Irretrievable

by Theodor Fontane

  Ebba, too, was making this journey for the first time. “I don’t know the south,” she said, “but it can’t be more beautiful than this. Everything seems so mysterious, as if every inch of earth held some story or secret. I feel as if sacrifices used to be made here, or perhaps still are; even those weird-shaped clouds overhead seem to know all the secrets of the earth.”

  The Princess laughed: “What a romantic young woman I have brought with me! Who would have thought it: my dear Ebba suffering from an attack of Ossian! [2] Or if I may venture a play on words, Ebba in pursuit of the Edda.” [3]

  Ebba smiled, for even she felt rather strange in her romantic role; but the Princess continued: “And all because of Lake Fure, which is only a lake like hundreds of others. Wait until we reach our destination in Fredericksborg, with Lake Esrom on the right and Lake Arre on the left, the great Lake Arre which joins up with the Kattegat and the North Sea. And it never freezes over except in the narrows and bays. But why am I talking about the lakes, the main thing is the castle itself, my dear old Fredericksborg with its gables and towers and hundreds of marvellous carvings on every keystone and capital. And where other castles just have ordinary drain-pipes, at Fredericksborg the gutter projects ten feet and at each end there’s a crouching basilisk with its mouth wide open and three iron bars across it and the water gushes out between them down into the courtyard. And then, when the weather changes and the full moon is shining white and bright over everything and all is silent and uncanny and this devilish sort of menagerie stares at you from every corner and projection as if they were only biding their time, then you can’t repress a shudder. But it is that shudder that makes me love the castle so much.”

  “I thought that Fredericksborg was one of the ‘good’ castles, without any ghosts, because there had never been any murders or stabbings or even anything guilty or evil about it at all.”

  “No, there I’m afraid that you are expecting more than my lovely Fredericksborg can offer. No blood or murder, that may be true; but guilt and evil! My dear Ebba, what house a hundred years old can possibly be without guilt or evil? At the moment, it is true that I can’t recall any episodes involving shuddering and moaning but I’m sure that there has been plenty of guilt and sin.”

  “I’m almost tempted to venture to contradict Your Highness,” said Countess Schimmelmann. “I think Ebba is right when she talks of a ‘good’ castle. Our dear Fredericksborg is, after all, really a museum and a museum, to my mind, is the most innocent thing …”

  “… that exists,” laughed the Princess. “Yes, people say so and, as a rule, I suppose it is so. But there are exceptions. Altars and sacristies and tombs and naturally even museums—all such things can be desecrated and they have all known what it is to suffer sacrilege. And then there is always the question of what is kept and exhibited in a museum. There are often strange and wonderful things which I would hardly call innocent or, at least, they are quite sad and gloomy. As a young girl, I was once in London and there I saw the axe with which Anne Boleyn was beheaded. That was in a museum too, in the Tower of London, it’s true, but that doesn’t really make any difference, a museum is a museum. But anyway, we must not spoil our loveliest castle for Ebba, our loveliest and my favourite as well, for in all these years I have never failed to enjoy staying there. And in any case, grim and ghostly or not, at least you, Ebba, will feel safe there, because I have decided that you shall lodge in the tower.”

  “In the tower?”

  “Indeed, in the tower, but not in a tower of serpents, because your Swedish maid is going to live underneath and Holk above you. I think that should reassure you. And every morning when you go to the tower window, you will have the most beautiful view over the lake and the town and the courtyard and everything surrounding you and if all my wishes come true, you are going to be very, very happy in your historic keep. And I have already decided what I shall give you for Christmas.”

  Whilst talking, they had already passed well beyond the north-east corner of Lake Fure and as they drove along the almost straight causeway, with its clumps of mountain ash still bearing their clusters of red berries, gradually they drew near to their destination. Their first indication was not the castle itself but the little town of Hilleröd, situated on the outskirts, and when they were almost there and already driving between the mills and barns of the village, a slight flurry of snow began to fall; but a sudden breeze as quickly drove the snow-flakes away and when the Princess’s carriage reached the market-place, the weather suddenly cleared and a patch of blue sky was seen above the pale evening glow; and against this glow were silhouetted the lofty towers of the castle of Fredericksborg, mirrored, silent and fairy-like, in a small lake that lay between the town and the castle. Beyond the castle was the park and some of its trees came right down to the edge of the lake on both sides, magnificent plane trees whose leaves, blown by autumn gales, lay thickly scattered over the still surface of the water. Meanwhile the second carriage had also arrived and Holk, who had wisely chosen to sit beside the coachman, jumped down and went to the Princess’s carriage door to tell her how idyllic and rustic he found the market-place and how beautiful the castle, a remark which manifestly pleased the Princess who would certainly have made a gracious reply, if at the same moment another man had not come out of a near-by house and gone up to her carriage door.

  This other man was Schleppegrell, the pastor of Hilleröd, an imposing man in his fifties whose portly stateliness was greatly enhanced by his long, flowing clerical robe. He kissed the Princess’s hand with more gallantry than devotion and ceremoniously expressed his pleasure at seeing his patroness again.

  “You know how indispensable you are,” said the Princess, “and I have only stopped on your horribly draughty market-place, where it is blowing a gale from all directions at once, as far as I can see, I have only stopped to make sure that you come and visit us this very evening …. But I am forgetting to introduce you gentlemen … Pastor Schleppegrell, Count Holk.”

  The two men bowed.

  “And you must be forbearing and well-disposed, my dear Pastor. Count Holk is a genealogist and thus something of an historian and as such, and as an excellent questioner, he will give you the opportunity of learned conversation. You always have the best conversation when there is someone asking questions and someone else replying to them. You know how inquisitive I am myself; I would not exchange my curiosity for anything. And do bring your dear wife with you. The only time I like to drink tea in Hilleröd and Fredericksborg is when my dear friend from the vicarage has poured it out. Yes, Ebba, that is the truth and you must accept it and not be jealous. But I see that I am falling into another sin of omission … Pastor Schleppegrell, Fräulein Ebba von Rosenberg.”

  The pastor greeted the young woman and promised not only to come but to bring his wife; and the party then left the market-place to continue their way up to the castle, after Holk, in obedience to the Princess’s command, had taken the front seat in her own carriage for the short remaining stretch. Here, he found himself sitting next to Ebba opposite Countess Schimmelmann, and felt sufficiently stimulated to make a further attempt at conversation.

  “Pastor Schleppegrell has a very stately appearance and yet, at the same time, a sort of cheerfulness that prevents him from being overbearing. I have rarely seen a man so calm and self-assured when talking to royalty. Is he a Democrat? Or a general Dissenter?”

  “No,” laughed the Princess, “Schleppegrell is not a general Dissenter, although he is in fact the brother of a real general, General Schleppegrell, who was killed at Idstedt. Perhaps it was just at the right time, because it was de Meza who took over from him.”

  “Ah,” said Holk, “that explains it.”

  “No, my dear Holk, I am afraid that I must contradict you once again. That doesn’t explain it at all. What you call his self-assurance springs from quite another reason. When he was twenty years old he came to court as a teacher—a teacher of religion, in fact—to several young princess
es and the rest you can imagine. He has seen too many young princesses to be impressed by old ones. What is more, we owe a great debt of gratitude to him and to his wisdom and discretion because on three occasions the situation arose that, had he wished, he could have become a member of the family. Schleppegrell was always very sensible. Nor, by the way, do I have the heart to blame those princesses particularly. He really was a very handsome man and a good Christian—and he knew how to say no. Let anyone resist such a combination of virtues if they can.”

  Holk was amused, Ebba too, and a smile even flitted across the features of the Countess. They saw that the Princess was in the best of humours and took this as a good augury for the days to come. Then, while they were still talking, the carriage drove over two narrow bridges into the castle courtyard and stopped in front of the castle door.

  [1]Thyra, her husband Gorm and their son Harold Bluetooth date from the tenth century, Rolf Krake from the sixth.

  [2]A Celtic bard, an alleged translation of whose works by Macpherson was extremely popular in the eighteenth century.

  [3]A collection of Norse sagas, one of whose authors was Sturleson (see p. 196).

  20

  Servants with hurricane lamps were already waiting and hurried forward as the Princess mounted the broad horseshoe staircase towards her suite of apartments, not very extensive, in the middle of the castle and flanked by the two towers which stood at the acute angle formed by two projecting wings joined together by a colonnade. On the first landing, on which a small rococo sofa had been placed, the asthmatic Princess rested for a moment and then dismissed the ladies and gentlemen of her suite with the injunction to make themselves as comfortable as possible in their tower rooms. At seven o’clock, she added, turning towards Holk, tea would be served as usual; Pastor Schleppegrell and his wife would be coming somewhat earlier to inform her of all the latest happenings in Hilleröd, which she was greatly looking forward to hearing: small-town gossip was always the most interesting, for it made you laugh so much and to be able to laugh at your dear fellow beings was really the greatest enjoyment in your old age. With these gracious words they parted, and half an hour later anyone passing through the courtyard could easily have recognized which of the rooms had been occupied by the new arrivals. On the first floor of the main building, in the rooms occupied by the Princess herself, there could be seen only two dimly-lit Gothic windows while the two side-towers shone brilliantly from top to bottom. Everything had been arranged more or less according to the Princess’s instructions: on the ground floor lodged the maids, on the first floor the two ladies-in-waiting, with Pentz and Erichsen above Countess Schimmelmann and Holk above Ebba.

