Act I, Part II

Albrecht von Dönhoff was irritated. This meeting had taken longer than he had expected and now he would be late for supper. Besides, he had been feeling ill all day, and his back was killing him. Even as he sat down in his chair it pained and ached.

Albrecht, the highly respectable merchant of Stuttgart, was a man in his fifties although he looked older. He had a somewhat bent stature and was growing fat. He wore no beard and suffered from the worst disease of them all: baldness. The little grey hair he still had left by the sides of his head was long and hung like twisted and disorganized vines from beneath his elaborate hat - at his age he no longer saw the need to comb it. His clear, blue eyes however revealed that although his body had long since seen its best years, his mind was as lively and active as ever. It was his cunningness and good sense of money that had made him the richest man among the bourgeoisie, and as long as he had his brain and mind in good shape, no physical disabilities would stand in his way.

At last, the long awaited guest arrived. Albrecht and the other men seated in the big, quiet hall stood up - which caused Albrecht an excruciating pain in his back - to salute their guest and formalities were exchanged before they could finally get on with their business. The guest, a young man from Italy dressed in fine clothes of the latest fashion, currently visiting Stuttgart on behalf of his superiors, turned to Albrecht first and proudly announced to him that the Conte di Guisa had graciously accepted his offer.

"Good" Albrecht responded in Italian. "Did he say anything else?"

The Italian’s pride over his and his master’s importance now disappeared and instead he looked uncomfortable and nervously scratched his head.

"Yes, mein Herr" he stuttered and looked down into the floor, "he kindly asked for an additional ten percent..."

At first, it was as if Albrecht had not heard what the Italian said, and for a moment he thought he heard someone whispering something into his left ear, even though there was none near him. He then realised what the Italian man had said, and for some reason he lost his temper completely. If it was because of this outrageous demand by the Conte or because of his hunger or bad back - or a combination of them all - he could not tell. What he could tell was that he was now furious.

"Ten percent?!" he roared and only just managed to refrain from spitting on the floor or in the face of the Italian. His face was all red. "That would make it almost five thousand Gulden! What an outrageous demand! You should be lashed for even uttering such insulting requests, young man!" He took a brief pause to catch his breath but soon continued his rant. The others in the hall had stepped back; although Albrecht had a pretty bad temper, he rarely got this upset, but when he was truly upset he was impossible to reason with and it was best to leave him alone.

"Ten percent!" Albrecht repeated with a hint of mockery in his voice. "A thief! A thief and a scammer, that is what he is, this little Conte! A thief, a bloody..." he coughed but as he was to resume his little speech, he found himself unable to form words, let alone produce any sounds as he was out of breath. He gasped for air, but this only caused him to cough again. His left arm was aching, and he grabbed it with his right hand in a vain attempt to stop the pain. He fell to his knees.

"A doctor! Send for a doctor!" shouted Jan Kokenhusen, but by the time the confused old monk Henri arrived, Albrecht was already dead.

Oh, what an interesting creation is not mankind! Already minutes after the poor and most unfortunate - believe me; none regret his passing more than I - merchant had died the news of his death was spreading. Who first began to spread the word is uncertain, perhaps it was the blonde little errand boy who had fetched the doctor, or it perhaps one of the maids or servants who witnessed the tragedy, or perhaps it was old Jan Kokenhusen himself. Who did is of little importance however, more important is what effect these news had.

To most people the death of a man, even the death of such a prominent figure as Albrecht von Dönhoff, stirred few emotions but well reactions. "Oh, how horrible!" people exclaimed, adding "He was such a fine man" even though they had never met him or spoke to him in person. Most would say a heartless prayer for his soul before they went to bed that night, but in their hearts they were delighted as they now had a subject do debate, discuss and chat about for weeks. Those who were the most pure in heart probably searched their souls and felt ashamed over their lack of true empathy, and begged the Lord for forgiveness. Nonetheless, the word spread across the city more rapidly than a fire, and within hours everyone had heard. Pah! Gossip is indeed one of mankind's greatest talents - and burdens.

