The company remained together until eleven, but, in spite of this, Holk insisted on accompanying the Schleppegrells for part of their way home. This offer was gratefully accepted and Holk went with them to where the path went round the end of the lake. He had left Erichsen to accompany Ebba, much to her amazement.
From the point of the lake back to the castle was not very far, but far enough to justify Holk’s astonishment when, on climbing the tower-stairs to his room, he found Erichsen and Ebba still in lively conversation at the door of her room. But his surprise was not of long duration, for it was quite obvious that Ebba had only detained the poor baron in order to make it plain to Holk that she was not accustomed to finding herself neglected for anyone and least of all for the provincial Schleppegrells. “Ah, we meet again,” she said addressing the count as, with a polite smile, he tried to go past her and Erichsen. “Oh dear, those Schleppegrells … and particularly the pastor! As a young man, the Princess assured me, he used to win every heart with his apostle’s head and now, in his old age, he does it with Herluf Trolle. I can’t really consider it an improvement.”
With these words she made a bow and went into her room, where Karin was awaiting her.
It was morning and the sun was shining brightly through the window, as it does only on November mornings; but the night had been very stormy. A south-easter had made the lightning-conductor, which ran down the side of the tower, rattle furiously all night, but even more disturbing had been the moon which, despite the storm, had shone straight on to Holk’s bed, although it stood in a deep recess in the wall. He could have protected himself from its strange effect by drawing the blinds, but that went even more against the grain; he wanted at least to be able to see what it was outside that was depriving him of his sleep. Towards morning, he fell into an uneasy slumber disturbed by frightening dreams. Blown up with the Immaculate, he had just seized a piece of mast to save himself when Ebba emerged like a mermaid from the other side, tore him from the mast and hurled him back into the water. At this point he awoke. He recalled his dream and said to himself: “She would have been quite capable of it.”
He was about to follow up this train of thought when he was prevented by the arrival, with his breakfast, of an old gardener who acted as a house-servant whenever the Princess had guests in the castle and who apologized, as he laid the table, for being so late. Fräulein von Rosenberg had already expressed her disapproval, he said, and rightly so, but it would soon be different, things were not yet properly organized. While talking, he handed Holk his newspapers and a letter. Holk took it and saw that there was no postmark. “No,” said the gardener, “it didn’t come through the post. Pastor Schleppegrell sent it by hand and another one for the Fräulein.” And the old man departed.
“Ah, from Pastor Schleppegrell,” said Holk, when he was alone. “Splendid. I’m curious to know what he has to say.”
But his curiosity could not have been over-strong, for he put the letter on one side while he finished his appetizing breakfast and then picked it up again and sat down at his writing-table, in a rocking-chair that hardly seemed to match the other furniture in the room.
My dear Count,
Your kind interest in my friend Herluf Trolle has encouraged me to send you a fragment of a ballad concerning this hero which I found some time ago and have translated from the old Danish. It is hardly necessary for me to ask for tolerance on behalf of this ballad, because whenever we read something with love, we are bound to read with indulgence. At about eleven o’clock, my wife and I intend to fetch you and Fräulein von Rosenberg (whom I am informing at the same time as you) for a walk in the park together, perhaps towards Fredensborg. We shall hardly be able to go more than a third of the way but it is the first third that is particularly lovely, lovelier at this season than perhaps at any other. We shall be back at twelve noon, so that we may appear punctually before our gracious mistress the Princess to partake of her festive lunch, for it will undoubtedly be a minor feast.
Your devoted and respectful,
Arvid Schleppegrell
Enclosed with the letter was a pink sheet of paper covered with verses in a feminine hand. “Ah, presumably the handwriting of my tiny friend the pastor’s wife. She seems to be one of those kind people who believe in making themselves useful by doing favours, because I can hardly imagine that she nourishes a personal passion for Herluf Trolle. But be that as it may, I’m curious to know how Pastor Schleppegrell has christened his piece.” He picked up the pink sheet and glanced at the title, which read: The Burial of Admiral Herluf Trolle. “Excellent, at least we know what it’s all about”; and he pushed his rocking-chair up to the window and read:
Ein Bote mit Meldung ritt ihnen voraus.
