Guldberg then reported on his findings.
Two of the chambermaids, those who each day attended to the cleaning of the Queen’s rooms, had begun their spying well before the sojourn at Hirschholm. They put wax in the keyhole and sometimes wads of paper in the door hinges. In the morning they would find the wax gone and the wads of paper fallen down. Late at night they would sprinkle flour near the door and on the stairway leading to the Queen’s bedchamber. The next morning they inspected the footprints they found, and without a doubt they were able to conclude that the tracks had come from Struensee. They examined the Queen’s bed and found it in great disarray, with rumpled sheets; more than one person had slept in it. Christian could obviously not have been that person. They found stains on the bed, which their feminine modesty forbade them to name. On handkerchiefs and napkins they had found the same type of stains, from dried fluids. And one morning they found the Queen naked in her bed, still half asleep, with her clothing tossed on the floor.
There was abundant proof.
What happened then was, in a sense, surprising. One of these ladies-in-waiting had been gripped by remorse or misplaced sympathy and had told the Queen what she knew, and why, and what she had done. The Queen was seized with fury, threatened her with immediate dismissal, and burst into tears, but—and this is the astonishing thing—basically admitted to the sinful goings-on and then begged her to keep silent. The Queen was then overcome by strong emotions and opened her heart to her chambermaids. Her Majesty asked them whether they had ever felt love or affection for anyone, “because if you have such feelings, you must follow that person in everything, whether it means to the post and wheel, or to hell itself.”
All the same, the debauchery continued as if nothing had happened, or as if the Queen, in her arrogance, entirely ignored the danger she must have known existed. It was astonishing.
Yet she continued. Ignoring the danger. It was, in a sense, incomprehensible.
Guldberg assumed that she had not reported this to her German lover. What was that cunning little English whore actually thinking? It was difficult to understand. The greatest naiveté and the greatest willpower.
She should have realized what would happen. After a week the servant girl quite rightly reported everything to Guldberg, although in tears.
So there was proof. And there was a witness who was prepared to step forward in court.
“This means,” said the Dowager Queen thoughtfully, “that he can be sentenced under lawful charges.”
“And the Queen?” asked Guldberg.
She did not reply, as if this matter was not her concern, which surprised Guldberg.
“Under lawful charges he shall be sentenced to death,” she continued pensively, as if she were tasting the words. “Under lawful charges we shall chop off his hand and head, cut him into pieces, slice off the member that has besmirched Denmark, crush his body, and put it on the post and wheel. And I shall personally …”
Rantzau and Guldberg stared at her in astonishment, and Rantzau finally interjected the query:
“Witness everything?”
“Witness everything.”
“And the Queen?” Guldberg asked the question once more, since he was surprised that the Dowager Queen should be so preoccupied with Struensee’s fate but neglect the little English whore, from whom everything had sprung. But the Dowager Queen turned instead to Rantzau, and with a strange smile she said:
“With the Queen we will proceed thus: you, Count Rantzau, since you were Struensee’s special friend from Altona and shared his opinions, and you were also the Queen’s friend and fawning confidant, but you have now reversed yourself and confessed your sins against the honor of God and Denmark, you will have the delicate task of arresting the Queen. And you will look deep into her beautiful, sinful eyes, like one old friend to another, and tell her that it’s over. That’s what you will say. It’s over.”
Rantzau didn’t utter a word.
“And,” she added, “you won’t like it. But that will be your only punishment. The rewards, however, will be plentiful. But that you know.”
3.
Christian came to see Struensee less and less often.
In practice the King’s signature was no longer necessary. Struensee’s was sufficient. But one time during this period Christian sought out Struensee to bring him, as he said, an important message.
Struensee invited the King to sit down and took time to listen.
“This morning,” said Christian, “I received a message from the Sovereign of the Universe.”
Struensee looked at him with a reassuring smile and asked:
“Where did this message come from?”
“From Kiel.”
“From Kiel!?? And what did it say?”
“It said that She is my benefactress,” replied Christian, “and that I am under Her protection.”
He was quite calm; no fidgeting fingers, no babbling, no tics.
“My friend,” said Struensee,”I have a great deal to do right now and I would like to discuss this, but we will have to postpone it. And we are all under the protection of Almighty God.”
“Almighty God,” replied the King, “doesn’t have time for me. But my benefactress the Sovereign of the Universe told me, in her message, that when no one else has time, or when God is too busy with His work, She always has time for me.”
“How nice,” said Struensee. “And who is this Sovereign of the Universe?”
“She’s the one who has time,” replied the King.
4.
The final plan, the one that would not fail, also required the legitimation of law.
To crush Struensee’s “bloody and lecherous regime,” Guldberg had persuaded the Dowager Queen that it was necessary to uncover the shameless plan of a coup d’état, which Struensee and the little English whore had devised together. Struensee ‘s plan included the murder of Denmark’s King Christian VII.
This plan did not actually exist, but it could be theoretically reconstructed and brought to life.
Thus Guldberg became the author of Struensee’s plan. Next he made a certified transcript of it and destroyed the original;this document would be used to convince the skeptics. It was a matter of preventing a shameless coup d’état.
This plan, which was authored by Guldberg and then ascribed to Struensee, presented a clear and plausible logic. It stated that January 28, 1772, was the day on which Struensee was planning to carry out his overthrow of the government. On that day King Christian VII would be forced to abdicate his throne, Queen Caroline Mathilde would be named Regent, and Struensee would become Protector of the realm.
That was the basic outline.
To this plan, which bore an air of authenticity, Guldberg had added a comment that would explain to the skeptics the necessity for a swift counterattack.
“No time should be wasted,” wrote Guldberg, “for the one who does not hesitate to secure the regency will not hesitate to commit an even worse crime. If the King is killed, Struensee will secure for himself Queen Caroline Mathilde’s bed, and the Crown Prince will then either be shoved aside or succumb to a harsh upbringing and thus make way for his sister, the one who is all too obviously the fruit of their shameless love. Because what other reason could there be for Struensee to abolish the law that forbade a divorced woman from entering into marriage with her accomplice in adultery?”
Time was short. It was important to act quickly, and the plan had to be kept secret.
On January 15 they gathered in the rooms of the Dowager Queen; by then Guldberg had written out a series of arrest warrants, which the King would be forced to sign.
On the morning of the 16th the plans were reviewed again, several insignificant changes were added, and the decision was made to execute the coup the following night.
It would be a long night. First dinner. Then tea. After that the masked ball. Then the coup d’état.
5.
Reverdil, the little Swiss tutor, the little Jew
who had concealed his first name, the man who was once so beloved by Christian, who was banished from court but then brought back, the memoirist, the very cautious man of the Enlightenment, the respectable reformer, Reverdil sat at his desk for a few hours each morning to complete his great plan for the emancipation of the Danish peasants from serfdom.
He had been given this task by Struensee. It was to be the culmination of the reform work.
Many of Struensee’s laws and directives, 632 of them so far, were important. The 633rd would be the most important of all. Reverdil would be the one to guide Struensee’s pen; it would not be in the history books, but he would know. That was enough.
On this morning, the last one of Struensee’s era, Reverdil was again sitting and working on the great text about the emancipation. He did not finish. He would never finish. He writes that on this morning he felt quite calm, and had no suspicions. He does not write that he was happy. In his memoirs he doesn’t use the word “happy,” or at least not in reference to himself.
He is an anonymous author whose great text, the one concerning emancipation, would never be completed.
Nevertheless, before he realizes this, on the last day before the collapse, he is happy. The project is so important, the idea so right. It’s so right to be working on this project, even on the morning before the collapse. While he was working he was happy.
Many years later he writes his memoirs, although he does not use the word “happy,” at least not in reference to himself.
No doubt he feels timid.
He is still critical of Struensee, who “moved too swiftly.” He sees a cautious emancipation as possible. He is timid and cautious; no darkness from an inner black torch obscures his dreams. He believes he knows, in retrospect, how things should have gone. They should have observed greater moderation.
6.
On that morning “he has no suspicions.” He seems rarely to have had any suspicions, although he was uneasy about those who moved forward too quickly.
At four o’clock on that day he eats dinner with the inner circle, to which he belongs, in spite of everything. “Never had the Queen made a more merry impression or participated with greater charm in the conversation.”
It was the last supper.
Documentation of this meal is overwhelming. Eleven people participated: the royal couple, the wife of General Gähler, the Countesses Holstein and Fabritius, Struensee and Brandt, Lord Chamberlain Bjelke, Stablemaster Bülow, Colonel Falkenskjold, and Reverdil. They dined in the Queen’s “white apartment.” The room had been so named because of its white panels, although some of the walls were draped in red velvet. The carved decorations were gilded. The tabletop was Norwegian granite. Above the fireplace hung the twelve-foot-high painting Scipio’s Perseverance by the French historical painter Pierre. Twenty-two candles provided the light in the room. Contrary to previous protocol, which required the gentlemen to be seated to the right of the monarch and ladies to his left, men and women were seated alternately. This was radical. They had drawn lots for their seats. The serving staff had been adjusted according to a directive issued by Struensee, the “ new arrangement “ from April 1, 1771, which meant that the number of servants had been cut in half. Despite this, the servants numbered twenty-four. The banquet was “enretraite,” however, which meant that the serving staff was in a neighboring room or in the kitchen, and only one servant at a time was allowed in with a platter. The dinner consisted of nine courses, four salads, and two relèves—alternate main courses.
The Queen, as Reverdil notes, was charming. For a moment the conversation slipped onto the topic of the “verbose” Princess of Prussia, who had divorced her husband and was now being held prisoner in Stettin. The Queen briefly stated that this Princess in her imprisonment,“ by creating her own inner freedom,” could still hold her head high.
That was all. When they sat down at the table, darkness had already fallen. The candlelight only partially lit the room. Brandt and Struensee were both noticeably quiet. Reverdil remarks that perhaps they had some suspicion or had received a message.
But no conclusions can be drawn from this. No actions, only waiting, and a delightful banquet. In fact, everything was just as usual. A small circle, which was growing smaller. Light and surrounding darkness. And the Queen very charming, or desperate.
At seven o’clock on that same evening, but after the banquet, Reverdil, strangely enough, paid a visit to the Dowager Queen.
They conversed for an hour. He noticed nothing disquieting about the Dowager Queen, who several hours earlier, however, had given the order for the coup to be carried out that very night, a coup that would also include the imprisonment of Reverdil. They sat and had a very friendly conversation, drinking tea.
Outside it was cold, and stormy. In silence they had watched the gulls being driven back by the storm, past the window. The Dowager Queen said that she felt sympathy for them because they didn’t realize it was hopeless to struggle against the storm. Afterward Reverdil interpreted this metaphorically. He believed that she wanted to give him a warning: the storm would sweep him up as well, if he didn’t give up in time and fly along with the inevitable.
Not against it.
He didn’t understand. He merely said that he admired the gulls in their situation. They didn’t give up but kept on going in spite of the storm driving them back.
Perhaps afterward, in his memoirs, he gave his reply a figurative touch. He was timid, after all. He was not the type to contradict. He was the quiet man, bent over his papers, now banished, now called back, the one who in silent sorrow watched the wolves rip his beloved boy apart, and the one who thought that the Enlightenment should be like a very slow and cautious dawn.
* * *
At dinner Struensee and the Queen sat next to each other and without embarrassment held each other’s hand. The King did not object. The King seemed paralyzed by his thoughts.
Reverdil, who was seated across from the King, had plenty of time to observe him during dinner. It provoked in him “a great sorrow.” He remembered when he had first met him, and been confided in: the sensitive and extremely intelligent young boy he had once known. The person he now saw was a gray, apathetic shadow, a very old man, apparently paralyzed by terror, the cause of which no one knew.
Christian was only twenty-two years old.
Afterward they left the banquet to prepare for the masked ball. Reverdil was the last to leave the room. Preceding him was Brandt, who turned to Reverdil and, with an odd little smile, said:
“I think that we are now very close to the end of our time. It can’t last much longer now.”
Reverdil did not ask for an explanation. They parted.
7.
The plan was very simple.
Guldberg had always held the view that the very simplicity of complicated plans made them successful. They would take bodily possession of the King. They would also take bodily possession of Struensee. It was presumed that these two would not offer resistance or cause any difficulties.
The third step was to take bodily possession of the Queen.
As to this, however, there was some uneasiness, which was more difficult to explain. Overpowering her should not present any problems. But under no circumstances was she to be allowed to contact the King. The King must not be subjected to any influences. He must be forced to understand that he was now the focus of a horrible threat, that Struensee and the Queen wanted to kill him. But if the little English whore looked at Christian with her beautiful eyes, he might hesitate.
The little English whore was the greatest risk. Everything began and ended with that young woman. Guldberg was the only one who understood this. That was why he would destroy her; and never again would the contagion of desire strike him so that in the dark of night, weeping and with the seed of lust sticking to his body, he was brought to his knees.
Bitterly cold that night.
The storm, which during the day had swept in from the east, had died down by nig
htfall. The moisture had frozen solid, and Copenhagen was clad in an icy membrane.
All memoirs and diaries speak of a great calm that night.
No storm. Not a sound from the troops that were posted. No birds being driven back by the storm.
Still extant are lists of the food that was ordered for the last supper. Six geese, thirty-four eels, three hundred and fifty snails, fourteen rabbits, ten chickens; the day before, an order was also placed for cod, turbot, and squab.
In a completely natural way these hours consumed, in abundance, the last supper of the Danish revolution, with only twenty-four servants present.
They went back to their rooms in the castle. They changed into masquerade costumes.
Christian, Struensee, and the Queen rode to the masked ball in the same coach. Struensee was very quiet, and the Queen took note of this.
“You’re not talking much,” she said.
“I’m searching for a solution. I can’t find one.”
“Then I suggest,” she said, “that tomorrow we compose a letter from me to the Russian Tsarina. Unlike all the other regents, she is enlightened. She wants progress. She is a possible friend. She knows what has been done in Denmark during the last year. She is impressed. I can write to her as one enlightened woman to another. Perhaps we can create an alliance. We need great alliances. We have to think big. Here we have only enemies. Catherine could be a friend to me.”
Struensee merely looked at her.
“You are taking the long view,” he said. “The question is whether we have time to take the long view.”
“We must lift our eyes,” she said curtly.“Otherwise we are lost.”
When Their Majesties, escorted by Struensee, arrived at the Royal Theater, the dance had already begun.
CHAPTER 15
THE DANCE OF DEATH
1.
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