“Now, now,” said the Princess, “that’s a great deal all at once. But do go on.”
“He’s confused and half-hearted and it is this half-heartedness that will cause his downfall. He pretends to be a Schleswig-Holsteiner and yet he serves as gentleman-in-waiting to an obviously Danish princess; he’s a living work of reference on genealogies who can reel off all the Rosenbergs, except the Filehne branch, and yet he sets himself up as an enlightened liberal. I haven’t known him long enough to have caught him out in all his contradictions but I am quite certain that they exist in every sphere. For example, I’ve no doubt for a moment that he goes to his little village church every Sunday and comes out of his nap just when the Creed is being read, but I doubt whether he knows what there is in it and if he does, I doubt if he believes in it; yet in spite of that, or perhaps even because of that, he springs to his feet at once.”
“Ebba, you’re going too far.”
“Indeed I’m not. Let me only mention a much more important example of his half-heartedness. As far as his morals are concerned, he is what one might describe as almost virtuous and yet he has a yearning to be a man of the world. And that sort of half-heartedness is the worst of all, worse than half-heartedness in so-called important questions, which are often not important at all.”
“That is very true, but here, Ebba, I have you just where I want you—and where I intend to keep you! You say that he has a yearning to be a man of the world. Unfortunately, you are exactly right there: I can see it more and more every day. But because he has this weakness, we must throw him a rope, a golden rope, not so that he can move up to the attack but so that he may beat a retreat. You must stop flitting about in front of him like a will-o’-the-wisp as you keep doing at the moment. He has already been dazzled enough. As long as he is here, you must hide your light under a bushel. I know very well that that is asking a great deal of you, because if one has a light, one likes to see it shining; but you must make this sacrifice for me and if you find it difficult, then to console yourself you must keep in mind that he will not be here for ever. In the New Year he will be leaving us and for better or worse we shall be having our old trio again, and then you may do what you like, marry Pentz or run away with Erichsen or even with Bille, whose measles must come to an end sooner or later. Whatever you do, I approve of, in advance. Perhaps you could oust the countess, not Holk’s but Countess Danner; perhaps that would be the best thing.”
Ebba shook her head. “That’s not allowed, ousting the Danner would mean that I could no longer be my Princess’s grateful and devoted servant.”
“My dear Ebba, you mustn’t talk like that, you don’t deceive me in the least. I receive as much gratitude from you as you choose to give me. Nor do I do anything for the sake of gratitude. That is the most ungrateful and unwise thing there is, to expect gratitude. But do think over the question of Holk.”
“My apologies, Your Highness—but what am I to think over? Ever since I have been able to reason, I’ve always said to myself: ‘a girl must look after herself’ and I’m right, you must be able to. And if someone can’t do it, it merely means that she doesn’t want to. All right, then, we must look after ourselves. But what is a girl to do against a fully grown count of forty-five who may become a grandfather any day? If anyone ought to be able to look after himself, it’s the count, who has, I believe, been married for sixteen years and has an excellent and capable wife who is beautiful as well, as Pentz was telling me only the other day.”
“It’s for the sake of his wife that I am urging you …”
“Well, if your most gracious Highness orders me, I shall endeavour to obey. But are you speaking to the right person? Surely not. It should be Holk. It’s he who owes it to his wife to be faithful, not I, and if he is not faithful, it’s his responsibility, not mine. Am I my brother’s keeper?”
“Ah, I know that you’re quite right,” said the Princess, running her hand over Ebba’s wavy fair hair. But however that may be, you must realize that we are under constant observation, just as surely as we are in a position to observe so many things ourselves, and I shouldn’t like it if we were to expose ourselves to the King and his countess.”
