the Marquise as soon as possible mysteriously making an announcement to her that in the future she will be very glad of this. The Marquise and her family don't grasp his meaning and the Count departs on business. Shortly thereafter the Marquise realises that she is pregnant, is rejected by her father and makes her way to her own estate where she has a advert published in the newspaper offering to marry the Father of her child should he come forward. This action is the hook and bait that Kleist uses in his first paragraph - actually in the first sentence to catch the passing reader:

In M…, an important city in upper Italy, the widowed Marquise von O…, a lady of excellent reputation and the mother of several well-raised children, let it be known through the newspapers that without her knowledge she had become expectant, that the father of the child to whom she would give birth should declare himself and that she, out of family considerations, was resolved to marry him

Anyway after some toing and froing it turns out that the Russian Count F raped the Marquise, they marry, and after some years they get to live happily ever after.


Some ideas after reading
The wronged woman marries her rapist? Cue for confusion on the part of the contemporary reader.

Reading this story by direct assault, the eye taking in the words, the hand seizing the page and dragging the reader towards the conclusion where they can plant their flag clearly isn't going to work. Here an indirect approach, longer, slower and less steep, offering different perspectives as we get closer is what is needed.

Consider Lady Deadlock Bleak House, Anna Karenina or Tess of the d'Urbervilles: the woman must die. That is the only way those authors could cope with the consequences of sex out of wedlock for their readers. How different then Kleist, for him the woman does not die - it is the attitudes of those round her that have to change and society that has to be remodelled.

Here the rapist can't get away with his crime, he is obliged to confess, he is obliged to marry but not on his terms as he originally wanted but on the terms determined by the Marquise's family. 'Terms' is key. The Count F arrives wearing uniform and insignia, carrying his weapons to make his eventual confession. This is a formal military surrender of one power to another, a literary Yorktown. If the story begins with the brute assertion of physical power it ends with surrender to a civilised manner of conduct. Not rape, but a marriage governed by contract. Not the war of all against all, but law.

As in Kleist's story Michael Kohlhaas the central character is morally right and wronged. It is society that is shown to be wrong and unjust, although unlike in Kohlhaas Kleist does allow for the eventual triumph of a moral order in this fable rather than pursuing the fate of the individual standing against an unjust moral order to the inevitable bitter end.

I suspect this might also be a political fable. This is an 1808 story, in the subtitle of the first edition we are told that this is a true story whose action has been moved from north to south. In 1807 the Russians came to terms with the French at Tilsit ending a series of wars in which the Russians attempted to use brute force of arms in Italy, Austria and within Kleist's Prussia to uphold the Ancien Regime and resist the rationalising and liberating potential of the French Revolution. In that case the Marquise perhaps is a woman who can be understood as a country who, optimistically, can overcome violence and establish a better future.

Once the King of France had been tried for high treason, found guilty and sentenced to death everything became possible. The traditional European world order had been broken open. Count F represents that older order, he can be violent and he can legitimate that violence, even sanctify it. The Marquise rejects this. She has an intrinsic desire for equity and justice that like Michael Kohlhaas she will not give up.

Equally there is a surely a sexual political reading: male sexual violence gives away to a culture of consent and contract. Implicit in that seem to me to be a whole bunch of ideas, the officer is a nobleman but behaves ignobly - again social criticism and some irony, intellectually he is capable of developing to be more than a rapist and has a concept of guilt but equally is subject to unconscious drives.

There might also be some criticism of, or a presentation of religion as a fable that doesn't much impact on our attitudes here. We have an annunciation (by the rapist) and an unwissentlichen Empfaengniss - perilously close to an Unbefleckten Empfaengnis in that the woman is innocent of and fundamentally non-complicit in the act - on the part of the Marquise. However when she asks a Midwife if she has ever heard of such a thing she laughs and can't admit to ever having heard of it. So much for the gospels then! Or perhaps we are back to social criticism. For the Marquise's Father and Brother the simple fact of pregnancy outside of wedlock is a crisis irrespective of their kinswoman's lack of complicity. Society blames the victim and cannot offer justice until it itself has been educated (in this case through the moral power of the Marquise).


Bland Conclusion
There's a lot packed into a short story.

[♡ Sonja Rosa Lisa ♡ · Rating 3 out of 5]

Puh, das war eine ziemlich schräge Geschichte. Ich weiß nicht, ob sie mir gefallen hat, aber interessant war sie auf jeden Fall.
Was mir definitiv gefallen hat, ist die blumige altertümliche Sprache. Es liest sich durch die Sprache zwar nicht ganz so flüssig, weil heutzutage niemand mehr so spricht, aber gerade das hat seinen Reiz.

[Jan-Maat]

In this volume the editors have all eight of von Kleist's canonical stories: (which leaves me wondering about the uncanonical stories) The Duel, The Earthquake in Chili, The beggarwoman of Lacorno, The Foundling, The Betrothal in Santo Domingo, St Cecilia or the power of Music, Michael Kohlhaas, and The Marquise of O. The last two of which I had read and reviewed previously.

All of this stories were the same and all of them were different. They are the same in striving to drag the reader into extreme emotional states or towards intellectual crisis of faith, the point when your bulkheads rupture, the cold sea waters pour in and you sink in uncertainities and confusion. In all other ways the stories are different. Kleist might be a precursor to Kafka, or you might prefer to see him as the person who was born and brought up at the end of the Enlightenment and fell into an interior crisis that was to end with his suicide in 1811. The shortest story is three pages long, the longest a hundred, two stories are set outside of Europe, three in Germany, three in Italy, some are compact, others rambling shifting their focus of attention as though von Kleist was tempted to re-write The Arabian Nights and tumble from one story into another.

I feel what happens in these stories that that the characters beliefs and assumptions, maybe their entire intellectual worlds turn round and remorselessly bite the character on their own arse. The problems that we face are the products of the baggage - intellectual, cultural, social and so on - that we drag around with us. The only thing to fear is ourselves, because that is what destroys us in the end. Perhaps von Kleist's yearning towards extremes and his standpoint was due to a violent encounter with ancient Greek drama, though I believe he himself attributed it to Immanuel Kant.

He is at the transition from the Enlightenment to the Romantic, though Romantic as in Goya's Saturn devouring his son.

[Semjon · Rating 4 out of 5]

Diese bekannteste Novelle von Kleist hat zwischen 1 bis 5 Sterne irgendwie alles verdient an Bewertung. Es kommt immer darauf an, aus welchem Blickwinkel man das Drama, um die ungewollte Schwangerschaft der Marquise betrachtet. Vom Erzählerischen hat mich die Geschichte hervorragend unterhalten und aufgrund ihrer aus heutiger Sicht enormen Absurdität auch bestens amüsiert. Irgendwie merkt man, das Kleist eigentlich lieber Dramen schrieb, denn seine Novelle ist gerade zu prädestiniert für ein Schauspiel.

Allerdings kann man die Absurdität auch negativ beurteilen, denn Kleist bewertet seine Geschichte nicht. Und so weiß man mit dem Abstand von 200 Jahren als Leser nicht genau, ob das nun eine Gesellschaftskritik oder bloße Unterhaltskunst ist. Ich habe daher Verständnis, wenn man heute sagt: Heinz, das ist echt gequirlte chauvinistische Scheiße, was du da erdichtet hast.

Die junge, verwitwete Marquise wird in Norditalien in ihrer Festung von russischen Truppen überfallen zur Zeit des Napoleon-Feldzugs. Sie wird von einigen Soldaten drangsaliert, doch dann kommt ein russischer Offizier und rettetet sie vor seinen Untergebenen. Die Marquise fällt vor lauter Begeisterung über ihrer Retter in Ohnmacht und wenig später ist sie zwischen dem Anfang und dem Ende eines Gedankenstrichs schwanger geworden. Quasi wie J. zum Kinde. Nun wird es echt kitschig und der Stoff könnte bestens für einen Bollywood-Film herhalten. Fehlt wirklich nur noch, dass zwischendrin getanzt wird. Der Eltern verstoßen ihre Tochter, da sie nicht an die Jungfrauen-Geburt glauben. Also setzt die M. eine Zeitungsannouce auf und fragt nach, wer sie den zur angegebenen Zeit vergewaltigt hat. Zur Belohnung würde sie den Übeltäter auch heiraten. Wer sich nun denkt, dass wäre eine List, der hat sich getäuscht, denn genauso kommt es. Aufgrund ihres Stockholm-Syndroms finden Vergewaltiger und Entwürdigte zusammen und reiten glücklich in die Abendsonne. Du lieber Jolly, was für eine Geschichte.

Kleist löste damit einen Skandal aus. Ich kann es mir vorstellen. Man sagt, es wäre eine Kritik an konservativen Gesellschaftsstrukturen und den moralischen Wertevorstellungen zu dieser Zeit. Insofern ist es schön mutig, so ein Novelle zu veröffentlichen. Da wirkt Jane Austen zur gleichen Zeit wie ein biederer Liebesgroschenroman-Schriftstellerin. Ich will erst gar nicht auf die Idee kommen, zu denken, dass hier Vergewaltigungen und hysterische Frauen verherrlicht werden. Für mich ist es eher ein Zeugnis, wie schwer es Frauen zu damaligen Zeit hatten, Schutz und Verständnis zu finden, wenn sie sexuell belästigt oder sogar vergewaltigt wurden. Daher ist es für mich eine außergewöhnlich gute Novelle.

[Matt · Rating 4 out of 5]

[short version]

—

_____________________________

[long version]

Punctuation marks do have their meanings. Some more, others less, but none are unimportant.

In German the dash is sometimes called “Gedankenstrich”, which can be translated as “line to ponder”, or “a break to think over”. The most famous – most notorious – dash in German literature (perhaps in all of literature? I don’t know) is the one that Heinrich von Kleist hat set in his novella from 1808.

Quite early in the story, the titular Marquise of O… is rescued by the Russian count F… from the hands of some rough Russian soldiers who were just about to cause harm to the Marquise. The noble officer “smashed the hilt of his sword into the face of one of the murderous brutes” and led the young lady to a save location where she “collapsed in dead faint.” The next sentence reads as follows:

Then — the officer instructed the Marquise’s frightened servants, who presently arrived, to send for a doctor; he assured them that she would soon recover, replaced his hat and returned to the fighting.

Original:

Hier — traf er, da bald darauf ihre erschrockenen Frauen erschienen, Anstalten, einen Arzt zu rufen; versicherte, indem er sich den Hut aufsetzte, daß sie sich bald erholen würde; und kehrte in den Kampf zurück.

