unused apartments which take up more than half of it.
Johannes Stimmer (she told us), the founder of the family's fortunes, was a mercenary soldier whose military talent gained him rapid promotion and who managed the difficult balancing act of both amassing considerable wealth, surviving the country's many political changes, and preserving his reputation as a social radical during the last quarter of the eighteenth century. After Waterloo, he decided for reasons ranging from status to security that it was time the family had its own personal fortified seat and purchased Fichtenburg from its previous owners, who'd managed to back every wrong horse that had run across Switzerland in the past fifty years. (His descendants had clearly moved far enough away from old Joe's radicalism to gain admittance into Linda's circle of friends, I observed slyly, and to my delight, Mouse laughed.)
Frau Buff also provided two explanations of the name Blutensee (bleeding lake). One is that at certain seasons the last rays of the setting sun catch it in such a way as to turn the waters red. The other is that during the long independence struggle against the Habsburgs in the fourteenth century, a marauding troop of Leopold's cavalry surprised the castle during a wedding celebration, massacred everyone they could lay sword on, and threw their bodies in the lake. Naturally (like Beddoes, I'm sure) I prefer the latter!
As we were walking through one of the unused rooms whose walls were lined with murky oil paintings, something must have registered in that corner-of-the-eye way and at the door I turned back to view the pictures again.
There it was, a modestly sized pen-and-ink wash of three young men, posed in front of what looked like the ruined chapel, and wearing Elizabethan doublet and hose.
Two things hit me. The first was the artist's name, scrawled rather modestly and obscurely in the bottom left-hand corner. It read G. Keller.
Now the only Keller I have heard of is Gottfried of that ilk, the Swiss writer. You probably know his autobiographical novel, Green Henry, whose hero, like Keller himself, trains as an artist but ultimately, recognizing his lack of real talent, turns to literature. Well, the picture certainly suggested that, if G did stand for Gottfried, he'd made the right decision! But more interesting to me was the recollection that Beddoes had been acquainted with Keller, who shared his radical views, and that, according to Gosse, it was in Keller's company that Thomas had fled from Zurich to Aargau.
The second thing was the figure on the left, slight, with an oval face and big brown eyes that looked out at us with a somewhat sardonic expression.
There is only one known portrait of TLB, a painting done by one Nathan Branwhite when Tom was eighteen or nineteen. The original has vanished, but a photograph of it still survives which shows a somewhat introverted face staring out at the world through what we are assured were large, clear, decidedly brown eyes with an expression between natural reserve and weary scepticism. And, this, I swear, was the same face I was looking at!
So, three young men passing the time doing theatricals (could they have been acting out one of Beddoes' own plays? I fantasized) and caught forever, not as they would have been a century later by someone snapping them with his Kodak, but by the then equivalent, a quick sketch worked up later into the picture I saw before me.
This was exciting. I made a note to ask Linda to get her friends to permit a proper examination of the picture, and then, feeling virtuously that I hadn't after all allowed myself to be seduced totally from my task, I resumed the much more interesting business of having that time of my life which my new friends seemed determined I should enjoy!
Just how far that determination went, I was soon to discover. It was the third day of our acquaintance when it happened.
The girls had left the chalet after their apres-skating drinks. I'd just got into my shower when I heard someone call from the main room. I wrapped a towel round me and went out to find Zazie there. She said she'd left her gloves, which we found without much difficulty. Then she looked at me, sighed enviously and said she'd love a really hot shower too but the boiler in the castle was playing up and the water was running lukewarm. Uncertain how to take this, I said she was very welcome to use mine after I'd finished, which wouldn't be long. I then returned to the shower, and all uncertainties vanished a moment later when the glass panel slid open behind me and Zazie stepped in.
No details, except to say that I rapidly revised my initial judgment, in her case at least, that here was someone not very experienced in life.
No harm done, I thought afterwards, and a great deal of pleasure taken. Zazie, like Hildi, would be heading off in a day or two to spend Christmas with her own family. I'd probably never see her again and all I'd be left with (and her too, I hoped) was a happy memory of a lively jig arranged for two players! And if she'd enjoyed it enough to desire a reprise, then I was very happy to make my instrument available again.
That was yesterday. Today I was pleased to see that Zazie showed none of that post-coital possessiveness which might have sounded a jarring note in our now very well-tuned quartet. But, I wondered as I got ready for my shower this afternoon, did this mean it was after all a one-off performance?
Then I heard a noise in the next room and joyfully headed through to greet her.
Only it wasn't Zazie but Hildi.
As I hadn't bothered with a towel this time, the way my thoughts were tending was obvious. Unabashed, Hildi said something in German which I could translate roughly as, 'Seems a pity to waste it’ and next thing…
Well again, no detail, but those hours in the gym certainly hadn't been wasted.
I still hadn't quite caught on to what was happening here, but a suspicion was tickling the inside of my brain as I lay on the rugged floor like a defeated wrestler and watched Hildi dress, blow me a kiss, and leave.
After a moment I rose and stretched and was about to return to the shower room when I thought I heard a voice calling outside.
I went to the window and looked.
Out on the frozen lake were Zazie and Mouse. They must have put their skates on again after leaving the chalet to take a last spin round before the daylight went. Hildi was standing on the edge calling to attract their attention. And when they turned and saw her, she clenched both fists and punched them in the air with thumbs upturned.
And then I knew. These charming 'inexperienced' girls had decided to liven up their stay and mine at Fichtenburg by each having me in turn!
And how did I feel about that? Flattered? Outraged? Amused?
None of these. What I felt was afraid.
Two down, one to go, and that one was Mouse.
Mouse who wasn't going to vanish in a couple of days but would be around all through the holiday. Mouse who in my judgment had little talent to deceive. Mouse who was, according to Jacques, the apple of her mother's eye.
My conclusion, which may sound a tad ungallant, was that if we'd been talking about Emerald, who knows? But when it came to Mouse, nothing she seemed likely to have to offer was worth risking even the merest shadow of Linda's disapproval for!
Yet rejection seemed potentially just as dangerous. How would she react if she turned up tomorrow to bring this jolly girls' game to its triumphant conclusion and then had to go out to her friends with her thumbs turned down?
Would she be able to laugh it off? Or would she be distressed? Angry? Humiliated? Vengeful?
I don't know. Whatever I do, I can see trouble. You can see why I wish I had you here by my side so I could lay out the situation before you and beg for your wise advice. But I can't, so I've decided to do what any sensible man would do in such circumstances.
I'm going to run.
Not far and not for long. It's Saturday tomorrow. On Sunday Hildi and Zazie are heading off to join their families for the festive season. And on Monday, Christmas Eve, Linda and her cronies will arrive at Fichtenburg. So tomorrow's the real danger point. I suppose I could find an excuse for keeping out of the way, but I've learned from experience that no risk is negligible. Elimination is the better part of avoidance!
So I've packed a bag, written a note to Frau Buff asking her to make my apologies, and tomorrow first thing I'm going to start doing what I came to Switzerland to do in the first place. I'm off to Zurich to pursue my
