The Two Hearts of Kwasi Boachi: A Novel (49 page)

“Then you will be the fourteenth today. And it is only half past ten.”

“I sent advance notice of my visit.”

“Did you now?”

“I have come a very long way.”

“Really?”

“The king is my friend.”

“Indeed.”

“I am sure he wishes to receive me.”

“No doubt.” Sighing deeply, he put on his spectacles, opened a large ledger, took up his pen and asked for my name and place of residence. “All I can do,” he said, “is put in a request for an audience. Presuming you have proper identification, of course.”

“Very well. I have important business to discuss, you understand.”

“I know,” he said. “I know.”

“You know about me?”

“Not really, but all His Majesty’s affairs are important.”

“At what time do you think he will receive me?”

“It will be a few weeks . . .”

“Weeks?”

“. . . before you are notified whether your request has been granted.”

“And if it is not granted?”

“Then I fear you will come here again. Most of them do. Good morning.”

I spent the next year fighting a losing battle. I presented myself no fewer than fourteen times at the king’s council chamber. I wrote a total of twenty-two letters to His Majesty, in the course of which my tone progressed from affectionate to imploring and finally to indignant. Not one of them received a personal reply. Thanks to Gustav of Saxe I was invited to a falcon hunt at the Loo palace, but the king did not attend. I tried to reach him through the Ministry of Colonies and through director Simons of the Royal Academy of Sciences at Delft, all to no avail.

Eventually, as a last resort, I found the courage—or swallowed enough pride—to appeal privately to the king’s relatives. I called at the queen mother’s new country estate, which had already earned the nickname the “Palace of Loneliness.” I was informed that she was away visiting her sister and daughter in Weimar. I wrote her a letter there. While I was waiting for a reply I was granted an interview with the queen. The king’s estranged wife remembered me primarily as an acquaintance of her mother-in-law, but nonetheless received me quite civilly. She showed sympathy for my cause, but as she was no longer living with the king she had no influence over him whatsoever. She spoke bitterly of her husband, adding that I would stand a good chance of finding him in one of the “houses” he patronized. (Ever since Willem had made her wait in the carriage while he paid a quick visit to a brothel, she seized every opportunity to deprecate his behaviour. Everyone in The Hague knew about the time she had blown the king’s cover by sending the royal coach drawn by six plumed horses to fetch him from such a house.) After a while I realized that her disdain for Kwame and me in the old days had been nothing but an expression of her contempt for all men. A week later I received a note from her advising me to attend a gala performance in the royal theatre. I took her advice, but was not admitted to Willem’s box.

In September 1857 I travelled to Weimar in response to an invitation from Sophie to attend the unveiling of a monument to Goethe and Schiller. “Zum Elefanten,” the best lodging house in town, was fully booked for the duration of the festivities, and I was lucky to find a modest room in a lodging house nearby. Although weary from the journey, I set out at once for a walk along the Ilm. As I crossed the Frauenplan I caught sight of the head librarian of the Anna Amalia Library, who doffed his hat when he recognized me. The serving girl at the “Konditorei am Horn” ran outside to welcome me with a platter of butter-cake. Setting eyes on this place again was far more gratifying to me than revisiting Holland, where I was constantly reminded of Kwame. Here, where I had experienced something akin to happiness, I walked on air.

My spirits rose further when I returned to my hotel to find a message. The lilac notepaper told me it was from Sophie, who had evidently received prompt notice of my arrival. She apologized for being unable to welcome me in person that evening— she had to attend the reception at the castle for King Frederick of Prussia and King Maximilian of Bavaria—and told me that my old room in Ettersberg Castle overlooking the hunting grounds had been prepared for my accommodation. As this was the very room in which Goethe had composed his
Iphigenie
it was in great demand among her honourable guests, but she had rejected all their pleas for my sake. A carriage was waiting to take me there.

Upon my arrival at the castle I was offered supper, but was so overcome with emotion that I could not eat. I asked for a lantern and hurried outside. I sought out the round bench that had been named after me, and sat down. Although the night was cloudy and I could see nothing of the panorama I loved so dearly, I sat there for a long while. I extinguished my lamp and gazed into the black void while I ran my fingertips over the cold slab. And so help me God, I swear I perceived a force emanating from that cold stone. I can give no rational explanation. There was a sense of communion with the divine, a current passing through my body. Perhaps that was all it was—a current of hope. Fortified by the proximity of friends and by the familiarity of this beloved place, my hopes burgeoned. I felt that my future would soon be decided. Again I braced myself for change, unsure of what it would bring.

I stood up and wandered into the deep shadows of the Buchenwald. I had once known every path and lane in the hills, the location of the ditches and where the slope fell away into the valley. I was consumed with desire to express my joy physically. I shut my eyes and started running, wildly, crying out, happy as a child. I dashed blindly through the forest. I jumped and skipped. I ran headlong, and yet I was not afraid. I had never felt more confident.

Before joining the company in the smoking lounge I was at pains to suppress the laughter welling up in my chest. At the foot of the stairs I regained my composure, but when I glanced in the hall mirror to adjust my cravat as my presence was announced, I could still see a broad grin. I bit my lip and went inside.

The company was not large. Of those present I knew only Hans Christian Andersen. A circle of gentlemen had formed around him. As soon as the author caught sight of me he greeted me warmly and asked how I was. I replied evasively. He understood my reluctance at once, did not press me further and introduced me to his audience.

I could feel that my presence was not appreciated. I had become accustomed to reactions of this kind: no more than a supercilious curl of the lip, a muttered comment that I could not quite catch, a smile, a tone of voice, a curt acknowledgment, a reluctance to make room for me in the midst of others. To dwell on these experiences, of which I have had many, is a waste of time. On that occasion, however, I did not withdraw under some pretext, such as a sudden urge to gaze at all the paintings gracing the walls. I had no intention of effacing myself in this place which was so dear to me.

