The Marquise of O— by Heinrich von Kleist

First published in Germany in 1808; published in translation by Pushkin Press on January 7, 2020

From a modern perspective, this two-century old novella seems like the stuff of romantic comedy. A scholarly introduction by the translator, Nicholas Jacobs, advises the reader that the story was regarded as scandalous at the time of its publication. Certainly it is meant as drama rather than comedy — “operatic drama,” according to Jacobs — although Jacobs explains that the happy ending is uncharacteristic of Heinrich von Kleist, who apparently had a gloomy worldview that his other work reflects, no doubt accounting for Kleist’s eventual suicide. Whether the ending is happy by modern standards is something that the reader will need to judge.

The story is set in Northern Italy during the War of the Second Coalition at the end of the eighteenth century. European monarchies, fighting against Napoleon’s France, ultimately lost that war, but the Russian army won some campaigns in Italy during 1799.

The Marquise in the title is a widow named Julietta. She has a country house but, given the war, she finds it prudent to stay with her two children at the house of her parents. Her father, the Commandant, is ordered to defend the citadel in which his house is located. Russian troops overrun the citadel and order the Commandant to surrender, which he does as soon as the surrender can be made honorably. The surrender is accepted by a Russian Count who compliments the Commandant on his good manners. War at the time was apparently a civilized conflict between gentlemen.

While the fighting is ongoing, however, Russian soldiers capture Julietta and her mother. One of the soldiers subjects Julietta “to the most shameful mishandling” with the implied intent of having his way with her. Fortunately, the Count comes along and rescues the Marquise from the ungentlemanly assault. He apologizes to the Marquise on behalf of the culprits, then apologizes to the Commandant, who clearly holds the Count in high esteem. The Russians depart and the Commandant is once again free to do whatever aristocrats do when they are not fighting wars on behalf of their conquerors.

After some confusion about the Count’s possible death (leaving the Marquis “inconsolable that she had let the opportunity pass of throwing herself at his feet”), the handsome Russian returns, proclaims his devotion to the Marquise, and proposes marriage. The proposal is complicated by the fact of the Count’s military service, which remains to be discharged. The Commandant won’t have his daughter marrying a deserter, so the Count’s wooing is held in abeyance pending the Count’s efforts to wiggle out of his duty to his country.

The heart of the story begins when the Marquise finds herself “with child.” The bewildered Marquise, who knows how babies are made, is confident that she did not make one. Virgin birth having fallen out of fashion, however, her family is not only disinclined to believe her, but disowns her. “You are despicable!” her father says. “I curse the hour I bore you” and so on.

The story proceeds as a family drama, with the Marquise’s mother hatching a plot to reveal the identity of the baby’s daddy. At a later point, foreshadowed when the story begins, the Marquise resolves to place an ad in the newspaper, promising to wed the father if he will come forward and reveal himself.

Will the Marquise reconcile with her family? Will her honor be intact? Who is the rogue who made her pregnant? Will she marry him and, if so, can she possibly be happy? Kleist answers all of those questions. The answers are not surprising, given the literary and social conventions in effect when the story was written. The notion of an unmarried woman becoming pregnant is no longer scandalous to most modern readers, but the real scandal — the fact that the Marquise became pregnant without her consent — seems to have been lost on Kleist.

Viewed through modern eyes, the way in which the Marquise presumably became pregnant overshadows all else, but Kleist evidently viewed the crime as forgivable under the circumstances. It’s interesting to note the contrast between the “shameful mishandling” by a soldier and what Kleist evidently regarded as less shameful mishandling because it is attributed to love rather than lust. Times have changed for the better, but putting aside that shift in perspective, the story delivers the kind of suspenseful, eyebrow-raising melodrama that should hold a reader’s interest.

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