One can easily overlook the dash in this sentence, even consider it a mistake of the typesetter, but it is intended and has its justification! In fact, what’s hidden behind the dash drives the whole plot and its characters further on and almost into tragedy. At least I think that’s what it does. Who knows‽ It’s only a dash after all – its meaning can be pretty much anything you want. But do yourself some favor and don’t dash past those little fellows mindlessly.


This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

[knig · Rating 5 out of 5]

Von Kleist is groszartig. Is it a coincidence that these shocking stories stem from the pen of what was quite likely a manic depressive who eventually committed suicide? There have been numerous studies confirming positive correlation between displays of genius and people with an overactive mental stasis.

What is shocking these days? Are there any wonders left us to marvel at? The only film that shocked me in the last ten years was ‘the Others’: for inverting the Ghost story on its head by a simple rocado.

The Marquise of O- surrounded by a frenzied pack of ultra-villains intent on the usual is dramatically saved by a Prince (well Count) riding in on a white horse, who slays the miscreants. The ultimate fairytale in memoriam. He then proceeds to rape her as she lolls in the obligatory swoon. (Even the Grimm brothers never went that grim). Subsequently he tries to make amends: and in his deepest penitence, the Marquise proclaims she can not have him, for he she recognises the devil in him, which she can only know for having seen the angel in him before (at the rape??). Nothing is as it should be. (To be fair, she makes him sign a marriage contract where she gets all his goods and he gets no marital rights of conjugation whatsoever . Apparently this didn’t go down so well in Prussia in 1806).


In the Foundling, a portrait of a noble aristocrat yields a villainous doppelganger: reference to the fact, perhaps, we are all ying yang?

Von Kleist had a mental breakdown after reading Kant and discovering subjectivity. Perhaps it is this dichotomy between truth and illusion which makes him mess with the zeitgeist. This one is shaken AND stirred.

[Fran · Rating 4 out of 5]

The widowed Marquise of O was the daughter of Colonel G, Commandant of the citadel in Northern Italy during the Napoleonic Wars. Russian soldiers, led by Count F, overran the citadel with heavy artillery fire and set the palace ablaze. Total confusion ensued. The Marquise was "...subject to the most shameful mishandling...a Russian officer appeared and with angry thrusts scattered the dogs lusting after their booty." This officer, (Count F) delivered her to safety. She passed out. Regaining consciousness, the Marquise wanted to express her gratitude to her rescuer but was informed that Count F was killed in a skirmish with the enemy while leaving the fortress.

The Marquise of O had resided with her parents and two children since the death of her husband. By all accounts, she was devoted to her parents, teacher to her children, and enjoyed art and literature. She was chaste and respectable and had decided not to marry again. Imagine her surprise when Count F appeared at her father's house asking for her hand in marriage. He explained that after being seriously wounded, his every thought was of the lovely Marquise. Reports indicated that on the battlefield and suffering from a mortal chest wound, he cried out, "Juliette, this bullet is your revenge".

Confirmed by both a doctor and a midwife, the Marquise learned of her pregnancy. It was incomprehensible to this woman of integrity. By dishonoring her parents, she was banished from home. Gathering her wits about her, "...the idea occurs to her of inserting a newspaper announcement inviting the father of her child to make himself known."

"The Marquise of O" is a novella written by Heinrich von Kleist and published in 1808. The two principal characters are the Marquise and Count F. The Marquise courageously tried to unravel her mind boggling situation and reconcile with her parents. Count F found that "...it was impossible for him to go on living without somehow cleansing his soul...". Could inner peace and redemption be within his reach? Will the father of the Marquise's unborn child come forward? An enjoyable read!

Thank you Pushkin Press and Net Galley for the opportunity to read and review "The Marquise of O".

[Emilio Berra · Rating 4 out of 5]

La storia si presenta assai sorprendente fin dall'inizio.
Sentite che cosa succede a una giovane nobildonna stimata per le sue virtù e la condotta di vita riservatissima e tutta dedita "all'arte, alla letteratura, all'educazione dei figli" e alla cura dei genitori.

"La vedova marchesa di O***, signora di ottima fama e madre di due figlioli, annunciò sui giornali che si era trovata incinta a sua insaputa", disposta pertanto a sposare il padre della creatura che porta in grembo chiunque possa essere, con invito allo sconosciuto di presentarsi a palazzo.

La scrittura di Von Kleist mi è parsa di grande compostezza. Un racconto che per struttura e stile potrei definire 'classico' . Gradevole la lettura.

[Rachel · Rating 2 out of 5]

[sexual assault tw] It's a challenge to discuss this book (originally published in 1808) in any kind of measured way in 2019 and not sound like a sociopath.  Through a contemporary lens, its premise is unarguably disgusting: a widow finds herself pregnant, having been raped while she's unconscious, and puts a notice in the paper saying that she's willing to marry any man who comes forward as the father.  If you can't stomach this on principle (and you would certainly be forgiven), stay far away.  I do try my best to engage with classics on their own terms and I must admit this one leaves me somewhat baffled.  While I found this to actually be curiously engaging, I'm ultimately unsure of what Kleist was trying to say with it and I must concede that this probably was not the best place to start with this author with only the translator's brief introduction for context.

Thank you to Netgalley and Pushkin for the advanced copy provided in exchange for an honest review.

