Wednesday 30 November 2011

We Are The Champions, My Friend(s)


As the bus heads back into Germany, it's time for one last journey to round off German Literature Month...
[Hisses, screeches and various high-pitched noises.  Hmm, it appears the simultaneous translation unit on the bus has finally packed up - no wonder after a month's hard work...]

Na ja, weiter geht's.  Kurz vor Beginn des Monats der deutschsprachigen Literatur, hat eine Bloggerin mich aufgefordert etwas auf deutsch zu schreiben.  Natürlich, habe ich die Idee sofort kategorisch abgelehnt, aber da einer unseren Reiseführerinnen, Lizzy, sich an genau diese mutige Tat gewagt hat, musste ich noch einmal darüber nachdenken.  Deswegen (nur deswegen - und zum ersten und allerletzten Mal) gibt es heute in Tony's Reading List eine Rezension in der deutschen Sprache - auch wenn es mir höchstwahrscheinlich nicht ganz fehlerfrei gelingen wird...

*****
Der Sonntag, an dem ich Weltmeister wurde ist eine autobiographische Erzählung von Friedrich Christian Delius, der Autor von dem mittlerweile auch in der englischen Sprache ziemlich bekannten Buch Bildnis der Mutter als junge Frau.  Das Ganze spielt sich im Laufe eines einzigen Tages ab, aber es ist kein normaler Tag - denn am 4. Juli 1954 fand in Bern das Endspiel der Fußball-Weltmeisterschaft statt, bei dem die Deutsche Nationalmannschaft, die absolute Außenseiter, gegen die legendäre Ungarische Auswahl auftreten musste.

An diesem Tag, wird ein elf-jähriger Junge (vermutlich Delius selber) um sieben Uhr früh von Kircheglocken in der Kleinstadt Wehrda in Hessen plötzlich (und widerwillig) erweckt.  Als der junge Pfarrerssohn zu seinen Sinnen kommt, erinnert er sich an das Endspiel, und danach tut er sein bestes um durch den langweiligen Sonntag zu kommen, bis er sich das Spiel im Radio anhören darf.

Dass ein Junge in die Kirche geht, und danach zweistundenlang vor dem Radio hockt, klingt nicht besonders interessant, aber Delius (natürlich) hat viel mehr zu sagen.  Die Erzählung hat mit einem Wendepunkt zu tun - die Zeit wo die Westdeutschen, vielleicht zum ersten Mal seit dem Ende des Krieges, sich als Sieger fühlen durften.  Für unseren jungen Freund ist es aber auch ein Wendepunkt, da dieser Sonntag der Anfang von einem geistigen Kampf wird.  Der Junge, streng religiös erzogen, wird zum ersten Mal von anderen Göttern versucht - elf Männern und deren Trainer...

Das Thema von Fußball als Religion wird öfters im Laufe der Geschichte erwähnt.  Unser junger Held ist verblüfft als er bei einer Parade des deutschen Torwarts Turek hört:
"Turek, du bist ein Teufelskerl!  Turek, du bist ein Fußballgott!" s.93, Rowohlt (2004)
Zuerst hat der Kerl angst, dass er beim Radio hören sündigt, besonders als der Reporter, erinnernd an den goldenen Kalb, sagt das Turek Gold wert sei.  Allmählich aber, beginnt er richtig mitzufiebern, und bis dem Ende des Buches (und des Spiels), hat der Fußballfan den frommen Pfarrerssohn längst beiseite geschoben.

Dem Reporter hat der Torwart offensichtlich mächtig imponiert, da immer wieder von Turek die Rede ist.   Am Anfang des Spieles, lesen wir wie:
"Er hob seine große, segnende Wunderhände...", s.53
Na ja, dass der Torwart in solchen Worten beschrieben wird, sollte eigentlich keine Überraschung sein - jeder weiß dass Jesus rettet... (Entschuldigung bitte!)

Aber das Spiel wird nicht nur in religöser Sprache beschrieben, sondern auch als ein Art Krieg.  In der Zeitung am Vorabend stehen solche Sprüche wie "Sind die Ungarn zu stoppen?" und "Deutsche Nationalelf will den Himmel stürmen." (s.63/4), und später lobt der reporter die "Angriffsmaschine" (s.93) der Ungarn.  So was kommt ja vor im Sport, aber wenn der Leser das alles vergleicht, mit dem was zu der Zeit draußen in der Welt passierte, ist das einem fast peinlich.  An den Krieg, obwohl er eigentlich längst Geschichte geworden ist, wird man jeden Tag erinnert, entweder von der leeren Stuhl am Tisch beim Essen oder von den vorbeigehenden Amputierten in den Straßen.  Und da die Ostzone "...gleich hinter den nächsten Bergen..." (s.37) ist, ist die Rede von Angriff und Abwehr besonders zutreffend...

Legen wir aber die weitere, weltliche Bedeutung der Behandlung zur Seite, da das Buch genau so viel spricht über die Probleme des Jungens als die der Welt.  Das arme Kind hat etliche Probleme - er hat Schuppen an Knien und Ellenbogen, er ist ziemlich klein und ungeschickt, und (was viel schlimmer ist) er stammelt und stottert.  Für ihn ist das Spiel eine Rettung aus dem alltäglichen Leben, wo Andere für ihn spielen können.  In diesem Hinsicht, erinnert mich Der Sonntag, an dem ich Weltmeister wurde an David Mitchells Black Swan Green (obwohl Mitchells Erzählung sich über dreizehn Monaten ausspannt, wo Delius alles in zehn Stunden abspielen lässt).  Es kommt als eine Erleichterung, aber keine Überraschung, als der Junge, ganz im Ballfieber, die befürchtete Silben "zwei zu zwei" leicht aussprechen kann.  Offensichtlich wirkt Ballfieber wie eine Impfung gegen das Stammeln...

Als ich Bildnis der junge Frau als Mutter las, habe ich Delius poetischen Stil sehr genossen, und dieses Werk hat meine Meinung nicht geändert (sondern verstärkt!).  Ich bin wirklich froh, dass ich einen solchen Autor entdeckt habe (na ja, vielleicht wurde er mir eher vorgestellt...), und ich freue mich schon auf das nächste Buch... oder, besser gesagt, Bücher.  Denn ich habe letzte Woche eine Sammlung von drei seiner früheren, politischen Romanen gekauft, und ich schätze, dass das nächste Buch nicht auf sich warten lässt ;)

*****
Und das war es, liebe Freunde - das Monat der deutschsprachigen Literatur ist aus.  Die Reise ist vorbei und unser alter Bus muss dringend zum Werkstatt ;)  Es hat alles enorm Spaß gemacht, und ich habe viele tolle BloggerInnen und Bücher kennengelernt.  Vielleicht nächstes Jahr mal wieder?

