Irretrievable (20 page)

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.

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.