Irretrievable

Holk had no time to reflect on what he had just heard, for it was a day full of visits and, in general, rather busy. At noon, there appeared two petites-nièces of the Princess, both as pretty as pictures and still only children, who came to fetch their great-aunt to visit an historical exhibition which Professor Marstrand and Professor Melbye had opened on 1 October in some of the side-galleries of the Museum. The whole town was talking about this exhibition and, as usual, politics took second place, although they were days when not only the government but even the monarchy itself seemed threatened. But of what importance was that, compared with the desire of the inhabitants of all big towns, and especially of Copenhagen, to find amusement—an amusement that, on this occasion, could masquerade behind a grand name—patriotism. What was on show was something unprecedented—a Danish national exhibition for which both town and country had been scoured to find historical portraits. It began with knee-length portraits of Christian II and his wife Isabella and concluded with three full-size portraits of Frederick VII, the present reigning monarch. Some distance away hung the portrait of Countess Danner. In between, endless battles on land and sea, fights against Lübeck, the assault on Wisby, the bombardment of Copenhagen, with red-coated generals everywhere but, even more, all the naval heroes over at least three centuries and, inevitably, Thorwaldsen and Öhlenschlager and ugly old Grundtvig. The Princess showed only a lukewarm interest because, as most of the pictures came from the royal palaces scattered all over Zealand, they had long been familiar to her. The young great-nieces, however, were extremely enthusiastic, asking a thousand questions and for a moment creating the impression that they were filled with admiration for all the old admirals, of whom one of the most famous had a black patch over one eye. But in the course of the visit, it became obvious to everyone, including the Princess and her suite, that their interest in admirals was mere pretence and make-believe and that the young princesses lingered with real reverence only in front of the likenesses of those persons, men or women, whose names were connected with some romantic or mysterious love-story or other.

“Strange,” said Pentz to Ebba, pointing to the elder of the two princesses who seemed barely able to tear herself away from the Struensee portrait.

“Not at all,” laughed Ebba. “Not strange at all. Or do you expect young princesses to show an interest in old Grundtvig or perhaps in Bishop Monrad? The episcopal doesn’t carry much weight when you are only fourteen years old.”

In the afternoon, the Princess made an excursion into the surrounding countryside, a very rare thing for her to do, and in the evening, something even rarer, she put in an appearance in her box at the theatre, with Countess Schimmelmann and Ebba sitting behind her and Pentz and Holk behind them.

Shakespeare’s Henry IV part II was being given and in the long interval after the third act, tea was served and, as usual, the play and players were subjected to lively criticism, for the Princess still followed the literary customs of the preceding century. She was amused not only to see that no sort of uniform judgement emerged but that everyone had his or her favourite or bête noire, not only among the actors but also among Shakespeare’s characters. The Princess herself, determined as ever to have an original judgement, was greatly in favour of the three justices of the peace and declared that, even as a young girl, her preference had always been for them; a perfect representation of philistinism had always delighted her, not only on the stage, for magistrates such as these were also to be found in politics and even Ministries—indeed, she could not even entirely exclude her friend Hall—but especially in every synod, you would find at least half a dozen characters like Shallow and Silence. Nobody had a good word to say for Falstaff, perhaps because he was not very well acted, whereas Holk was enthusiastic about Ensign Pistol and Pentz for Mistress Tear-sheet, although instead of using her full name, he insisted on calling her Doll. The Princess allowed him to persevere in what she referred to as his error of taste and indeed she even expressed sympathy for his view, since it was at least sincere and consistent; most of all, however, it was the wisest thing for him to say because any other opinion on his part would, she said, only have aroused her suspicions. Ebba endeavoured to emulate the Princess’s joking manner but failed completely, finally being almost overcome by nervous twitching and trembling. Holk, who noticed this, tried, without great success, to turn the conversation and was heartily glad when the play started again. They did not, however, stay long, barely until the end of the next act, and then the Princess’s carriage was ordered and Pentz and Holk, having been graciously released by the Princess, they strolled by a roundabout route to Vincent’s restaurant, where they intended to finish the evening with an hour’s gossip over a glass or two of Swedish punch.

On the way, Holk said: “Tell me, Pentz, what was the matter with our friend Ebba? She was almost in hysterics. It was painful to watch and even more extraordinary.”

Pentz laughed. “My dear Holk, I can see that you don’t know anything about women.”

“Well, I can’t prove the contrary, because I detest boasting and particularly boasting about women. But as far as Ebba is concerned, I thought I understood her and I still think so. I think that she’s an emancipated and impertinent young woman and I maintain quite seriously that anyone who plays with religious and moral questions in the way she does is, so to speak, in duty bound to enjoy Falstaff’s Doll Tearsheet without reservations or at least not to take offence at her.”

