Holk had not left Frau Schleppegrell’s side throughout but after they had recrossed the moat, they changed companions. Erichsen now gave his arm to the pastor’s wife, and Holk and Ebba, who had till now had no opportunity of talking together, followed, lagging further and further behind.
“I was afraid that I had been sacrificed to your latest passion,” said Ebba. “A dangerous pair, the Schleppegrells. The husband yesterday, today the wife.”
“Ah, my dear Ebba, you are trying to flatter me by casting me in the role of a Don Juan.”
“And with such a Zerlina! In fact, with Zerlina’s great-aunt. What was she talking to you about? She seemed to be going at full speed all the time, as far as I could see …”
“Well, it was about all sorts of things; about Hilleröd and its life in the winter and that the town was divided into two halves, the military and the civil: one might almost imagine oneself in Germany. On the whole, a charming little woman, full of bon sens but also extremely simple and narrow, so that I can hardly understand how the pastor is able to bear her and even less how the Princess can spend hours chatting with her.”
Ebba laughed: “How little you know! Everything seems to prove to me that you only have contact with princesses once in a blue moon. Believe me, there is nothing too petty to interest a princess and the more scandalous the better. Tom Jensen has gone off to India and married a native and all his daughters are black and all his sons white; and Brodersen the chemist is said to have poisoned his wife with nicotine; the second gamekeeper fell into a limekiln as he was climbing out of his sweetheart’s window last night—I promise you that such things interest our Princess more than the whole Schleswig-Holstein question, in spite of the fact that some people assert that she is the life and soul of the movement.”
“Ah, Ebba, you say that because you are a born cynic and like exaggerating everything.”
“I accept your comments because I would rather be like that than the opposite. All right then, I’m a cynic and a mauvaise langue and anything else you like. But that still doesn’t alter in the slightest what I have just said about princesses. The more intelligent and witty the great are and the better developed their feeling and eye for the ridiculous, the more quickly and surely they come to realize that bores are as nice and as amusing as interesting people.”
“And you dare to say that yourself, when you are the living proof of the opposite! What is it that has won you your place in the Princess’s affections? The fact that you are intelligent and knowledgeable, full of ideas and can talk, in short, that you are more interesting than Schimmelmann.”
“No, it is simply that I am different from her and she is just as indispensable to the Princess as I am or Erichsen or Pentz or perhaps even …”
“… Holk.”
“I did not say so. But shall we stop and have a rest for a moment, even though we are a long way behind? Here’s a delightful spot where we have an excellent view of the castle from the back. Just look how everything stands out so wonderfully, the main roof and the steep roofs of the towers on both sides, in spite of the fact that everything is the same colour of grey.”
“Yes,” said Holk, “everything does stand out splendidly. But it’s the light itself that is causing it and castles oughtn’t to be built with such a special light in mind. Those two splendid red brick towers in which we are living should have been built higher before putting on the pointed slate or shingle roof. As it is at present, it looks as if you could go straight from the lowest dormer-window of the tower on to the big cross-roof and take a walk out along the gutter.”
Ebba merely nodded, not tempted to follow Holk in his disquisition on these structural and lighting problems, and they both began to step out, as they thought that they noticed the pastor waiting for them to catch up. As they came nearer, however, they saw that there was another reason and that Schleppegrell, though pressed for time, wanted to draw their attention to a special object which turned out to be nothing more nor less than a huge stone, slightly hollowed out, on the top of which were carved the words: “Christian IV, 1628.” As they approached it, Holk suggested that it had presumably been a favourite spot for the king to sit and rest, to which Schleppegrell retorted: “Yes, that was so. It was a place where he rested, but not regularly—in fact, on one occasion only. There is a little story attached to it …”
“Do tell us,” they all cried, but taking out his silver watch-case, to which a large watch-key was attached by a rather shabby green ribbon, he drew their attention to the hands which were pointing at ten minutes to twelve. “We must hurry or we shall be late. I will tell you about it at luncheon, provided that it can be told, which I rather doubt.”
“A pastor can tell anything,” said Ebba, “especially in the presence of a princess, because princesses are a law unto themselves and what they say is always right. And especially our Princess. I guarantee that she will not say no.”
And lengthening their stride, they walked towards the castle.
[1] A courier rode ahead with the message and as they came into the courtyard, Brigitte stood before the house of mourning surrounded by her women.
[2] She stood at the entrance and greeted the procession, upright and steadfast, and the first man, the pall-bearer, stepped forward and spoke: “We have sent the tidings before us on the way. His soul is free, his body lies here, you know whom we are bringing. On the Pomeranian coast off Pudagla-Golm, when victory was uncertain, he fell to ensure it. Now mistress of Herlufsholm, tell us where we are to lay him to rest. Shall we lay him to rest in the burial vault of Thorslund or Olaf’s church? or in the valley of Gjeddes beneath the weeping-birch? Or shall we lay him to rest in the chapels in the crypts of Röskilde or Leire or Ringstede? Say, Mistress, where shall we lay him?” “Each church has a resting-place for him. He gave each church what it desired, altars, towers, bells, and each one when they hear ‘he is approaching,’ will rejoice in its grief. Each one of them will invite him into the shadow of its columns.” Then Brigitte spoke: “Here must we bring him. True, he has built no church here, for one has been standing here for many a hundred year, but I stood with Herluf Trolle as his bride here at the altar. Before the same altar, on the same stone, let him lie here in peace and silence; no word shall be spoken save that God’s will be done. But tomorrow, before the day dawns, in all his churches, far and wide over sea and land, all the bells shall ring out and when the air resounds to heaven as if with the thunderous roar of battle, we shall lower Herluf Trolle into his grave at Herlufsholm.”