[Sergio · Rating 4 out of 5]

Nella sua breve carriera letteraria durata tra il 1803 e il 1811, anno della morte per suicidio, Heinrich Von Kleist [1777-1811] scrisse drammi e racconti e tra questi ultimi, “La Marchesa Von O…” del 1808 ha avuto anche una riduzione cinematografica nel 1976 ad opera del regista Eric Rohmer.

Questo racconto del 1808, di impostazione classica, narra con compostezza e partecipazione emotiva l’inattesa e inspiegabile gravidanza della Marchesa Von O…, giovane e integerrima madre di due bimbi e vedova inconsolabile dal comportamento privato e pubblico ineccepibile.

E se alla mente “emancipata” del lettore del XXI secolo, al dipanarsi del racconto, salta immediatamente all’occhio tutto l’intrigo, ciò non toglie che la lettura dimostra quale piccolo gioiello letterario sia questo componimento.

[Roman Clodia · Rating 3 out of 5]

** Spoilers below **

What a baffling story this is! It reminds me of the 'problem plays' of Shakespeare (All's Well That Ends Well, Measure for Measure, The Taming of the Shrew, even the Hero subplot of Much Ado About Nothing) where women, and sometimes men, are wronged, abused, thrust out of their home and/or family... and yet, somehow, the tale orchestrates a happy ending of reconciliations and redemption.

In tone, this reads like a fable rather than anything more naturalistic, and the abundance of indirect speech contributes to the slightly fairy tale air of the whole thing. The translation feels adept, without jarring moments.

But really the pleasure comes from pondering what Kleist is up to here: is this supposed to be an allegory of the triumph of civility over barbarity? (It is, after all, set during the Napoleonic Wars). Or something about unbridled and brutal male sexuality being 'tamed' within bourgeoise conventions of the marriage contract?

I'm still not sure - and while it doesn't travel well in a culture of #MeToo, it's a story where rape seems to be symbol rather than visceral reality. And how weird that final reconciliation of father and daughter ('lying in her father's arms, while he [...] pressed long, hot and hungry kisses on her mouth [...] just like a lover!') while the mother looks on secretly but approvingly ('she hesitated to interrupt the joy of this heaven-sent reconciliation her house was once again enjoying').

Yes, baffling - but intriguing.

Thanks to Pushkin books for an ARC via NetGalley.

[Ana · Rating 1 out of 5]

No! Hell, no!

I know there's a good reason on why the author thought that a raped woman can regain her honor by marrying the rapist (as stated by Jan-Maat), but I just don't care.

[Lee · Rating 3 out of 5]

The Earthquake in Chile sets a standard the other stories maybe don't totally live up to? It also sets the precedent for a sort of narrative insurrection in which the author seems to have it in for his characters in an angry God/terroristic way. The random violence really jumps off these early-1800s pages. The title story started tremendously with sacking of a castle and bashing in of brains but devolved to hysterics. "Michael Kohlhass" kicks total Kafka precursor ass for its first third or so but then maybe devolves into overlong legalese? Would love for a simplified version of that story to have been filmed staring Klaus Kinski at his "Aguirre"-era fanatical best. There's a serviceable ghost tale and a straightforward story about iconoclasts overwhelmed by spooky orchestral music that promised solid remaining stories but the long one in Haiti and the final two failed to keep me with them. I might come back to these last ones again but I think I understand Kleist's technologies of cruel fate, his pre-Kafka semi-fabulist clinical work? Wasn't sufficiently engaged throughout to deeply analyze theme or psychoanalyze author. A little disappointed but glad I'm at least familiar with him finally -- will definitely reread "The Earthquake in Chile," a shockingly good intro to Kleist's cataclysms.

[Helena · Rating 2 out of 5]

Such a shame. I really liked some parts of this book, especially the writing style which I found kind of refreshing, but then came the end and I'm not okay with the victim being forced to marry her rapist even though it might be historically accurate. I just can't. Also, in which alternate universe would this have a happy ending?

[Ends of the Word · Rating 4 out of 5]

German poet, dramatist, novelist and short story writer Heinrich von Kleist (1777 – 1811) mixed with figures such as Achim von Arnim and Clemens Brentano, founders of the Romantic Movement in Germany, and could himself be considered one of the movement’s representatives – albeit an eccentric one. An encounter with Kant’s philosophy in 1801 shaped Kleist’s subsequent literary career, but also had a tragic influence on his life. He interpreted Kant’s view as implying the impossibility of ever establishing an objective truth and this led him into the dark alleys of an existential crisis from which he never fully recovered. He would eventually die by his own hand, in a murder-suicide planned with his then lover Henriette Vogel.

The novella The Marquise of O- is possibly the best-known Kleist’s writings – it is available in several editions and translations (around half a dozen in English alone) and has also been turned into a film by Eric Röhmer (winner of the 1976 Cannes Festival Gran Prix Spécial) and a modern movie adaptation by Pappi Corsicato (Il seme della discordia, which participated in the 2008 Venice Film Festival).

Written in 1808, The Marquise of O- is set during the Napoleonic Wars and is based on a barely believable premise allegedly inspired by “a true incident whose location has been transferred from north to south”:

In M--, an important town in Northern Italy, the widowed Marquise of O—, a woman of impeccable reputation and mother of well-brought-up children, made it known through the newspapers that she had inexplicably found herself in a certain condition, that the father of the child she would bear should make himself known, and that out of regard for her family she was resolved to marry him.

The identity of the father is strongly hinted at from the very first pages of the novella, but what to the reader may seem obvious, remains a “mystery” to the Marquise until late in the book, and provides the narrative drive for the novella.

In Kleist’s prudish times, The Marquise of O— was condemned as an immoral. In our #metoo present, the novella is equally problematic, if for different reasons. It is based on an episode of rape, leading to some uncomfortable questions about the relationship between victim and perpetrator. And yet, it would be wrong to dismiss The Marquise of O— as an outdated, misogynist work because it clearly isn’t. From the theatrical cast of five – the Marquise, her parents, her brother and the Russian officer who wants to marry the Marquise – it is the mother and daughter who are portrayed more favourably. They are honourable and resourceful in a patriarchal world of bungling men. The novella is, ultimately, an enigmatic work, permeated with the same ambiguity Kleist (via Kant) perceived in the world around him.

What may also seem strange to the modern reader is the narrative voice – the novella is recounted throughout in the third person, but it portrays the thought processes of each of the characters, often creating the same “modern” effect as a first-person narrative.

In other words, The Marquise of O— is a story of its time, but also one which keeps raising questions today. For readers who, like me, are new to this novella, the edition recently issued as part of the ever-dependable Pushkin Classics series is a recommended choice. The new translation by Nicholas Jacobs is idiomatic and readable yet close to the text. Jacobs also provides an introduction to Kleist’s life and work, a biographical note and suggestions for further reading.

https://endsoftheword.blogspot.com/20...

[Maren · Rating 4 out of 5]

Nachtrag, vor 15 J. gelesen

[Eddie Watkins · Rating 4 out of 5]

This tale puzzled me. It teases, flirts briefly with the fairytalish & fantastical, tosses out a red herring in the shape of a father’s tongue on a daughter’s lips, elides a rape, and suggests that only presumed angels can be devils while monsters live between. I didn’t quite get it, even as I quickly rode its tireless narrative like a cockhorse. Then its hidden psycho-magma spurted up through its elided rape (gooing up my cockhorse) and I ground to a stop. The story turned inside out becoming all dark spermy underbelly with all its characters in a dither on its upside, all unconsciously riding an inadmissible cockhorse looking for a daylit stable. Who raped the Marquise? She knows but refuses to know, or can’t know, blacked out by a devil’s cock (she much prefers an angel’s codpiece). In an age of codpieces actual cocks can go unseen. Though she accepts the existence of monsters she clings to a life of conscious codpieced angels and ends up ostracized by the power of unconscious cocks. Until the codpieces rear their inner heads and ooze fertile psycho-magma upon her sunlit social scene. The marquise’s father responds by welcoming her back and promptly props her on his cockhorse, groping and licking her until the cocky angel/devil knocks at the door and plops the story’s prodigious underbelly flat in their faces. When the puzzling louring cock-shaped sperm clouds finally clear they all live happily ever after, and I see the story for what it is.

[Terence · Rating 4 out of 5]

I originally gave The Marquise of O - three stars (“I liked it”) but upon reflection I feel I have to round it up to four. There are no clunkers in the collection of Heinrich von Kleist’s short prose work (he was also a poet, playwright, and wrote operas) and the translations are excellent, retaining the robust, Teutonic sentences of the original German without sacrificing readability.

Von Kleist is another one of those fortuitous discoveries that I wish I had made before entering my twilight years (if I had known about him during my days slaving over German texts, I might have invested greater effort). His stories address themes that interest me such as the arbitrariness of life; the meaning, extent and possibility of justice; and the irrationality of humans. I am an Enlightenment Romantic, which may be a contradiction but I think it describes why I enjoy these stories. Like von Kleist (1777-1811), I am heavily influenced by Enlightenment ideals yet recognize and despair at their limits, the human propensity for irrationality and the Universe’s utter indifference to it all.

In order of preference:

“The Betrothal of Santo Domingo” – “Betrothal” takes place during the Haitian slave revolt against the French and involves the doomed love of Gustav, a white man, and Toni, a mixed-race woman. It’s a bit like Romeo and Juliet and with an equally tragic ending.

“The Earthquake in Chile” works in a similar vein. It too is about star-crossed lovers (in this case the Santiago of 1647) and tragic. As the story begins both Jeronimo and Josefa are condemned to death for fornication – Josefa is being led to the gallows, and Jeronimo is preparing to hang himself in his cell – when an earthquake miraculously frees both. The tale recounts their miraculous survival, the extraordinary acts of kindness found among the refugees, and the lovers’ brutal murders at the hands of a self-righteous mob when they return to the city.

“Michael Kohlhaas” is the best known of von Kleist’s prose works. It’s based on real-life events around the time of the Reformation, and recounts one man’s attempt to achieve justice. It’s a fast-paced tale and it swept this reader up as Kohlhaas goes from ordinary merchant to insurrectionary and nearly brings about war between Prussia and Saxony.

“The Foundling” is the story of the eponymous wastrel Nicolo and the tragedies that ensue when his jealousy destroys the lives of his benefactors (and his, as well).