“Yes, that’s what you think, Holk. And that is precisely why I accused you a moment ago of knowing nothing about women. If you did, you would know that it is those who have an iron in the fire who are most offended when they see an outspoken caricature of themselves—it may even be quite an inoffensive one. They have become accustomed to their own idea of themselves, even if they may occasionally have doubts as to the special justification of their morality; but if, beside this image of themselves, a second one appears, exaggerating their own doubts still further, then their complacency completely evaporates. In other words, they are quite prepared to accept the small amount of old Eve which such dubious characters represent, but not one atom more. No exaggeration whatever can be allowed at any price, and so, if they do happen to meet it, they just collapse and burst into tears.”

Holk stopped and said: “Is that really so? Aren’t you asserting more than you can prove? For one thing, I cannot imagine that, apart from any other scruples, the Princess would have chosen to introduce into her court any undesirable woman, in view of her opinion of Countess Danner, whose conduct she’s always criticizing.”

“And yet it is so. I refuse to withdraw anything. Ebba is clearly ambitious for her future and there’s only one thing more certain—she has a past.”

“Yes. I happen to be the sort of person who fortunately stops at nothing, least of all where Ebba i concerned. Anyone who is an outspoken about other people, has forfeited the right to any consideration herself and anyone who so completely disregards discretion—the things I’ve heard from the mouth of that little hussy!—can certainly not appeal for discretion for herself.”

“Well, in one way, nothing or at least, nothing much. Quite an ordinary sort of affair. She was lady-in-waiting to Queen Josephine, over in Stockholm. As you know, the Leuchtenbergs are all very friendly. Now, it must be about a year ago, or rather longer, people began to wonder at the affectionate attentions that the Queen’s youngest son …”

“Yes … that, quite suddenly, the Queen’s youngest son was starting to show his mother. Not that people were left wondering very long. You know those little boats that ply between the Islands of Love in Lake Mälar? Well, since a gondolier from Stockholm can be just as easily bribed as one from Venice, the motives of the prince’s affection soon came to light; they were simply: Fräulein Ebba. Naturally, there was a scene. In spite of all that, the Queen, who was just as besotted with the girl as our Princess, wouldn’t hear of dismissing or disgracing her and only gave in, most unwillingly, to pressure from the court. It was the King who opposed her most of all and who saw quite plainly in all this …”

“So that is why she is so passionately anti-Bernadotte,” interrupted Holk, suddenly remembering some remarks that Ebba had made on the way to the Hermitage, “and hence her burning enthusiasm for the house of Vasa.”

“The house of Vasa,” laughed Pentz. “Yes, that’s her favourite expression now. And yet, believe me, there have been times when our Ebba would have given the whole of the house of Vasa, including the great Gustavus Adolphus himself, for the ring-finger of the youngest Bernadotte. It may perhaps still be so and the bridges to Sweden may not yet be completely cut, because until quite recently at least, some correspondence was still continuing. It’s only this autumn that things seem to have quietened down and, as far as I know, there are no letters arriving now. Presumably there is something else in train. Ebba has always had several irons in the fire.”

“As far as her past in Sweden is concerned, certainly she knows everything and perhaps more than everything, because it’s not a bad thing to invent one or two extra details. It adds to the flavour. Love-stories must never be left unfinished and when harsh reality has cut the thread before its time, then it must be spun out artificially. Every novel-reader expects that and so does our Princess.”

Here their gossip came to an end as they had arrived at Vincent’s, and when, an hour later, they left the restaurant again, they were not alone and so the subject was not renewed.

When Holk came into the entrance-hall, the widow showed herself somewhat monosyllabic, merely handing him a telegram which had arrived in the course of the afternoon. It was brief. With a concision that any business man would have envied, Christine made known three things: her thanks for his note, her satisfaction that he was well, and a promise of a longer letter to follow. Holk quickly perused the telegram in the hall, wished Frau Hansen good night and saying that she need not accompany him, immediately went upstairs to his room, where the lamp was already lit. It could not be said that he was particularly preoccupied by Christine’s words, because he was thinking more of Pentz than of the telegram and was looking forward more to further information about Ebba than to the promised letter. Before going to sleep, however, even these thoughts left him because it suddenly seemed to him that he could quite clearly hear giggling and, in between, a more penetrating sound like the tinkling of glasses. Was it in the house next door or directly underneath him? He found himself resenting it, the more so as he could not conceal from himself a slight feeling of jealousy, jealousy of the “security authority.” But as soon as he had uttered the word, it provided its own remedy, and when he had repeated it once or twice, his good humour returned and sleep came to him at once.