Tuesday 29 November 2011

More Than a Game


One thing which has rapidly risen to the top of my things-to-do list in recent weeks is familiarising myself with the basics of psychoanalysis.  Why?  Because it is becoming increasingly clear that the key to understanding Austrian literature is having a passing knowledge of the theories of a certain Sigmund Freud.  Arthur Schnitzler, a contemporary of the good doctor, is certainly fascinated by his characters' thought processes, and Alois Hotschnig's short-story collection, Die Kinder beruhigte das nicht, could also be seen in this light.  It was no surprise then to find that my third Austrian writer of the month was himself no stranger to egos, super-egos and ids ;)

*****
Stefan Zweig is a writer that I had never heard of at the start of this year.  However, his books seem to have been everywhere recently (among the blogs I frequent anyway), and I have been very keen to sample his work for a while now.  Luckily, I won a copy of Schachnovelle (Chess) recently, allowing me to have a little taste of Zweig's style.  It's a style that I could become extremely fond of...

On a passenger ship travelling from New York to Buenos Aires, an Austrian, the novel's narrator, becomes fascinated by a fellow passenger, the current world chess champion.  Determined to make his acquaintance, our friend lures him into playing a game against some of the passengers.  Of course, Czentovic, a Hungarian prodigy, casually defeats the group in the first game, but in the second game, some assistance from a casual passer-by helps the group to obtain a draw.  And it's here that the game really begins...

Alas, I simply don't have the time, energy or willpower to give this book the treatment it deserves.  Schachnovelle is simply brilliant.  In its contrast of the two chess geniuses, the dogmatic, automaton-like Czentovic, and the self-taught, half-crazed Dr. B, Zweig not only symbolises the eternal clash of art and science, but also lays bare the events of Hitler's annexation (Anschluß) of Austria - I kid you not.

The middle part of the book is a story within a story, in which Dr. B, who hasn't actually picked up a chess piece for twenty years, explains how he developed his incredible chess ability.  It's closely connected with Austria's subsumption into the Third Reich, and as a study of the horrors of nothingness, it is without parallel.  Let's just say that it is possible to be bored out of your mind...

So when the good Doctor, a man who struggles to connect the wooden pieces in front of him to the abstract notions in his head, sits across the board from the self-taught idiot savant, unique among chess Grand-masters in being unable to play a game without actually seeing the board, it is more than just a friendly game to pass the time - ideologies and psychologies come face to face (and don't much like what they see).

As the game progresses, it becomes clear that Dr. B is more than a match for the world champion when it comes to pure chess ability.  But is that all you need to make it to the top?  Or is animal cunning, a thick hide and a lot of patience actually more important in the long run?  Who will come out on top?  I won't tell you that, but the big match is certainly an absorbing contest to watch.

And that's not all Schachnovelle has to offer.  I could easily have written more about the narrator himself, obsessed with getting into Czentovic's mind; or about McConnor, the aggressive Scots millionaire, a man who can't take no for an answer (and definitely doesn't like losing).  In fact, while it may seem that our two protagonists are addicted to chess, they are not the only ones with a bit of a problem...

I read this twice, about ten days apart.  Both times I intended to spread my reading out over two nights; both times I rushed through it in a single evening.  While I would love to go into a deep, psychological analysis of the book, in truth that really is as much about Schachnovelle as you need to know...

Monday 28 November 2011

All I Have To Do Is Dream...


It's time to leave the ruins of post-war Cologne now, and the German Literature Month Tour Bus is making another long journey south, this time returning to Austria over the next couple of days to peruse two classic pieces of short writing.  Yes, it would have made for a shorter trip if this stop had been scheduled after our last visit to Vienna - we apologise for the inconvenience...

*****
Back in August, during my own month of German-language reading, I read a couple of novellas by Arthur Schnitzler (Leutnant Gustl & Fräulein Else), psychological tales providing insights into the minds of the protagonists and the wider Austrian society alike.   I had been intending to return to Schnitzler at some point, and the current event seemed like a fitting opportunity to read one of his most famous works, Traumnovelle (Dream Novella) - perhaps best known in English for providing the basis of Stanley Kubrick's last film, Eyes Wide Shut...

The story takes place over two days in late-nineteenth-century Vienna, where we meet Fridolin, a successful doctor, and his younger wife Albertine.  The couple appear at first glance to be a happily-married couple with a beautiful young daughter, but appearances, as we know, can be deceiving.  Beneath the urbane, civilised surface, both Fridolin and Albertine harbour repressed sexual desires, urges which they will attempt to satisfy in very different ways.

While the younger Albertine, sexually naive at the time of her marriage, is starting to lose herself in dreams and fantasies of other lovers, her husband is tempted to do much more.  In a night of unusual occurrences, the opportunity arrives to betray his wife and give in to his desire to experiment sexually.  However, the following day, everything is seen in a very different light...

The premise sounds risqué and highly sexually charged, and this is the impression I had before reading Traumnovelle; the truth, however, is that events are (for the most part), a lot less explicit than I had expected.  In reality, it is the possibility, the promise, of sexual activity which is tantalisingly portrayed; Schnitzler is actually far more concerned with what's going on inside the heads of our (relatively reserved) friends than in any bedroom antics they may get up to.

Fridolin, despite all his bluster and macho bravado, actually comes across as a little boy on an awfully big adventure.  We are told most of the story through his eyes, and (naturally) the women he meets all appear to see something special in him, whether it's the daughter of his recently deceased patient, the lady of the night he encounters or the mysterious stranger at a very exclusive party (the kind where clothing is - at least late in the evening - strictly optional...).  However, in the cold, rather wintry, light of day, his allure is not quite as obvious.

In fact, the reader is led to believe that he has no intention of philandering and is merely jealous of his wife's nocturnal fantasies.  The couple agree at the start of the novella to be honest with each other (to a fault!), so why is Fridolin so upset with Albertine for revealing her little sexual dreams?  Well, I'm afraid I'm not qualified to go deeper into that area (especially while we're in Vienna!), so I'll just leave the couple where the book finishes, a little closer than they were before, but perhaps also a little farther apart.

If you want tense, ambiguous writing, with excellent descriptions of the shadowy side of Viennese culture, this is definitely one to try.  It's a book to devour in a single sitting; just don't expect to come away with all the answers that quickly.  I'm hoping to return to Traumnovelle for another try soon as, like Schnitzler's other stories, it may need a second reading for the writer's intentions to fully sink in...

Saturday 26 November 2011

German Literature Month - 'Der Engel Schwieg' Read-Along

It's funny how things work out.

I realise you're probably not quite with me yet, so let me explain.  Among my many plans for German Literature Month, several of which have fallen by the wayside, was an intention to spread my reading as widely as possible, and one reason for this was to avoid reading more than one book by any given author.  However, after enjoying Heinrich Böll's early novel Und sagte kein einziges Wort, I caved in (as I am wont to do) and bought a copy of his posthumously released work Der Engel schwieg (The Silent Angel) just in time for Caroline's read-along.

