Music & Silence

by Rose Tremain

  The King turns towards Peter Claire and says: “The one incontrovertible thing is my love for my wife, Kirsten. Let us call it Cogito ergo amo. I first glimpsed her when she was seventeen, in church, and I asked God to give her to me and He did. I was thirty-eight. Her hair was the colour of tea and her skin was white and her mouth tasted of cinnamon. Danish law would not allow her to become my Queen, but I married her as soon as I could, and no man has ever had a honeymoon more sweet or more beautiful.

  “I gave her twelve children. For fourteen years I have been faithful to her and, even in the darkness of my thoughts, mused only upon her. Today, when I see her, when I come to her room, I am as moved by her as I was before she became my bride. I love her like a child, like a dear mother, like a mistress, like a wife. I cannot number for you the times I have rejoiced that she is mine. When I run my hand along the silver veins in these valleys, it is not only Denmark’s coffers that my mind replenishes, it is Kirsten’s private treasure store. When matters of State do not occupy my mind, all that remains in it is my longing to be with Kirsten, not merely to hold her in my arms, but to set her gently on my knee, or walk with her in the orchards, or play cribbage with her or hear her laughter. And this longing never leaves me.

  “But now the confusion enters in. For I know that Kirsten no longer has any feeling for me. No tender feeling. Only a mood of fury against me. She will not let me come to her. Sometimes, God forgive me, I take her against her will, reasoning that I am the King and her husband, and she cannot deny me. But that resolves nothing. It leaves a bitter gall. And yet my love for her refuses to leave me. My love, my passion and my longing. When the wolves cry in these hills, I hear this same sound in me. So tell me if you can, my friend, what I am to do.”

  The fire is grey, its heat gone. There is ice on the windows. Peter Claire shifts his position on the hard chair and says after a while: “My experience in the great question of love is very limited, Sir. But I do perceive that love and an answering absence of love are two elements in opposition. What my father would say, I believe, is that we should not strive to alter the opposing element, because this is futile. What we should strive to alter is the element that we ourselves are. Thus, if we discover, as seems to be the case with you, that our love is not reciprocated, we should cease to yearn for this reciprocation, but strive instead to dismantle the love in our own hearts. And then in time the confusion will be unravelled and on both sides there will be quietness.”

  The King stares intently at Peter Claire. It is as if, in the dim light of the low room, he is trying to ascertain that the colour of the lutenist’s eyes is still blue. Then, after some moments, he says: “I believe I am calm now. I believe I am at peace.” And he begins, very slowly and carefully, to replait his hair.

  LETTER TO HIS DAUGHTER EMILIA FROM JOHANN TILSEN

  My dear Emilia,

  This day we received the gift of bells you sent to Marcus for his pony’s bridle.

  Though no doubt you intended a kindness to your brother, I must inform you that we cannot, as matters stand at present, let him have any knowledge of this offering and the trinket must remain hidden from him. It may be that, upon his birthday, it shall be given to him, but I shall then take the precaution of informing him that the bells are a present from me or from Magdalena.

  If you are somewhat astonished by this and find it to have about it the smell of deception, let me explain to you that Marcus continues to cause this household a great quantity of displeasure and our patience with him is beginning to be frayed.

  Though it has been explained to Marcus numberless times that you are in Copenhagen and that you will not be returning to Jutland, he stubbornly persists in wandering about the fields and woods of the estate, supposedly in search of you. Not merely this, but he seems so very distracted by this fruitless quest that he has become grievously inattentive to the life going on within this house and refuses almost all conversation with me, with Magdalena and with his brothers. He eats very poorly and has developed the distressing habit of vomiting up his food almost as soon as it is swallowed. Already, two servants have gone because they could not endure the odious task of incessantly cleaning up what Marcus has spewed out.

  From this you will see that I have acted wisely in not giving any token from you to Marcus. I have told him that you pass your existence very far from this foyer, in what I have termed another world.