Und als in den Schloßhof sie schritten,
Brigitte stand vor dem Trauerhaus
In ihrer Frauen Mitten.[1]
“Ah, that must be Brigitte Goje, his pious wife whom we heard all about yesterday; pious and pretty and as hard as a stone towards the Bishop of Röskilde. But let us see what Schleppegrell has to say about her in his ballad.”
Am Eingange stand sie, grüßte den Zug,
Aufrecht und ungebrochen,
Und der Erste (der das Bahrtuch trug)
Trat vor und hat gesprochen:
“Was geschehen, wir sandten die Meldung dir,
Eh’ den Weg wir selber gingen,
Seine Seel’ ist frei, seine Hüll’ ist hier,
Du weißt, wen wir dir bringen.
“An der pommerschen Küste vor Pudagla-Golm,
Um den schwankenden Sieg uns zu retten,
So fiel er. Nun Herrin von Herlufsholm
Sage, wohin wir ihn betten.
“Betten wir ihn in den Toten-Saal
Von Thorslund oder Olafskirke?
Betten wir ihn in den Gjeddesdal
Unter der Trauerbirke?
“Betten wir ihn in die Kryptkapell’n
In Röskilde, Leire, Ringstede?
Sage, Herrin, wohin wir ihn stell’n
Eine Ruhestatt für ihn hat jede.
“Jeder Kirche gab er, um was sie bat,
Altäre, Türme, Glocken,
Und jede, wenn sie hört, ‘er naht,’
Wird in Leide frohlocken.
“Eine jede ladet ihn zu sich ein
In ihrer Pfeiler Schatten …”
—Da sprach Brigitte: “Hier soll es sein,
Hier wollen wir ihn bestatten.
“Wohl hat er hier keine Kirche gebaut
—Die stand schon viel hundert Jahre—
Hier aber, als Herluf Trolles Braut,
Stand ich mit ihm am Altare.
“Vor demselben Altar, auf selbem Stein,
Steh’ er wieder in aller Stille,
Nichts soll dabei gesprochen sein,
Als, Herr, es geschehe Dein Wille.
“Morgen aber, eh’ noch der Tag erstand,
In seinen Kirchen allen,
Weit über die See, weit über das Land,
Soll’n alle Glocken erschallen.
“Und zittert himmelan die Luft
Als ob Schlachtendonner rolle,
Dann in die Herlufsholmer Gruft
Senken wir Herluf Trolle.”[2]
Holk pushed the sheet back into the envelope and repeated softly to himself: “Dann in die Herlufsholmer Gruft senken wir Herluf Trolle … Hm, I like that. I like it very much. There is no real content and it is just a situation and not a poem but that doesn’t matter. It has a certain tone and just as the colouring makes a picture, at least my brother-in-law has assured me so more than once, in the same way the tone makes a poem. And Alfred is probably right as usual. I shall make a copy of it today and send it to Christine. Or better still, I shall send her the sheet of red paper straightaway and the fact that the poem comes from a pastor’s house will be a special recommendation for her. But I must first remember to ask the little woman to write her name and above all her status on the paper, otherwise the whole thing may misfire. The pink paper is suspect enough, in any case, and that handwriting as stiff as a laundry-list, well, who could say where that comes from? Court ladies also have strange handwriting sometimes.”
Looking at his watch, he perceived that it was approaching eleven o’clock and so he interrupted his reflections. If he was going to be dressed and ready by the time the Schleppegrells appeared, he would have to hurry. What would the paths be like, incidentally? Shortly before midnight, rain had fallen, and even if the south-east wind had dried up a good deal of it, he knew from his park at Holkenäs that paths are usually difficult after rainy weather. He chose his dress accordingly and hardly was he ready than the Schleppegrells appeared in the courtyard. He called to them not to trouble to come up; he would fetch Ebba and be with them at once. Less than five minutes later, they all met at the front entrance and passed through the castle to leave by an equally imposing back entrance giving on to the park. Here they met Erichsen, who was just returning from a ninety-minute constitutional but expressed his readiness to join them for another walk, an offer which was admiringly accepted. Erichsen therefore gave his arm to Ebba, while Holk followed with the little pastor’s wife, with Schleppegrell himself in the lead. As at their first meeting, he wore a voluminous, shapeless cloak, which covered him from shoulder to toe, and a soft felt hat; he carried a heavy oak stick which he brandished vigorously, when he was not throwing it up and catching it again.
Although Holk would have greatly preferred to be walking beside Ebba, he showed Frau Schleppegrell every attention and asked her, in case he should not have the opportunity of doing so himself, to express to her husband his delight at receiving the ballad; adding that he was hardly less indebted to herself, since he had no doubt that the copy had been in her hand.
“Yes,” she replied. “We must help one another, that is really the best thing in marriage. Helping and supporting each other and, above all, showing consideration and trying to see the justice of the other’s point of view. After all, what is right? It’s always changing and varying. But with a good husband, it is never wrong to defer to his wishes.”
Holk made no reply and the little woman went on talking in this way, little realizing what thoughts and reflections she was arousing in his mind. The sun which, earlier on, had been shining so brightly, had now gone in, the wind had changed and a grey haze covered the sky; but such a light made the clumps of trees stand out with wonderful clarity across the wide park meadows. The air was mild yet fresh and on the slope of a sheltered terrace, various flower-beds planted with late asters could be seen; but everywhere in the hollows of the meadows there were large and small ornamental lakes, beside which stood chalets and summer-houses with fantastically shaped roofs from which the leafless branches of various creepers were hanging down. Almost every tree was bare; only the plane trees still retained some of their foliage but each stronger gust of wind loosened some of their long yellow leaves, scattering them over the meadow and the paths. At no great distance from the castle ran a broad moat, crossed by a number of rustic birch-wood bridges. There was no bridge, however, at the point where Schleppegrell now reached the moat but, instead, a ferry-boat with a rope stretched from one bank to the other, by means of which the punt could be effortlessly pulled across. Once across, it was but a short distance to a small hillock from which, as Schleppegrell assured them, they could see equally well northwards to Fredensborg and southwards to Fredericksborg castles. This project, however, had to be abandoned for lack of time and they returned by a shorter route to the castle.
Holk had not left Frau Schleppegrell’s side throughout but after they had recrossed the moat, they changed companions. Erichsen now gave his arm to the pastor’s wife, and Holk and Ebba, who had till now had no opportunity of talking together, followed, lagging further and further behind.
“I was afraid that I had been sacrificed to your latest passion,” said Ebba. “A dangerous pair, the Schleppegrells. The husband yesterday, today the wife.”
“Ah, my dear Ebba, you are trying to flatter me by casting me in the role of a Don Juan.”
“And with such a Zerlina! In fact, with Zerlina’s great-aunt. What was she talking to you about? She seemed to be going at full speed all the time, as far as I could see …”
“Well, it was about all sorts of things; about Hilleröd and its life in the winter and that the town was divided into two halves, the military and the civil: one might almost imagine oneself in Germany. On the whole, a charming little woman, full of bon sens but also extremely simple and narrow, so that I can hardly understand how the pastor is able to bear her and even less how the Princess can spend hours chatting with her.”
Ebba laughed: “How little you know! Everything seems to prove to me that you only have contact with princesses once in a blue moon. Believe me, there is nothing too petty to interest a princess and the more scandalous the better. Tom Jensen has gone off to India and married a native and all his daughters are black and all his sons white; and Brodersen the chemist is said to have poisoned his wife with nicotine; the second gamekeeper fell into a limekiln as he was climbing out of his sweetheart’s window last night—I promise you that such things interest our Princess more than the whole Schleswig-Holstein question, in spite of the fact that some people assert that she is the life and soul of the movement.”
“Ah, Ebba, you say that because you are a born cynic and like exaggerating everything.”
