NOTES
It has been described as a love triangle in a dying, decaying, decadent world, as an illustration of reactionary misogynistic behaviours and repressed sexuality among fascists, as an anti war or even anti males pamphlet. The author identified the model for the ""hero"" as a dandy she was in love with as a youth, and who had other interests, hum. One of her aunts also apparently was married to "him". I binged through this, ugly crying, and then did it again. In any case one shouldn't be expecting something light and positive here…
This novel, made into a film, is a heart breaking master piece. If you don't plan on watching/read, here is the key to understanding the ff : go on tiny url . com and add / yy4v5g4c or SEARCH VERNONJOHNS "I recall little of these far-off struggles against Bolshevism in Livonia and Kurland
I feel the need to say my opinions do NOT match Erich's, or the author's, etc
"What an interesting story, Sir…"
The young man was among the men - always men, always men - who had been listening to Erich's story, always the same, always the same. Women either didn't believe him, or worse they did. He smirked when one of them ran away. One less. One more. But not tonight. The man in question obviously was trying to sound more severe and serious than his voice had to normally be. One didn't survive wars and situations unworthy of being called such without identifying opponents.
That one had sandy hair, from what Erich would be able to see in the dying light, and he looked extremely young though he had known men in their early thirties with such impression. He studied them for experience of the enemy. The boy, as he took to calling him, could have passed for underage if not for the hardness in his eyes. It was clear the boy had known worse than simply hunger and fear waiting for the enemy. He stood and approached after speaking, as others left, bored and in need of distraction, or sensing history in the making. Erich stood too, and offered his hand. The other was too much of a gentleman not to take it, but after allowing a wait, an uncertainty, the equivalent of spitting in the face certainly. His hand was clammy and he told himself the horrors he heard affected the boy more than they should for a soldier. Erich pretended not to notice, as he did when Sophie… Denial didn't do on the battlefield, but no battlefield was as scary as the boundless swamp of feelings.
"Is that a French accent I detect… Officier?". The boy obviously frowned. He felt naked under the old man's gaze. He envied Erich's confidence and kind of arrogant beauty. A man not used to being refused, actually as the story had shown, used to being pursued. He bit down on the title. "Officer, indeed. What about you?".
One more insult, as if Erich was not someone to remember, as if Erich could be anything else than an officer. He was already at the time as he stated. He wore a uniform, even. Maybe the boy hinted that Erich should have been demoted. La baronne Sophie de Reval; shot by a low ranking aristocrat, a soldier. Mocked, rejected and shot. He may have been, under normal circumstances, when they didn't desperately need men like him.
"Freiherr Offizier Erich von Lhomond". He clicked his heels, more out of respect for his station than for this young pup playing warrior.
"Freiherr, hmm", the other hummed as if lost in thought but stared hard, very much so, trying to intimidate the older officer. "The man in your story", he seemed to use story instead of something not quite polite, "He was a baron, if I remember right?".
"Conrad de Reval", and he marveled that he could say the name without any, any emotion. "Yes". His tone was as dead as Conrad.
The boy nodded curtly. "Yes, Conrad de Reval… I wonder, does it not bother you that everyone will know…". Will know? He wouldn't ask if the blonde is referring to real names, or to the relationship between the two men, more than hinted about.
He ran a hand through his hair, too short for any effect. It looked like it would be curly, wavy at least, if it could longer than regulation. Erich and the boy had this in common, rules made them feel safe. Harsh rules for harsh times for harsh men.
He went for what felt safest, there again. Making it about the dramatic ending.
"Well, she was a rebel. I did my duty for country and fatherland". The boy neither approved nor cringed and Erich wondered for the first time if it coud be political. "I would do it again". Something hardened in the gray ironed eyes. Definitely political. Boring, but impersonal. Good.
"Despite your friendship with her brother. Interesting". Erich said nothing. He wanted to yell, not despite, but he had learned long ago not to give in to his desires. The last time might have been when Conrad agonized and he just did not… End it. It might have been the most shameful. Conrad was the perfect officer. It would never have happened without Sophie's jealousy, her joining the rebels with all their blueprints and maps. She killed her own brother without meaning to, my condolences to you, she said. It was only fair that he got to shoot her in the face. She looked too much like Conrad. He could finally end it, do what should have been done, leave all this behind. Damned Revals. Somberly he inhaled as smoothly as was possible.
