In a Dark Wood Wandering

by Hella S. Haasse

  Published by

  Academy Chicago Publishers

  363 West Erie Street

  Chicago, Illinois 60610

  Hardcover edition Sept 1989

  First paperback edition April 1991

  Reprinted Aug 1991, Dec 1991, April 1994, March 1997, January 2002

  Het woud der verwachting

  Copyright © 1949 by Em. Querido’s Uitgeverij B.V., Amsterdam English translation: Copyright © by Edith Kaplan, Kalman Kaplan, and Anita Miller

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.

  Acknowledgment is gratefully made to Princeton University for the excerpt from The Divine Comedy by Dante Alighieri, translated by Charles Singleton, Bollingen Series 80, Volume I: Inferno.

  Copyright © 1970 by Princeton University Press.

  We wish to thank the Philadelphia Museum of Art for permission to reproduce the tapestry, “Scene of Courtly Life.” Philadelphia Museum of Art: Purchased: Subscription and Museum Funds.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Haasse, Hella S., 1918-

  In a dark wood wandering.

  Translation of: Het woud der verwachtig.

  1. Charles, d’Orléans, 1394–1465—Fiction. I. Miller, Anita, 1926- II. Title. PT5838.H45W613 1989 839.3’ 1364 89-17814

  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  Prologue

  First Book: Youth

  I Louis d’Orleans, The Father

  II Of Valentine, The Mother

  III Burgundians and Armagnacs

  Second Book: The Road to Nonchaloir

  I Exile

  II The Thought Book

  Introduction

  This novel, written in Dutch, was first published in the Netherlands in 1949; it has never been out of print. Hella Haasse’s interest in the Middle Ages—and especially in the fifteenth century—had begun when she was a child in Batavia in the Dutch East Indies (now Jakarta, Indonesia). Her attention had been captured when, in 1924 at the age of six, she had seen a portrait of Queen Isabeau in her tall, veiled headdress. At once, she says, “I wanted to know all about that person.” This interest persisted: “While most boys and girls my age were collecting stamps or pictures of film stars, I collected books, articles and pictures about the Middle Ages.” In 1938 or ’39, while she was a student at the University of Amsterdam, she came by chance across an edition in the library of a collection of the poems of Charles d’Orléans, and everything she had read and thought about the fifteenth century crystallized around him.

  During the German occupation, Hella Haasse chose to leave the University, where she had been studying Scandinavian languages and literature, rather than sign a statement of loyalty to the Reich, as all students there were required to do. She went instead to the Amsterdam Academy of Dramatic Art and, upon graduation in 1943, joined a theatrical company managed by Cees Laseur, one of Holland’s foremost actors—but only for a short time: the war was too overwhelming. She turned instead to research into the life and times of Charles d’Orléans and after the war began a play on that theme which grew into this novel.

  In the fall of 1945 her first book, a volume of poetry, was published, and in 1947 her first work of fiction appeared: Oeroeg, a novella about the relationship between a Dutch and a Javanese youth. The success of this book—about 300,000 copies are now in print—encouraged its Dutch publisher to issue the massive medieval novel entitled Het woud der verwachting: literally, the Forest of Long Awaiting, a metaphor popular with medieval poets and one used by Charles d’Orléans himself. The book was hailed immediately by Dutch literary critics as a major work. In 1950, in a review in English in the Times Literary Supplement, it was called “monumental”, scholarly and admirably lucid, with characters which “take their place as living human beings”.

  At this point the scene shifts to Chicago, where Lewis C. Kaplan was working as a postal clerk, a job he had held since 1939 when he left the WPA Federal Writers Project. The Chicago post office at that time was a haven for literary refugees from the Depression; Mr. Kaplan worked with Nelson Algren, Jack Conroy, Willard Motley and the future Chicago bookseller Stuart Brent. Mr. Kaplan’s first love was translation. His method was to spend many months with dictionaries and grammar books and then to embark on the translation of works which he deemed worthwhile and which otherwise would not be available to the English-speaking world. In this way he had translated three novels from the Portuguese: Enrico Verissimo’s Crossroads and The Rest is Silence, published by Macmillan in 1943 and 1946 respectively, and Graciliano Ramos’s Anguish, brought out by Knopf in 1946. In the early fifties, Mr. Kaplan had begun to familiarize himself with Dutch. Through his job in the post office, he had access to foreign periodicals and he scanned the Dutch reviews in search of worthwhile material for translation. In 1953 he came across comments on Het woud der verwachting and was attracted to it not only because the reviews were universally enthusiastic, but because it appeared to be a work of epic dimensions and he preferred large canvases.

