Irretrievable (17 page)

Since Pentz either failed or pretended to fail to understand, Holk went on: “I mean, of course, the two Hansen women. I suppose that, quite apart from what you have told me yourself, I ought to be as well informed as you, for both women come from Schleswig, from Husum, I think, and then later on Glücksburg, and I was living in the mother's house last time I was on duty here. I must have been very unobservant or else the daughter who is there now has put a different complexion on the household. The fact remains that I'm still uncertain what they are up to. Sometimes I feel quite sure that it's all part of a carefully thought-out game but then I become conscious of all kinds of superior airs and graces and although I know very well that people can put on grand airs, all the same it makes me doubtful again. For example, there's this wonderful story of the Emperor of Siam with all sorts of homage and presents that seem to have come straight out of a fairy-tale and there's even a magnificent pearl necklace. Now, is that the truth or a lie? Perhaps it's a sort of megalomania. The daughter is certainly very good-looking and anyone who has ever been fêted in such a remarkable way because of her beauty, which is unquestionable, and then has to sit quietly at home brooding and waiting, would, I suppose, through her loneliness be quite capable of exaggerating her success and so we have the Emperor of Siam with a pearl necklace and elephants without knowing exactly how they came to be there.”

Pentz was smiling to himself but continued to say nothing, as he realized that Holk had not yet finished speaking. The latter went on: “So everything may be just an hallucination, the creation of too vivid an imagination. But when I think of all the giggling and the way her eyes suddenly light up, both of which things happen on occasion, and especially when I remember the remarks you made to me the very first evening, remarks containing something about ‘security authorities,' then I admit quite frankly that I have rather an uncanny feeling. And not only uncanny but in fact, real fear and real anxiety. After all what does ‘security authorities' mean exactly? It means the police and their most skilful and industrious members in addition form part of political security organizations. And the thought of that makes my blood run quite cold! If there really is any connexion between a security officer and the daughter or even between a chief of police and the mother—that sort of thing is not unknown and police-chiefs are quite incalculable in their tastes—then in this Hansen
ménage
, I'm little better off than in a den of thieves. The fact that there is gilt and Turkish carpets and that both mother and daughter brew a tea that might have come straight from heaven and not only from Siam, all that isn't going to be any consolation for me in the long run. It seemed to me, too, that when the Princess heard the name of Frau Hansen she looked rather as if she were not very edified. In a word, what is all this about? And now, out with it!”

Pentz touched Holk's sherry glass with his own and gave a hearty laugh: “I shall tell you something, Holk. You are head over heels in love with this young woman and because you are afraid of her or, what amounts to the same thing, because you lack confidence in yourself, you want me to produce some frightful story that you can pull out of your pocket as a sort of insurance policy and use as a screen between yourself and the beautiful Frau Hansen. But with the best will in the world, I'm afraid that I can't provide this cautionary tale. And just think, how would I have dared, when I recommended you to go to Frau Hansen's for the first time two years ago, how would I have dared to send you, Count Holk, Gentleman-in-Waiting, to a
chambre garnie
which, with a pungency only equalled by your
naïveté
, you have just referred to as a den of thieves …”

“No offence, Pentz. The more so as it was your hints that were really responsible for my suspicions. Why did you mention security authorities?”

“Because it's the truth. Why shouldn't I mention security authorities? Why shouldn't a member of that body find Frau Brigitte just as pretty as you do? He may be a cousin of hers or even of the elder one—whom, by the way, I trust even less than the young one.”

Holk nodded agreement.

“But in any case, you needn't rack your brains too much over this and much else besides. Copenhagen is like that and always has been. Three thousand years ago, we had the Dyveke 
[1]
business, mother and daughter, and it doesn't make much difference whether it is Hansen or Dyveke. By the way, you know that Dyveke was not a name but a descriptive adjective, don't you? And rather apt, too: little dove, the little dove from Amsterdam—can you imagine anything more innocent?”