Don't worry - I am (albeit slowly) going somewhere with this...

*****
Der Engel schwieg is a novel Böll drafted at the request of his publishers; however, they (in their infinite wisdom) decided that the tone was not what they, or their readers required at the time.  It was not until 1992 that the book was published for the first time, in honour of what would have been Böll's 75th birthday.

The reason for the rejection was quite simply that the Germans were apparently sick of stories about the war, an idea which seems a little absurd now, but was probably fairly accurate at the time.  Böll's book then, dealing as it does with the experiences of a soldier gone AWOL right at the end of the Second World War, may have seemed a little unpalatable - which, of course, is not to say that it isn't a good book...

The main character of the novel is the aforementioned soldier, Hans Schnitzler, who returns to Cologne in search of three things: a new, safe identity; the wife of a man whose message he has promised to deliver; and, most importantly, a reason to actually carry on living.  After disposing of the first two of his tasks, Hans decides on a whim to return an overcoat he borrows from a Catholic hospital he visits, and (in a rather sentimental twist) goes some way towards succeeding in his third task.

The war may be over, but the hard work of actually living is only just beginning.  In the first third of the novel, the reader is repeatedly assaulted by the uncaring remarks of Böll's weary inventions.  The overall impression of the survivors of the war is that the dead are the lucky ones, as they will not have to deal with the pain and hardships to come.  As the story progresses though, and Hans and Regina (the owner of the overcoat!) become closer, the tone grows more optimistic, suggesting that there is always a way forward, even if it is currently hidden from sight.

This idea is one of Böll's central themes, and Der Engel schwieg is, as much as it is a novel, a repository for the ideas the writer was to develop over the rest of his career.  One of Böll's most successful, and certainly most substantial, works, Gruppenbild mit Dame (Group Portrait with Lady), is a more detailed, extended look at the time and issues covered here.  However (and this is where I have been going since the start of the post!), the work most influenced by Der Engel schwieg is, of course, none other than Und sagte kein einziges Wort...

On the very first page, as Hans is first startled, and then fascinated, by a dusty, grimy statue of an angel, I had an uncanny feeling of déjà vu (or perhaps déjà lu!), one which was quickly born out.  You see, once his novel had been rejected, the prosaic writer, with a family to provide for, cannibalised his story, sending parts off for publication in newspapers and recycling some of it in the later novel.  The angel scene is not the only one reused in Und sagte kein einziges Wort: both Hans and Fred have an impeccable memory for faces, while Regina's battle with dirt is very similar to Käte's experiences in her one-room apartment.  In addition, the sympathetic priest who helps Hans out has a more-than-passing resemblance to the clergyman Käte and Fred encounter.

But there is more of a similarity than just a few recycled passages.  In essence, the later book is a redrafting of Der Engel schwieg, with the action moved several years into the future.  Rather than concentrating on the difficulty of moving on at the end of the war, Und sagte kein einziges Wort focuses on the day-to-day struggles of the poor in a time when the Wirtschaftswunder had yet to take hold.  Obviously, the idea of a struggling working class couple was more acceptable than that of a couple living in sin in a bomb-damaged house...

Useful as it is to the Böll scholar though, Der Engel schwieg is a fascinating novel in its own right.  The descriptions of the constant search for food, a pleasure which has become a need, a drive, can be painful to read, reminding us of our fortune in being able to open the cupboards any time we feel peckish.  We are stunned by Hans' walks through the streets of Cologne, over piles of rubble, past houses with no roof (and walls with no house).  And, as is usually the case in Böll's fiction, there is a villain - a rich man, well-connected and influential in the church.  Part of Böll's magic here is in showing us how he too is actually a very unhappy person...

According to Caroline, Böll is considered to be a bit of a sentimental and romantic read by the Germans, perhaps not as heavyweight as certain other novellists, and I can definitely see where you could get that idea.  However, in his efforts to humanise the anonymous lives of ordinary Germans after the war, he also succeeds in creating real, flesh-and-blood heroes.  From depressing, hopeless beginnings, his creations do eventually see light at the end of the tunnel.  Hans and Regina, initially envious of the dead, later find happiness, a feeling they didn't think would ever return:
"Ich bin sehr glücklich", sagte sie langsam.
"Ich auch", sagte er, "ich weiß nicht, ob ich jemals so glücklich war."
"I'm very happy", she said slowly.
"Me too", he said, "I don't know if I was ever this happy." p.155 (2009, dtv)
Sometimes, it's nice to just have a happy ending...

Thursday 24 November 2011

A Natural Disaster and An Immaculate Conception


First impressions are very important, but they can sometimes be deceiving, especially when it comes to books.  For example, my first exposure to Thomas Hardy (admittedly in my teens) was a bit of a disaster, but he's now one of my favourite writers.  With this in mind, and with my ever-so-slightly negative review of Michael Kohlhaas still ringing in my ears, I thought it only fair to give Heinrich von Kleist a second chance.  And a third :)

*****
Michael Kohlhaas was one of three stories in the first volume of Kleist's Erzählungen (Stories), and I decided to give the other two a try, starting with the shortest of the three, Das Erdbeben in Chili (The Earthquake in Chile).  In this brief tale, a young man, Jeronimo Rugera, is in prison, waiting to be executed for having seduced the beautiful Donna Josephe (in a Catholic country in 1647, this was quite a big deal...).  Along comes a major earthquake, and Jeronimo is sprung from both his chains and his prison cell while most of Santiago is left in ruins.  Meanwhile, Josephe is being led to her execution - will she also be saved?  And what will happen to the two lovers if they survive?

Das Erdbeben in Chili is a bitter-sweet tale, telling of divine intervention and human retribution, and I think I must have actually read it before as the plot was very familiar.  The story is divided into three distinct parts: the escape from the destruction of the earthquake; a brief, temporary reprieve in a valley reminiscent of the Garden of Eden; and a final act in a church which has somehow been saved from God's wrath.

Jeronimo and Josephe appear to have been saved to live another day, but, as is often the case in literary fiction, a happy ending is a boring one, and the reader is never confident that all will be well.  Just what kind of depressing ending awaits... well, I'll leave that to the reader to find out ;)

*****
Das Erbeben in Chili is an entertaining tale, but a good short story is not nearly enough to change my opinion of Kleist by itself, so we'll let today's second offering decide.  The last of the three Erzählungen, Die Marquise von O... (The Marquise of O...) is one of Kleist's better-known stories; certainly, it was the one I'd heard most about before reading this collection.

The story starts with an announcement to the effect that the Marquise of O... has sent out a message in a newspaper, asking for the father of her unborn child to reveal himself to her (now that's one hell of an opening sentence!).  We then go back to the start of the story, where the widowed Marquise is caught in a battle for her father's castle and attacked by a lecherous gang of invaders.  Luckily, an honourable officer comes to her aid, and she is saved from the attentions of the soldiers.  A while later, she discovers she is pregnant (without having slept with anyone!), and in the midst of all this confusion, the Duke, her noble rescuer, arrives, pleading for her hand in marriage...

Die Marquise von O... is an excellent story, and one which is far better written and executed than Michael Kohlhaas.  The idea is intriguing, and the opening sucks the reader right into what is ostensibly a mystery, but is actually an examination of family values and attitudes towards infidelity and illegitimacy.  The trials the poor Marquise has with her parents remind me of Effi Briest's family issues (but in reverse...), and Kleist manfully spins the story out, keeping the reader in suspense for as long as possible.

However (and we're going a little way into territory not to be trodden by those who wish to approach the story with an unbiased eye), I felt that Kleist missed a trick with the rather obvious ending.  The one he eventually goes for is probably the one you were expecting all along, and I felt, after having been witness to some rather disturbing family scenes, that there was another, slightly less obvious, but infinitely more disturbing, candidate for the paternity of the Marquise's unborn child...

*****
So, is that enough to redeem Kleist in my eyes?  Well, let's call it a draw: one success, one failure, and one entertaining, but brief, little tale.  Of course, Kleist did write a second volume of Erzählungen - I suppose a final decision can wait until I get around to reading some of those :)

Monday 21 November 2011

Taking The Law Into Your Own Hands

Today marks the 200th anniversary of the death of Heinrich von Kleist, one of the most famous writers in the German language, and this week Caroline and Lizzy have invited us to pay tribute by reading one of Kleist's works.  I must confess that I probably already have a couple of unread Kleist works somewhere at home in England, as I'm sure they were set texts, either for my A-Levels or the first year of university.  Ones which I conveniently ignored...

This means that the time for giving Kleist a go is long overdue, and today's post will deal with a novella which many of you will have heard of, Michael Kohlhaas.  This interesting little tale is set in sixteenth-century Germany, where the eponymous hero is a horse trader in the east of the country.  On crossing the border from Brandenburg to Saxony one day in the course of his work, a cunning nobleman demands papers (which he has no right to demand).  Kohlhaas is forced to leave two horses behind as surety for his promise to obtain the papers, and when he returns, having been assured that there is no need to obtain any papers, he finds his groom banished from the castle and his horses run-down and skeletal.

Kohlhaas' legal efforts to obtain justice for this treatment are thwarted by nepotism - the nobleman is very well connected -, and his wife's attempts to take the case to a higher source of power comes to a tragic conclusion.  So, the horse trader does what any justice-minded citizen would do in his case: he liquidates his assets, hires some mercenaries and lays waste to the surrounding countryside...

Which is where the reader sits up and says, "Erm, sorry, did I miss something there?".  No, you heard right the first time.  While Robin Hood stole from the rich to give to the poor, Kohlhaas burned everyone's houses down because they wouldn't tell him where his enemy was hiding.  I must admit, it wasn't a plot turn I had been expecting, but the arson and ambushing is fun while it lasts.

That's not all though.  While in Wittenberg, after having been severely rebuked by a certain cleric in a public message, our Michael decides to pay a personal visit to the peeved churchman to straighten out their differences.  Fairly run-of-the-mill, no?  Well, yes, were it not for the fact that not many people drop in unannounced on Martin Luther...

You could be forgiven for wondering how this all holds together, and I would have to say that as entertaining as it is, I don't really think it does.  There were large parts of Michael Kohlhaas where I really wasn't sure if I was enjoying myself, for a variety of reasons.  For one thing, I wasn't a big fan of the writing.  There was an abundance of names and titles, all flung at the reader without pause, making it difficult to hold information in the mind long enough for it to make sense.  I also found the text to be slightly over-punctuated, with an abundance of commas which detracted from my ability to read smoothly (yes, pots and kettles do come to mind somewhat here!).

However, it is the plotting, rather than the language, which is the biggest hurdle with this book.  Kleist wrote his Erzählungen quickly, primarily for financial gain, and at times it feels like it.  The novella just seems to be a collection of ideas flung together in the hope that they will stick and form a coherent story.  The late twist in the plot, a rather Gothic turn of events, seems contrived, and I do wonder if the idea was actually present at the commencement of writing...

There is, of course, more to the story than this.  There are philosophical elements present, especially concerning the right of the individual to take justice into their own hands when the state has failed them.  Also, the late plot twist, while difficult to swallow, does have the effect of maintaining the reader's attention until the final pages (which, let's face it, can only be a good thing).

All in all though (and I apologise in advance to all those who love Kleist), this wasn't one of my more successful forays into G-Lit, and it made me feel that perhaps my late-teens self had the right idea after all.  Michael Kohlhaas is entertaining, but I've read a lot of better books, even over the past few weeks.  Perhaps my next attempt will bring a more pleasing result...

Saturday 19 November 2011

German Literature Month - 'Effi Briest' Read-Along (Part Three)

I've finally made it to the end of Effi Briest, and an entertaining journey it's been too.  However, dear reader, if you have yet to reach the end of the novel, it would be a good idea to leave my blog post-haste, lest your eyes be offended by news of events yet to come.  Go on then...

*****
For those of you who have also reached the end of the book then (and for those who don't intend to), this third post will look back at the final section and try to summarise some of my overall thoughts on Fontane's novel - and a very good one it turned out to be too.  As suspected, things all went a little pear-shaped for our heroine on her return to Berlin, and I turned out to be (sadly) right in my suspicions that Effi's innocent comments on outliving certain characters were fated to be proven untrue.

Of course, Fontane's light touch in describing, or rather not describing, Effi's indiscretions was a major turning point, and when we find out (via the letters) the full extent of Effi's betrayal, we feel a little betrayed ourselves.  For the first, and perhaps the only, time in the book, the reader distances themself from Effi, sympathising with Innstetten in his turmoil.  With later events in mind, it is ironic that it is actually Annie who is the means to Effi's downfall...

Of course, our sympathy with the politician is fleeting.  In a matter of pages, he has made his decision, one which will end in a violent death, a further lingering one and (probably) an extremely disturbed childhood.  The moment Innstetten chooses to pursue Crampas, ignoring the inner voice which implores him to forgive and forget, he returns to his usual robotic self, unaffected even by a brief stretch in prison.  Effi herself describes her husband best when, near the end of the novel, she says to herself:
"Denn er hatte viel Gutes in seiner Natur und war so edel, wie jemand sein kann, der ohne rechte Liebe ist." p.249 (Hamburger Lesehefte)
Effi's casual comment about the goodness of Innstetten's nature, coupled with a complete absence of love, is a telling one indeed.

We never really expected much from Effi's husband, so his actions on learning the truth of the affair, while extreme, are not exactly surprising.  However, the reaction of her parents was absolutely stunning, probably one of the most jaw-dropping moments of the book.  I had assumed that Effi would be returning to Hohen-Cremmen to live out her life in tranquil solitude, so her mother's letter was rather... surprising, shall we say.