  Mr. Kaplan contacted Hella Haasse through Querido, her Dutch publisher, who passed his letter on to her; they added that they knew Mr. Kaplan: he was a German refugee who had worked for a time, after the war, in their offices as an editor and had then moved to England. Accordingly, the author gave Mr. Kaplan her blessing. Mr. Kaplan, who had been born in Chicago in 1911 and had lived there all his life, and had never implied otherwise, set to work immediately upon receipt of the Dutch volume, unaware that the people at Querido had apparently confused him with another Kaplan. He worked steadily every evening and on weekends, although his health was not good; his heart had been affected by a childhood attack of rheumatic fever. Within five years, but with no further contact with Hella Haasse, he had completed his first draft of the book. In 1958, when he had revised the first 150 pages more or less to his satisfaction, he became very ill. The night before he was hospitalized, he stood—too sick to sit or lie down—using the television set as a desk in his small Chicago lake-front apartment, still at work on the manuscript. A few days later, he was dead.

  His widow, understandably distraught, disposed of all his effects. His Dutch books she donated to Deering Library at Northwestern University; the manuscript itself, which had no title page or identification of any kind, she put in a black briefcase which she stowed at the back of a closet where it was to remain for twenty years. During that time Hella Haasse thought occasionally of Mr. Kaplan and the English version of Het woud der verwachting; it seemed to her that he was taking a considerable time to complete his work, but she knew that he had tackled a formidable task and, with commendable sensitivity, she hesitated to give him the impression that he was being rushed. Her writing career and her role as the mother of two daughters were taking all her attention; in 1959 she received one of two International Atlantic awards for Literature from the Atlantic Cultural Commission of NATO; in that twenty years she produced at least a dozen novels and she had achieved a reputation as one of the Netherlands’ foremost authors, and was to go on to win many more prizes and honors.

  In the late 1970s a fire broke out in the Kaplan apartment. Mrs. Kaplan enlisted the help of her son Kalman, who at the time was a research assistant and guest lecturer at Harvard University, to clean up the ensuing mess. In the course of clearing out a closet, Kalman Kaplan came across the black briefcase and asked his mother about its sopping contents. Mrs. Kaplan knew only that it was the work her husband had been doing before he died. Dr. Kaplan dried out the sheets with some difficulty, and then attempted to find out what this manuscript was since, as we have said, it was untitled and had no author’s name. He
sent it off to a publisher in Michigan who responded that it appeared to be some sort of saga, like The Thorn Birds or Gone With the Wind. But they did not publish fiction.

  Fortunately, shortly after this, Mrs. Kaplan came up with a piece of paper with “Hella Haasse” written on it. Dr. Kaplan, now armed with a name, telephoned the Library of Congress, who gave him the Dutch title and the Dutch publisher. This was in 1979. Although he contacted Querido immediately, Dr. Kaplan did not hear from the author until 1982; some confusion had apparently resulted from a change of directors at Querido and because Hella Haasse had been in the process of moving from Holland to France. In the meantime, Dr. Kaplan copyrighted his father’s manuscript under the title The Forest of Expectations. Finally, in 1982 Hella Haasse gave Dr. Kaplan permission to market the translation, subject to her approval of it.

  At this time Dr. Kaplan was teaching in the psychology department of Wayne State University in Detroit. On a visit to his mother in Chicago, he happened to see an article in The Chicago Tribune about our publishing house. He phoned me, and I told him to bring the manuscript to us so we could look at it. Dr. Kaplan carried a cardboard carton up to our offices in the old Mandel Building on the Chicago River; it contained an 1100-page manuscript divided into five or six sections, each section held together at the top by two large metal rings. He gave me also a separate manuscript of the first seventy-five pages of the book cleanly typed, because his father’s pages were basically worksheets: it had been Lewis Kaplan’s practice to look up Dutch words and type their English definitions on each line, often with snatches of Dutch; when he went back for his revision, he crossed out the words he had decided not to use; occasionally he crossed them all out and wrote the chosen word above them, or added a possible alternative in handwriting in the margin. This of course made the translation very difficult to read.

  Therefore, I read Dr. Kaplan’s seventy-five pages and on the strength of them we signed a contract for the book. With historical fiction, one always hesitates: does the author have a sure hand and a real insight into the period? Although I knew virtually nothing about medieval French history, I recognized immediately the sweep and scope of the drama unfolding here; this was unquestionably a serious and impressive work. It was in essence an uncompleted manuscript, and I was prepared to do a considerable amount of editing. I was sent a copy of the Dutch edition, but I set it aside since I knew no Dutch. I began to write out what I considered a coherent revision of Mr. Kaplan’s translation; I had to write it, so to speak, in order to read it. I filled notebook after notebook in the evenings and on weekends, on airplanes and in hotel rooms. Like Mr. Kaplan, I was prevented by the press of business from working on the book on weekdays. When I had completed and typed each hundred pages or so, I sent them to Hella Haasse, along with questions about things that puzzled me, for her comments and corrections. In this way the new manuscript grew and was nearly complete by early 1988. All medieval French and some of the pages dealing with the sojourn in Pontefract castle which had eluded Mr. Kaplan, Hella Haasse herself translated for me. She is fluent in English and has in fact translated Iris Murdoch’s The Bell as well as some medieval English poetry into Dutch.

  I had a manuscript, but I was uncomfortably aware that I had polished and rearranged Mr. Kaplan’s sentences and that, since I had not looked at the original text, I might have carried the prose, inadvertently, far from the rhythm of the Dutch prose. I felt I had no choice but to follow in Mr. Kaplan’s footsteps by procuring a Dutch dictionary and painfully fighting my way through the Prologue in Dutch. I discovered that I had indeed smoothed away a good deal of the vigor and liveliness of Hella Haasse’s style. Accordingly I revised the first fifty pages working against the Dutch text, and the author made further emendations. I called upon a Dutch friend, Nini Blinstrub, who lives in Chicago, and she spent a long afternoon with me, going line by line over some scenes that I had felt to be murky or confusing. I then went carefully over the last hundred pages of the book and over all scenes that seemed ambiguous, to make sure that they corresponded in tone and meaning with the Dutch original. I had learned also that Mr. Kaplan had worked from an edition of the book containing passages which the author had cut from later editions; it was necessary to check constantly against the Dutch text to make sure that these passages were also excluded from the English translation. Finally, Hella Haasse flew to Chicago in March of 1989 to go over the book with me line by line as Nini Blinstrub had done with a limited number of pages. Thus—although I am uneasily aware that nothing is perfect in this world—both Hella Haasse and I are satisfied that the following pages offer a faithful English version of a book which I, like Lewis Kaplan, am convinced is far too important to be kept from readers of English.

  The question of the title was a knotty one: the author was not happy with “The Forest of Expectations”; “verwachting” does not mean “expectations” but “long awaiting”. There is no real English equivalent. Since we were fortunate to have a son who specialized in Renaissance literature, we turned to him and he suggested the line from Dante that resulted in the present title. Hella Haasse was delighted with “In a Dark Wood Wandering” and that now seems to us to be the only possible English title for this work, although we spent weeks agonizing over it.

  Here then, after forty years of accidents and disasters, and as a direct result of Lewis Kaplan’s remarkable choice of avocation, is an unforgettable chronicle, rescued from its wanderings in the wilderness.

  —Anita Miller

  Chicago, Illinois

  May, 1989

  CAST OF MAJOR CHARACTERS

  NOVEMBER 24, 1394

  Valentine Visconti, Duchess of Orléans.

  Wife of the King’s brother, Louis d’Orléans, daughter of Gian Galeazzo Visconti, Lord of Milan.

  Charles VI, King of France.

  The elder son of Charles V, who was also known as Charles the Wise.

  Isabeau, Queen of France.

  The wife of Charles VI.

  Louis, Duke of Orléans.

  The younger son of Charles the Wise; brother to Charles VI, husband of Valentine Visconti.

  Philippe, Duke of Burgundy.

  Also known as Philippe the Bold (Philippe le Hardi). Brother of Charles the Wise and therefore uncle to Charles VI and Louis d’Orléans. He is married to Margaretha of Flanders; their son is Jean de Nevers.

  Jean, Duke of Berry.

