He said that he was not afraid to die. And he saw at once that this infuriated her. She didn’t believe him, and her distrust held a measure of contempt.
“In fact, you long for it,” she then, very surprisingly, told Struensee. “But I don’t want to die. I’m too young to die. I don’t long for it. And I haven’t given up.”
He found this unjust. And he knew that she was touching on a sore spot.
“We have to decide quickly,” he said, since he didn’t want to respond.
It was only people who were cast in one piece who couldn’t feel fear. The stupid brother, who could not feel terror, conquered the world.
The pure-hearted were doomed to destruction.
She made a swift decision for both of them.
“We’re staying here,” she said curtly. “I’m staying here. The children are staying here. You do as you like. Flee to Sweden if you want to. You’ve actually wanted to flee for quite a long time now.”
“That’s not true.”
“Then stay.”
“They’re going to murder us.”
“No, they’re not.”
Then she left the room to plan the reception for the rebellious sailors.
3.
Afterward Struensee thought that this was the most humiliating moment he had ever experienced. Nothing that happened later was as dreadful.
Yet everything went so splendidly.
Queen Caroline Mathilde, accompanied by her retinue, walked across the bridge and at the abutment to the bridge she greeted the rebellious sailors. She spoke to them. She made an overwhelmingly charming and enchanting impression. She thanked the sailors warmly for calling on them, and she pointed to King Christian, who stood three paces behind her, shaking with terror but utterly silent and without a trace of his usual spasms or behavior. On his behalf she asked forgiveness for the sore throat and fever that prevented him from speaking to them.
She didn’t mention Struensee with a single word, but was extremely charming.
She assured them of the King’s favor and goodwill, and vigorously refuted the malicious rumors which said the ships would not be built. Three days earlier the King had already decided that two new ships of the line would be built at Holmen’s shipyard, in order to strengthen the fleet against the country’s enemies; everything else was a lie. She apologized for the delay in paying their wages, commiserated with them regarding their hunger and thirst after such a long journey, and explained that in the storehouse refreshments had been arranged, consisting of whole roasted boar and beer. She hoped they would enjoy the repast and assured them that her greatest wish was to visit beautiful Norway with its valleys and mountains, rumored to be so “enchanting,” and about which she had heard so much in the past.
Or “in beforetimes,” as she expressed it.
The sailors gave a great cheer for the royal couple and went off to the refreshments.
“Are you crazy?” he said to her. “Two new ships of the line? There’s no money for that, hardly any for their wages. It’s all an empty promise, it’s impossible. You’re crazy.”
“No, I’m smart,” she replied. “And I’m going to be even smarter.”
He sat with his face hidden in his hands.
“I’ve never felt so humiliated,” he said. “Must you humiliate me?”
“I’m not humiliating you,” she told him.
“Yes, you are,” he said.
From across the lake they could hear the wild roars from the rebellious Norwegian sailors who were becoming drunker and drunker, who were no longer rebellious, but instead loyal to the Crown. Struensee they had not seen. Perhaps he didn’t exist. It was going to be a long night. There was plenty of beer, and tomorrow they would leave; the revolt was defeated.
Then she sat down next to him and slowly stroked his hair.
“But I love you,” she whispered. “I love you so much. But I don’t plan to give up. Or die. Or give us up. That’s the thing. The only thing. Only that. I don’t plan to give us up.”
4.
Guldberg conveyed the information about the outcome of the revolt to the Dowager Queen, who listened with a stony face, and to the Crown Prince, who drooled as he usually did.
“You have failed,” she said to Guldberg. “And we may have miscalculated. The little English whore is harder than we thought.”
There wasn’t much to say. Guldberg merely replied evasively that God was on their side and would surely assist them.
They sat in silence for a long time. Guldberg looked at the Dowager Queen, and once again was shaken by the inexplicable love she had for her son, whose hand she was always holding, as if she didn’t want to let him go. It was incomprehensible, but she loved him. And she actually believed, with a cold desperation that frightened Guldberg, that this backward son would become God’s chosen one, that he would be given all power over the land, that it was possible to disregard his lowly appearance, his deformed head, his tremors, his ridiculously memorized chants, his pirouettes; it was as if she completely disregarded his appearance and saw an inner light that so far had been prevented from emerging.
She saw that God’s light shone in this lowly shell, that he was chosen by God, and that their sole task was now to prepare the way. So the light could burst forth. And as if she heard and understood his thoughts, she touched her hand to the Crown Prince’s cheek, found it sticky, took out a lace handkerchief, wiped the drool from his chin, and said:
“Yes. God will assist us. And I see God’s light in this lowly form.”
Guldberg took a breath, a deep breath. God’s light in this lowly form. She was speaking of her son. But he knew that the same applied to himself. The lowliest, the least significant, they carried God’s light within. He took a deep breath; it sounded like a sob, but it couldn’t be.
