by Norah Lofts
He said, “I have today decided to make a visit to England In May. An agreeable month, I am told.”
Even the blurred, puffy features could not conceal the expression of sheer joy. She said, “Of all the loveliest month! And I can show Frederick to Mamma. I have longed to do that. He improves every day. By May he will be so beautiful...”
Christian took and chewed a mouthful before replying.
“I do not propose,” he said, “to take you with me.”
On top of the rush and confusion, the consciousness of looking her worst, the standing to receive, the effort to understand the Grand Duke’s German, Madame’s French, the shock of joy, this was too much. She could not even ask why, because to draw a deep breath and count to fifteen, twenty in order to maintain self-control, precluded speech.
“It would be unwise,” Christian said, quite reasonably, “for the monarch and the heir to the throne to be absent from the country at the same time. There are accidents, by sea and by land. And you chose to act as milch cow.”
In control of herself again, she said, quite calmly, “I had taken neither fact into consideration. He will not be weaned until June...”
She leaned forward and began to talk to Madame in her near-perfect French. Madame discovered that Her Majesty of Denmark—not so pretty as she was said to be, and not at all well-dressed—had some merit as a conversationalist. Presently Madame exercised the wit which was as famous as her beauty and her ambiguous status and Caroline responded with a burst of laughter. Christian should not see that his manner of breaking the news had hurt her.
But in the privacy of the bedchamber, Madame said to the Archduke, “That is not a happy woman. One can always tell by the laughter...”
LONDON; OCTOBER 1768
The Dowager Princess of Wales was planning one of the only gatherings that she positively enjoyed, a strictly family party. She talked it over with George, head of the family.
“I have never yet had a proper talk to him; and I must. With just the family, in my own house, he can hardly evade me.”
George showed a lamentable lack of enthusiasm.
“He may consider it a dull way to spend an evening.”
“It is one way to detach him from Count Holcke—and even from Count Bernstorff. Of course he is in a different category altogether, but if he is present, Christian affects not to understand my German and calls upon him to translate. That makes intimate talk impossible.”
“I can’t talk to my brother of Denmark at all,” George said, with a plaintive note in his voice. “I’ve never found any subject that interests him; he looks at nothing. And his laugh goes through my head. I’ve treated him,” George said, truthfully, “as I would expect to be treated were I fool enough to visit him. But talk to him I cannot. I sometimes wonder how Caro manages. There’s nothing there. Nothing I can lay hold on, anyway.”
How Caroline was managing was what concerned the Princess. She had the maternal ability to read between the lines and once or twice the lines themselves had been eloquent. There was this Frau von Plessen who had been “very stately and correct,” then “kinder than I thought at first,” the “very kind indeed” and finally “wonderful.” Wonderful in January; and Caroline’s first letter after the birth of her child had told exactly how wonderful Frau von Plessen had been; in February dismissed and banished. Why? She had been replaced by Frau von der Luhe, and though Caroline had written, bravely, “I may come to like her,” no later letter had recorded a change of mind; and Frau von der Luhe was a sister of Count Holcke whom the Princess Dowager had summed up, at first sight, as a sycophant and a rake.
And there was further evidence of something wrong somewhere. At her first meeting with Christian, as soon as the formal ritual was done the Princess Dowager had asked all the questions natural to a mother who had not seen her daughter for seventeen months, during which the daughter had borne a child. Christian’s answers had been perfunctory. Matilda was well; the child was well; he had then turned aside and said, quite audibly, “This doting Mamma bores me.”
That was very offensive; but the Dowager Princess was not a woman easily deterred.
So, here Christian was, seated between his mother-in-law and an aunt by marriage, two hundred years old by the look of her, and very hard of hearing and, from the way she fell upon her food, starving as well. One of his heads said, “Trapped! How much can you remember? What sort of birth was it? How much did the baby weigh? These are questions that any husband and father would answer, easily, and with pleasure. I am a husband; I am a father. I should be able to answer...but I can’t. A boy, ugly and puny at first, improving now. And naturally the birth of an heir pleased everybody. My chief feeling was relief.”
