The Matchmaker
Letter from Adalbert Kehr to Konrad Josef
September 1884
My old (and only) friend,
What a fool I have been! Only a few hours ago, I felt excitement for my literary future—but now, as this hired carriage (which I cannot afford) takes me from Naumburg back to Leipzig, I see with clarity that my work as a translator, as the discoverer and protector of an ancient manuscript, will bring me no advancement, but rather will always mark me, in the eyes of the cunning, as earnest, gullible, and full of self-pride—as a grinning, gap-mouthed fool!
In other words, my dear Konrad, today I had my meeting with Elisabeth Nietzsche.
Oh she is pretty and charming.... She insisted, right from the start, that we call each other by our first names, and she knew of my degree in philology and she showed me the room where her brilliant and difficult brother studied and slept—she hinted that most nights he hardly slept at all!—and all the while she prattled on about my Heinrichlied, how Cosima sent it to her with the nicest note, and how important it was, alluding to it all the while in only the most superficial terms—it is achingly obvious to me now, lurching here in this carriage, that she never read the manuscript, never so much as turned a page! Then the luncheon began, a fine vegetarian meal which Elisabeth had cooked herself, and was served by her mother, who refused to join us. Though the words they spoke were in German, mother and daughter seemed to communicate in a secret language of gesture—bitter disputes, fierce battles, private jokes, and tearful reconciliations compressed into the raising of an eyebrow, the extension of a wrist. Elisabeth asked me if I knew her future husband, Bernhard Förster, and I said of course I was well aware of his reputation—he was one of the founders of the Anti-Vivisectionist League—and I had heard great things about his energy and commitment to our cause, but I had never met him, and understood he had been traveling abroad. That was all the opening she needed. For the next two hours she spoke of nothing but Paraguay. Of all the places in the world, Paraguay! Förster, apparently, has purchased a plot of land in the jungles of that country, somewhere to the south or west of Brazil, I think, and Elisabeth and he are organizing an expedition, more than an expedition, a migration to Paraguay. They plan to establish a colony, a New Germany, there in the jungle. It sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it Konrad, but I must admit that in the Nietzsche sitting room, as we sipped tea after our meal, the antipodean vision began to appeal: the rich fertile soil, the broad rivers, an eager community of Germans building a new country—a nation free from miscegenation and the Semitic taint, far from the banks and abattoirs of Europe.
Elisabeth explained that she plans to marry Förster early next year, during his brief return to Germany, and shortly thereafter they will lead the first brave band of colonists to Nueva Germania (as the Paraguayan government amusingly calls it.) Until Förster’s return, she told me, she is doing her modest part, acting as chief recruiter and fund-raiser for the expedition. At the mention of raising funds, I apologized for my poverty, and said that perhaps I might be able to introduce her to a sympathetic individual in Chemnitz, a person of substantial means. “You must mean Max!” she said. “Max Schubert is already our largest benefactor, and one of my dearest, dearest friends. He says the nicest things about you, Adalbert. No, we’re not asking for money—not from you and your wife. We want you both to join us in New Germany.”
“My wife?” I said. “But I have no wife!” I might have added that since my departure from the Civil Service I have no prospects of matrimony—none whatsoever.
“Well, we have a bride for you,” she said.
Konrad, I will spare you my stammering, blubbering reply. Suffice to say that I eventually learned that the lady in question is, I believe, a cousin of Bernhard Förster and “a great reader—very intelligent!”—too intelligent, apparently, for the sturdy Saxon farmers who have been recruited thus far for the expedition. “We need another intellectual couple in the colony,” said Elisabeth. “A couple that can join Bernhard and myself now and then for tea and conversation.” I mumbled and sighed and stared uncomprehendingly, and eventually, I think, I agreed to a further meeting. I recall, with shame, that there were moments when I felt a warm glow of anticipation.
It was only when I was alone again, here in this damnably expensive carriage (I could have taken the small-gauge railroad, and walked the last five miles, but no, I am a friend of Otto and Max Schubert, and I must travel as they do!)—only then did I remember the occasion—or should I say, the pretext?—of the visit—my manuscript, the Heinrichlied! Just how, and when, I wondered, had it vanished as a topic of conversation? I rehearsed the entire afternoon in my mind—the tour of the Nietzsche household, the luncheon, the tea—until I saw the chess game behind it all, and how masterfully I had been outplayed, and at last I understood exactly what had happened.
My God, Konrad, can you imagine how horrid she must be, this cousin of Bernhard Förster, this “great reader”.... Well, at least I finally see myself for what I am: an insignificant scholar, a failed Civil Servant, an impoverished and depressive bachelor on the edge of a circle of brilliant people—Zöllners and Wagners and Nietzsches and Schuberts—people for whom I have only one possible use: as a colonial companion, a tea-party escort, a last-chance husband for someone’s ugly and unmarriageable cousin. You are right, Konrad. I am a fool. Grüssau Abbey destroyed my mind.
(It’s growing dark and I must stop writing—)
Adalbert
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