Ermintrude

 

 

ERMINTRUDE

 

            The story of Ermintrude was told to me by Joseph Stölzl, nicknamed Peppi, who had been  the bosom pall of my late father. It took place at the beginning of the 20^th century, when the Habsburg Empire was still intact. I met Peppi years later – after the end of World War II. By then, Peppi had risen in the world, had settled in London and became Sir Joseph-Dieter von Stölzenfeld.

            Initially, I found it hard to translate into English, the story which Peppi related in German.  However, the story was compelling: quite apart from providing a glimpse into bygone days, it was a vivid reminder of the vagaries of fate. So, I decided to persevere. I only hope that I have succeeded.

 

            Let me then start by taking readers to the delightful park  of  Schönbrunn, with  its cherry blossoms, the groomed conifers, the meticulously laid  flower beds, the angling walks and the Neptune pond, with its classic waterfall  and fountain.  It was the summer residence of the aging Kaiser Franz Joseph, who – in a spell of liberality – opened the grounds of his Palace to the public on weekends.  Both Dad and Peppi told me that, on these days, members of the gentry and of the middle classes took their afternoon strolls in the park or observed passers by whilst relaxing on one of the available green benches.

 

            Sunday was the grand day in the park. Everyone who counted was to  be seen!  So   were some persons whose absence would not have been noted, let alone regretted. Dad and Peppi – I am sad to relate – belonged to the latter  group. Young Ermintrude Schönheit graced the former.

 

            In the archipelago of German names, ‘Ermintrude’ occupies a place like ‘Marigold’ or ‘Honoria’ in English.   An ‘Ermintrude’ is supposed to make her presence felt, is meant to count in society and is often dubbed ‘the Pill’ by lesser females.  A rule, though,  is  proved by the  exceptions  to  it.  Our fair Ermintrude illustrates this point. Indeed, when she arrived in this world, her mother was so elated by newborn’s pleasant smile that she wanted to call her ‘Marie’ or ‘Gretchen’. Unfortunately, her husband, Herr Bruno Schönheit, had different ideas.  Originally, he came up with ‘Valküre’. Faced with his better half’s firm veto, he heaved a bitter sigh and settled on ‘Ermintrude’.

 

            Was Herrn Schönheit a pompous ass?  The point is debatable, but an impartial analysis  suggests  his real  problem  was the chip on his shoulder. Having moved to Vienna  from  an unknown  village  in  the Wachau, he had worked his way  up  persistently  and steadily. By the time his wife presented him with their cute baby daughter, he had become one of Vienna’s leading industrialists, owned a fine apartment in the  First  District  (plus  the  inevitable   villa  in  Grinzing)  and   had experienced the honour of an audience with the  Kaiser. But, even so, he did occasionally recall his humble background.

 

            Young Ermintrude was oblivious of the demands made on her by these exalted social circumstances following a humble start. She had been properly brought up in a  convent, which placed emphasis on teaching its inmates humility, religion and the elements of decent behaviour. By the time Ermintrude returned to her family’s hearth, she  had  grown  into  an attractive  yet self effacing debutante with an appropriate outlook  on  life. She respected the Kaiser, loved her parents, went regularly to mass, said her prayers  with  devotion  and  entertained  no  evil thoughts. Nobody with any sense of fair play would have called her ‘a pill’!

 

            Despite Ermintrude's  extreme shyness,  it was, however,  only  natural that  her gentle sky blue eyes rested occasionally on good looking young  men. One  day, in the Schönbrunn Park, her modest glance fell on Karl Schnorr, an infantry  officer  recovering  in Vienna from a bullet that  had  smashed  his collar bone on the French front during the first year of World War I.

 

            Karl  Schnorr  was a fine figure of a man: tall,  broad  shouldered  and handsome; and the sad look in his eyes produced a halo hovering above the shock of black hair adorning his head. Young Ermintrude was smitten! Had  she been less proper, she might have dropped her handkerchief in the hope that  he would pick it up. She might even have provided a different  opportunity for an  informal introduction  by walking her pampered Alsatian in his  direction.  Ermintrude, though,  was a Lady! The very thought of such common tricks  passed  a  shiver down her genteel spine. In the event, she returned to the park each Sunday and waited patiently, with her Alsatian sitting next to her on a bench facing the Neptune Pond, in the hope that Karl would find a way to break the ice.