  I have also informed him that if he does not begin to participate sensibly in the life of this family, he will find me unkind. Already, at night-time, we have had to take the precaution of tying him to his cot by means of a harness, lest he stray into the night and is drowned in the lake or mauled by a bear in the forest. I do not derive any pleasure from doing this, but I am a man driven almost insane by his youngest son and I must endeavour to bring matters to some sensible conclusion.

  Please, therefore, send no more gifts or indeed letters or tokens of any kind to Marcus. I believe that he will only cease this search for you once he is convinced that you are too far away to be found.

  Otherwise and in all respects, matters go well in your former home. Your elder brothers Ingmar and Wilhelm do daily grow into ever finer and more handsome young men and I am very proud of them.

  Your dear stepmother, Magdalena, is with child again. I pray that this baby may be brought safely into the world. I ask God to give me a girl, so that when I am old I shall have this sweet young daughter to take your place.

  From your affectionate father,

  Johann Tilsen

  KIRSTEN: FROM HER PRIVATE PAPERS

  Oh, Lord, but Men do Vex me and make me tear my hair with fury!

  Do any—save my Exquisite Count—think aught of anything but their own Selfish Needs and Desires? Have any within them the littlest ounce of pure and tender kindness?

  Were I a Real Queen, I declare I would occupy some Strategically Placed Castle and, from its safety, fire cannonballs upon each and every Man who attempted to come near me! And I do not jest. I declare I do despise them all.

  Today, my sweet Emilia showed to me a letter from her Father that is the Vilest Document I have ever laid eyes upon. This treacherous and cowardly Father, all foolishly enamoured of his New Wife and being under her Spell, has been ordered to Cut Off his daughter and to pretend that she is no longer a part of his family. I would like to take the neck of Herr Tilsen and wring it with my bare hands! I would like to hurl him out of the topmost window of the Palace and see his heart split open on the cruel stone below! How can he treat Emilia so? And I am resolved: He Shall Not.

  Immediately upon being shown the Letter and finding Emilia very white with terror and with grief, I held her to me and tried to comfort her and said to her: “Emilia, this sinful Father has reckoned without Kirsten Munk, and now he shall learn the folly of this. We shall today go into the City and purchase another set of bells. These I will despatch by Royal Messenger to your Father’s house, with the Order that they be given, in the presence of the Messenger, to your brother Marcus, who is to be informed that they are from you.”

  Emilia attempted to speak, saying, “Oh, no, Madam, you must not do this,” but I cut her off and declared: “I shall do more! Every week from this time forth, we shall send a gift to Marcus. We shall send toys and hoops and learning books. We shall send kittens and birds and affectionate snakes. We shall send hats and buckles and clogs. No Saturday shall pass but there is a present from you and tender words from your pen to comfort him.”

  Emilia looked up at me, as though I might be some Wonder she had never before seen on this earth. She was lost for any word and so I continued to speak, finding my head very full and Brimming with Plans to punish her Father and show him that no man shall cast out a daughter in this way and not pay some price for it.

  “I have another idea,” I said. “My Mother, Ellen Marsvin, is a neighbour of your Father’s and, indeed, it was she who found you and brought you into this position as my Woman—as you know. Very well, then, I shall command my
Mother to be my Spy and yours in this matter. She shall pay visits to your Father’s house and report to us how things go on and in what state of misery Marcus is to be found. And if it be discovered that things go very badly with him, why then we shall order that he be brought to Rosenborg and we shall nurture him here, with my own Children, and in this way you shall see him every day of your life and he shall be reassured that you are in This World and in no Other!”

  I was so boiling with rage against this degenerate and loathsome Johann Tilsen that I felt faint and was forced to swoon upon my bed, where Emilia tried to revive me with a peach cordial. We wept together and lamented bitterly the Power that all Men do possess, and so we proceeded then to the other Matter that now concerns me and that is the King’s return.

  I am heavy with foreboding.

  Such is the fragile nature of my mind that it contrives to put from it—as though buried under Snow—those things which cause it the greatest terror. In this way had I suffocated all thought of what shall become of me and of my delirium with Otto when the King has returned to Copenhagen. It is as if I had decided he would never return, but would remain for ever in the Numedal and there die in due time and never again come near me nor touch me nor say my Name.