  Seven o’clock was approaching and as the castle clock struck the half-hour, the Schleppegrells came across the moat from Hilleröd, preceded by a maid with a lantern. Soon afterwards Holk, too, made himself ready. In the hall of the tower that he was occupying, he met Karin, Ebba’s maid from Stockholm and almost one of her friends. She informed him that Ebba was already with the Princess. From the hall to the main body of the castle was not far, and a minute later Holk was climbing the stairs to enter the high gallery that served as reception and drawing-room when the Princess was in residence. This gallery had only a narrow frontage on the courtyard as on the park at the back of the castle; but it was, nevertheless, a large room. In the middle of one of the side-walls was a tall Renaissance fireplace above which hung a picture, larger than life, of King Christian IV, who had always been very fond of Fredericksborg and, like the Princess, had preferred this gallery to any other room in the castle. To the left of the fireplace were baskets filled partly with big logs and partly with pine-cones and juniper branches, while to the right, apart from an immense poker, lay a pile of resinous pine-torches for lighting departing guests through the dark corridors. All the decoration of the gallery was still half medieval, like the gallery itself, on whose panels, in addition to the portrait of King Christian, were hanging huge pictures brown with age. At the very back stood a side-board and, in place of the usual high chairs, a number of modern arm-chairs were arranged round the hearth.

  Holk bowed as he approached the Princess and said how beautiful the gallery was and what a wonderful Yuletide they would be able to celebrate there, for nothing was lacking, not only the pine-torches but the pine-cones and juniper as well. The Princess replied that she was intending to hold just such a celebration; Christmas in Fredericksborg was the best day of the year and, after adding that she had already arranged a kind of pre-Yuletide celebration for tomorrow, she invited Frau Schleppegrell to take her seat beside her. The pastor’s wife was a short, stout woman with red cheeks and black hair piled up on top of her head, extremely plain but quite indifferent to the fact, being one of those happy people who are completely unconcerned about themselves and, least of all, about their personal appearance. Ebba had sensed this at once and taken an immediate liking to her.

  “Do you not find it difficult to leave your children for a whole evening, Frau Schleppegrell?” she asked.

  “We haven’t any children,” replied the pastor’s wife with such a guffaw that the Princess asked what was the matter. There followed such general amusement that even Schleppegrell had eventually to join in, albeit rather wryly, since the laughter was primarily at his expense. Nothing this, Holk felt that he ought to change the conversation and, in a jocular and apparently casual tone, he asked about the portrait over the fireplace. “I notice that it is of King Christian and so it’s difficult for anyone to be particularly interested in it, because his portrait must be de rigueur almost everywhere. May I ask who painted it? I should have guessed a Spaniard, if I had known that we had a Spanish painter in Copenhagen at that time.”

  Schleppegrell was about to reply when Ebba broke in: “If we are going to start talking about art and pictures, it is absolutely forbidden to begin with a picture of King Christian, even if it is by a Spaniard, which I venture to doubt, like Count Holk, whose opinions I frequently share—at least in artistic matters. So I propose that we leave the unavoidable king alone. Personally, I should prefer to know who those two are.” She pointed towards the opposite wall. “The old man with the pointed beard and the grand lady with the white hood.”

  “The man with the beard is Admiral Herluf Trolle from whom King Frederick II bought this castle, or rather exchanged it with him and then named it Fredericksborg after himself. Not one single stone of the old castle was left standing and nothing was taken over except these pictures here on the right and the left commemorating the great naval victory of Oeland in 1559 under Admiral Herluf Trolle and, in addition to those murals, the two portraits between them, one of Herluf Trolle himself and the other of Brigitte Goje, his dearly beloved wife, who because of her Protestant piety was almost more celebrated than her husband.”

  “Which is not surprising if she really was so devout,” said Pentz emphatically, “because although I am sure that actresses and mistresses of the great are the most popular figures, immediately after them come the devout and I am not certain if they are not sometimes even slightly ahead.”

  “Yes, sometimes,” laughed Ebba. “Sometimes but not often. And now, pastor, what is this about Herluf Trolle’s naval battle? I’m afraid that it must have been fought against my dear compatriots the Swedes, although to judge by the costume, it took place in a pre-Rosenbergian era and so my patriotism is not too closely involved. And a naval battle at that! In naval battles, friend and foe alike are always drowning and a charitable cloud of smoke hangs over everything so that a plus or minus quantity of dead, which people call victory or defeat, can never properly be ascertained. And especially where, in addition to the gun-smoke, you have a three hundred year old coating of dust and grime.”

  “And yet,” said Holk, “it seems to me that everything is still more or less recognizable and if we can perhaps look more closely … but where can we find the necessary light to do that … ?”

  “Here,” said the Princess, pointing to where the pine
-torches were lying. “There will be a certain amount of smut but that will only increase the illusion and if our pastor and cicerone is in good form today, then we shall surely be able to fight this naval battle all over again. So, Schleppegrell, to work and do your very best, we owe that much to an historian of Holk’s calibre. And we shall perhaps even convert him from his Schleswig-Holsteinism to Danism.”

  Everyone agreed and Pentz ironically applauded with two fingers. Schleppegrell, himself a passionate picture-lover, took one of the large torches and having lit it, went over to the left-hand side of the picture on which there could be discerned, in a dim yet harsh light, the sails of a number of vessels, flags, pennants, gilded figure-heads and the white crests of waves but no trace of fighting or gun-smoke.

  “But surely that is not a battle!” said Ebba.

  “No, but the preparations for it. The fighting is still to come, on the other side, immediately to the right, beside Brigitte Goje.”