 

            Karl  had every intention to please. The light-haired beauty,  with  the charming snub nose and wonderful eyes, had captivated him. Each Sunday he made his  appearance  in  the park with the firm resolve of introducing himself.  On  two occasions – spurred by his bosom pal, Rudolf –  he actually started to walk in her direction. On both, though, his heart – which had not missed a single beat when  he  charged  the enemy at the head of his column – failed  him.  Rudolf looked at him sadly as he returned, head bowed, to their vantage point by  the pond.

 

            In our enlightened days, young men tend to feel at home with girls from all walks of life. In Austria of the turn of the 20^th century the population was split into well defined classes and everybody was supposed to know his place. Karl Schnorr came from humble – even if proud –   Tyrolene peasant stock. His father was a hunter and he himself was more conversant with the winter sports than with books. When his discreet enquiries revealed  that the  pretty  girl  he  kept staring at was the  only  daughter  of  a  wealthy industrialist, he was overcome with awe. How could he – a mere Tyrolean officer – approach a magnate’s daughter?

 

            Left  to  blind  Cupid, the romance of Ermintrude and  Karl  would  have remained  unwritten:  yet another great affinity  without  fruition.  Fortuna, though, felt sympathy for the young people. The two characters she enlisted in their support were non other than Dad and Peppi, whose right place was not  in the elegant park but at home, where each should have been occupied with chores set by  mother or with their school’s homework. However, like many teen aged boys of their era, both were determined to make their presence felt in  the right places – a social zeal nurtured by the prospect of  their  being dispatched at short notice to the front.

 

            The two youngsters were most impressed with fair  Ermintrude.  Peppi – renowned  for  his Chuzpa –   went so far as to pet the big  Alsatian,  who  was running  merrily  in front of her. The dog wagged its tail  ecstatically.  His mistress, alas, continued to look straight ahead of her, ignoring the  two aspirants.

 

            Dad and Peppi were crushed. They tried their luck again on the following two  Sundays, smiling ingratiatingly as they walked past  Ermintrude’s  bench, bowing to her politely when she got up for a short walk and trying in vain  to attract  her attention when she got ready to leave. As was to be expected, both Dad and Peppi felt deeply humiliated by what they considered her scorn. Concluding that their honour had been impeached, they planned their revenge.

 

            On  the next Sunday, Ermintrude was surprised to see that Dad was on his  own. She  was further puzzled by the fashionable Loden jacket, he had  unofficially borrowed  from  his  father  and wore with aplomb. Had it  not  been  for  her breeding,  she  would  have rewarded him with a gracious  smile.  Unlike  that diffident army officer, her new suitor – be he an adolescent or a grown-up man – knew his mind.

 

            Whilst  Ermintrude glanced at Dad from beneath her lashes,  Peppi  stole his  way to the back of her bench, moving adroitly against the wind.  Relieved to see that one end of the leash was secured to Ermintrude’s stylish belt,  he attached  the  other  to  the big Alsatian’s collar. The  dog  looked  at  him perplexed but, on recognising its friend, closed its eyes again. Peppi stroked its neck playfully and tickled its ears. When  the  animal had  settled  comfortably, Peppi produced  a small  bottle  of  kerosene and rubbed its contents  affectionately  into  the Alsatian's  long and bushy tail. He then got hold of his lighter  and, as soon as  Dad  got out of the way, set the beast’s tail on fire.

 

            For  the  next  few minutes all the loafers in the park watched – with  feelings varying  from  horror to glee – how the galloping dog, barking in  protest  about human  cruelty, dragged his screaming mistress behind him.   Many raised their hands in dismay as the maddened dog jumped into the pond, dunking the  frantic Ermintrude and pulling her right under the face of  the  grinning Neptune.