  But I was wrong. He will be home before the summer is truly come. And it is not only the dread I have of Otto’s absence that fills me with anxiety. There is another more Grave Matter. The time of my Menses has come and gone, and there is no sign of them. I fear that I am carrying Otto’s child. And if this be so, how shall it be squared with the King, who has not been permitted into my bed for many weeks and months? By the time the linden trees are all in leaf, I shall be Big. And so at last it must come to the King’s knowledge that I have a Lover. And I shall be cast out. Or, worse than this, I shall come to a terrible end. Each and every Nobleman’s Voice will be raised against me and a Petition will be got up that I be put to Death.

  All this I decide to confess to Emilia.

  I had not intended her to know about Otto, in case this knowledge made her turn against me and begin to Hate me, as does everyone else in this city. But I had to confess my fears to someone. And I reasoned that she, being a person of great kindness and loyalty, would strive not to condemn me, but rather remain by my side in my Trouble and try to bring me comfort.

  I wept a great quantity of tears. “Emilia,” I said, “do not harden your heart against me, I beg you! All mortals are weak when it comes to the great matter of Love, and I have been a loyal wife to the King and never strayed until this moment, but my Passion for Otto and his for me is such that we cannot subdue it by any means, and look how cruelly, now, I am to be punished.”

  Emilia’s face was very pale. This second shock followed the other of her Father’s Letter. And, seeing this pallor of hers, the idea came to me to conjoin the two Matters in one, thus binding her (quite cunningly) to me, so that we may each be constrained to succour and support the other.

  I dried my tears. “I will do all that can be done for Marcus,” I said, “and this I swear upon my wretched life. But so must you promise to help me, Emilia, for I have no one else here but you. You

  are my Woman and I your only Refuge, now that you are sundered from your family. Say that you will not condemn me and then we shall discover together some way out of this Maze of Sad Things.” She sat down upon a small chair. “Madam,” she said after a little moment of quiet, with a worried frown coming and going upon her forehead, “whatever may befall you, I shall serve you.”

  “Do you speak true, Emilia?” I asked. “Swear to me that you speak true.”

  “I speak true,” she said. “Upon my Mother’s Life.”

  GUARDIANS OF THEIR TREASURE HOUSES

  The Anti-Knitting Edict is a distant memory. The golden plaits are gone. Dowager Queen Sofie, mother of Christian, has shut herself up in Kronborg Castle at Elsinore on the Kattegat Sound, where she has only to raise her head and stare across the water to find Denmark’s old enemy, Sweden, staring back at her. The stare is grey and unyielding. She knows that war will return.

  But in her old age, what can she do about war? What can she do about anything in the world? For years, she has been accumulating her answer. It has been stockpiled in iron vaults deep underground, and every morning Dowager Queen Sofie takes up a heavy key and makes her way down, down into the darkness, and opens the door to her treasure house.

  Gold has no perfume. Nothing of it escapes into the surrounding air. It does not wear nor spoil with time. And yet, as all the months and years pass, a change is occurring within it, a change so satisfying that the Queen never fails to marvel when she thinks about it: it is increasing in value.

  It is stored in barrels (the coinage) and in piles of ingots (the molten metal refashioned to its most compacted form) laid one upon the other in clusters of six. Queen Sofie has lost all memory of what it once represented—in revenues, taxes and dues, in gifts and bribes, in forfeits and confiscations. She is no longer interested in any detail of that kind. All she knows is that a woman in her position, from whom power has slowly seeped away, must put her trust in wealth and nothing else.

  Her daily visit to the gold vaults is always made alone. Not one of her servants is allowed anywhere near them, nor do they know where the key is kept. When she is inside the vaults, Dowager Queen Sofie bolts the door, shutting herself off from everything in the world but this.

