Beloved Sisters Page #12

I believe everything a genius does

as a genius, he does unknowingly.

- Good evening.

- Evening.

I bring a message for

Privy Councillor Schiller and family.

So where were we?

Madame von Lengefeld's carriage

got stuck in the mud halfway here.

Everyone is well, and hot drinks

have been provided.

But they can't leave before tomorrow.

- They're staying in the coach?

- Yes.

Maman was lucky.

- I'll ride out to them.

- No, stay here.

Let's write that letter

to the privy councillor first.

Anna, help me put the children to bed.

We'll be back when Maman arrives.

We're going home.

We'll be home soon.

- Well, then...

- Same time, same procedure.

Till tomorrow.

Why does she put that display cabinet

in the entrance hall?

Absurd.

It's so petit bourgeois.

As if she won the stuff in a lottery.

Maman, we're so glad

to have you with us again.

I notice that you still resemble

no one but your mother.

Doesn't your father regret it?

He's fine the way he is.

- How old are you now, Adolf?

- I am six, Chre Mre.

Really.

You're tall for your age.

Do you remember

your first four years in Switzerland,

before your mother brought you here?

No.

Not even the great Rhine Falls?

Were you never there?

Yes. I do remember that, Chre Mre.

Yes.

I have memories of the Rhine Falls too.

When your mother and your aunt

were still very young

and loved each other dearly.

They were always whispering in secret,

your mother chattering all the time,

while your aunt was always nodding.

Like this.

Your grandfather...

Look, that's him on the wall over there.

He died young,

and the girls really needed each other.

Your aunt used to ask me,

"Are we poor now?"

And I said, "No, not yet."

When we only have one of our

twelve 26-piece dinner sets left,

"yes, then we are poor."

Do you remember, my dear?

You see? And now I have brought you

the last set I have.

Schwenke, show it to them.

And now I am poor.

But I don't need it anymore.

And the dear Lord

will make me rich again soon enough.

Maman, dear.

Yes.

But I want you to drink from it

together with your sister.

That you often speak to each other again.

And love each other like you used to.

And that my dear son-in-law,

Herr Schiller,

whose steadily growing fame

makes this old lady very, very happy,

but also very ashamed of not having

anticipated this fame at the time,

when he first came to visit us

in Rudolstadt that summer,

13 years ago.

I want you to stop quarreling!

We don't quarrel.

You don't talk to each other.

You write polite cards and invitations,

send back polite refusals,

making sure you avoid

each other on the street.

It must stop.

I don't want to leave this life

feeling I've left a battlefield behind.

That's why I'm here.

You've hurt yourself now.

Yes, that hurt.

Have you forgiven me?

- Why did you never ask?

- Ask you what?

It's my last tableware.

- What should I have asked?

- One question.

- Which one?

- "Who is Adolf's father?"

Why ask?

You didn't know yourself,

with all your affairs at the time.

Dalberg...

- But I do know.

- No, you don't.

- Yes, I do know!

- No, you don't!

Yes, I do.

- Don't you want to know too?

- No!

- Why not?

- It's none of my concern.

But what if it is?

I don't want to know!

- It's none of my concern!

- Why doesn't anyone do anything?

Yes, good, clever Charlotte

has to cover her ears now.

You begrudged me this baby.

Your face, when we spoke about this

in Ludwigsburg,

I'll never forget it, never!

And now? You've won.

You've got him all to yourself.

How can you burden such a man

with your vulgar little ideas of love?

How could you be so stupid

and ignore reality?

You walked out on my husband

every time things got serious!

You threw yourself at him

and then you ran off.

We swore an oath to share everything.

What was I to share with you?

The night you spent

together in Tbingen?

The men you keep on a leash like a dog?

You lead the love life

of a bankrupt feudal mistress.

In France you'd be put to the guillotine.

Right, because there

they buried freedom

instead of having it rule

like they promised.

They were too small for real freedom.

They didn't mean freedom in bed.

Look at your husband.

So sad. This strong, confident man

remaining silent while you live it up.

Ladies, ladies,

we all like to witness your passion.

It's most entertaining to hear you insult

each other, but leave your men out of it.

Lollo!

A doctor! Someone get a doctor!

Lollo!

- This attack seems worse than ever.

- It was always like this.

Not like this.

- I get scared when the snow melts.

- But it melted long ago, dearest.

Let me help.

Get him into bed.

Schwenke, take out the bowl, please.

I'll stay here today.

We'll have to wait through the night.

Come on, I'll show you your bed.

I'll manage.

I'll sleep in the other room.

Let them talk and move about

and rattle around.

I like the sound of it.

And maybe some more singing.

Thank you, Hans.

The women in the von Lengefeld family

all have a curious talent.

Choosing men

who lead the way to eternal life.

They'll end up together,

all three of them widows.

And together they will lovingly

remember their late husbands.

Maybe that really is

what keeps them together.

Something they themselves

don't understand.

Because, despite everything,

it seems natural to them.

It's this trinity

Schiller's always been looking for.

Their women's community,

which they allowed him to enter,

back in the summer of 1788.

Then they sent him not to paradise but

to the solitary confinement of marriage.

Now, at this very moment,

in the face of his deadly illness,

they understand once again,

that he is a refugee

on a cold and barren planet,

a stranger to this world, and lonely.

He never searched for a home,

but found one among them.

Line.

Lotte.

Friedrich von Schiller recovers from this

bout of illness as so often before.

It isn't until three years later

that his weakened body surrenders,

and he dies in May 1805,

only 45 years old.

In old age Caroline von Wolzogen

writes her lifelong friend's biography.

The new printing techniques

have long since triumphed

and editions were published in numbers

even Schiller couldn't have dreamt of.

Maybe the vast readership's expectations

made Caroline fear indiscretion,

for she withholds any kind of intimate

detail about her life in the biography.

And shortly before her death she destroys

all written evidence of the past.

Knowing that posterity

will never be able to learn

what really happened

between the three of them

must have been a comfort to her.

Against her will, however,

one single note was preserved,

the one she received in

Rudolstadt in the summer of 1788.

"Last night, or rather this morning,

things were beyond my control,"

and this evening I may be invited

to a late dinner by Rengmann,

the doctor who's been treating me here,

"but later on I will try

to steal away to you."

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes