The Royal Physician's Visit

by Per Olov Enquist

  Had he lost control of the situation? He wasn’t sure. He had suppressed things. She sat across from him at the desk, listening and commenting.

  “I must teach you about the great game,” she would say to him now and then, since she knew that he detested that expression. Once, apparently in jest, he reminded her of her motto: “O, keep me innocent, make others great.”

  “That was back then,” she said. “That was in beforetimes. That was so long ago.”

  “In beforetimes,” she used to say quite often, in her odd way of speaking. There were many things that were “in beforetimes.”

  4.

  How infinitely quiet the castle had become. As if the silence of the castle, the lake, and the parks had become part of Struensee’s inner silence.

  He often sat at the little girl’s bedside when she slept, looking at her face. So innocent, so lovely. How long would it last?

  “What’s the matter with you?” Caroline Mathilde asked him one evening. “You’ve grown so quiet.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?!!”

  He couldn’t explain. He had dreamed about all of this, about being able to change everything, having all power; but now life had abated. Perhaps this was what it was like to die. Just giving up, dozing off.

  “What’s the matter with you?” she repeated.

  “I don’t know. Sometimes I have such a longing to sleep. To just fall asleep. To die.”

  “You’re dreaming about dying?” she said in a sharp voice that he didn’t recognize. “Well, I’m not. I’m still young.”

  “Yes, forgive me.”

  “In fact,” she said with a kind of restrained rage, “I’m just starting to live!!!”

  He could find no reply.

  “I don’t understand you at all,” she said.

  That day a slight misunderstanding had occurred between them, although it evaporated when they withdrew to the Queen’s bed-chamber.

  They made love.

  Whenever they made love during that late summer he was often seized, afterward, with an inexplicable anxiety. He didn’t know what it was. He left her bed, opened the window drapes, and looked out at the water. He heard a flute and knew that it was Brandt. Why did he always want to look outside, and away, after they made love? He didn’t know. His nose pressed to the windowpane; was he a bird that wanted out? That was impossible. He had to finish what he had set out to do.

  One or two friends left. One or two. Flight or death. Monsieur Voltaire had also been naive.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  He didn’t reply.

  “I know,” she told him. “You’re proud of yourself. You know you’re a fantastic lover. That’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Some people are good at it,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’ve always been good at it.”

  Too late he realized what he had said and regretted it. But she had heard, understood the implication, and at first did not reply. Then she said:

  “You’re the only one I’ve ever had. So I have nothing to compare it to. That’s the difference.”

  “I know.”

  “Apart from the madman. I forgot about that. In a certain sense I do love him. Do you know that?”

  She looked at his back to see whether he would be hurt, but she couldn’t see anything. She hoped it had hurt him. It would be so amusing if he was hurt.

  No answer.

  “He’s not as perfect as you are. Not as fantastic. But he wasn’t as bad a lover as you might think. Are you hurt now? He was like a child that time. It was almost … exciting. Are you hurt?”

  “I can leave if you like.”

  “No.”

  “Yes, I’ll leave.”

  “When I want you to leave,” she said in the same, low, friendly voice, “then you may leave. Not before. Not a second before.”

  “What do you want? I can hear in your voice that there’s something you want.”

  “I want you to come here.”

  He stood there, knowing that he didn’t want to move but that he would probably end up doing so anyway.

  “I want to know what you’re thinking,” she said after a long silence.

  “I’m thinking,” he said, “that before, I thought I was in control. Now I no longer believe that. Where did it go?”

  She didn’t reply.

  “Monsieur Voltaire, with whom I have also corresponded,” he began, “Monsieur Voltaire thought that I could be the spark. That would light the prairie fire. Where did it go?”

  “You’ve lit it in me,” she said. “In me. And now we will burn together. Come.”

  “Do you know,” he told her, “do you know that you are strong? And sometimes I’m afraid of you.”

  5.

  At the best of times Christian was allowed to play undisturbed.

  The ones who were allowed to play undisturbed were Christian, the Negro page Moranti, little Phebe, and the dog. They played in the King’s bedchamber. The bed was quite wide, with room for all four of them. Christian had wrapped a sheet around Moranti, entirely covering him, and they were playing court.

  Moranti was the King. He was supposed to sit enshrouded at the head of the bed, and his face had to be completely hidden; he was supposed to be wrapped up in a cocoon, and at the foot of the bed sat Christian and Phebe and the dog. They were pretending to be members of the court and the King was to address and command them.

  Moranti issued orders and commands. The members of the court bowed.

  It was so amusing. They had tossed off their wigs and clothes and sat there wearing only their lace-trimmed underwear.

  From the one wrapped in the sheet came muffled words and commands. The members of the court bowed in such a ridiculous manner. Everything was so funny.

  That’s how things were at the best of times.

  * * *

  On September 17, when Christian and his companions were playing their game of King and the ridiculous court, a courier arrived at Hirschholm from Copenhagen, bringing a communiqué from Paris.

  It contained a celebratory poem from Monsieur Voltaire to King Christian VII. It would later be published as Epistle 109, become very famous, and be translated into many languages. But on this occasion the poem was handwritten, it had 137 verses, and it was titled “On Freedom of the Press.”

  But it was directed at Christian, and it was written in homage to him. The occasion for the poem was that Voltaire had received word that the Danish king had introduced freedom of speech in Denmark. He could not have known that Christian had slipped into a different sort of great dream which had nothing to do with freedom but with flight, that the boy who played with his little, living dolls was barely conscious of the reform that Struensee had implemented, and that in fact this newly won freedom of speech had resulted only in an abundance of pamphlets, guided and initiated by the reactionaries, who were now methodically working to smear Struensee. In this new free climate, the pamphlets attacked Struensee’s lechery and gave fuel to the rumors about his immoral nights with the Queen.

  It was not what this freedom was intended for. But Struensee refused to retract it. And thus this flood of filth was directed at him personally. But since Monsieur Voltaire didn’t know about all this, Monsieur Voltaire had written a poem, about Christian. Which dealt with the principles that Voltaire hailed, that were correct, and that cast honor on the Danish King.

  It was a splendid evening at Hirschholm.

  They saw to it that Christian stopped his playing and was dressed. And then they gathered for an evening of readings. First Struensee read the poem aloud, for all of them. And afterwards everyone applauded and looked with warmth upon Christian, who was embarrassed, but happy. Then Christian himself was exhorted to read the poem. At first he refused. But then he gave in and read Voltaire’s poem, reading it in his marvelously exquisite French, slowly and with his special emphasis.

  Excellent prince, though a despot born,

  Will you gove
rn me from your Baltic throne?

  Am I subject to you, so you treat me like yours,

  making happy my days, comforting my cares?

  It was so splendidly written; Voltaire had expressed his joy that now it was permitted in the North to write freely, and humanity was now speaking its gratitude through his voice.

  From the wilds of the Jura my tranquil old age

  lets itself learn of your wise young sway;

  and bold with respect, daring yet not vain,

  I fall down at your feet in the name of all men.

  They speak through my voice.

  And then the magnificent poem continued on, about the absurdity of censorship and the importance of literature, and how it could strike fear into those in power and, on the other hand, about the helplessness of censorship, since it could never have any original ideas. And how impossible it was to kill a victorious idea. Est-il bon, tous les rois ne peuvent l’écraser! (If the book is good, not even all the kings can crush it!) If an idea is suppressed in one place, it will appear victoriously somewhere else. If it is scorned in one country, it is admired in another.

  Who, drawing Truth from the depth of his well,

  could make from a rude mob a public soul?

  Books have done all.

  Christian’s voice quavered as he came to the end. And then they all applauded again, for a very long time.

  And Christian sat down among them, and he was happy, and they looked upon him with warmth, almost with love, and he was so pleased.

  * * *

  From the balcony of the castle on almost every evening that summer came the sound of a flute.

  It was Brandt, the flute player.

  It was the sound of freedom and happiness that summer. The flute at Hirschholm Castle, that fabulous summer palace that lived for only one summer. Something was perhaps going to happen, but not yet. Everything was waiting. The flute player, the last of the friends, played for all of them, but without seeing them.

  The King played. The Queen leaned over her child, in a loving pose. Struensee, silent and remote, a bird with his wingtips pressed to the window, a bird that had almost given up.

  CHAPTER 13

  THE SAILORS’ REVOLT

  1.

  NO, THERE WAS nothing comical about Voltaire’s celebratory poem. It was one of the most beautiful homages to free speech ever written.

  But to Christian? People were searching everywhere for the spark that would light the fire. Back in 1767Voltaire had written to him, “From now on people will have to travel north to find exemplary ideas; and if only my infirmity and weakness did not hinder me, I would follow my heart’s desire to come to you and throw myself at Your Majesty’s feet.”

  Voltaire at Christian’s feet. But that was the situation. Those were the circumstances. The young monarchs in the North offered puzzling but enticing possibilities. The encyclopedists also kept in contact with the Swedish Crown Prince, the future King Gustav III. Gustav was admired by Diderot, he read all of Voltaire; the small kingdoms of the North were strange little hotbeds of Enlightenment. Or rather, they could be.

  What could the philosophers of the Enlightenment hope for in their exiles in Switzerland or St. Petersburg? With their books burned and their works constantly censored. Freedom of speech and freedom of the press were the keys.

  And then there were these peculiar, inquisitive young monarchs in those backward little societies in the North. Freedom of speech was suddenly implemented in Denmark. Why shouldn’t the constantly targeted and persecuted Monsieur Voltaire write a desperate and hopeful celebratory poem?

  He couldn’t have known what the true situation was.

  2.

  In the fall of 1771 the reaction came. It came in waves.

  The first wave was the revolt of the Norwegian sailors.

  It started when the gaunt, stooped Swiss tutor Reverdil gave Struensee some advice concerning the resolution of the Algerian problem. Reverdil was, after all, a sensible person, Struensee used to think. But how to make use of those who were sensible in a madhouse? As guards for the madmen?

  It was a mistake to make Reverdil Christian’s chief guard. But the King now hated Brandt. And someone had to keep watch over him. What was to be done?

  It ended up being Reverdil.

  But Reverdil had knowledge about the madhouse that at times could be put to use, even during the late summer of 1771 at Hirschholm. He was given the task of reporting “clearly and plainly” on the problem of the Algerian episode and presenting possible solutions to it. But the problems surrounding the Algerian episode grew during those months like an avalanche; there was no clarity other than that of the madhouse.

  Struensee had inherited the catastrophe. Long before his time a heavily armed Danish fleet was sent to Algeria. War was declared. The years passed. The catastrophe finally became apparent to everyone. When the Royal Physician came to visit, the catastrophe already existed, and he inherited it. The clear glow of reason had been dimmed by madness. And Struensee felt powerless.

  Logically, in the madhouse, it was thought that Denmark had declared war on Algeria and sent a fleet to the Mediterranean. The logic had long ago been forgotten, but it had something to do with the great struggle for power, Turkey versus Russia. It was also logical that this insane attempt had failed.

  Reverdil’s reports on the matter—he remembered it of old, and he was glad to be free of Christian’s company for a few days—were gloomy. What to do?!! In addition to the sunken vessels, loss of men, and the tremendous costs that threatened to drive up the national debt and subvert all reforms, in addition to all this there was a bitter feeling that the inherited madness would undermine everything.

  Reverdil’s lucid analyses were unbearable.

  The situation was now such that a small Danish squadron remained in the Mediterranean, under the command of Admiral Hooglandt. It was all that was left of the proud fleet that had set sail. This squadron now had orders to pursue the Algerian corsairs and to wait for reinforcements. These reinforcements, which would save the honor of the Danish navy, were supposed to leave from Copenhagen, but first they had to be built. The shipbuilding was to take place at Holmen’s shipyard. The newly built squadron would consist of large ships of the line as well as galliots with powerful cannon and artillery that could be used to bombard Algeria. The squadrons, according to the naval commanders, would total at least nine ships of the line, in addition to frigates, xebecs, and galliots.

  To build the necessary vessels, six hundred sailors had been conscripted from Norway. For quite a while now they had gone idle in Copenhagen, waiting for the starting shot. They had gradually become discontent. Their wages were on hold. The whores were demanding to be paid properly, and with no wages, no whores. Free liquor had not assuaged them but had instead prompted heavy damage in the Copenhagen taverns.

  The Norwegian sailors were also very loyal to the Crown and according to tradition called the Danish monarch “Little Father.” In Norway they had learned to use the term in an almost mythological sense, to threaten local Norwegian authorities with intervention by the central power.

  The Norwegian sailors were outraged by reports that Little Father Christian had been imprisoned by the German Struensee. The new, freely released, and copiously distributed pamphlets had done their job. Little Father’s sacred bed had been desecrated. Everything was a disaster. No work. Unwilling whores. Finally starvation began to set in. No whores, no wages, no work, Little Father threatened; their fury grew.

  Reverdil was unequivocal and recommended that the Algerian episode be written off. Struensee listened. No ships of the line would be built. But the sailors remained and refused to be transported back to Norway.

  They were the ones Guldberg had been in touch with. In October they decided to march on Hirschholm.

  There was no doubt about the matter: The reports were ominous, the end seemed near.

  The reports of the rebellious sailors’ march quickly reached Hirschholm.
Struensee listened in silence and then went to the Queen.

  “They’ll be here in four hours,” he told her. “They’re coming to kill us. We have fifteen soldiers to combat them, handsome uniforms but not much else. Presumably they’ve already fled. No one is going to prevent the sailors from killing us.”

  “What should we do?” she asked.

  “We can flee to Sweden.”

  “That’s cowardly,” she said. “I’m not afraid to die, but I’m not going to die.”

  She looked at him with an expression that heightened the tension between them.

  “I’m not afraid to die either,” he told her.

  “Then what are you afraid of?” she said.

  He knew the answer but kept silent.

  He had noticed that the word “terror” or “fear” was constantly appearing in their conversations. There was something about “fear” that belonged to his childhood, long ago, “in beforetimes,” as she used to say in her peculiar Danish.

  Why was the word “fear” cropping up so often right now? Was it the memory of the story he had read as a child, about the boy who set out into the world to learn to know fear?

  It was a fairy tale, that much he remembered. It was about a clever, intelligent, humanistic person who was paralyzed by fear. But this intelligent boy had a brother. What was it about the brother? The brother was stupid and energetic. But he could not feel fear. He lacked the capacity to feel fear. He was the hero of the story. He set out to learn to know fear, but nothing could strike terror into his heart.

  He was invulnerable.

  What was “fear”? Was it the ability to see what was possible, and impossible? Was it a feeler, was it a warning signal inside him, or was it the paralyzing terror that he knew could destroy everything?