Next morning it was the younger Frau Hansen who appeared with the breakfast and as Holk studied her, he was almost ashamed of his thoughts while going to sleep the night before. Brigitte looked as bright as a spring morning, her eye and complexion were clear and her calm, womanly beauty had almost an air of innocence. She was as reticent as usual and only as she was about to go did she turn to him and say: “I hope the Count was not disturbed. Mother and I couldn’t shut an eye before midnight, they are such strange people next door, never still until late at night and you can hear every word through the wall. And if only that was all …” The count assured her that he had heard nothing and when Brigitte had gone, he had once more fallen under her spell. “I don’t trust her any more than her mother and all I really know about her is that she is very beautiful. But after all, that conversation that I had with her yesterday or the day before, what did it amount to, in fact? You can have a conversation like that with any young woman, or at least with very many. In fact, she said nothing that anyone else might not have said; looks are always uncertain and what’s more, it seems to me that what Pentz was saying was all stuff and nonsense. Now what he said about Ebba was quite different.”

An hour later the postman brought the promised letter. Holk was glad because he did sincerely want to escape for a while from all the disturbing thoughts that these women, including Ebba, had aroused in him, and nothing was better calculated to do this than a letter from Christine. It came from an honest heart and he breathed more freely as he opened the envelope and took out the letter. But he was in for a disappointment, for the letter was so matter-of-fact that all it did was to make him feel uncomfortable.

Dear Helmut [the letter ran], I had intended to write you a longer letter but Alfred, whom you appointed your alter ego during your absence, has just come over from Arnewieck and so I have to make a report to your representative. Schwarzkoppen has, of course, come over with him, which is also very agreeable but takes time, too, and so I must be brief and put off any further information until later. Your hunger for news will, I know, not in any case be very great, as you always let yourself be completely absorbed by your immediate surroundings. And when your immediate surroundings are as beautiful as the captain’s wife and as piquant as Fräulein von Rosenberg whose only fault seems to be that, unfortunately, she did not quite come up to your genealogical expectations, then you are unlikely to be anxious to have news from our dull old Holkenäs, where it is an event if the black hen has seven chicks. The subject that we discussed before you left, I hope to be able to settle finally with Schwarzkoppen’s help. I shall not bother you with details until a definite decision has been taken, as you authorized me to. We are all well. Old Petersen had a bad fainting attack the day before yesterday and we thought it was the end; but he has since completely recovered and came to see me this morning more cheerful and spry than ever. He wants to start excavating behind the farmyard, between the small pond and the old paddock where all the crows’ nests are, and he feels certain of finding something, urns or stone tombs or both. I have given him permission on my own authority and your regent Alfred, as well as you, will, I think, approve. My dear Julie has had a nasty cough but Vichy water and whey have, as usual, worked wonders. Axel is fresh and lively, which no doubt comes from the fact that Strehlke is more interested in shooting than grammar. For the moment, I am taking no steps but it must not be allowed to continue. Asta spends half of every day with Elizabeth. They are very fond of each other, which makes me very happy indeed, for childhood friendships are the most beautiful thing in life. I thank Heaven that in this you agree with me.

As ever,

Your Christine

Holk put the letter down. “What on earth is all that about? I expected affection and find nothing but sneers. The fact that they are veiled only makes matters worse. ‘Your regent Alfred’ and earlier on ‘as beautiful as the captain’s wife and as piquant as Fräulein von Rosenberg’ would have been quite enough but that final remark about childhood friendships being the most beautiful thing in life—that really is going too far. It all has the taste of bitter honey. And then all these questions of schools and education. Perhaps that’s the explanation, and she is adopting this sarcastic tone merely to intimidate me and have a freer hand. But it really wasn’t necessary to use those means. She’s free to dictate what is to happen. Best of all, I should have liked to have kept the children at home because, once they have gone, I shall be left alone with a wife who possesses all the virtues which I find depressing. She knows that as well as I do, and meanwhile I think she is rather afraid herself of all her virtues. But if the children are to go anyway, it makes not an atom of difference to me whether they go to Gnadau or Gnadenberg or even Gnadenfrei. I have no doubt that there will always be religion about somewhere. It may not be too bad, for Asta at any rate. And Axel? Well, as far as I’m concerned, for him, too. He’s a Holk and if he finds himself completely herrnhuterised for the moment and becomes a missionary and perhaps has three years among the Eskimos in Greenland, he’ll recover from it later on, I’ve no doubt.”

17