“The Duel” and “The Marquise of O-” follow the same patterns and deal with many of the same themes as the stories above but they end happily. As a sentimental pessimist, I didn't find the stories to be as powerful as the tragedies. And I imagine that some modern readers may have qualms about the rape (and its denouement) that forms the central event of “The Marquise.” Von Kleist certainly doesn’t dwell on it:

(Count F- having just saved the marquise from being raped by a gang of Russian soldiers) “led her into the other wing of the palace which the flames had not yet reached and where, having already been stricken speechless by her ordeal, she now collapsed in a dead faint. Then – the officer instructed the Marquise’s frightened servants, who presently arrived, to send for a doctor; he assured them that she would soon recover, replaced his hat and returned to the fighting.” p. 70

I’m not entirely convinced or understand the marquise’s eventual accommodation to what happened but I think I grasp part of what von Kleist is saying about society and human nature and the rape is an integral part of that story, however distasteful.

In “St. Cecilia and the Power of Music” von Kleist writes about religious mania. “The Beggarwoman of Locarno” is a straightforward ghost story.

In terms of stars, the first two stories are definitely 4.5-5 starworthy, and the last two are solid threes, the rest falling somewhere between. As I wrote above: “no clunkers.”

This translation of von Kleist is highly recommended with two minor quibbles: (1) There’s an egregious typo in the table of contents where “The Beggarwoman of Locarno” is written “The Beggarwoman of Lacorno,” which is inexcusable. (2) I echo another reviewer’s admonishment to NOT READ the “Introduction” until after you’ve read the stories (if then).

[Yadel · Rating 5 out of 5]

Reading Kleist is an exhilarating experience that can be very unpleasant. I don’t think any stories have ever moved me the way Kleist’s do, but I’m having a hard time describing this effect in words. I’d like to say that his sentences manage to capture the beauty and anxiety of a single moment, but that makes absolutely no sense. Maybe I can get to it by thinking about something else.
Do expectations ruin our experience of the future, or do they help us tolerate it? The answer is both. Moreover, expectations themselves become a sort of experience that can be both positive and negative. I’m sure I’m not the only person who feels more alive when they’re striving to achieve a goal than when they actually achieve it. Nor am I the first person who has become stressed over something that turned out to not be very bad at all.
Kleist’s style thrives on the managing of expectation. The chain of events he describes follow a natural progression so that you can guess how a story will end after reading the first page. At the same time, however, you’re afraid that it really will end that way. Reading his stories, expectations neither ruin the experience of the ending nor help you tolerate it. Every sentence carries a finality outside of the plot of the story. In the Earthquake in Chile, for example, there are no distractions. Every line shapes the story in the same way that the things you do shape the person you become which shapes the things you do in the future. Every action leads to a thought that leads to an action and so on. Every need to act leads to a need to think and after every thought there is a need to act. This is all very obscure.
Ultimately, it’s unpleasant to read Kleist stories because you want to be able to tell his characters to not get their hopes up, or to have faith, or to not go to the church, or that you support them, but you can’t because they’re not real. It’s unpleasant because it reminds you of the times you’ve wanted, in hindsight, to tell yourself to not believe something or to not do something, producing the same anxiety that comes anytime you realize you cannot change the past. It’s unpleasant because his plot, and the speed with which he writes it (and all of the transitions), mimic the thing responsible for your bad decisions. Time moves, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it, so you’re forced to act. And when we’re afraid of acting we think, and that’s the most tragic part because thinking doesn’t help anything. Doing the thing that will result in the most positive outcome is the only thing that matters.
When we’re looking at things in hindsight we accept a fatalism that makes any thought, any attempt at trying to control our destinies, to be a tragic setup for disappointment and failure.
The anxiety from Kleists’s stories comes from feeling that the character’s stories is already written, but they’re so alive (why do they feel so alive? I think it has to do with their totally believable sense of expected surprise ) that when they think they can control their future, you feel pity for them.
This is a long way of saying that Kleist is an uncomfortable, but masterful writer who everyone should at least give a try.

[jaz ₍ᐢ. ̫.ᐢ₎ · Rating 3 out of 5]

LOVED marquis of o, such a brilliant idea and execution, the writing of a man who knew what he wanted to portray. Some of the other stories dragged for me and I couldn’t get into and I think that is due to the era and language used as this is translated German I think? From the 18th century also, requires more brain training to fully comprehend the meaning I think 😅

[Gerasimos Reads · Rating 1 out of 5]

I really didn't enjoy this. Even for a book of its time it was very confused about its moral standpoint and what point it was trying to make. It could have done so many more things with the story. Disappointing.

[Gerhard · Rating 4 out of 5]

Seltsame Geschichte. Eine verwitwete Marquise wird schwanger und weiß nicht, wie es passierte und durch wen. Ähnliche Geschichten gab es schon vor Kleist. Dank ihm wird man großartig unterhalten. Es gibt es gutes Ende, Fragen bleiben für den Leser aber offen.

[Robert · Rating 4 out of 5]

Separately I've written a review of "Michael Kohlhaas", the principal work in this collection, so I'll pass it by now and comment on some of the other stories and Kleist himself.

Famous for his striking first paragraphs, Kleist begins "The Marquise of O" with the marquise placing an ad in the local paper asking that the man who fathered the child she is carrying to identify himself. The absurdity of this proposition might be something out of Kafka or Beckett or a contemporary writer, but of course Kleist wrote it in 1806. He then demonstrated his unusual talent for marching absurdity along the path of straight-faced realism while powdering it with sympathetic touches of romanticism. He was a tale-teller, a clue-dropper, and something of an antiquarian, meaning his work often indulged in the magic of times past, of legends, of miracles. In this sense, he was a very early bridge figure between the 19th and 20th centuries, at one and the same time ironic and tender.

In my edition, which I don't find listed in Goodreads, Thomas Mann's introduction suggests something special about Kleist's style, in German, that was essential to his trickery: he burnished his prose to the point that the reader would glide across it quickly while at the same time constantly being caught on its prickers. Emotion wells in all of these stories, likewise violence. In "The Earthquake in Chile", Kleist commences by noting that just as the earthquake struck, Jeronimo Rugera was standing next to a pillar in his prison cell, preparing to hang himself. In "St. Cecilia or the Power of Music," Kleist commences by placing four brothers in Aachen, determined to start a riot in protest against the Catholicism of the Convent of St. Cecilia. In "The Engagement in Santo Domingo," perhaps the scariest of Kleist's tales, he commences by introducing the fierce African Kongo Hoango mercilessly leading a revolt against the island's French whites.

All of these stories, as I commented in my review of "Michael Kohlhaas," achieve compression and excitement by being "told," not "shown," exactly what contemporary critics and creative writing teachers most abhor. But it is the "once upon a time in a strange place" quality of Kleist's fictions that making "telling" work--along with that steel smooth style of his. "The Duel" is dense with period-piece detail while hurtling improbably toward the enigmas of God on the one hand and lascivious chambermaids on the other. It relies on the power of honor and shame that even today does not need explaining even if duels are a thing of the past; that power can simply be assumed. Of course, men would fight over such slanders and insults. Of course, there'd be a naughty woman behind it all and a virtuous widow almost forced to pay the price for the wench's mischief.

There are writers like Pushkin and Kleist who are revered in their native tongues but not valued quite so highly in translation. Kleist's peculiar appeal to his German-speaking audiences (Kafka loved him) derives, I suspect, not only from his painstakingly revised prose but also from his intimate insights into the hypocrisies of pre-unification Germany and pre-dissolution Austro-Hungary. He stands nobility, justice, passion, loyalty, and pomposity on their heads and makes them look convincingly silly. He writes exactly what he knows people think but don't say, and that's what made Kafka laugh so hard. But at the same time, Kafka's protagonists suffer passively while Kleist's, venting his own anger, I suspect, fight hard...or, as often happens, they faint, a kind of trope in Kleist that mostly affects women overcome by the nauseating truth of things but occasionally affecting a man, even killing one...by fainting!

The key to Kleist, I think, is that you take him seriously by not taking him seriously. You laugh even if you aren't in on all the private German riffs. You know that because he is so strong, so headlong, so compelling, he is fully aware of what he is doing when he blows up conventions with nary a hint of puckishness.

Evidently he was miserable, shy, and unhappy most of his life. He had the wild notion that somehow he could supplant Goethe in the pantheon of German literature. But we should forgive him that. Kleist at his wildest is Kleist at his best. (Likewise Goethe, I might add.)

[Lucsbooks · Rating 3 out of 5]

This might not be an easy story to read in the XXI century.

I requested it because I found the synopsis funny in how ridiculous it sounded (and imagine my surprise upon discovering that this really happened). The way we view rape now is very different from the way it was viewed then and add to that the fact that a man wrote this? Yeah, I wanted to read it because it is a classic but I knew I would have problems with it.

The book starts by introducing us to the author’s background. Here’s an unkind and perhaps untrue summary: he was a dramatic bitch and he wrote like it. Throughout this story, it often feels like he is making fun of the Marquise’s situation which bothered me a lot: there is nothing funny about rape and this being described as a “comic drama” did not help. But it is funny, not because of what happens but because of some of the character’s reactions.

This is a very short story and although it is easy to read I did find myself having to take a few breaks because they way it was written and punctuated was so fast-paced that I started to feel short-breathed and anxious. I’m not kidding. That's how good the author was. And if there was something that blew me out of the field was the female characters.

The Marquise is a woman of her time, completely dedicated to her family and living piously but when she found herself shunned by her family after discovering that she was pregnant she refuses to allow them to mistreat her. We truly discover her strength when her father and brother try to take her children away from her and she not only refuses but dares them to try.

The Marquise’s mother defies her husband at every turn and forces him not only to recognize he was wrong but to apologize to his daughter.

The midwife that appears very briefly, rather than judge or turn her back on the Marquise, advises her on how to act in order to preserve her honor and reputation without ever blaming or making the Marquise feel guilty or in the wrong.

Even the father tried to have his daughter’s best interest when he drew a marriage contract that forced her husband to fulfill all his obligations without any of the rewards.

I will remember this book as a very unfeminist story with very feministic characters that refused to cow down in the face of injustice and took their future in their own hands. The ending was, of course, the complete opposite of what any XXI feminist would desire but I positively surprised by these characters and the strength they possessed.

Thank you to Edelweiss+ and Pushkin Press for this DRC.

[Proustitute (on hiatus) · Rating 5 out of 5]

Irreligious, perverse, and shocking even to this day. Von Kleist's discontent with the social structures of his time—most especially the church, the law, and the vagaries of community life—makes his tales perhaps more politically rich than his contemporary Hoffmann, although both are equally skillful in plumbing the depths of the human psyche when it comes to matters of love, survival, family, and even gender.