22
They reached the castle just in time to appear punctually before the Princess. Pentz and Schimmelmann, who were on duty, received the guests, and after the Princess had come in and greeted them each personally, they left the drawing-room and passing through a corridor richly decorated with caryatids and obviously dating from a later period, they entered the large Herluf Trolle gallery where, on the previous evening, they had, with difficulty, examined the pictures by the light of the fire and the resin-torches and heard Schleppegrell’s lecture on them. Today this same gallery was transformed by the bright daylight which now flooded through the windows, for the sun had once more reappeared. Everything now had a much more cheerful air, an impression enhanced by a lavishly, almost fantastically, decorated table covered with flowers and ancient Nordic drinking vessels. Where the high panels joined the deep baroque frames of the wall-paintings, there hung bunches of mistletoe and rowan-berries with garlands of oak leaves, while a diagonal screen of cypresses and young fir trees separated the darker end of the room from the festively decorated front of the gallery. The whole effect was that of a Christmas celebration or, as the Princess expressed it, a curtain-raiser for Christmas. Oranges were hanging in almost excessive profusion from the branches of the Christmas trees and small wax angels were waving their flags, while on the dazzling white table-cloth lay red-berried sprigs of holly.
With a gracious wave of her hand the Princess invited her guests to be seated. For some m
inutes, little was said and that only in a whisper, but after the first glass of Cyprus wine the gaiety typical of the Princess’s little circle returned. At the Princess’s request, they all related their personal experiences of last night’s storm and everyone agreed that the lovely castle in which, unfortunately, all the windows rattled and where one might expect to be seized and blown away by a north-westerly gale at any moment, was a summer rather than a winter residence. “Yes,” said the Princess, “that is unfortunately true and my dear Fredericksborg must plead guilty. What is almost worse, is that I cannot do anything about it and must leave everything as it is.” And with her accustomed joviality, she proceeded to recount how, some time ago, she had made an official request for “doors and windows that would close,” a request roundly rejected by the administrative department concerned, on the grounds that the habitability of the castle, or at least the efficiency of the fireplaces, was closely connected with the continuing existence of windows that did not shut; windows that did shut properly would only mean fires that would not draw. “And ever since I have known this, I have resigned myself to my fate; yes, and after all that I was told on that occasion, I only hope that these good draughts from doors and windows will preserve us from blocked chimneys and other similar hazards. Frankly, I often feel that something like that could happen here, for the chimneys are in rather a poor state and, especially in ours, I suspect that there must be a layer of rust dating at least from the days of King Christian.”
The mention of King Christian naturally brought the conversation round to the visits this favourite Danish king used to make to his castle and, even more naturally, Schleppegrell had ready a fund of local anecdotes about him. After a while, however, Holk interrupted by saying: “We have already had a quarter of an hour of anecdotes about King Christian and we still haven’t heard the story of the stone in the park with its inscription and the date 1628. What is it exactly? You promised to tell us earlier.”
Schleppegrell shook his head to and fro dubiously. “It’s true that I was going to tell you about it. But there’s not a great deal to tell and you will probably be disappointed. They say that it is the stone where, after he began the rebuilding of the castle on his accession to the throne, King Christian assembled all the workmen round him on the first Saturday and personally paid them their wages.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes,” replied Schleppegrell.
But Ebba refused to listen to this. “No, Pastor Schleppegrell, you are not going to escape as easily as that; what you are saying can simply not be true. You forget that anyone who wants to prevaricate or lay a false trail has to have a good memory and it is only two hours ago that we were hearing from your own lips that you would tell us the story of the stone, if the Princess gave her permission. Now, you surely did not think that the Princess would forbid you to relate that the king paid out some wages one Saturday.”
The Princess was relishing Schleppegrell’s embarrassment and Ebba, unwilling to relinquish her advantage, continued: “You see, you can only escape from your dreadful predicament by deciding to tell us the whole story exactly as it happened.”
Schleppegrell, who tied his napkin across his chest in the old-fashioned manner, mechanically loosened the knot, laid the napkin down beside him and said: “Very well then, if you order me to; there is another version which is said to be more accurate. The king used to go walking in the castle garden with Christine Munk who was his wife without being his wife, unfortunately a rather frequent occurrence in our history, and Prince Ulrich and Princess Fritz-Anna were with them both and the king was more gracious and affectionate than he had ever been before. But Christine Munk, for reasons that no one has ever yet discovered or even surmised (and perhaps there were none), was very silent and glared around so grimly and sourly that it caused great embarrassment. And the worst of the matter was that this bad temper of Christine’s lasted a long time and was not over by evening, when the king wished to retire to bed, for he found the door bolted and barred and was obliged to spend the night elsewhere. And since such a thing had never happened to him before, because Christine was not only one of the best-tempered but also one of the most affectionate of women, the king decided to perpetuate the memory of this remarkable day by having his name and the date carved on the stone where this mysterious conjugal quarrel began.”
