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 20th 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 20th 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.”