O.C. Writers

Author’s note: The following is the beginning of a work-in-progress, a retelling of E. T. A. Hoffmann’s “The Deserted House.”

When he wrote of my house, Wilhelm called it “ode,” desolate. He lied. He did not contain himself to this single falsehood but compounded it with more than I can name. I would like to leave an accurate account of all that occurred. After all, I think the truth makes for a better tale than his.

When Wilhelm became infatuated with a music student he had no business becoming infatuated with, his family found him a position with an uncle in another town. Rather than go immediately to his uncle, however, he took a holiday on the Rhine.

In one unassuming city, he became fascinated with one unassuming house—mine, No. 9. He wrote that it seemed out of place, neglected, and smaller than the fine new brick buildings around it. It was. I’d only begun work on it.

He wrote that in his preoccupation, he discovered the old, murderous, insane woman living there had bewitched him. Only an elderly servant saved him from being killed by that Satan.

Come now, Wilhelm. I was barely three and twenty when our paths crossed.

You could not know that my papa, Count Z—, gave me the house. I say Papa gave me the house, but, in truth, he sent me away, leaving a great deal unsaid. Maybe Papa should have seen the approach of war, but he didn’t. Whatever his failings, Papa would not knowingly send me into enemy territory any more readily than would Wilhelm take his holiday amid such danger—but both things happened.

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Earlier, in the shadow of the Reign of Terror in France, my fiancé, Count S—, joined my family for the winter holidays. The doings in France seemed far removed from us on the Lower Rhine. When Papa raved about the French peasants wanting to destroy the world, my sister Gabriella and I hid our snickers behind our hands. We danced and made merry with friends and cousins who visited us.

No one explained to me the nature of the business Count S— conducted with my father. What was the use of anyone describing the intricacies of their dealings? I neither needed to know nor was expected to understand such complicated matters. Count S— was some fifteen years my senior, a widower with no living children.

How exciting to be noticed by an older man of the world! I told myself the gray hairs at his temples spoke of distinction, not age. My parents were happy for me; Count S— was one of the wealthiest men we knew.

If I danced with fewer friends and cousins this season than in years past, it was a small price to pay for being able to say I was now an engaged woman. To my regret, I could not persuade the Count into dancing with me. Plenty of younger men offered, but I had to limit myself to cousins and those I’d known for a long time.

We always spent the holidays with my mother’s best friend, Countess T—, either at our home or at the home she and Count T— kept outside the city of D—. Gabriella and I had grown up calling the Countess “Tanti” and her sons “cousin,” but her forbidding husband was always “sir,” never “Onkel.”

Much to my dismay, the youngest “cousin,” Gerhard, was absent. He was two years younger than I and two years older than Gabi. His mother said he was traveling in the East. I missed him. He wasn’t much of a dancer, but he was a lot of fun otherwise, much more fun, if I thought about it than Count S—. On the other hand, dancing with him was like dancing with a clumsy brother.

Their oldest son, Ernst, was also absent, having joined the Prussian cavalry. He was tall and seemed to be all arms and legs. We’d all ridden their father’s horses together as children. He was an admirable horseman and a graceful dancer. Often at the end of a dance, half the girls were in love with him, and many begged Gabi or me for an introduction. Because he was so shy, we often obliged, just to see him blush. At other times, I would swoop in and rescue poor Ernst from some admirer if he appeared too distressed, claiming he’s promised me the next dance. For this, he offered me his undying gratitude. I merely laughed.

The only brother visiting us this year was the middle one, Manfred, who seemed more comfortable with horses than men. Even so, he had an eye for pretty women. Both he and his father excelled at horsemanship. Manfred was only a fair dancer, but he could keep up with me at New Year’s, and that was, after all, what mattered.

Joining us as a guest was a friend of Papa, a former Duc, who, with his family, sought shelter from the Revolution in France. They arrived with barely more than the clothes on their backs. Their only child, a girl of about fifteen named Marguerite, spoke no German. I struck up a friendship with her, in part as a means of practicing my French. Her reserve I attributed to sadness at having to flee her home. Who could blame her, poor child! Here, she was with strangers in a new world.

One day she asked me who the older man in the silk brocades was. At the time, my dear Count S— was talking to Papa and her father, the Duc. They were all older men—Papa was nearly fifty!—in brocades. She pointed to the one she meant.

“I thought at first he was your uncle, but that cannot be.”

“No, he is my fiancé, Count S—.”

She seemed puzzled for a moment, then asked, “He is not the fiancé of Gabrielle?”

She’s not very bright, is she? I thought. “No, my dear. Gabi has no fiancé. Count S— is engaged to me.”

Early in the spring, they set forth for England to live with relations of Madame la Duchesse. The day following their departure, my mother asked me to come to her rooms.

“Count S— has broken off your engagement,” she told me as if she were discussing a dress she had ordered only to change her mind about. “He and Gabriella will be married next spring.”