The other head, at the cost of a little pang, suggested a way out of this family talk. I’m King, it is for me to choose the subject for conversation. I shall talk, continuously, and fast, so that she cannot bother me with her questions.
He began to talk about himself and his stay in England, which he had so much enjoyed. How he had been to Oxford and received an honorary degree in some subject that he had never heard of and had now forgotten. His physician Dr. Struensee had been similarly honored, given a degree in medicine. He spoke of Cambridge, Leeds, Manchester, York and the rousing welcome he had received in these places; of the noble houses of Ditchley, Blenheim, Stowe, where he had been entertained in princely fashion. He remembered practically nothing of what he had seen, he had gone so fast from place to place and the range of his vision was so limited, so he fell back upon the word splendid. Everything he had seen was splendid, the hospitality he had received was splendid, the English crowds were splendid. As well they might seem, the Princess Dowager reflected sourly, since everywhere he went he threw gold pieces about as though he were scattering pebbles.
He could not speak—to his mother-in-law—of the place which had impressed him most and where he had most enjoyed himself, Mrs. Cornelis’ establishment in Soho Square. Mrs. Cornelis had been one of Casanova’s paramours. Nor could he mention the other haunts of vice and dissipation which he and Holcke had frequented whenever they could slip away. So his talk about England began to dwindle and he switched to his imminent visit to France and how greatly he was looking forward to it. The effort of keeping up this flow of talk was a strain and the pull between his clever head and his other one resulted in the usual pain.
Quite early on the Princess Dowager had decided that he was drunk; only that could account for the gabble, the jerky way of speaking, the shallowness of the talk and the repetition. She looked at him closely and decided that his appearance had deteriorated while he had been in England: Caroline had written that he was handsome; she herself had thought him not unhandsome, if rather small, when she first saw him and his looks had been the subject of much favorable comment. But now his complexion was not merely pale, it had a leaden tinge, there were purplish pouches under his eyes and a twitch at one side of his mouth; his eyes had a wild and sometimes unfocused look. She was inclined to discount scandalous gossip about royal personages—look what was said about George, about herself—but seeing this old face upon a young man of twenty she was inclined to credit some of the rumors of his dissipation.
George—placed at his own request at the farthest point of the table—had ceased to eat; he was very abstemious about food as well as wine, and had begun to fidget. He would not, at this family table, exercise his right to end the meal when he chose, but she could not keep him waiting forever. And she had not, so far, brought the conversation around to the subject so near her heart; every time, before she could complete a sentence, Christian had interrupted, most rudely, and resumed his monologue.
Now he was talking about Versailles, of his wish to see that fabulous, ruinously expensive building where even the orange trees grew in silver tubs.
“Our own palace at Hirscholm is said to be a copy. Miniature, but in a more beautiful situation. It is on an island. The name means the ‘Isle of Stags.’ “
&nb
sp; Well, at least they were now speaking of Denmark.
“Caroline,” the Princess Dowager said firmly, “has often mentioned its beauty.”
“Matilda,” Christian said. “In Denmark she is known as Queen Matilda. And so I think of her.”
“My daughter,” said the Princess Dowager who was capable of detecting, and administering, a subtle verbal rebuke. “There are so many things which a mother naturally wished to know, things which letters do not tell.”
Christian offered no help at all; he did not even ask what she wished to know, or offer to tell her what he could. His attitude made her questions sound very trivial, very feminine; but she asked them resolutely and was answered grudgingly. Then she said the thing that she had made up her mind to say.
“I have a feeling that Matilda”—a sop—”very much misses Frau von Plessen whom she seemed to regard as a friend. I was most distressed to hear that she had...resigned.”
“She was dismissed.”
“That increases my distress. I had hoped that I might persuade you to persuade Frau von Plessen to withdraw her resignation.” Really life was very difficult; one deplored lies, avoided them when possible, taught one’s children to avoid them; but where did untruthfulness and tact overlap? “You see, I understood that in the crisis Frau von Plessen behaved most admirably. And Matilda is very young, even now; a reliable, mature woman, of whom she was fond...Was her fault too grave to be overlooked?”
She was an interfering, pig-headed old harridan—very much like you, Madam!
“She disobeyed a direct order—from one!”
“How tiresome.” She braced herself. “Could it possibly have been a misunderstanding? Or if deliberate, could you not bring yourself to forgive her?” She was pleading now, because time was so short. “I ask this clemency because I have felt, almost from the first, that Frau von Plessen contributed a great deal to Carol...Matilda’s comfort and happiness.”
Christian said, “I always find it difficult to refuse any request from a lady—a beautiful lady.” He added the last words with deliberate malice and was pleased to see that she swallowed the flattery and looked relieved. “I could recall her and reinstate her tomorrow but it would make things awkward.” He paused, gloating over his clever head. “The trouble is, the moment she returns to Court I should be obliged to leave. I will not share a roof, a doorway or a staircase with her. You see, she is mad. On one occasion she slashed the Queen’s clothes to ribbons. Matilda was forced to attend a banquet in a borrowed dress that fitted badly.” His shrill laugh rang out and George flinched.
It was at times like this that the Princess Dowager missed Edward. She felt unable to bother George over what seemed a trivial matter; he already had worries enough to drive any man mad. William and Henry would not understand, and might even take any criticism of Christian as a maternal rebuke to themselves, since they had turned out to be giddy and pleasure-loving. She admitted to herself that there was nothing that anyone could do, but it would have been a relief to talk to someone who sympathized.
Christian was missing Knut as sharply as the Princess Dowager missed Edward. Knut had had an excellent reason for not coming on this trip. His old father had died in his saddle and the horse had carried the corpse home to the usual door where Knut’s mother was waiting to greet her husband. She gave a scream and fell down. “My father,” Knut explained, “did not even keep tallies; he told everything to my mother, who stored everything in her head. I feel that I am needed at Vidborg.”
Plausible enough, but the shrewd side of Christian’s brain offered another explanation: Knut resented Struensee. He had been opposed, from the first, to this choice of personal physician, and although the two men never quarreled openly, there had been a sense of strain ever since Struensee had come to Copenhagen. Knut called him, behind his back, “the Lutheran pastor,” and sometimes to his face, “Honest Johann,” in no flattering manner. He made mock of the measures which Struensee had advised for the improvement of Christian’s health, saying that if abstinence over food and drink and going to bed early made for health no peasant would ever die. Christian would have liked to think that Knut was jealous of Struensee; but if so the subject of the jealousy was power, not affection; Knut knew that Christian loved him as he had never loved and would never love anyone else. Yet here again came the divided mind; Christian sensed in his new doctor a kindness, a warmth, a lack of self-interest unknown to his first favorite.
Still, he missed Knut at every turn: how Knut would have laughed, for example, over his clever retort to his mother-in-law. Whenever Christian ordered presents for great English lords, and he was very lavish with rings and gold snuff boxes, he ordered something similar for Knut, knowing in advance how they would be received. When he presented one of the gold snuff boxes to Garrick, the great actor knelt and kissed his hand. Knut would probably say, “A pretty toy. Thank you,” with no real gratitude. Yet, because the unattainable is always the most sought after, Christian must go on striving.
One day, when he was thinking along these lines, he decided that in addition to all the gifts, he would, upon his return, give Knut really startling proof of his generosity and good will. Making the muddled dues an excuse he would remit the taxes on Vidborg for a year.