“Well,” said the Princess, “that is certainly rather more complicated but still far from requiring me to be invoked as a bogy of prudery, as my dear Schleppegrell seems to have done this morning. And apropos of prudery, yesterday I was reading in a French book that prudery when one is no longer young and beautiful is like a scarecrow that has been left standing after the harvest. Not bad: the French understand such matters. But to return to our subject, as far as the story of King Christian’s exclusion from his bedroom is concerned, I should be only too glad if all our stories of kings and princes were equally harmless, for nowadays they seem to deal mainly with the opposite process. I am sure that Count Holk shares my view. Tell me, Count, what do you think of the story?”
“To tell the truth, my dear Princess, I find it rather petty and somewhat trivial.”
“Trivial?” echoed Ebba. “Now there you must let me join issue with you. The paying of the wages on Saturday was trivial, but not this. A grim and sour woman is never trivial and when her bad humour goes so far as to exclude her husband from her bed (I regret to have to mention this but history demands that the truth be unveiled, not hidden), then it is most definitely not trivial. I call my gracious Princess as witness and shall seek refuge in her protection. But men are like that today; King Christian had the event engraved in stone as something remarkable to go down to distant posterity and Count Holk considers it trivial and rather petty.”
Holk saw that he was being driven into a corner and realized at the same time that the Princess was clearly in a mood to support Ebba. He therefore hummed and hawed a little and tried to adopt a half serious, half ironical attitude, pointing out that in such matters one must distinguish between the private and the historical viewpoints; from the private point of view, such an event was something most regrettable and almost tragic, but for a king thus to be shut out of his wife’s bedroom was something quite inadmissible which should never have taken place and if history nevertheless recorded it, then it was losing its grandeur and dignity and degenerating into what, rightly or wrongly, he described as “petty.”
“Bravo, Holk,” cried the Princess. “A most elegant evasion. Now Ebba, it’s your turn.”
“Yes, Your Highness, I shall do as you say and if I cannot do it as a German, then I shall try to do so as a pure Scandinavian.”
Everyone was amused.
“As a pure Scandinavian,” repeated Ebba. “Of course, on my mother’s side, which is the decisive factor here. The father is never really of any importance. And now to our thesis. What was Count Holk saying? Well, from his Schleswig-Holstein point of view, he may be right in his preference for grandeur, for his protest against the petty can only mean, of course, that he prefers the grandiose. But what is this grand style exactly? It merely means ignoring everything that really interests normal people. Christine Munk interests us and her ill humour interests us and the results of that ill humour on that remarkable evening, that interests us still more …”
“And Fräulein Ebba interests us most of all in her saucy mood today …”
“Although I feel rather less saucy at the moment than I do normally. I really am being quite serious. In any case, I assert with all possible seriousness and sincerity, and I am prepared to have a vote taken in every girls’ school in the country, that King Henry VIII with his six wives will carry the day in any competition concerning the grand manner, not because of his couple of beheadings, you can find those anywhere, but because of the complicated little bagatelles that preceded those executions. And after Henry VIII comes Mary Stuart and after her comes France with its plethora of heroines from Agnès Sorel onwards up to Pompadour and du Ba
rry, and Germany lags far behind. And last of all, there comes Prussia with a complete blank in this sphere. This no doubt explains why a few women writers of genius have, in desperation, been forced to attribute half a dozen love affairs to Frederick the Great merely because they felt that, without something of the sort, it was not possible for him to be considered great.”
Pentz nodded in agreement, while Holk shook his head.
“You seem to have doubts, Count, and perhaps, above all, doubts as to my sincerity, but I am speaking nothing but the truth. The grand style! Bah, of course I know that people ought to be virtuous but they are not, and if you accept this, on the whole things are better than when morality is a mere façade. Loose living only harms morals but the pretence of being virtuous harms the whole man.”
As she was speaking, a wax angel fell from one of the Christmas trees standing round the table just where Pentz was sitting. He took it up and said: “A fallen angel; signs and portents are occurring. Who can this be?”
“Not I,” laughed Ebba.
“No,” confirmed Pentz and the tone in which he said this made Ebba change colour. But before she could retaliate for this impertinence, a pattering of feet was heard behind the screen of firs and cypresses, orders were given in a whisper and children’s voices started singing. It was a song specially composed by Schleppegrell for this pre-Christmas celebration which now rang out through the gallery:
Noch ist der Herbst nicht ganz entflohn,
Aber als Knecht Rupprecht schon
Kommt der Winter hergeschritten
Und alsbald aus Schness Mitten
Klingt des Schlittenglöckleins Ton.
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