"La der des der. Exhilarating times", the blond boy attempted, awkward like a recruit who hasn't seen war. His bearing told another story. He probably wondered why he suffered through endless, nameless battles while others had known the paths of glory.
"There will never be a der des der. Such is the human heart". This didn't happen to be a word he used often. "It would please me to invite you for one glass, to discuss the history of Courland over - I am afraid I didn't quite catch your name, Officer". He remembered Sophie had accused him -and her very own brother - of liking war too much. Because of this, he looked straight at the boy. He saw hesitation, and something snapping.
"Baron Armand", the youth finally pronounced as an assent, a consent, and he followed as the man gestured toward the bar in the back of the lounge. Gentleman before officer, then. The romantic, hot headed type, the most dangerous. Erich did not think anything of introducing oneself by one's first name. It was an aristocratic habit. Young Master Armand. Louis, roi de France. Baron Armand. The signet ring too clunky on his frail finger, yet again another case of this after the war, too many orphaned younglings leading ancient, venerable houses. The Prussian was nothing if not observant. He had no father, then. For the first time, he allowed his eyes to linger. Armand held his gaze for a second and averted his eyes with a slight smirk, the grey hiding under girly lashes. It matched his jacket. He had dressed up like a man.
They sat down and Erich ordered liquor. The boy - Armand - followed suit, as if unsure he should be there at all. His youth and uncertainty lingered on his delicate features until the Prussian officer teased him about a bedtime. There was death and destruction in his silent gaze and Erich thought, so this is how he looks on the battlefield, and then, yes this one has killed.
"Prost! To Courland", he toasted tersely and inclined his head a fraction of an inch. His hat dipped with the movement, but never covered his eyes. Every inch of the man radiated authority and sharp discipline and desperation not to do what they were exactly doing just now.
"To Courland", the boy repeated with a surprising, contained passion, full of hurt and hatred, as a new immigrant, or a new exile. They looked at each other and, out of fear maybe, the little soldier spoke up.
"I feel…". Erich looked interested, more than before, ever before during their discussion if only because he never felt much. "I feel I have heard your story". He shrugged, but it looked fake.
"Tante Prascovie", he used the French pronounciation, so much so that it made the rest sound off, "Had another nephew, though bookish and shy, not a hothead like Conrad. He couldn't be, he had a family. He could have passed for the little brother, he did for all his short life. He visited once with a young wife and a toddler, I am told. I wonder if the child would remember anyone… But what I can't remember…
For the life of me, I can't remember who told Sophie". His eyes darted toward Erich's, and they held a searing expression he couldn't remember seeing outside of a bedroom or a battlefield. The air suddenly seemed rarefied.
"Who told Sophie?", he sillily repeated.
"Yes, about… Riga". He made it sound like a forbidden word.
Images came back to his mind. Riga. Alcohol. Too much of it, too little precaution. Conrad had been younger then, younger than ever, younger than Armand, deadly warrior with delicate princely features. He was glad, at least, not to have to see him old and bald.
He felt himself blush, his face tanned for a blonde but not dark enough to conceal this. Volkmar. Volkmar had been the one. Sophie rejected him, and he acted the dejected suitor. Brought up Riga, brought up… Volkmar, the son of a decadent, dégénéré notoire, who had an affair with a Russian minister, Praskovia had said.
"What happened after Conrad died?". There had been no reply to his first question but he hadn't needed one.
"Life". It went on.
Armand gave him the up and down with all the arrogance of youth.
"It doesn't look like it". Von Lhomond was too straight, too tense, lifeless under that golden tan some fair boys managed to maintain.
The officer wondered if the boy insisting on this disguised more than disgust. That, he would and could understand, he encountered this already, starry-eyed boys fascinated with the Courland hero sans peur et sans reproche - ah!- and it was more welcome than an umpteenth anti fascist rant.
"Would you like to come upstairs, take a last glass? A nightcap of sort?".
"To talk about… Courland?"
He didn't reply. It seemed clear Armand knew he knew, and that it was a first for neither.