  In no other respect is she a greedy woman. On the contrary. She dines mainly on flounder fished from the Sound. In her cellar are some fine French wines, but she drinks them sparingly because she has seen what punishments to the body gluttony and inebriation can bring. She remembers only too well the repulsive sufferings of King Frederik, who corrupted his digestive system with liquor and game, and who died vomiting up his own faeces. She also knows that her son, King Christian, has this same frailty of the gut combined with a similar mania for rich meat and strong wine and, as she eats her quiet meals, prays that he will not die before her, leaving her at the mercy of a shiftless young grandson she does not love.

  Queen Sofie’s prayers have become more urgent in recent times. She has seen changes in Christian that appeared during his disastrous wars and which have not gone away. Something is going wrong in his life. His features—never clean and sharp like his mind—now resemble a collapsed cake into which misery has been stirred. This misery seeps out from his eyes. It oozes down the runnels of his cheeks.

  The nobility and their wives, the few that Queen Sofie can be bothered to entertain at Kronborg, often murmur about the intolerable behaviour of Kirsten Munk and the extraordinary forbearance shown by the King towards this wife of his, who screams at her servants and is jealous of her own children, and falls down drunk in public and shows no shame. Queen Sofie shakes her head. “Yes,” she agrees, “Kirsten does not comport herself well. It is as though she is searching, by one means and another and all of them disreputable, to understand why she is alive.”

  But privately she knows that her son’s heart was given to this fiery Kirsten as surely as if she had cut it out and eaten it, and that however Kirsten may try his patience, he will never repudiate her.

  Dowager Queen Sofie sighs, thinking about Kirsten’s capriciousness and about the look of sadness and longing in her son’s eyes when he reaches out for her to seat her upon his knee: “Come to me, my sweet Mousie. Come.” She sighs because she sees there is nothing that she or anyone can do to alter this state of affairs. If a woman is weary of a man, then she is weary of him and will turn away from him to other things and that is that.

  She herself, when she began in time to be weary of King Frederik’s gourmandising, of the foolish nodding of his head when he was awash with wine, turned away from him and never again loved him with more than a few ounces of her being. And what was the thing to which she looked for consolation? She did not take lovers. She did not surrender herself to God. She began to hoard money.

  Ellen Marsvin, mother of Kirsten Munk, now also lives alon
e—in Boller Castle in Jutland. The fruit fields of Johann Tilsen border her lands.

  Like Queen Sofie, Ellen was, in her younger days, a beautiful woman. Now all that is discernible in an eye once bright with flirtatious fire is intelligence and cunning. She knows how, in a world entranced by youth and power, ageing women are neglected and despised. She believes that widows must be agile and shrewd if they are to survive. Her mind is occupied with the perpetual sifting and turning of plots and strategies.

  Her treasure house is her kitchen. In summer, she lays down in sealed jars the great store of soft fruit she buys from Johann Tilsen: blueberries, junipers, strawberries, blackberries, redcurrants, blackcurrants, raspberries, gooseberries and sloes. In the winter she makes jam. And as she works with her sacks of sugar, with her boiling cauldrons, into her head (wrapped in linen to keep the steam from spoiling her hair) come pouring new propositions for her own survival. “Be vigilant” is her motto to herself. And she obeys it.

  She knows the naked truth about her daughter: Kirsten is tired of the King and enamoured of Count Otto Ludwig of Salm. And this state of affairs is perilous. In her longing to be rid of her husband, Kirsten may put herself in grave danger—herself and her family, the Boller estate, her jewels and furniture: everything. It might all be lost, even the jam.

  But Ellen Marsvin has risen far since her first marriage to Ludwig Munk and she does not intend to fall back into a mediocre life. Already she is trying to fathom how—if a separation between Kirsten and the King should occur—she may still make herself indispensable to Christian. There is a single key to her planning: foresight. In laying down her strategies, she knows she must always strive to see clearly not only what is, but what will be.

  And so, upon receiving a long letter from Kirsten asking for a favour—a visit to the Tilsen household to ascertain how the youngest child is being treated—Ellen answers her daughter thus: