ROUTE
Here is the building.
Well, the colonnade—the balcony.
The sculpture, one concedes, is chipped.
There is always mention of the drapery, furthermore, pertaining to the way it falls across the shoulder—pertaining, indeed, to the sharpness of a pleat.
The road bends.
Oh, and the square—the square is famous. There is a tomb, you see, or a fountain—it is to this effect, in any event. An inscription cites a great fever—which accounts for the soldiers, it would seem.
The city was invaded on this day in 1680.
Common oaks grow outside the fortress—where, evidently, a foreign woman, a countess, was executed: early in the morning, by hanging, the hem of the gown a bit frayed, it should be explained, from age.
The hat shop is open today, but the butcher shop is closed. There are kiosks, too—one sells trinkets, another sells Stilton cheese.
There is an obelisk near the river.
A man mispronounces the name of the bridge—yes, and he blushes.
But the building—do you see the balcony there? And the little mark on the column? There is a flag. There is a broken pediment.
A woman stands at a gate.
One, of course, is easily lost.
An excursion.
The town hall is well known for its volutes, but the gentleman discusses, instead, a bust of Agrippa, which has been stolen, and the house’s oriel window, through which, according to the story, Bismarck once saw a ghost. Marshal Turenne was killed in Sasbach, in fact, not Gernsbach, so, no, it will not be possible today to see the plot and the stele—though, happily, there is—if you will forgive the crude juxtaposition—a view from the keep: yes, look, such a remarkable hillock. He adverts to the wind in the castle’s courtyard, which is solemn, and to the garden, which is formal, and to the servant who strangled the children on the grand staircase—which leads, as you can now see, to the room of mirrors, where a woman is tidying her hair.
I bundled the letters. I kept the photograph—or I saved it, if you would prefer. The map was torn. The newspaper had been discarded.
It did begin to rain. I naturally felt a bit foolish. I held the rail. There were pots of flowers, passersby. Somebody pointed at a telamon.
I suppose the door was locked.
But the soldiers—let us return, if we may, to the soldiers. They died, you will remember. There is always mention of the bedclothes—and the bannister, the little birds, that pattern on the wall.
Oh, now the square, on the other hand—there are no pigeons, for instance, in the square. Here are the people, though. There is actually something of a crowd.
Other facts occur to one.
The hat shop is open today, but the butcher shop is closed. There are wrinkled curtains in the windows of the dance hall—which was built after the war. This house was once the residence of a general.
The bedroom faces the river.
A history indicates the manner in which the objects on the table were arranged—the ink blotter here, the stack of paper there—oh, and that he wore a herringbone coat the day he murdered his brother.
There is a handsome drawing of the pistol.
The hospital is the same hospital—and the benches, at least, do strike one as old. The park is austere, according to the diary—but green, merely, according to a letter—in which there are also references to anguish.
A small purchase is made.
The road, as we have already remarked, bends.
The building—well, come a bit closer. Now the ornamentation is distinct, certainly. Guilloche—torus. One considers a blemish at the center of the design. One considers the elevation of the capital.
The sculpture does not resemble the Apollo Belvedere or the Cnidian Aphrodite.
There is a flickering here, a glint.
But the balcony—you can see the balcony, of course. A woman opens the doors in the morning, at this hour. The balusters are urn-shaped—yet this fact, one imagines, claims very little.
A letter lists dates.
There follows a digression concerning a man who was poor, whose children were not well, whose wife—we should be plain—died. The man’s screams were said to have been louder than the screams of a certain king—to whom we shall return.
The river floods on occasion.
The road is named for a countess, quite clearly, not a baroness, even if the latter title is the one indicated on the map—on which, furthermore, the legend is blurred. At any rate, now and then there are parades.
But the building—but there is apparently something amiss in the archway. And you will please pardon the little mark on the column—and the shadows on the steps.
The flag snaps about a moment.
A man walks across the lawn.
An engagement.
Well, a misadventure.
Monument, one is told, derives from the Latin root for monster.
The diary, however, does refer to a more amenable hour—and there is, certainly, some shapeliness to the day. How one wants everything to be dear—the stones along the road, the engraving. Is it clever to suspect the inscription? The wind? The manner in which the handkerchief is lifted into the air?
I suppose it was taken late in the day—or that there was something untoward about the light. Here, all the same, is the boulevard. There are automobiles, a signboard. A name is shown on a shop’s awning.
The fellow is smiling. My wife is wearing a hat, a scarf, gloves.
The roof of the hotel is cut off.
But the window—but is there a woman at the window? The countinghouses, according to the diary, resemble Napoleon’s hands—and there is some mention of an alley.
There are blind arcades and Lombard columns—and a square coping. King Leopold’s skull, if we are to believe the story, is buried at the foot of the tower; the pavilion has a Baroque facade.
The frieze has carved faces.
The map indicates a fortress, a river, a dam. This road is named for a burgher—who once lived in this brick house. This road is named for a margrave—whose last meal was haddock, stewed prunes, watercress, and a chopped gherkin.
The museum displays a madder-colored garment, a tunic.
How one does speculate about the clothing—and about the bed, naturally. There is, as you know, a purse; let us presume that the stationery is new.
A letter lists cities—and dragon’s blood, ostrich plumes, a gizzard. There is a description of a lawn.
A man stands at the steps.
The sculpture is chipped.
The window, of course, is dark.
TURRET
The Square
The sun, in any case, and the walk: out in front, early, like this. Keep in mind the season. The tack, alas. Sacks of fruit, the manner of the soldiers. The captain, it is remarked, was an orphan. The chambermaid had asked forgiveness. The governess loses her hat in the wind. There are parcels: Stoop. Pistol. Jaw. Pyx. A medallion and a package of chocolate. Keep in mind the flies. The Jew, it is remarked, was handsome. The steward’s tongue had been bored through. The quartermaster had escaped. There is little fuss over the doors, over the shutters. A child pulls a necklace from the widow’s throat: out in front, early, like this.
The Fortress
Sacks of fruit, a pistol: inside. A bolt of cloth beneath the door? An embarkation of sorts. Outside: barrels and a shroud, a patch of crabgrass. There are sticks in the ditches, horses at the wall. Dogs athwart. The sun returns? These bats, in any case. Keep in mind the hour. The bell: the bells. Certainly the sweeping of the steps. Now: the brothers, one by one. You can hear them? A brick sits atop the scaffold’s drop.
The Rooms
One, she said, or the other.
It seems the widow was a different matter.
There were prunes in a stockpot, pecans in a tin.
Simply the view, this time, and the wind—or the clouds and the quarter hour. Simply the beggar’s-lice and the oak trees, the names of the towns.
She was so sorry.
It seems the boroughs were through.
The afternoon, the visit, the meal: a bit of mischief concerning a lock.
She tried, she said, to think of pleasant things.
Simply the roofs, after the usual manner—or in a certain light.
One, she said, or the other.
There was an ornament above a door.
The Fortress
Remains, of a sort: inside. Collected digits? For purposes of counting. Outside: dogs, barrels, ditches. Teeth are buried at the foot of the scaffold. Coins are buried at the foot of the cannon. Now: a soldier is thrown from a horse. At the great wall? It is greater, in any case. Ribbons: gone. Posts: gone. Ropes: gone. There are stones and wasps. Carts, of a sort, in the courtyard. Toppled? Overturned, if you please. A gown is buried at the foot of the gate.
The Square
A row of arches and ledges, in any case: the ridges of dirt in the flowerpots. The houses have brown shutters. The doors, it is remarked, resemble coffins. There are signboards: how nice. The suitor spills a bottle of wine. These roofs, the fruit market. The general eats lady-fingers off a white plate. There are parcels: Beauty. Loom. Monstrance. Gullet. A package of chocolate and a tin of pecans. There is a bit of mold on the bread. A row of tall windows, feathers, the ridges of dirt in the flowerpots. The chambermaid, it is remarked, had contrived to die. Pigeons move about. A carriage of nuns passes in the road.
BALUSTRADE
The woman removes her hat and gloves. The fellow sits on the ottoman.
The bowl is cracked. The vase, in truth, is not one of the gifts. The newspaper, from which a page has been torn away, reports upon a steamship lost at sea. The bureau stands next to the balcony doors.
There is a draft.
The woman touches the cuff of the woollen blanket. Milk curdles in the fellow’s coffee.
Oranges sit in a bowl on the windowsill.
There is a view.
The fellow tells a story about the boulevard.
A soldier, who wore a uniform with brass buttons, stood before a house. The house was ablaze.
The soldier uttered a Latin word.
Consider this.
The barber brought flowers in the evening.
Next to the vase sits a package of chocolate. The earrings sit in the top drawer of the bureau. The newspaper, which the fellow slowly folds, reports upon a holiday supper in Dessau.
There was peach cobbler for dessert.
A child wore a ribbon at her throat.
The woman bathes. The fellow combs his hair.
It rains.
Consider the box of matchsticks—which the fellow drops. The newspaper, which the fellow sets atop the bureau, reports upon the grandeur of a certain opera.
The fellow undresses before a mirror.
There is a draft.
On a ledge sits a Latin grammar. The spine of it is green.
The fellow reads.
Amplector, amplecti, amplexus sum.
Lateo.
Morior.
The fellow remarks upon a flaw in the wood. The woman pours water into a tumbler.
Oranges sit in a bowl on the windowsill.
The steamship, on which had been served, every morning, shirred eggs with paprika, fresh herring, and sliced sausage, was lost at sea. The barber, who had loved the daughter, brought flowers in the evening.
The fellow describes his home.
The first room was blue. His aunt would wear a polka-dotted scarf. His brothers would cry in the night. His sisters would sit on the lawn and bunch their skirts.
There were chrysanthemums and birch trees.
There is a view.
Consider the river—which, the fellow says, is a pleasant color.
There was a Christmas pageant in the afternoon—and a great embarrassment.
The holiday supper, at which had been served split-pea soup and a rabbit fricassee, and at which the child had stained her dress and ribbon, ended rather late. The watch, which is old, and which is one of the gifts, sits next to the earrings.
It rains.
The windows fog over.
The newspaper, atop which the fellow sets a tumbler, reports upon a battle.
A town was taken.
The soldier, whose brother had died of scarlet fever, uttered a Latin word. The Latin grammar, the preface to which adverts to farce, has a green spine.
The fellow reads.
Opus est.
Anhelo.
Quid illo fiet?
A package of chocolate sits on a ledge. Oranges sit in a bowl on the windowsill.
The fellow tells a story about the boulevard. The woman folds back a corner of the woollen blanket.