To this decision he adhered though in January 1769 when he returned to Denmark finances were in a poor way. Nobody on the Council dared to suggest that the £200,000 that Christian had spent in England and the slightly larger sum he had flung away in France was profligate. What they did say with maddening monotony was that the exchequer was empty and that the harvest had been exceptionally poor.
Even Knut, distantly admiring Christian’s gifts, informed of what was surely the greatest concession any King of Denmark ever made to a subject said, “That will be most welcome. The harvest was so poor...”
COPENHAGEN; JANUARY 1769
Supported on one side by his mother, on the other by Alice, the Crown Prince of Denmark bounced and stamped, enjoying the touch of his feet on the floor, and making joyous noises. In a few days he would walk. He already prattled freely, if unintelligibly, and had a distinctive way of greeting his mother and Alice, his two favorite people. Soon he would talk.
Fräulein von Ebhn rustled in and handed to Caroline a roll of stiff paper bound by a ribbon with a dangling seal: “From His Majesty, Your Majesty.”
Christian had come back from England and France in a more inimical state of mind toward her than ever. He had proffered no information about her family, and answered the questions which she felt compelled to ask in a brusque, deterrent manner. Now he was communicating with her by this official-looking document. What about?
The scroll opened unwillingly, as though reluctant to reveal its message. She stared at it with disbelief and then with horror. It informed her that from tomorrow, his first birthday, the Crown Prince of Denmark was to be given his own establishment. He would live at Fredericksborg and be attended by-There followed a list of governors, governesses, ladies, gentlemen, names over which her eye ran, taking in nothing. Skipping these, she read that His Royal Highness Household would be controlled by Her Majesty, Juliana the Queen Mother, and that Her Majesty of Denmark could visit His Royal Highness every fortnight.
She said, in a muted voice, “Alice, they plan to take him away from me.” Then she said, “This I will not tolerate. See to him...”
She let the offensive document spring back into its cylindrical shape and, holding it in one hand and her skirt in the other, sped away.
She covered the ground between the two apartments far more quickly than poor Frau von Plessen had done, but bursting into Christian’s apartments found herself confronted by much the same scene. Cards and money on the table, her husband and some other men—she never knew who they were—sitting around the table in unbuttoned ease. Everything that was violent and passionate in her nature had mounted as she ran and at the sight of Christian, sitting there playing some silly game, rebellious rage took charge.
S
he said in a loud voice, “You can’t do this to me!”
She had made the worst possible approach, and by ill luck hit upon the worst possible moment. Neither Knut, the old favorite, nor Struensee, the new one, happened to be present; either, the one from preconceived design, the other from sympathy, would have intervened. As it was there was no one except sycophantic hangers-on and when Christian said, “What can’t I do?” there was, behind the question a menacing hint of the autocrat’s unlimited power. She heard it and recognized the threat. In Denmark this man’s word was law.
She said, “I am sorry. I should not have said that. May I begin again and beg you, beg you, not to hand the child over to hirelings?”
The other card players stirred uneasily; one even pushed back his chair very quietly and stood up.
“Sit down,” Christian said roughly. “This will not take long. When I issue an order it is an order.”
“He is so young,” she said. “I had hoped to have him with me until he was six. Please reconsider. Please rescind this one order.”
It was unfortunate that in distress her face took on a resemblance to her mother’s: God protect men from such women! It was unfortunate that in the short time since his return from France several things had combined to ruffle Christian’s temper. It even angered him to find that everything had run smoothly in his absence—and then he was angry with himself for being so unreasonably angry. His head, despite all the remedies tried by Struensee, grew steadily worse; alcohol no longer cheered him. And in his absence Caroline had grown two inches.
“I have nothing more to say on this subject,” he said. “You are disturbing our play.”
She began to cry, dropping on to her knees beside his chair and putting her hand on the arm which he had moved to pick up his cards.
“It will break my heart,” she said. “And he’ll miss me. He knows me now. Christian, please listen to me. Over this one thing...”