  An obsessive aesthete, collector and bibliophile. The patron of the famous Book of Hours. Also a brother of Charles the Wise and therefore uncle to Charles VI and Louis d’Orléans.

  Louis, Duke of Bourbon.

  Brother-in-law of Charles the Wise and therefore uncle to Charles VI and Louis d’Orléans on their mother’s side (Queen Jeanne).

  PROLOGUE

  (NOVEMBER 24, 1394)

  Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita

  mi ritrovae per una selva oscura,

  che la deritta via era smarrita.

  In the middle of the journey of our life,

  I found myself in a dark wood,

  For the straight way was lost.

  — Dante Alighieri

  alentine, Duchess of Orléans, lay in her green-curtained bed of state, listening to the bells of Saint-Pol. The church was not far from the royal > palace—only a stone’s throw away. The pealing of the bells swelled into a heavy sea of cheerless sound; Valentine folded her hands over the green coverlet. The christening procession of her fourth son, Charles, had left the palace.

  The people of Paris, crowded behind the wooden barriers set up to protect the procession, strained to see Charles VI, the godfather of the royal child, and the King’s brother Louis, the father, preceded by torchbearers, noblemen, high dignitaries of the Church and clergy. Following Charles and Louis were their uncles: Philippe, Duke of Burgundy, and the Dukes of Berry and Bourbon.

  The King walked faster than the solemnity of the occasion dictated; the agitated movements of his head and his aimless, wandering stare betrayed his u
nfortunate mental condition even to the uninitiated. But the spectators’ attention was riveted on Louis the Duke of Orléans, because of his smile and splendid clothes, and on Isabeau the Queen, surrounded by princesses and royal kinswomen and followed by many ladies-in-waiting. In the midst of the women’s crowns, veils, pointed headdresses and trailing ermine-trimmed mantles, the infant Charles d’Orléans was carried to church for the first time.

  Valentine’s weary body lay beneath the coverlet. She stared at the women busying themselves at the hearth, at the open cupboard filled with platters and tankards, the torches set along the walls in their iron brackets, the green wall hangings of the ducal lying-in chamber. Before the hearthfire stood the cradle on small wooden wheels in which Charles had slept from the moment that, washed, rubbed with honey and wrapped in linen cloth, he had been entrusted to the care of his nurse, Jeanne la Brune. Women hurried back and forth from the adjoining room, filling the platters on the sideboard with sweets and fruit, bringing green cushions for the benches along the walls. The torches gave off a stupefying smell of resin; their heat, together with the heat of the hearthfire, was almost unbearable in the tightly-closed room. The Duchess broke into a sweat.

  Her body had been worn out by four confinements in four years’ time. But more exhausting still, perhaps, was the pace of court life—an uninterrupted series of dances, masquerades and banquets. On Valentine Visconti, exhaustion worked like a poison. At her father’s court in Pavia, she had loved the small elegant gatherings frequented by poets and scholars, the debates and word games, the music played in her own chambers. Gian Galeazzo Visconti, although denounced as a tyrant and a sorcerer, had a more acute eye for learning and the fine arts than the pretentious inhabitants of Saint-Pol.

  The glitter of the torch flames, reflected in the gold and silver plate on the sideboard, hurt her eyes. She closed them and sank away instantly into a deep pool of exhaustion, a darkness without rest, riddled with the voices and stifled laughter of the women. It seemed to her that the walls of Saint-Pol vibrated with sound like the walls of a gigantic beehive. The entire enormous palace, with its complex structure which linked halls, chambers, towers, bastions, inner courtyards, annexes, stables and gardens, enclosed her like a honeycomb of cells, buzzing with bees. She was aware all at the same time of members of the household running up and down the stairs and through the corridors; of the continuous uproar in and around the kitchens, larders and wine cellars where the christening meal and the banquet were being prepared; of the stamping of hooves and the jingle of weapons and armor in the guardrooms; of the chirping and twittering of birds in the great indoor aviary; of the roaring of lions—the King’s menagerie—in their winter quarters. And more disturbing than all this was the ceaseless cacophony of the bells. She murmured prayers and endeavored to lose herself in thoughts of the ceremony nearby in the church of Saint-Pol, where even now her son was receiving baptism over the basin hung with gold brocade. She thought of her brother-in-law the King who, as godfather, had to hold the child in his right arm throughout the christening. She had been told that he was pleased at the birth and the planned festivities.