Holk could only agree; but Pentz who was not only a living reference library for the
chronique scandaleuse
of the capital but especially for the love-stories of kings ancient and modern, was not reluctant to embroider on a theme in which he had such expertise. “There's something quite peculiar about the Dyveke story. You know that she is supposed to have been poisoned by red cherries. But whatever it was, the whole thing was more or less forgotten and no one was worrying about Dyveke and was more interested in models nearer home when, all of a sudden, our dear little milliner Rasmussen was converted into a countess. And will you believe it, from that day on, that old story has taken on a new lease of life and there is not a girl in Denmark with a pair of rosy cheeks, or even who's as pretty as that Frau Brigitte of the ever-drooping eyelids, who does not dream of becoming a Dyveke and having a title and a villa by the sea, and they place their pretty hands in their laps and preen themselves and … wait. And they all think that if the King himself doesn't come along, our ever-gracious sailor-king Frederick VII—because they can see that the Danner knows how to hold on to him and must have some charm that the rest of mankind hasn't yet discovered—if, as I was saying, the King doesn't come along, then someone else will, be it Holk or Pentz—you must excuse me for coupling my name so unceremoniously with yours. No, Holk, not a den of thieves. That beautiful
capitana
, whose husband, incidentally, I am
not
inclined to envy—and, by the by, he's rumoured to be rather partial to rum—this
capitana
is no worse than any of the others, only rather more dangerous because she's more beautiful, with her auburn hair and her house-coat that won't button up …. I hope that I don't need to appeal to your sense of chivalry, my dear Holk, to ensure that this poor young …”

“You will have your little joke, Pentz. But you are quite, quite wrong and you're forgetting, too, that I'm forty-five years old.”

“And I am sixty-five, my dear Holk. And if I calculate according to that, then it may well be a bad thing for you or alternatively for the lovely Brigitte …”

He was clearly keen to continue in this strain, but at that moment a footman came out of the Princess's apartments to announce that Her Royal Highness desired to speak with the gentlemen.

Pentz and Holk went in. The Princess held a newspaper in her hand and was obviously not only agitated but in a bad temper. She threw the paper to one side and instead of her customary gracious greeting, there came only the question: “Have you read what it says, gentlemen?”

Holk was unperturbed for, being half an outsider, he had no special duty to read the newspapers; but Pentz was embarrassed, the more so as in recent times he had quite frequently been caught out in such sins of omission. This visible embarrassment, however, immediately restored the Princess's good humour. “Now, my dear Pentz, you mustn't be too scared and let me restore your peace of mind at once by saying that over the years—and that is the view we must take—a man like you, let us say a man of game-and-truffle pie, is greatly to be preferred to a man of politics or newspaper gossip or even newspaper scandal. Because that is what we have here. It is true that the ostensible reason is a business house in Kokkegarde but we don't need a great deal of insight or knowledge to guess the real persons who have staged this scandal.”

The expression of embarrassment vanished from Pentz's face, to be replaced by one of curiosity. “I presume that it's something improper about the countess …”

“Oh no,” laughed the Princess. “In the first place, there is nothing at all improper about the countess and if you were a paragon of a gentleman-in-waiting, which thank the Lord you are not, you would pay more attention to my frequently expressed views on the countess. But that is just like you, Baron, and the prospect of your mid-morning breakfast, if you haven't had it already, has made you forget that a lampoon on the Danner would have put me into a good and not a bad humour. Yes, my dear Pentz, you were on the wrong track there, or perhaps you gave yourself away and if we lived in other days, I should present myself before the King and without more ado urge him to institute a Struensee 
[2]
suit against you for unlawful relations with the milliner countess. Just think if your head were to be chopped off! But I shall not threaten you too much and shall merely condemn you to read the article in question; Ebba has underlined it all in red, she likes doing that; and then you may ask yourself how far we have already gone with gutter government in Denmark. Yes, gutter government—unfortunately; mind you, we ought to be careful about admitting it in front of Holk, because it is all grist to his Schleswig-Holstein mill. But what's the use? There is the article and if he does not read it here, he will read it in his lodgings, or the wife of Captain Hansen will read it to him. People who might well lay claim to an article themselves, or something similar, are always the first to be interested in
sensation
.”

Holk was rather perturbed by this remark, because it revealed once more the dubious reputation of the Hansens. However, it was no time to pursue such matters for Pentz had already taken hold of the paper and, with pince-nez in action, began to read: “For sale: Notes of hand of Prince Ferdinand, the heir-presumptive!”

“Well, Pentz, you have stopped reading already and are looking for your handkerchief, presumably to clean your glasses and reassure yourself that you have read aright. But you have read aright. Now go on.”

“Various notes of hand of His Royal Highness Prince Ferdinand are for sale; they are all signed: ‘On my royal honour' and endorsed by his Privy Purse Chamberlain Plöther. The price will be what any amateurs or collectors of curiosities may consider appropriate for such rare and important documents, but in no case less than fifty per cent of their face value. Please apply to the business-house at 143 Kokkegarde.”

Pentz laid the paper down; the article was at an end.

“Now, gentlemen, what do you think of such a thing? Personally I must say that, in sixty years experience, I have never known anything like it. You refuse to say anything and Holk is presumably thinking: ‘As you make your bed, so you must lie in it,' and that anyone who signs I.O.U.s and, above all, if he adds ‘on my royal honour,' ought to redeem them and if he fails to do so, he must, as has happened here, expect to be pilloried from 143 Kokkegarde. Presumably Holk thinks that, and he's right, quite right. I have no personal feelings about the Prince and the more he ruins himself, the more it benefits the person who is destined to be the real heir to this country, in place of this so-called heir-presumptive. But I cannot selfishly sit back and enjoy seeing the furtherance of my political schemes, when so much else, of greater importance after all, is at stake at the same time. A bird doesn't foul its own nest and there is a solidarity of interests which monarchy has to recognize, if monarchy is to continue to exist. I might blame
Dagbladet
and I admit that my first feeling of irritation was directed against them. But what is a newspaper? Nothing. I blame the King who has lost his sense of solidarity. He thinks of nothing else but his Danner and of digging up giant stone beds, two very different things in themselves, although posterity may perhaps link them in some strange way. Above all, he thinks: ‘
Après nous le déluge
.' And that is most unfortunate. I hate preaching as much as I hate virtuous platitudes but, on the other hand, it must always be remembered that loose principles are fatal—principles are much more important than facts. It is to you, Pentz, that I am saying all this. With Holk it's different, he's a German and if he perhaps finds himself weakening (Ebba has been telling me all sorts of wonderful things about Frau Brigitte Hansen), then he only needs to think of his wife Christine at home; and I must be very much mistaken in her if her power doesn't extend from Holkenäs as far as Copenhagen. And now, gentlemen, au revoir.”

[
2
]Struensee, lover of the wife of the eighteenth-century Danish king Christian VII, was impeached for treason on this count and executed.

Holk
had no time to reflect on what he had just heard, for it was a day full of visits and, in general, rather busy. At noon, there appeared two
petites-nièces
of the Princess, both as pretty as pictures and still only children, who came to fetch their great-aunt to visit an historical exhibition which Professor Marstrand and Professor Melbye had opened on 1 October in some of the side-galleries of the Museum. The whole town was talking about this exhibition and, as usual, politics took second place, although they were days when not only the government but even the monarchy itself seemed threatened. But of what importance was that, compared with the desire of the inhabitants of all big towns, and especially of Copenhagen, to find amusement—an amusement that, on this occasion, could masquerade behind a grand name—patriotism. What was on show was something unprecedented—a Danish national exhibition for which both town and country had been scoured to find historical portraits. It began with knee-length portraits of Christian II and his wife Isabella and concluded with three full-size portraits of Frederick VII, the present reigning monarch. Some distance away hung the portrait of Countess Danner. In between, endless battles on land and sea, fights against Lübeck, the assault on Wisby, the bombardment of Copenhagen, with red-coated generals everywhere but, even more, all the naval heroes over at least three centuries and, inevitably, Thorwaldsen and Öhlenschlager and ugly old Grundtvig. The Princess showed only a lukewarm interest because, as most of the pictures came from the royal palaces scattered all over Zealand, they had long been familiar to her. The young great-nieces, however, were extremely enthusiastic, asking a thousand questions and for a moment creating the impression that they were filled with admiration for all the old admirals, of whom one of the most famous had a black patch over one eye. But in the course of the visit, it became obvious to everyone, including the Princess and her suite, that their interest in admirals was mere pretence and make-believe and that the young princesses lingered with real reverence only in front of the likenesses of those persons, men or women, whose names were connected with some romantic or mysterious love-story or other.