Over the first two weeks of this read-along, our hosts, Caroline and Lizzy, had been dropping hints as to the importance of the parents in Effi Briest, and it is only in the third section that we see why.  It would be interesting to find out how Fontane's contemporary readership saw this part of the plot.  Were the late-nineteenth-Century German folk as upset as we were at the way Effi was disowned, or did they also think that it was the only possible action?  Did they believe that Effi's parents redeemed themselves by finally taking her in three years later after her serious illness?  Because I certainly don't...

I'm fairly sure though that Fontane fully intended the parents to be despised by his readers.  The contrast in the final scene between the faithful Rollo and the disinterested Briests is a sight to behold, and the final words of the book, between the mother and father, really say it all:
"...ob sie nicht doch vielleicht zu jung war?"
"Ach, Luise, lass... das ist ein zu weites Feld." p.250
When the mother tentatively asks if perhaps Effi really had been too young to marry Innstetten, the father replies with his usual stock, dismissive response (which I like to interpret as 'opening up a can of worms'!).  Concerned parents?  I'll leave that for you to decide.

*****
So, stepping back from the action for a moment, how good is Effi Briest as a book, and how does it compare to those other great novels of marital infidelity, Anna Karenina and Madame Bovary?  Well, as a character, Effi is infinitely more sympathetic than the two other fictional ladies mentioned, and credit for that goes to the writer and his decision to start his story at the very beginning.  I am not a big fan of heroines betraying their husbands, whatever the cause, but by introducing Effi to the reader at a relatively young age, Fontane allows us to live through her marriage with her, seeing it through her eyes, noticing the neglect of her ambitious husband.  It also helps that she realises that her actions are wrong and attempts to make amends, a very different turn of events to those portrayed in Tolstoy's and Flaubert's novels.

However, that's not to say that it's a better book.  Despite my antipathy for AK herself, I think Anna Karenina is a wonderful book (even if it's more the Levin side which interests me), and I think it shows a deeper character development than Fontane's novel.  Fontane is probably one of the best classic German authors I've read when it comes to character development, but compared to some Victorian writers (and the two Russian legends), he still comes off second best.

One of my problems with Effi Briest is the character of Innstetten.  I don't feel that he was brought to life in the way you'd expect from a major character, especially compared to Effi herself, and this detracts a little from the novel as a whole.  Still, this is comparing the book to classics of world literature, and I'm not dismissing it by any means.  On the contrary - it's a wonderful book, and one I'll no doubt be rereading many times over the coming years.  And Fontane's emphasis on Effi is not a bad thing; he is able to transfer the affection he feels for his heroine across to the reader, helping us to form an attachment with the doomed young women.

Finally, should anyone doubt Fontane's affection for Effi, one line towards the end of the novel (p.247 in my version) finally shows us what his true feelings are:
"Arme Effi, du hattest zu lange hinaufgesehen und darüber nachgedacht..."
When you're on such familiar terms with your characters, it's safe to say that they have a special place in your heart...

Friday 18 November 2011

Das Schloß - The Play (The Director's Cut)

As you may have noticed from my posts this week (and from my earlier reviews of Der Prozeß/The Trial and Die Verwandlung/The Metamorphosis), there's something about Kafka's work which makes writing a parody seem easier than actually reviewing the book.  His works are so obviously allegorical and divorced from reality that I find it hard to summarise the main ideas and interpret what I'm reading.  Nevertheless, I suppose I should explain myself a little, if I am to redeem myself after my little escapades...

*****
Das Schloß (The Castle), like Kafka's other novels, was a work which his executor, Max Brod, was supposed to destroy after the Czech writer's death.  Luckily (or unluckily, depending on how much you like it) Brod ignored the instructions and decided to publish it anyway.  Like Der Prozeß, it's a surreal tale, following a normal man as he attempts to make sense of an increasingly abnormal situation, although this time there is no actual resolution to the story.

The book begins on a snowy night as the Land-Surveyor K. enters a village and asks to stay at an inn.  He has come at the behest of someone at the 'castle', a shadowy, mysterious entity which few people have actually visited.  Not long after his arrival, K. is met by two assistants, Artur and Jeremias, who have been sent to him by the castle, and he also receives a message from an official.  From here though, his attempts to actually get into the castle go nowhere...

It's clear from the outset that the castle is a metaphor for something deep and meaningful.  It's equally clear that anyone who claims to know what it actually is has their pants on fire.  The whole point of Kafka's work is that it defies unravelling; there are several possible keys to the text, each as likely and as implausible as the next.  The best thing to do is just to give it a go and make up your own mind about what is actually going on...

Would I recommend Das Schloß?  Yes and no.  It's definitely not for anyone who has yet to pick up anything by Kafka.  The chapters can sometimes seem like an interminable monologue disguised as one side of a conversation, followed by... well, another interminable monologue disguised as one side of a conversation - Kafka characters do like a good chat.  At times, you can read page after page, or even chapter after chapter, without really thinking you're getting anywhere.  Also, the more desperate K. gets to actually enter the castle, the more unbelievable it all becomes - abandon a sense of proportion, all ye who enter herein!

However, if you're looking for challenging, thought-provoking writing (and are prepared to abandon the concept of any real plot), Das Schloß is well worth reading.  It's easy to see why it's one of those must-read books; it's also easy to see that it's not one I'll be rereading on a regular basis though ;)

*****
Before I wrap-up my work on Kafka's epic though, I thought I'd just help out a little with my posts this week.  I'm sure that most of you Germanophiles will have picked up on all the subtle allusions, but here's a quick key for those who missed some of the feeble jokes:

- The Gary mentioned in the play is, of course, Gary of The Parrish Lantern fame, who invented the idea of the German Literature Month Tour Bus during my solo G-Lit month back in August (so basically, you have him to blame for all this!).

- The phone number for the Castle hotline (371883) is actually Kafka's date of birth.

- The recorded message (and the Innkeeper's later refusal to give K. Tony's room) refer to one of Kafka's most famous short stories Vor dem Gesetz (Before the Law) - well worth reading :)

- The last line of Act One, paraphrasing a quotation from The Wizard of Oz, namechecks Gottfried Keller's novella collection Die Leute von Seldwyla (The People of Seldwyla).

- Hohen-Cremmen is, of course, the home of Effi Briest's parents (Effi is also alluded to at the end of Act Three...).

- Barnabas, like the other characters mentioned (e.g. Frieda, the Innkeeper) is actually from Kafka's book.

- Buddenbrooks, a semi-autobiographical tale of the decline of a merchant family in Lübeck, is one of Thomas Mann's most popular works.

- Caroline and Lizzy, the shady people sharing a crafty dram with Gary, are, of course, the hosts of the whole German Literature Month (so you can blame them for all this too!).

- The phrase "add that to the file" refers to the masses of paperwork in the nightmare bureaucracy of the castle, where everything has to be written down.

*****
And that, thankfully, is that!  I hope you enjoyed the show, and don't forget to check out the real thing one day - if you can find your way to the castle, that is...

Thursday 17 November 2011

Das Schloß - The Play (Act Three of Three)

A few hours have passed.  The short winter day is drawing to a close, and the sky is getting darker by the minute.  The Innkeeper is behind the bar, drying glasses and studiously not looking in Tony’s direction.  A barmaid is also behind the bar, using a rather dirty-looking cloth to wipe down the long, wooden surface. Tony is still sitting at the table nursing his beer, staring at the glass, concentrating on the dark remnants inside.  Suddenly, he looks up and, gesturing in the direction of the bar, tries to catch the barmaid’s eye…

Tony: Hello? Could I get another please?
 [The barmaid looks up, nods, and starts to fill another tankard with beer.  A few moments later, she walks over to the table and puts the tankard firmly down.  After picking up the finished drink, she goes to walk away.]
Sorry, could I ask you something, erm…?

Barmaid: Frieda, my name’s Frieda.

Tony: Frieda… could I ask you something about the castle, Frieda?
[Frieda sits down opposite Tony, her manner noticeably less hostile than before.  Tony pauses, smiles, and then continues speaking.]
I was wondering if you had…  if you had ever been up there…

Frieda: [Surprised] To the Castle?  What, of course not! [Giggles]  Why would I have been to the Castle? [She leans forward, and her face becomes more serious.]  I do know a man though, an official called Kramm… have you heard of him?

Tony: No…

Frieda: Well, he’s supposed to be very influential, knows a lot of people… [She pauses, looking Tony up and down.] Of course, he’s a lot older than you… [She smiles coquettishly across the table.]

Tony: [Nervously playing with his wedding ring] Actually, I think I should call my wife…

[The smile disappears from Frieda’s face.  She stands up and storms off in the direction of the kitchen.  A door is heard to slam in the distance.  From behind the bar, there’s a mutter from the Innkeeper.   The only audible words are “add” and “file”.  Tony starts to get up, as if to walk over to the telephone again, when a noise from behind stops him.  He turns around.  The door opens, and the darkness of late evening is framed within its outline .  A man’s figure emerges from the darkness and enters the inn.]

Man: [Looks around] Hello?  Could someone help me please?

[Frieda looks around, and her eyes light up when she sees the handsome face and strong build of the newcomer.  She rushes from behind the bar and addresses the stranger.]

Frieda: Welcome to the inn!  Are you looking for a place to stay?  Dinner?  Drinks?  Or… [She plays with her hair and sends an unambiguous look towards the man.]

Man: [Taking a step backwards] Erm, well, actually… I’m here on business as a Land-Surveyor, at the Castle, I believe, and I was looking for a place to stay tonight.  Do you have any rooms?

[The Innkeeper, who has been drying the glasses up to this point, looks up and speaks.]

Innkeeper: Sorry, no rooms.

[Tony looks up in surprise.]

Tony: But you offered me a room?  I won’t be needing it, so why don’t you let Mr…

Man: K.

Tony: [Sceptically to the man] K.?  [The man nods.] Really? [The man nods again.  Tony turns back to the Innkeeper.]  Why don’t you let Mr. K. have my room?

Innkeeper: No, can’t do that.  That room’s just for you.  And I’m adding that to your file…

Tony: [Jumping up and shouting] Will you stop saying that?!!

Frieda: [To K.] You can share my room…

[The Innkeeper’s face darkens, and he begins to walk around from behind the bar.  Frieda takes a step towards K., and K. takes two big strides back.  Tony takes K.’s arm, and guides him towards the door.]

Tony: Come on, let’s go.  You can’t even get into the castle anyway, so we may as well get out of this village while we can. [Points at the coach]  We’ve still got a seat on the bus if you want to join us…

K.:  Have you got toilets on board?

Tony: Toilets, coffee-making facilities, wide-screen television, extensive library, very comfy seats…

K.: Sounds good. [K. and Tony walk across the road to the coach.  Gary, Lizzy and Caroline, loitering on the pavement across the road, slip guiltily back onto the bus, Gary slipping what looks suspiciously like an empty whisky bottle into his coat pocket.  He says something to the driver, and the engine roars into life.]  So, where are we going anyway?  Anywhere special?

Tony:  Not really.  I’ve got a friend up north, and I thought I’d pay her a visit.

K.: [Hopefully] A friend… Pretty, is she?

Tony: [Thumping K. on the shoulder] Yes… and she’s married.  Anyway, Effi’s not like that…

[The two men get onto the coach.  There’s a loud cheer, and, moments later, the bus drives off down the road.  Very soon, it has disappeared into the darkness and the falling snow.

Back in the inn, Frieda is sitting in the middle of the floor, howling and tearing her hair out.  The Innkeeper is standing behind the bar again, polishing some glasses.  Suddenly, the phone rings.  The Innkeeper puts down a glass, walks over to the phone and picks up the receiver.]

Innkeeper: Hello? [Undecipherable sounds from the other end of the line]  That’s right, two visitors, not one.  And a bus. [More sounds] Understood.  Can you add that to the file?

*****
Still confused?  Click through for a little enlightenment ;) 

Wednesday 16 November 2011

Das Schloß - The Play (Act Two of Three)

A few minutes have passed since the previous action.  Tony is now seated at one of the round tables in front of the bar, along with the Innkeeper.  The Innkeeper’s Wife brings over a tray with two beers on it and puts them down in front of the two men.  Tony’s beer is brought down with a crash, sending a small puddle of beer flying towards his fur coat.  The Innkeeper’s Wife sneers at Tony, then turns on her heel and stomps back to the bar.  Tony begins to speak…

Tony: So what you’re saying is that I’m actually inside Kafka’s book?

Innkeeper: [Drinks, then brings his tankard crashing down onto the table] No!  Why do you keep talking about a book?  You are in the Village, the Village which belongs to the Castle, and there is no way to get into the Castle without connections, without working your way into a higher position.  If you start off as a barman, perhaps, if you are dutiful, in a few years, there will be the possibility of moving on to something more substantial…

Tony: [Interrupting] And then I can go to the castle?

Innkeeper: [Sighs] No.  Then you may have access to someone who might know someone who occasionally has access to a person who works in a capacity loosely connected with the Castle… [Pauses] …if you’re lucky.

Tony: Hmm.  [Pauses, then speaks] I was planning to be in Hohen-Cremmen on Saturday...

[There is silence.  Both men devote themselves to their tankards, Tony thinking of how to turn the conversation, the Innkeeper wondering how he can end it.  Suddenly, the door crashes open, and, framed against the streetlights and the swirling snow, a young man appears, still in the doorframe for a brief moment, before moving into the inn.]

Innkeeper: [Standing up] There you are, my friend, the answer to your prayers! [Points to the newcomer]  This is Barnabas, and he is a messenger from the Castle! [Addresses Barnabas]  Do you have a message for our foreign friend?

Barnabas: [Shifts nervously from foot to foot] I do have a message to deliver… [He steps forward and hands Tony a small piece of paper.  Tony opens it and reads it aloud as the Innkeeper tries to peer over his shoulder.]

Tony: [Reads the note] “ Tony, the people on the bus are getting a bit restless – some of them aren’t too keen on Kafka anyway and want to move on to the Thomas Mann trail.  How are those tickets looking?  Gary.” [Tony and the Innkeeper look at Barnabas, who is trying to look innocent and failing dismally.]

Barnabas: [Sheepishly] I never said it was a message from the Castle now, did I?
[Tony scribbles something on the back of the note and then hands it back to Barnabas.]

Tony: Here you are, take this back to the bus for me, will you?
[Barnabas nods, pockets the message, and leaves the inn.]

Innkeeper: [Curious] What did you say?

Tony: [Sitting down at the table again] Oh, I just told Gary to stick the German TV adaptation of Buddenbrooks on the DVD player – should keep the Mann fans quiet for a good few hours.

[The Innkeeper sits back down, and Tony leans across the table to ask him a question.]

So, tell me, what do you think of the castle?

Innkeeper: [Nervously] The Castle?  What I think of it?  Me?  What do you mean?  The Castle is just the Castle, everpresent, everchanging, untouchable… [He leans back, gazing at the wall behind Tony’s head, lost in thought.] …the Castle is a part of the Village, and we, in turn are a part of the Castle…

Tony: Well, yes, but what I’m trying to get at here is the idea behind the castle, what it represents, the metaphor behind the reality if you will. [The Innkeeper nods cautiously.] I mean, look, there are a lot of possibilities, the bureaucracy, that’s one, the castle could be representative of our inability to penetrate the thick red tape surrounding us and preventing us from enjoying our daily lives.  Or, or… [Waves his arms in the air as if clutching for words] …it could all be a religious metaphor, the castle as heaven and all the people down below in the village looking for the best way to get to the castle, confused as to the best way in, distracted by all the earthly, that is to say, village diversions… [The Innkeeper nods again.] …it has to be that, right?  What do you think?

[The Innkeeper leans forward slowly, and Tony leans towards him, eager to hear his thoughts.]

Innkeeper: [Slowly] Do you know what I think the Castle is? [Tony waits expectantly.]  A big stone building – with bloody thick walls.  [Tony’s head thuds into the table, splashing into a puddle of beer.  The Innkeeper pats him on the shoulder and stands up to go.]  I’ll add that to your file…

*****
To see how the story ends, click through to Part Three...

Tuesday 15 November 2011

Das Schloß - The Play (Act One of Three)

A large coach pulls up in a quiet street in a small village somewhere in Central Europe.  Through the gently falling snow, the words “German Literature Month Tour Bus” can be seen on the side facing us.  A door opens, a man steps out, struggling to get into a large fur coat, and walks towards the only building in the street with lights on, “The Bridge Inn”.  He crosses the street and opens the door…

Tony:  [Turns to face the bus and shouts] Tell the driver to keep the engine running Gary, I’ll just ask someone for directions.  [He walks into the inn and sees the Innkeeper]  Ah, good morning!
[The Innkeeper looks at him blankly] Good afternoon?

Innkeeper: Hurry in, hurry in.  We have been expecting you, your room is ready, please, take a seat, warm yourself by the fire, you must be tired after your long journey, and cold, very cold, after all, it is winter, and the winters here in the village are extremely bitter, something a stranger like yourself will have to get used to if you are to adapt quickly to our small community.

Tony: [Confused]  Erm, well, I actually just wanted to ask for directions to the castle, you know, the one that’s used in Kafka’s book – a few of us are on a bit of a literary tour.  Do you know it?

[The Innkeeper’s wife, sitting behind the bar, breaks out in laughter.  The Inkeeper grins wryly and, turning to his wife, raises an eyebrow.]

Innkeeper: Do we know the castle? Hah! [Turns back to Tony]  Of course we know the Castle, everyone knows the Castle, the Castle is why we are here, the Castle is, if this is not too much of an exaggeration, the only reason for our, for my, for your existence. [He looks expectantly at Tony]

Tony: [Nervously] OK, so… could you give me some directions up there?  You see, we’re a bit lost…

[The Innkeeper visibly flinches, and his wife stops laughing, gets up and runs out of a door at the back of the inn.]

Innkeeper: You want to go to the Castle?  You think you can just decide to go to the Castle?  You honestly believe, you naïve young man, that you can just make your own way up to the Castle, ignoring the secretaries and assistants and just wander in, unannounced, simply stroll into the Castle?  Do you?  Do you really?

Tony: [A little cowed] Well, no.
[The Inkeeper is relieved]
We’re planning to buy entrance tickets, of course…

[The Innkeeper slaps his hands over his face, and presently a sound of sobbing can be heard.  After standing around awkwardly for a minute or two, Tony starts to look around the inn, and, almost immediately, a telephone catches his eye.  He wanders over, having forgotten the innkeeper – who is now banging his head, slowly, but firmly, against the wall -, and reads a sticker attached to the wall above the phone.  It reads: “Castle Hotline – 371883.  Twenty-four hour connection to your lords and masters all year round (except Christmas Day and Shrove Tuesday)”.  Tony picks up the receiver and dials the number.]

Automated Menu: [A woman’s voice speaks] Thank you for calling the Castle Hotline.  This call will be recorded for quality assurance and legal purposes.  If you are not happy with this, well, tough luck.  So that we can best answer your call, please choose from one of the following options.  If you are looking for a job as a messenger, press 1; if you have a complaint about one of our friendly officials, press 2; if you would like to know our opening hours, press 3; for directions to the Castle, press 4…
[Tony presses 4]

There are many roads to the castle.  These roads are ever-changing and sometimes impassable, and each is accessible only to the person it was created for… [Tony sighs] …to return to the main menu, press the ‘star’ key… [Tony presses the ‘star’ key, immediately followed by 3.]

Our opening hours are infrequent, inconstant, whimsical and unknowable for the common man.  Thank you for calling the Castle Hotline – a transcript of this call has been added to your file.
[There is a click, and the line goes dead.  Tony bangs the receiver against the phone (once, hard) and then replaces it.]

Tony: [To himself] Toto, I've a feeling we’re not in Seldwyla any more…

*****
If you'd like to know how the story continues, click through to Part Two...

Saturday 12 November 2011

German Literature Month - 'Effi Briest' Read-Along (Part Two)

And we're back for the second of three posts on Theodor Fontane's classic, Effi Briest.  While the first post was relatively general in nature, this one will start to give the game away plotwise, so if you haven't made it to the end of Chapter 24 yet, please look away now...

*****
Still with me?  Excellent :)

The middle section of Effi Briest picks up where Chapter Fifteen left off, with the dashing Major Crampas worming his way into Effi's affections both in front of and behind Innstetten's back.  On a series of rides and picnics by the coast, the two become closer, and the more Effi realises that her honour is in danger, the more she tries to pull away.  Our poor heroine tries to face down her admirer, but events (as they always seem to do in fiction - bad writers!) conspire against her, and on a cold night, alone with the Major in a sleigh, the inevitable happens...

The reader, to this point at least, is not aware of any further indiscretions, although this is implicitly hinted in Effi's 'walks', but I believe Fontane is sympathetic to Effi's struggles.  The references she makes to the poem Gottesmauer indicate her willingness to seek shelter from the storm of Crampas' advances - ironically, when the wall of darkness does surround her, Crampas is on the wrong (or right side)...

However, the move to Berlin comes as a godsend to our young heroine, and she deliberately avoids returning to the coast, putting herself out of temptation's way until Innstetten can join her in the capital.  It looks as if a dangerous chapter in her life may be behind her, with Crampas far away and her husband now near enough to pay her (and her daughter) more attention.  With a little effort - on the part of both husband and wife -, there's no reason why things can't end happily ever after.

Of course, that would make for a very boring ending, and there are indications that the final sixty pages or so will bring another dramatic turn.  The mere mention of the name Crampas (this time the village Effi hears of on her holidays), brings memories of her betrayal rushing back, and as we leave her on a sleepless night at her parents' house, we sense that somehow or other, the marriage is fated to come crashing down around Effi's ears...

Should we feel sorry for her?  Well, I've already indicated that perhaps there is reason to forgive her, both on the grounds of her youth and the amends she has tried to make in avoiding Crampas before the move to Berlin.  However, it's not quite as simple as that.  The full extent of the relationship with Crampas has yet to be revealed, and for us to forgive her, Effi would need to be truly penitent.  Yet the final part of Chapter Twenty Four shows Effi's thoughts to be less related to guilt and more concerned with getting away with it all.

So where do we go from here?  Will Innstetten stumble upon the truth?  Will Crampas brag and let the cat out of the bag?  Will Effi succumb to guilt and blurt everything out to her husband?  How will her parents react?  And, assuming the secret is aired, what will Innstetten do about it?  I still have the feeling that Effi's youth and naivety may lead her to do something drastic...

...but I suppose I'll find out what really happens next week ;)

Thursday 10 November 2011

Please don't miss the Swiss!

Climb on board!  After a few days in Austria and Germany, it's time for the German Literature Month Tour Bus to trundle over the mountains again for a brief trip around Switzerland.  The Swiss can be the overlooked cousins of the G-Lit family - certainly, my reading experiences reflect that -, so I thought it was time to see what they have to offer.  Today's treats?  A couple of tasty nineteenth-century novellas for you all to get your teeth into - onward, driver!

*****
The first of today's two stories is Conrad Ferdinand Meyer's Der Schuß von der Kanzel (The Shot from the Pulpit), an entertaining and amusing novella set in a small Swiss town.  Pfannenstiel, a young man with clerical ambitions, pays a visit to General Wertmüller, a returning local hero with dubious morals and a mischievous sense of adventure.  Pfannenstiel is hoping for a preferment overseas, mainly to escape from an unsuccessful romance, but the General, always with an eye for the comical and ludicrous, has other plans for our young friend...

This is a short tale, eleven chapters spanning about thirty-five pages, but it's highly entertaining.  In some ways, it feels more like a play, with clearly defined changes of scenery, an impressive (and humorous) turning point and a neat resolution pleasing all and sundry.  The  characters are surprisingly well drawn for such a short text: the devilish General; his cousin, the shooting parson; Pfannenstiel, the pessimistic young lover, and his intended, the feisty Rahel.  There's more than a touch of Trollope about proceedings - and I mean that in the best possible way ;)

The first half of the novella is suggestive of Gothic literature, with the tense nocturnal discussions between Pfannenstiel and the General, and the spooky lodgings the young cleric is led to for the night, but once the sun has risen (as should be the case), things look very different, and the wry humour takes over.  I don't want to say anything more about the plot, but the title is there for a reason - and a very good one it is too!  Meyer shoots and definitely hits the mark :)

*****
Today's second offering, Die schwarze Spinne by Jeremias Gotthelf, reverses the progression of Meyer's novella in some ways.  It starts peacefully enough, following a group of farming folk in a small Swiss village as they get ready for a Christening.  Once the child has been baptised (not without one minor hiccough), the guests head back to the farmhouse for plenty of food and lashings of drink.

In between courses, some of the men decide to stretch their legs, and when they sit down under a tree to rest, the grandfather of the house begins to tell the guests a story - one which will remain in the memory far longer than the food...  You see, the misleading first ten pages or so form the first part of a frame narrative, and the grandfather's story, suggested by the Christening and the mention of an old piece of wood used in the new house, is the real start of the story (and an amazing one it is).

A few hundred years earlier, a group of farmers are set an impossible task by the knight who owns the village.  Desperate, and at their wits' ends, they are offered help by a mysterious stranger, but at a certain price - the gift of an unbaptised child...  From here, events turn eerier and darker, and when the villagers attempt to cheat the stranger, it soon becomes clear that this was someone they should not have messed with.  Winds howl, storms thunder over the valley, and the pregnant women start to get extremely nervous.  And when you have trouble with the devil, who are you going to call?  A clue - it's not the Ghostbusters...

Die schwarze Spinne is a stunning piece of short fiction, evolving from a commonplace piece of naturalist writing into a full-blown horror story, pitting good against evil and scattering the countryside with the corpses of the unjust and unfortunate alike.  The religious implications are fairly clear, but the story works on many other levels too.  The idea of collective guilt and the inability to speak up against the crowd, even when you know that what is being done is wrong, is an important one, as is the role of the outsider in bringing disaster to an otherwise harmonious community.  There may also be overtones of the 'Black Death' plagues which afflicted Europe in the dark ages, represented by the black curse which sweeps over the valley.

If you want good writing with a high body count, look no further.  The further the story progresses, the higher the death toll, and it is genuinely gripping reading.  Then the story returns to the present day, and the guests (in a slightly more sombre mood) return to the table; just when we could be forgiven for thinking that the worst is over, the grandfather takes the story up again, leading the reader through another round of death and chaos...

And the spider?  Well, I'd got about half-way through the story when I began to wonder where this black spider (Black Widow?) had got to - and then it began to appear (and I chose those words deliberately)...  I'll say no more (you'll enjoy the book more that way!), but remember this: if you start looking under your bed for spiders after reading Die schwarze Spinne, don't say I didn't warn you...