He pulled himself together. And then he began explaining the two plans he had devised, which would be tried, one after the other, if the sailors’ revolt failed. Unfortunately, this had already happened; but then the lowliest and least significant, who nevertheless bore God’s inner light, would continue the fight for purity.
5.
Rantzau was sent to Hirschholm that very evening to carry out the little plan, the one that would follow the revolt of the Norwegian sailors.
It was very simple. Guldberg believed that simple plans could sometimes succeed, those that required few people, no huge concentrations of troops, no crowds, just a few select individuals.
This simple plan included Struensee’s two friends, Rantzau and Brandt.
They had met in secret at the inn a mile from Hirschholm. Rantzau explained that the situation was critical and action a necessity. The prohibition against home distilling may have been wise, but it was also foolish. People were now demonstrating in the streets. It was only a matter of time before Struensee would be overthrown. Chaos reigned, pamphlets everywhere, satires, taunts directed at Struensee and the Queen. Things were boiling over.
“He thinks he’s the man of the people,” Brandt said bitterly, “and they hate him. He has done everything for their sake, and they hate him. The people will devour their benefactor. And yet he deserves it. He had to do everything at once.”
“The impatience of good people,” replied Rantzau, “is worse than the patience of evil people. I taught him everything, everything! But not that.”
Rantzau then explained the plan. Brandt was supposed to tell the King that Struensee and the Queen were planning to kill him. Therefore he had to be rescued. The King was the key. Once he was safely in Copenhagen, beyond Struensee’s control, the rest would be easy.
“And then?”
“Then Struensee must die.”
The following day the plan failed; what happened was so absurdly comical that no one could have predicted this development.
This is what took place.
The King, at five in the afternoon, was struck by an inexplicable fit of rage; he raced onto the bridge leading to the mainland, shouting that he was goin
g to drown himself. When Struensee came running after him, he suddenly fell to his knees, grabbed hold of Struensee’s legs and, weeping, asked him whether it was true that he had to die. Struensee tried to calm him by stroking his hair and forehead, but Christian became even more agitated and asked him whether it was true.
“What does Your Majesty mean?” asked Struensee.
“Is it true that you want to kill me?” the King said in a quavering voice. “Aren’t you one of The Seven? Answer me, aren’t you one of The Seven?”
That was how it started: the two of them standing on the bridge. And the King called him by name, over and over again.
“Struensee?” he whispered, “Struensee, Struensee, Struensee?”
“What is it, my friend?” said Struensee.
“Is it true what Brandt confided to me?”
“What did he confide to you?”
“He wanted to take me to Copenhagen in secret. After nightfall. Tonight!!! To prevent you from killing me. Then they were going to kill you. Is it true that you want to kill me?”
That was how the little, very simple plan failed. They didn’t understand that Struensee was one of The Seven. Nor did they understand another connection; that’s why they failed, that’s why they revealed their stupidity, that’s why the King wanted to thwart their machinations.
Only Struensee understood, but not until he asked a question:
“Why are you telling me if you think I want to kill you?”
Christian simply replied:
“Brandt was Bottine Caterine’s enemy. He maligned her. And she is the Sovereign of the Universe. That’s why I hate him.”
And that is how the second plan failed.
He summoned Brandt for questioning, and the man confessed at once.
Without being commanded to do so, Brandt fell to his knees.
This was the situation in the state hall to the left of Struensee’s study at Hirschholm Castle. It was a late-November day, Brandt was on his knees with his head bowed, and Struensee stood with his back to him, as if he couldn’t stand to see his friend’s predicament.
“I ought to have you killed,” he said.
“Yes.”
“The revolution is devouring its children. But if it devours you too, then I won’t have a single friend left.”
“No.”
“I won’t kill you.”
A long silence followed; Brandt was still on his knees, waiting.
“The Queen,” said Struensee, “wants to return to Copenhagen as soon as possible. None of us has much hope, but she wants to return. That is the Queen’s wish. I have no other wishes. Will you come with us?”
Brandt did not reply.
“How quiet it has grown all around us,” said Struensee. “You may leave us if you like. You can go to … Guldberg. And Rantzau. And I wouldn’t blame you.”
Brandt didn’t answer, but began to sob loudly.
“This is a crossroads,” said Struensee. “A crossroads, as they say. What are you going to do?”
A very long silence ensued; then Brandt slowly got to his feet.
“I will go with you,” said Brandt.
“Thank you. Bring your flute along. And play for us in the calash.”
* * *
The following evening, before they departed in the coaches, they gathered for a brief conversation, over tea, in the inner salon.
A fire had been lit in the fireplace, but there was no other light. They were ready to set off. Present were King Christian VII, Queen Caroline Mathilde, Enevold Brandt, and Struensee.
The only light came from the fireplace.
“If we were allowed to live a different life,” Struensee finally asked, “if we were given a new life, a new opportunity, what would we be?”
“A stained-glass painter,” said the Queen. “In a cathedral in England.”
“An actor,” replied Brandt.
“Someone who sows the fields,” said the King.
Then there was silence.