"I didn't have my father either. Verdun". They were both dangerously free. Verdun had delivered a whole generation from their past. Armand was now detailing him in an almost proprietary way. Erich von Lhomond wanted not to do this, wanted to be above it all. Once again he would be disappointed.
Though he never mentioned a room, the petty officer's cheeks were warmed in turn. The veteran appreciated that he didn't relent easily. In the end, though, he did. They were both breathing hard, Erich looking at nothing and Armand making sure paranoidly that no one was noticing and imagining. The boy was quite red as they reached the place, not talking because there was nothing appropriate to say anymore, and taking off his jacket he remained in his shirt and waistcoat.
The door closed behind them and he startled at the sound and what it implied for him.
"No wait, what happened in Riga anyway", he muttered but Erich leaned down and Armand lost himself in his eyes and didn't push him away.
"You sure you don't remember the brother? The other nephew of Tante Praskovia?". He pronounced it in the way the locals would this time as to make sure Erich was understanding. His lips glistened and he seemed slightly out of his depth. The insistance was odd. He didn't drink enough for this, he was drunk on something else, not even sly. "I don't remember him either. I don't remember Tante Sophie". The last word was not slurred but shouted. Erich's eyes still detailed him, searching for familiarity. His answer was the worst possible but that was how such men solved trouble.
"Will you spend the night? Now that you are there…". It was a challenge more than a proposition.
"How dare you? What do you take me for?", he roared to defend himself against his own trouble, and his white aristocratic hand flew to slap the other man on the cheek. Suddenly all that could be heard was the sound of Lhomond's dishonour. Reval's signet ring caught on the tender skin and left a bloody trail on the marble cheek. Not so lifeless after all.
"Oh, Baron", Erich murmured. "I think it is too late for this…". His tone was honeyed, as he would address a little mademoiselle he had paid, if he did that kind of things. He actually had to, a few times, so he would look like the others, and always managed to throw them out before he had to pretend he could act on this. "I think we both know…". Understanding had dawned and he actually wondered if he hadn't figured all along, prayed this would find him. The youth had tasted incredibly familiar, warm life, death to come, present liquor and shame and memories of long nights away, the unbearable waste and void of warfare. Erich ignored his cheek and licked his lips - der des der for this too- and the boy wiped his against his sleeve like a schoolboy after his first kiss, showing too much disgust for it to be entirely truthful. Armand was shivering and shaking over what they had done, over what they would do. He was magnificent in his moment, a young prince who stole his sister's beauty, but still dealt in death. Conrad, Conrad. The only part left of him on this Earth. That had to be how looked on the dawn of his first battle. The Slavic sob story had turned into Prussian precision and French frankness. He gave a tearless hiccup suddenly. A child under the finery and sophistication, but no more tears than Conrad as he passed. The last witness of this period, of Courland, or Conrad, Erich wished he remembered the boy, he had paid attention, he could compare. He knew how this would end because blood had already been shed. He owed him this. I won't disappoint your kith and kin.
"Je vous défie, monsieur. Je vous laisse le choix des armes". The Baron's voice was steady though breathy. Obviously he had been rehearsing. It was easy for him, because he was light, so light without all those memories weighing him down to the real material world. In the end he would also revert to his language, the Freiherr knew that type. Dead father, insane mother, Prussia before both, oh he knew that type. They never called to their mother, but this they allowed themselves, fatherland, mothertongue. Ghosts for ancestors.
"I accept. One challenge doesn't preclude another: do you accept?". Armand gaped and hardly managed to stifle a full body shudder.
"I'm not Conrad", he groaned, low and dangerous. Erich was of that race of men who like danger. The jacket, casually thrown over the nephew's arm, didn't conceal it anymore, the pistol that the blushing blond was carrying. He would just need a tiny gesture to put an end to this comedy in death and disgrace. Le dernier des Reval, in a famous hotel, upstairs in another man's suite. Is that what Sophie's suitor saw in Riga? He had a tearless sob when Lhomond reached for him, not even granting him an acknowledgment of a possible worry about the pistol. But it wasn't dawn yet.
"No wait", he all but blurted out, confused as to what exactly this was, youth showing. So alive, all the more so as he thought himself jaded. But then he didn't add anything and all he could see was Erich von Lhomond.