Von Kleist's style is very proto-modernist: his paragraphs run on for pages with no apparent reason for when they begin and when they end; his pacing is subjectively approached rather than objectively obsessed; and he often begins his stories by telling his reader the endings.

Absurdism runs rampant through these pieces. The title story involves a widowed Marquise who takes out an advertisement in the newspaper, searching for the man who apparently—although she has no memory of this—impregnated her. This kind of illogical and paradoxical situation is at the heart of most of von Kleist's work: "The Earthquake in Chile" turns an exiled pair of lovers into heroic figures in an apocalyptic setting ruled by no seeming authority; however, von Kleist seems to suggest that the imposing orders of the church and the law are so pervasive in their hold on mankind that mankind wreaks the same violence if left with no punitive action from high above.

This is also the case in "Michael Kohlhaas" where the protagonist takes the law into his own hands after repeated attempts to bring legal action against a man who is terrorizing the community. This kind of Kafkaesque critique of the law is also carried out to the extreme limits of surrealism, rendering reality as nightmarish in much the same way Kafka would do later. Of the shorter pieces collected here, "The Foundling" is the strongest and seems to speak to the same examination of reality versus fantasy in Hoffmann's "The Sandman." However, it is in the longer tales that von Kleist is able to enlarge his canvas and allow his oddly distorted syntax and phrasing to loop in and out of sense and nonsense most elegantly.

[Jersy · Rating 4 out of 5]

Ich bin ein kleines bisschen zwiegespalten. Der Schreibstil ist unglaublich spannend, hat für mich aber auch etwas komisches, von dem ich nicht weiß ob es gewollt ist und gar nicht zum eigentlichen Thema passen will, wenn auch zu der Art, wie die Geschichte aufgebaut ist. Ich finde es gut, dass man 1808 überhaupt über dieses Thema, Vergewaltigung - und das grade von einer Person, die einem so sympathisch und heldenhaft vorkam - schreibt. Den Konflikt zwischen Juliette und ihren Eltern sowie ihre eigene Verdrängung der Ereignisse finde ich gut dargestellt, auch das wir so den Schrecken des Krieges aus einer weiblichen Sicht gezeigt bekommen finde ich wichtig. Fragwürdig finde ich jedoch das "Happy Ende" und Juliettes Aussage im letzten Satz der Geschichte, obwohl dieser natürlich Interpretationssache ist und Kleist schon viel Feingefühl beweist, indem nicht sofort nach der Eheschließung alles gut ist.

Trotz Unterschieden in Umfang und Handlung hat es mich sehr an Pamela von Samuel Richardson erinnert. In beiden Werken kommt mir die Redemption des Mannes zu kurz, ich weiß aber zu schätzen, dass der Autor diese generell einbauen wollte. Sowohl die Lektüre als auch das Nachdenken darüber hat mir viel gegeben, auch wenn man das Thema heute anders angehen würde.

[Mel · Rating 4 out of 5]

Where this not German literature I would say this book very much falls into the Gothic category. The stories were full of evil catholics, unwed mothers and unspeakable activities by the church. The style (in translation) seems half way between a William Morris style re-creation of medivael stories and the gothic novels of the 18th and 19th centuries. Some of the short stories are a little odd in places, the timing seemed strange, stories seemed to end abruptly or go on too long in places. Michael Kohlmas started very strongly, a man's misfortune and his rampage of revenge, but then it dissolves into court cases and politics. There isn't much in the way of characterisation, but the stories make up for that in atmosphere. While in many ways the stories are morality tales there is an awful lot of gray area, and it is frequently the (Catholic) church itself that hands out the misfortune. I found this to be an interesting and different collection of stories. As always whenever I read anything translated from German I wish my German were good enough to read it in the original as they do have some wonderfully gloomy stories.

[Quinn Slobodian · Rating 4 out of 5]

Like workers who bring the factory to a standstill by following every rule, Kleist's heroes stick so stubbornly to some kind of code, whether positive--of law, love, filial piety--or negative--of dogma, self-love, filial disgust--that they bring structures down around them. The outcomes of his stories are always perverse. Through the characters' belief in the law, they become outlaws, through the ferocity of their love, they sacrifice those they love, through the depth of their faith, they submit to death at the hands of the faithful. Michael Kohlhaas, the legal purist, who seizes the vanguard role to commit monumental acts of injustice to punish a state until it enforces standards of justice in everyday transactions is the ultimate German revolutionary. Baader Meinhof with a sword. And the people--who Kleist secretly loves but only in the temporary leveling moments of revolution--watch respectfully as he dies.

[Jörg · Rating 2 out of 5]

I put this in the same category as 'The earthquake in Chili', 19th century pulp. Both short stories share common themes. A young, somehow innocent woman gets pregnant. This time, she's raped while unconscious. The twist which is difficult to understand: It's worse to have an illegitimate child than marrying the rapist. Hence, the whole thing is about the marquise trying to find her rapist to legitimate her child. The rapist - as the reader knows - is an 'honorable' Russian count who saved her from a group rape by ordinary Russian soldiers, asking her parents for her hand but asked to give her time. Difficult to liaise with this story today. Supposedly, there's a moral about people changed by war. Another similarity to 'Chili' where extraordinary times cause extraordinary actions.