 

            The sight of the hapless girl’s flailing arms spurred Karl Schnorr,  who stood  transfixed  nearby, into action worthy of an officer wearing a medal bestowed  for  valour  and courage. Throwing his fine army coat  down  to  the ground  (in  sheer  disregard of the edicts in  the  famed A Soldier’s Uniform in War and Peace), Karl Schnorr leaped into  the pond, separated the mistress from her dog, who was by then whining piteously, and conveyed his dripping prize back to terra ferma. Having wrapped her in his coat, he carried young Ermintrude to the park’s gate where his friend Rudolf managed to stop a Fiacker [carriage].

 

            During   the  drive  to  the  Schönheit  residence,  young  and   highly intelligent Ermintrude snuggled securely against her hero, who kept talking to her soothingly. As they approached their  destination, her hand stole out from under the wrapping  and  stroked Karl Schnorr’s arm gratefully.

 

            Ermintrude’s devoted mother, Frau Gissi Schönheit, was a worldly woman. She ordered her shivering yet elated daughter to change her clothes and take a hot bath. She then had a good look at the agitated young man, whose  confused account  of the ‘facts of the crime’ was followed by a vow to horse-whip  the two  Schweinehunden in the park. Having observed Karl’s  overt  admiration  for her  daughter  and  the soft glances her ‘Trudie’ had  bestowed  on  him,  she invited him to call.

 

            Originally, Herr Bruno Schönheit refused to hear of the proposed  match. Why  should  his only daughter, the sole heir to a vast  business  empire,  be betrothed  to a penniless adventurer from backward Tyrol? Frau Gissi,  though, was a powerful ally. She  reminded her Bruno of his own impecunious and humble background,  of the old proverb that a good sturdy man was better than a  rich loafer  and,  in  the  end,  appealed  to  Bruno’s  sense  of   chivalry. Persuaded by her eloquence, Herr Schönheit invited  Karl Schnorr for lunch in the Rathaus Keller.

 

            Karl  Schnorr passed his interview with flying colours.  Herr  Schönheit was pleased to learn that Karl had enlisted out of  loyalty to the Kaiser  and proposed to resign his commission as soon as the war as over. He was even more favourably impressed when young Karl explained that, although he was deeply in love with Ermintrude, he had decided not to ask for her fair hand at that time and  hour. Bound by honour to return to his command as soon as his wound had healed, his future was uncertain. Heavens had no favourites and bullets hit at random. He could not bear the thought of young Ermintrude starting her life as a war widow or as a nurse tied down to a hopeless invalid. Averting his  eyes, Bruno  Schönheit  said  they  would all pray for Karl’s  safe  return  to  his parents, to the Schönheit household and to young Ermintrude.

 

            Karl Schnorr came back unscathed from his second – long and dangerous – spell at the front. In 1918 he resigned his commission, was discharged with  a commendation,  and  was accepted as a cadet at Bruno Schönheit’s firm.  A  few months later, he married Ermintrude.

 

“So,  in  the  end, everybody was happy, Peter’le!” grinned  Peppi “You can never tell what sort of ripples are created by a pebble dropped into a pond.”

“And  poor Ermintrude came out unharmed?” I asked, still holding my sides  in hilarious laughter.

“She did; except that – ever after –  she had a strange reaction when  she saw an Alsatian; she quivered all over and, if her Karl was around,  would anxiously take hold of his arm.”

“Poor girl” I mused.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. She had an excellent marriage, presented her  doting Karl with a cute boy and a lovely little daughter and was regarded an upright lady by everybody who knew her!”

“I see. Still, Dad and you were not spurred by altruistic motives.”

“We weren’t,” conceded Peppi. “Our intention, though, was pretty harmless: all we wanted to do, was to play a prank.”

“Which, in the event, had far reaching effects.”

“How very true,” responded Peppi – who had reached an advanced age when he told me the story. “But you see, Peter’le, Fortuna has her own whimsy and inexplicable ways. In her own way, she can turn a mere prank into a milestone.”