“And you?” said the Queen to Struensee. “What would you be?”
But he merely gave his friends a long look on that last evening at Hirschholm, stood up, and said:
“A doctor.”
And then:
“The coach is here.”
That very night they left for Copenhagen.
All four of them sat in the same calash: the King, the Queen, Brandt, and Struensee.
The others would follow later.
The coach was like a silhouette in the night.
Brandt played his flute, very quietly and softly, like a requiem or a dirge or, as it seemed to one of them, like a hymn to the Sovereign of the Universe.
Part V
MASQUERADE
CHAPTER 14
THE LAST SUPPER
1.
NOW GULDBERG SAW it all much more clearly. The maelstroms of the river were decipherable.
He took advantage of the experiences from his analysis of Milton’s Paradise Lost. It had made him accustomed to interpreting images and at the same time keeping a critical distance from them. The image of a torch that casts great darkness, Struensee’s image of Christian’s illness, this image could, primo: be discarded because it was a breach of logic, but secundo: be accepted as an image of the Enlightenment.
He writes that this view of the metaphor shows the difference between the poet and the politician. The poet creates a false image, out of naiveté. But the politician sees through it and creates a field of application, which, to the poet, is surprising.
In this way the politician becomes the poet’s assistant, and benefactor.
The black light from the torch could thus be viewed as an image of the Enemies of Purity, those who spoke of enlightenment, those who spoke of light but created darkness.
From a breach of logic was thus created a criticism of the breach of logic. The filth of life from a dream of light. That was how he interpreted the image.
* * *
He could give examples from his own experience.
He was aware that the contagion of sin might strike even him. It was the contagion of desire. His conclusion: perhaps the little English whore was the black torch.
At Sorø Academy Guldberg had taught the history of the Nordic countries. He did so with great joy. He regarded the foreign influence at court as a disease, he despised the French language, which he had mastered to perfection, and he dreamed of some day becoming the subject of a memoir. It would be titled Guldberg’s Era, and it would begin with a standard phrase taken from the Icelandic sagas.
“There was once a man named Guldberg.” That was what the first line would be.
The reason for this was that the introductory words would set the tone. They would tell of a man who won his own honor, as in the Icelandic sagas. Not by defending the honor of the heroes, the great ones. Those chosen by God would view him as a hero, one of the great ones. Even though his stature was slight.
The King’s honor had to be defended. That was his mission. Guldberg had served at Sorø Academy up until the time when the pietistic contagion had won a foothold. When the stench of the Moravians and Pietists became too intolerable, he left his teaching position, since his dissertation on Milton had paved the way for his political career. He also left behind his role as a writer of history, although he had published a series of historical studies. Most noteworthy was his translation of Pliny’s “Eulogy for Trajan,” which he supplied with an introductory explication of the Roman form of government.
He started with the origins of history and stopped at Pliny. Pliny was the one who created Trajan’s glory, and defended it.
There once was a man named Pliny.
But Guldberg was a passionate person. He hated the little English whore with an intensity that was perhaps a passion of the flesh. When the news of her depravity reached him, he was seized with a furious excitement, the likes of which he had never before experienced. The body that the King, who was God’s chosen, should be enjoying was now b
eing penetrated by filthy German genitals. The greatest innocence and purity united with the greatest vice. Her body, which was sacred, was now the source of the greatest sin. It excited him, and he hated his excitement. He felt he was losing control. Hatred and passion were united in him; he had never before felt like this.
Outwardly, however, there was no change. He always spoke in a calm, low voice. It puzzled everyone when, during the planning of the final coup, he suddenly spoke in a very loud and almost shrill voice.
As in the Icelandic sagas, he had to defend the King’s honor. But when had the torch begun to cast its darkness on his own soul? That, for him, was the turning point of the saga. Perhaps it was when the little English whore had leaned toward him and whispered her shameless question about desire and torment. As if he had been cut off from desire and torment! But ever since, he had thought of her skin, which seemed so white and seductive, and her breasts.
One night he had thought about her so intently, about her betrayal of the King and his own hatred of her, that he touched his member, and then he was filled with such an overwhelming desire that it was impossible to stop; his shame over this was almost unbearable. Sobbing, he fell to his knees next to his bed and prayed for a long time to Almighty God for mercy.
At that time he realized that there was only one path. The contagion of sin had struck him too. Now it had to be eradicated.
Struensee was not the one at the core of the contagion. It was the little English whore, Queen Caroline Mathilde.
The little plan had failed. The big plan, meaning the third one, would not fail.
2.
The royal couple’s coach reached Frederiksberg Palace around midnight, and since their arrival had not been announced, they aroused little notice. Then the rumor spread quickly, and it caused a stir.
After the commotion died down, a vast and unpleasant calm set in.
* * *
The Dowager Queen summoned Rantzau and Guldberg.
First she meticulously inquired about what proof there was; not just the rumor of the Queen’s depravity, but proof.
The Royal Physician's Visit Page 23