“You will not find our conversation very interesting, I fear,” one of the guests said in French. “Our topic is typically German.”

When I replied in French that I was quite familiar with the Teutonic legends they were discussing, they could not very well exclude me from the conversation. The speaker turned out to be Captain Friedrich von Schiller, an Austrian and the famous author’s grandson. He was accompanied by his son-in-law Freiherr von Gleichen Russwurm and his son Leopold.

It transpired that this threesome had visited Eisenach that day, where the restoration of the castle was nearing completion. They were brimming with enthusiasm for the legends attached to the ancient keep. I was aware of the Germans’ fondness for Teutonic mythology, but these gentlemen got so carried away that they revered Tannhäuser and his men not as heroes but as saints. The captain spoke of them as emblems of a uniquely German nobility of the soul. His son-in-law referred to an underlying force that had been suppressed for too long, notably by the Church, but which was now, thanks to Grand Duke Carl Alexander, being restored to former glory. Their tone was passionate and strident. I remarked that they sounded like soldiers on the eve of battle, and that their belligerence could hardly be congenial to the gentle-natured grand duke, whose commitment to the Teutonic heritage arose only from love of history and art. Had Carl Alexander been present he would not have tolerated their braggadocio, I had no doubt. The men outdid each other with quotations from the works of the great authors whose monument would be unveiled in the morning. Champagne did the rest. After the umpteenth bottle the captain demanded to hear Andersen’s opinion.

“I know about folk tales, gentlemen, not myths,” Andersen replied diplomatically. “I try to reduce everlasting truths to the level of a good story, so that they may be enjoyed by simple folk. In the legends you are discussing, simple human emotions are exaggerated to a point where they become everlasting truths. There lies the difference.”

A silence ensued. Andersen kept aloof behind a screen of civility. Then von Gleichen Russwurm remarked that Richard Wagner was expected to come from Zurich and that he would have a seat on the grandstand. The conversation turned to the myths and legends that had inspired the operas composed by the newly appointed musical director at court. Someone disparaged the music, someone else hummed a few bars. Finally the captain, rather the worse for drink, observed that this was the music of the goddess Holda calling out from her mountaintop at Eisenach, invoking the fertility of the Teutonic tribes in order that they might outnumber all other peoples, and he clutched the front of his trousers as though about to answer her summons.

“I am reluctant to temper your enthusiasm,” I said. “But I cannot see that your German legends are essentially different from those of other peoples. One finds the same symbols and heroic exploits depicted on the walls of Buddhist and Hindu temples as well as in the tombs of Egypt. They are also to be found in the tales of African storytellers. However, whereas in Africa such tales are cherished, not as truth, but as a hoard of shared history, here in Europe I was brought up to believe that tales about women living in rivers and dwarves converting mud into gold arose from ignorance and a lack of Christian teaching.”

At this Leopold, the youngest of the group, took a step towards me. His cheek bore the German student’s ritual scar or Mensur. The blade had probably severed a nerve, for there was no expression on his face.

“You’ll see,” he growled, “things have changed since your last visit to Weimar. We have rediscovered our past.”

“Surely you have no objection to that?” Captain von Schiller said.

“On the contrary,” I replied, “there are wise lessons to be drawn from your history.”

“Our history is so rich that we have no need of others to remind us of its greatness.” Leopold sounded so menacing that I glanced at his father, expecting him to silence his son.

“You are quite right, Prince,” the father said with a smile. “Sometimes it is vital to remember one’s origins,” he added, stepping aside to reveal a small glass-fronted cabinet with tortoise-shell inlay standing against the wall. All eyes were drawn to the finely carved ebony base: a kneeling figure of an African youth supporting the cabinet on his bowed head. The jest broke the tension. Everyone was highly amused. I received a jovial slap on my shoulder and before I had time to react, the conversation continued as animatedly as before.

Hans Andersen took my arm and drew me to the terrace, where he was waylaid by a pair of ladies: Goethe’s daughter-in-law Ottilie, who had travelled from Dresden, and her sister Ulrike von Pogwisch. They wished to hear about his visit to England, and were especially curious about certain peculiarities his host, Charles Dickens, was rumoured to have. I lingered nearby, but paid little attention to their exchange.

I was given a generous reception the next day. Two grand-stands had been erected on the square. I was directed to a place of honour in the same row as the king of Prussia, who had donated the granite base for the monument, and the king of Bavaria, who had donated the bronze for the statues on condition that the poets be portrayed in modern garb and not in the usual Greek robes. The two kings, each believing his contribution to be the better one, exchanged pleasantries. I ventured to remark that the division was particularly apt, what with Prussia being represented by solid rock and Bavaria by splendid metal. This pleased them greatly.

Soon Anna and Maria Pavlovna arrived. They came in sedan chairs of the Sänfte type which was still popular in Weimar, but Sophie and Carl Alexander came on foot, cheered by the throng. I was greeted with much ado by all the members of the family, at which the Schillers farther down the row looked somewhat crestfallen.

The ceremony opened with the new national anthem of Saxe-Weimar-Eisenach composed by Liszt:
“Von der Wartburg Zinnen
nieder . . .”
Leopold von Gleichen Russwurm’s voice could be heard above the others. The patriotic words seemed to confirm his claims of the previous evening. Then the headmaster of the boys’ college gave a speech in the same exalted vein. I soon realized that the object of the event was not merely to commemorate Goethe and Schiller but that we were gathered together, as Professor Heiland put it, “to celebrate Weimar as the heartland of a spiritual movement such as has not been seen since the days of Pericles in any place on earth that is blessed by the gods.” I sat straight-backed and still, so as not to give the people in the rows behind me cause to speak ill of me.