“I accept your comments because I would rather be like that than the opposite. All right then, I’m a cynic and a mauvaise langue and anything else you like. But that still doesn’t alter in the slightest what I have just said about princesses. The more intelligent and witty the great are and the better developed their feeling and eye for the ridiculous, the more quickly and surely they come to realize that bores are as nice and as amusing as interesting people.”
“And you dare to say that yourself, when you are the living proof of the opposite! What is it that has won you your place in the Princess’s affections? The fact that you are intelligent and knowledgeable, full of ideas and can talk, in short, that you are more interesting than Schimmelmann.”
“No, it is simply that I am different from her and she is just as indispensable to the Princess as I am or Erichsen or Pentz or perhaps even …”
“… Holk.”
“I did not say so. But shall we stop and have a rest for a moment, even though we are a long way behind? Here’s a delightful spot where we have an excellent view of the castle from the back. Just look how everything stands out so wonderfully, the main roof and the steep roofs of the towers on both sides, in spite of the fact that everything is the same colour of grey.”
“Yes,” said Holk, “everything does stand out splendidly. But it’s the light itself that is causing it and castles oughtn’t to be built with such a special light in mind. Those two splendid red brick towers in which we are living should have been built higher before putting on the pointed slate or shingle roof. As it is at present, it looks as if you could go straight from the lowest dormer-window of the tower on to the big cross-roof and take a walk out along the gutter.”
Ebba merely nodded, not tempted to follow Holk in his disquisition on these structural and lighting problems, and they both began to step out, as they thought that they noticed the pastor waiting for them to catch up. As they came nearer, however, they saw that there was another reason and that Schleppegrell, though pressed for time, wanted to draw their attention to a special object which turned out to be nothing more nor less than a huge stone, slightly hollowed out, on the top of which were carved the words: “Christian IV, 1628.” As they approached it, Holk suggested that it had presumably been a favourite spot for the king to sit and rest, to which Schleppegrell retorted: “Yes, that was so. It was a place where he rested, but not regularly—in fact, on one occasion only. There is a little story attached to it …”
“Do tell us,” they all cried, but taking out his silver watch-case, to which a large watch-key was attached by a rather shabby green ribbon, he drew their attention to the hands which were pointing at ten minutes to twelve. “We must hurry or we shall be late. I will tell you about it at luncheon, provided that it can be told, which I rather doubt.”
“A pastor can tell anything,” said Ebba, “especially in the presence of a princess, because princesses are a law unto themselves and what they say is always right. And especially our Princess. I guarantee that she will not say no.”
And lengthening their stride, they walked towards the castle.
[1] A courier rode ahead with the message and as they came into the courtyard, Brigitte stood before the house of mourning surrounded by her women.
[2] She stood at the entrance and greeted the procession, upright and steadfast, and the first man, the pall-bearer, stepped forward and spoke: “We have sent the tidings before us on the way. His soul is free, his body lies here, you know whom we are bringing. On the Pomeranian coast off Pudagla-Golm, when victory was uncertain, he fell to ensure it. Now mistress of Herlufsholm, tell us where we are to lay him to rest. Shall we lay him to rest in the burial vault of Thorslund or Olaf’s church? or in the valley of Gjeddes beneath the weeping-birch? Or shall we lay him to rest in the chapels in the crypts of Röskilde or Leire or Ringstede? Say, Mistress, where shall we lay him?” “Each church has a resting-place for him. He gave each church what it desired, altars, towers, bells, and each one when they hear ‘he is approaching,’ will rejoice in its grief. Each one of them will invite him into the shadow of its columns.” Then Brigitte spoke: “Here must we bring him. True, he has built no church here, for one has been standing here for many a hundred year, but I stood with Herluf Trolle as his bride here at the altar. Before the same altar, on the same stone, let him lie here in peace and silence; no word shall be spoken save that God’s will be done. But tomorrow, before the day dawns, in all his churches, far and wide over sea and land, all the bells shall ring out and when the air resounds to heaven as if with the thunderous roar of battle, we shall lower Herluf Trolle into his grave at Herlufsholm.”