On the day following this conversation, Holk, being off-duty, intended to deal with his correspondence. On his desk lay all the letters he had received during the last fortnight, including some from his wife. He quickly perused them, which did not take long since there were only a few, and then, finally, he read a telegram in which she excused herself for not having written for four days. That was all and if their extent was slight, their contents were even slighter. This annoyed him, because he was careful to avoid asking himself who was really to blame. He merely said to himself—and here he was justified—that, earlier, things had been very different. Earlier, indeed even during his last absence in Copenhagen, the letters they had exchanged had all the time been real love letters, full of the affection that they had felt for each other in their younger years. But this time all tenderness was absent, the tone was chilly, and if his wife tried to make a joke there always seemed to be something caustic or sarcastic in it which cancelled all its charm. Yes, that was unfortunately how things were and yet a letter had to be written. But how? He was still brooding over this problem when Frau Hansen entered and handed him the letters which the postman had just bought. Two of them bore the Copenhagen postmark but the third, in Christine’s handwriting, was in an envelope of a different shape from the usual and instead of the Glücksburg postmark bore that of Hamburg. For a moment Holk was surprised and then, even before opening the envelope, he realized what had happened: “Of course, Christine is on her tour of the boarding-schools.” So it proved to be and this is what he read:
Hamburg, Streit’s Hotel
October 14th, 1859
Dear Helmut,
You will by now have received my telegram of excuse for not having written for several days. Now you will see from the postmark the reason for my silence. I was preparing for my journey which took all my energy, in spite of help from dear Julie and in spite of reducing everything to the minimum. We went to Schleswig by carriage and thence by train and since yesterday morning we have been installed here in Streit’s hotel, which holds such pleasant memories for us both. That is, assuming that such memories still mean anything to you! I have taken rooms on the second floor with a view of the Alster, with its villas and its bridges, and as dusk was falling I leaned out of the window and, as before, lost myself in all the loveliness of the scene. Only Asta was with me, as Axel has gone into the town. He wanted to go with Strehlke (who has come with us this far) first to the Lancers’ cavalry stud and then on to Rainville’s riding school. From there to Ottensen to see Meta Klopstock’s tomb. I was very willing to agree because I know that such experiences remain in the memory and give one depth. And this would seem the appropriate moment to let you know my decisions regarding the children, after taking further careful advice. Alfred has agreed as well, even though he queried the importance of the whole matter. Asta, of course, will go to Gnadenfrei; even you must have realized that it could not be anywhere else. I spent some very happy years there, I must not say the happiest years of my life, because you know which they were—and I want my child to enjoy the same enviable opportunity as I had and an equally balanced harmonious adolescence. As for Axel, on Schwarzkoppen’s advice, I have decided on the Pädagogium at Bunzlau. It has the best of reputations and while not inferior to the Thuringian schools in the strictness of its principles, it is less strict where principles are not involved. Strehlke, who at first wanted to go to Malchin, will now be going as curate to his brother. I have made him promise to be our guest during the summer holidays, to look after Axel. He is a good man and would have been quite outstanding if, before finishing his studies in Berlin, he had spent the previous years in Halle instead of Jena. The influence of Jena can never be completely eradicated later on. I do not know if there is anything I need add with regard to the children. This one thing perhaps: I
was surprised and hurt to detect a certain rejoicing on their part when it was finally decided that they should leave home. The taste for novelty natural to all young people seemed to me not to be the cause in this case or at least, not the sole cause. But if it was not, then what is it? Have we ever been found wanting in our love towards them? Or did they long to escape from the disagreements that they witnessed all too frequently? Oh, dear Helmut, I would gladly have avoided such disagreements but I didn’t succeed in doing so and as a result I chose what I thought was the lesser evil. In doing this, I may have sacrificed a good deal but I was only doing what my conscience dictated and I am sure you are prepared to accept that admission. My trip will not keep me away for more than five or six days and I hope to be back in Holkenäs by about the 20th. Meanwhile Julie is in charge. Please send my most respectful homage to the Princess, who was so kind as to remember me, and my regards to Pentz and Fräulein von Rosenberg, although I must confess that I cannot feel much sympathy for her. I do not like those free-thinking ways! I am looking forward eagerly to the New Year when I hope to see you once again, perhaps even on New Year’s Eve. Do try to arrange that your present stay in Copenhagen may be your last visit to the capital, at any rate in your present post. Why be a lackey when one can be free?
With love,
Your Christine
After he had read the letter, Holk felt somewhat sentimental. It contained so much affection that it revived memories of past happiness. She was still the best of them all. What was the beautiful Brigitte by comparison? Yes, and what was Ebba, even, by comparison? Ebba was like a rocket that you followed with an “Aaah … !” of astonishment as long as it continued to shoot upwards but when it was all over, it was nothing but a firework after all, something completely artificial. Christine, on the other hand, was like the simple, clear light of day. Immersed in this feeling, he quickly read through the letter again, only to find that his pleasure had quite evaporated, all the pleasant impressions had gone, leaving only one, or predominantly one, thing behind: the tone of self-righteousness. And once more his thoughts took their familiar turn: “Oh, these virtuous women! Always sublime, always serving the Truth; and I suppose they even think so themselves. But without wishing to deceive anyone, they deceive themselves. Only one thing is quite certain: their excellence is appalling.”
19
Four weeks had meanwhile passed and it was approaching the middle of October. Holk had by now completely adapted himself to life in Copenhagen, enjoyed all the scandals of the town, big and little, and remembered, not without alarm, that in another six weeks his monotonous life in Holkenäs would be starting again. The letters arriving from home were not calculated to allay his misgivings; since Christine’s return from her journey she had been, it was true, writing more regularly and even avoiding irritating comments, but the prosy, matter-of-fact tone was still there and, above all, the dogmatism that had now become ingrained. And it was just this tone, with its assumption of utter infallibility, that continually aroused Holk’s ire. Christine was always so certain of everything: but what, in fact, could be considered entirely beyond question? Nothing, absolutely nothing, and every conversation with the Princess or with Ebba only served to confirm him in that opinion. Everything was provisional, everything a mere majority decision of the moment: morals, dogma, taste, everything was uncertain and it was only for Christine that every question had been settled once and for all, only Christine knew, with absolute conviction, that the doctrine of predestination was false and must be rejected, while the Calvinist form of the Eucharist was an affront; and with equal certainty, she knew which books were to be read or not read, which people and principles were to be followed or not followed and, above all else, she knew how all problems of education were to be solved. God, how clever the woman was! And if she occasionally confessed to not knowing something, then she always accompanied this admission with a look that said only too plainly: “such things are not really worth knowing.” Holk would give himself up to these reflections while looking out of his window in the morning over Dronningens-Tværgade, which, quiet though it was, was always lively compared with the deserted road leading from Holkenäs to Holkby village. And while he was thus meditating and brooding, there would come a knock on the door and old Frau Hansen or even the beautiful Brigitte would come in to clear away the breakfast and if it was the talkative widow, he was all ears for what she was saying and if it was the taciturn Brigitte, then he was all eyes for what he saw. There was something in this relationship which, in spite of the fact that neither woman and especially Brigitte, was particularly interesting, continually stimulated Holk, even although he had long since solved the Hansen problem and there was no longer any question of mystery. The Emperor of Siam was becoming a more and more shadowy figure, the “security authority,” on the other hand, less and less so. Everything was exactly as Pentz had related, although appearances were preserved, as well as those small attentions which the two women both cleverly adapted to Holk’s taste, and so it came about that Holk looked forward to these meetings with pleasurable anticipation, especially since he felt that they had ceased to hold any further danger for him. Was he aware of the real reason why all danger had ceased? He may not have realized it himself but others saw only too clearly that the reason was Ebba.
Politically, meanwhile, everything continued quietly on its course. No new campaign was planned until the beginning of December and the Princess opined that this time, if only for reasons of expediency, they should give way before the attack: the moment Hall had gone, the country would realize the sort of man they were losing. The Princess’s court naturally adopted the same view and Holk was on the point of writing to Christine in this sense and explaining Hall’s statesmanlike intentions to her, when Pentz came in.
“Well, Pentz, what gives me the honour so early in the day?”
“Great news.”
“Louis Napoleon’s dead?”
“More important than that.”
“Tivoli must have been burnt down or the Nielsen woman has caught a cold?”
“Something between the two: tomorrow we are going to Fredericksborg.”
“We? Who are ‘we’?”
“The Princess and all her suite.”
“So soon?”
“Yes. The Princess never does anything by halves and once she has decided to do something, then, if possible, it’s no sooner said than done. I confess that I would rather have stayed here. You don’t know Fredericksborg yet because, as a Danish gentleman-in-waiting, you have shown persistent negligence in your duty of learning all about Danish castles. And since you don’t yet know Fredericksborg, you will be able to bear it for three days at least or if you want to study various sorts of gewgaws from bewigged portraits to Runic inscriptions, you might even manage to hold out for three weeks. There is a good deal of that sort of thing to be seen there: an ivory comb belonging to Thyra Danebod, a head of hair dressed à la chinoise belonging to Gorm the Old, and a peculiarly shaped molar in respect of which scholars are undecided as to whether it comes from Harold Bluetooth or a boar of the alluvial age. Personally, I favour the first theory. After all, what’s a boar? It’s really nothing at all, if only because the only thing of importance is what is in the historical commentary in the catalogue and while there is usually very little one can find to say about a boar, there’s a great deal to say about an almost legendary Viking. I believe I’m right in assuming your interest in such things and as a genealogist, you will no doubt be able to establish the consanguinity of Harold Bluetooth and Ragnor Lodbrok or perhaps even with Rolf Krake. [1] So, as far as you are concerned, Holk, everything is provided but as for me, I am rather for Lucile Grahn and Vincent’s and if there is nothing else, even for an ordinary everyday Harlequin pantomime.”
“I can well believe it,” laughed Holk.
“Yes, you may laugh, Holk, but we shall see. A moment ago, I was saying three weeks; well, three weeks may be all right, but six, or more exactly seven—because the
Princess makes no concessions and will have no confidence in the New Year unless she has buried the old one in Fredericksborg—as I was saying, seven weeks will presumably be too long even for you, in spite of the fact that Pastor Schleppegrell is a character and his brother-in-law, Doctor Bie, a buffoon. Don’t misunderstand me, incidentally, I’m not underrating the value, in certain circumstances, of characters or, even more, of buffoons; but for seven weeks that is really not quite enough. And if it is not snowing, it’s raining and when it is doing neither, there’s a storm. I’ve often heard weather-vanes squeaking and gutters and lightning-conductors rattling but squeaks and rattles such as are heard at Fredericksborg cannot be found anywhere else in the world. And if you are lucky, you may see a ghost as well and if it is not a dead princess, it will be a live lady-in-waiting or a lady from the court with piercing pale-blue eyes.”
“Ah, Pentz, you can’t say a word without doing that poor girl some injustice, because the lady with the pale-blue eyes must certainly be Ebba Rosenberg. If you weren’t sixty-five and if I didn’t know that you worship at the feet of other gods, I should really believe that you were in love with Ebba.”
“I leave that to others.”
“To Erichsen?”
“Yes, of course, to Erichsen.” And he gave a guffaw.
The following day, at noon exactly, two carriages halted in front of the Princess’s palace; her servants had left with the luggage an hour earlier by the train for Elsinore. The Princess and her suite took the same seats in the two carriages as on the return journey from the Hermitage; in the first carriage sat the Princess with Countess Schimmelmann and Ebba; in the second, the three men. It was a sunless day and massive grey clouds were moving across the sky. But the tone that these clouds gave to the landscape only emphasized its charm and as the carriages drove along the edge of Lake Fure, Ebba stood up in her seat and could hardly contain her delight at the sight of the gently rippling steel-grey surface which the gulls were almost brushing with their wings as they swooped low over it. All along the edge of the lake were thick banks of rushes extending far out into the water and now and again there were a few weeping willows with their leafless branches overhanging the water. On the other side of the lake ran a dark ridge of woodland, from which a high church tower emerged. Everything was completely still and the silence was only broken by an occasional shot in the wood or the rumble of a passing train half a mile away.
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