To the von Dönhoff family, who received the news from a panting old lady who had run across town as fast as she could solely to deliver the news only half an hour after the death of the old merchant, this tragic event would mean great change - and to young Frederick in particular. You see, Frederick had an older brother. Perhaps I should have told you that, but what for? Why spoil everything right away? Anyway, this older brother, who in ways had always been Frederick's rival in just about everything, was currently away in Vienna to study. He would have been the legitimate heir to their father's business, but while he was away Frederick had begun the slow work of persuading his father to allow him to precede his brother in the line of succession, hoping that he would one day take over their father’s business. He had made good progress and had managed to almost turn his father against hid oldest son and had did everything to please and impress his father. Yet no formal contract had been made, and his father had never had the chance to make these plans official. Thus, when Frederick was awoken from his sleep by his crying mother, who had just returned home to hear the news, he realised that this was a complete catastrophe to him. Not only had he lost the father of whom he was so proud and who he admired; he had also lost his chance of inheriting his business and he would now be set aside as the third child and second son of the late Albrecht von Dönhoff.

I will spare you the dull and superfluous description of how Frederick and his mother cried in each others arms for nearly half an hour after which the young man brushed his tears away and suddenly left the house without an explanation. He did not bother to change into his better clothes but merely paused to get his little velvet purse and then rushed off in a hurry. Where he then went must remain a secret for his own sake, but I guess there is nothing shameful about what he did next: he went to an inn were he immediately began drinking.

He sat by a small table in the corner of the tavern. Normally, Frederick did not drink beer, but for this time he made an exception. He doubted that the rather shabby inn would be able to provide him with good wine anyway. Although still lavishly dressed, his simpler clothes attracted far less attention than the ones he had worn earlier during the day, those with his coat-of-arms embroidered on them, and none stepped up to him to give him their condolences. None recognized him, either it was because of the clothes or because that nobody expected to see him there of all places – or simply because everyone in the dusky tavern were too drunk to recognize anyone. The night was still young, but already men were being carried or dragged out, either because they had fallen asleep and were taken home by their friends, or because they were too violent and loud and were forced to leave by the innkeeper, a fat and jolly-looking man.

Frederick turned away from the outside world and concentrated on drinking. He buried his face deep into his pint as he sat hunched over the table, where he sat alone. Pint after pint passed through his throat and he could soon feel the blissful drunkenness come over him. He had completely forgotten about his previous appetite, and instead drowned all feelings and emotions with more beer. By the time he had lost count on how many pints he had had, he felt confident enough to take a look at the tavern.

The place was crowded with shadowy figures who all drank, laughed, sang and played games. Most were, of course, men, but there were quite a few women in daring dresses who seemed to patrol the little hall looking for company. Some had already found company and were being spoiled by the men who ordered the finest dishes and wines the house could provide for them, desperately seeking their attention and favour. The room was low in roof and unlike most taverns lacked an upper floor with a balcony, but there was a low stage in the opposite corner where a group of performers entertained the crowd, or at least parts of it. Frederick did not recognize them, but it was the same jesters whom he had passed earlier during the day. They were performing some form of foreign dance which looked rather complicated, not to say dangerous, even in the dark. To his horror, it seemed to Frederick as if one jester suddenly stopped dancing as Frederick’s eyes came upon him and returned his gaze. Frederick quickly retreated back to his pint, realised that it was empty and ordered a new one from a bypassing waiter.

Hours passed and Frederick drank. He felt comfortable since he felt nothing. He had no doubts, no problems, no fears. Everything was perfect. He could no longer recall having ever had a father and he had no idea why he was where he was – and he wanted it to stay that way forever. Sadly, no longer aware of what he did he threw up on the table, after which two waiters grabbed him by his arms and threw him out on the street. His fine clothes mattered little to them: a drunk was a drunk.

As he helplessly landed on the hard and cold paving in the dark night he sobered up a little. He was now clear enough in the head to realise that he must find somewhere to sleep, but little else occupied his mind. He could not go home, not looking like this. He had plenty of friends who would take him into their house over the night, but he could not bear even the thought of humiliating himself in such a way, and thus he ruled that option out. Clueless as to what to do he started staggering down the street without knowing where he was going. He fell over a few times at first, but soon found his balance. The night was cold. He was tired. At last he felt he could walk no more and that he had to sleep. He noticed a few empty sacks laying outside a bakery. He distractedly took them and made a right turn into a side-alley where he immediately collapsed on the filthy ground. He somehow managed to put one bag between himself and the street and the other two he had taken atop him. Within seconds he was asleep.

***

As Frederick von Dönhoff woke up the next morning, he was a new man. Gone was the elegant young man from the day before and instead there was a ragged, haunted and tortured young man. Even though he had had no troubles in his life up to this point, last night had managed to change this young, promising man completely. People who went pass him as he lay curled up in his sacks in the alley took him for nothing but a simple beggar; one kind old lady, who was not even very rich, threw him a silver coin. The metallic sound of the coin hitting the hard stone paving woke Frederick up. He sat up and remained sitting, staring blankly into the wall of the house on the other side of the alley.

He looked and felt miserable where he sat. Exactly what had happened last night he could not tell, and everything from the point when he entered the tavern was misty or entirely black, and he had only vague memories of how he had ended up where he was. A horrible headache pained him and his back hurt from sleeping in the alley. He was cold, tired and very thirsty. The only comfort was that at least he was not sick. Nothing stirred in his mind except for the thought of how horrible he felt, and he spent a good ten minutes just staring in front of him – people now took him for a madman.

Eventually, he made it to his feet. He slowly wandered off further into the alley, still covering himself with the sacks against the morning cold. He coughed. He would be lucky if he did not catch pneumonia after this. He aimlessly followed the alley until it joined a wider street. He stepped out on the street and looked around in confusion. He soon figured in which direction the great marketplace could be found, and headed that way. His way of walking was different as well. Only yesterday, people would have stepped out of the way before him and he could have walked down the street with his eyes closed without risking colliding with anyone. Had he fallen, people would have helped him up and perhaps even called for a doctor, no matter how minor the fall was. Today, however, his steps were short and careful. He leaped out of the way of the most unimportant people and blushingly apologized after running into a young girl dressed in old, worn out clothes. In his eyes could be seen horror and whenever he looked at other people he became afraid of them: their stern eyes and cold laughter filled him with fear, and the pointing of the children embarrassed him greatly. The thought of being recognized never occurred to him; he was utterly crushed and destroyed. Frederick von Dönhoff was no more.

He eventually reached the marketplace, which was only beginning to wake up, and only a handful of salesmen had already opened their stalls and the constant shouting and haggling had not yet begun. He carefully and discretely walked over to the well in the middle of the square, where he had a drink. He then sat down on the ground with his back leaned against the well. In his filthy clothes and with his hair in a mess he looked like a beggar. Only now did the thoughts come to him.

“I am nothing”, he thought and a sense of self-betrayal came upon him. Was this is destiny? Had all his entire life, a life of luxury and splendour, been leading up to this? Yes, he had been fooling himself. This was what he was meant to be. Had God wanted him to inherit his father, his father would have lived long enough to disprivilege his older brother, but since that was not the case, Frederick was apparently meant to live in the gutter. A short burst of his old self then came over him: “Never!”, he thought, “None and nothing shall prevent me from achieving my righteous title!”. He actually stood up and shook his fist against the sky, but quickly realised what he was doing and sat down again. He crossed himself, but did not pray, he did not have the strength to. “No, no, no… it is hopeless”.

He would not return home, he had decided on that much. Exactly what his lot in life would be he could not say, but he would never go home to live as an assistant – and in the shade of – his brother. Never. No, he would never be a merchant. “A beggar I will become”, he thought and grinned ironically at himself where he sat. “Look at me! A beggar already! Yesterday I was a prince! And now… now I am nothing, and I have nothing. I am nothing”.

“But surely I must be something”, he then argued. “I am an intelligent young man, surely the Lord has better use for me than being a drunkard”. “No”, he replied to himself. “I must not fool myself with such thoughts. No…”

These confused and irrational debates continued inside his head for hours, until he finally realised that it was already mid-day and that he had not eaten for almost a day. He began looking around the marketplace, which was now fully awake and crowded with activity, searching for a salesman that sold something eatable. It was then that he noticed an interesting tent…