The Forest Lake Mystery

by The Forest Lake Mystery (retail) (epub)

  But he didn’t want to talk about him and the conversation changed tack. It essentially concerned the three things the equerry understood: horses, dogs and women. Holst was the audience, while Sjöström talked incessantly and had a royal good time. He found the lieutenant charming, and they came on intimate terms before the house nymph intervened and made sure that her strict master came to his soft bed.

  The next morning the equerry had a hangover and Holst set off back to Copenhagen.

  XIV

  When Holst returned to his home in the capital, he found, in addition to the other post, a letter from Ankerkrone, with a package of papers attached. The letter read as follows:

  My dear friend,

  I have been considering for some time whether I should write to you or if I should wait and see if our paths would cross. Our acquaintanceship is young, but you will believe me when I tell you that I, an old man in mind if not in years, because life has bent my back and drawn furrows across my brow, have never met a young man who has warmed my heart like you have. From the first days of my youth, I have believed that the most wonderful purpose of life would be to bequeath my name, and what life has taught me, to the person who could take up the calling that I couldn’t accomplish, that of living life how a human being should live it. My son cannot take this up because he is so distant from everything that is close to my heart. I have found in you so much of what I love and so much of what I miss and I am fonder of you than you could imagine.

  Which is why I am writing to you. You sent me, without understanding it, a message that you called, ‘from beyond the grave’. You could not have sent me a more onerous message, even though it wasn’t the first time I had heard it. Holger Kurk, my old friend from my youth, has told me about his meeting with you. I now know that you know some of the events that linked my destiny to the woman whose body you found in the forest lake that day. You know far from everything, but what I am sending you here will tell you all that I am at liberty to say.

  I recognised her immediately the day you found her. Perhaps you feel betrayed by my silence. But I had to hold back about all that time that had faded away, which you are going to hear about now, and you will understand why I stayed silent when there was such an uproar around me, with people wanting to know everything and spread it to thousands of unimportant and irrelevant people – wasn’t that so?

  I don’t believe you will ever get to the bottom of this case. I advise you not to give up – you should not. Neither do I ask you for anything because I trust you. But I can’t help you. I am no longer in the best of health, but should our paths cross, then accept me for who I am,

  Your fatherly friend,

  Arvid Ankerkrone.

  This letter was on top of a parcel of papers, which had clearly been selected with great care from a larger collection of letters and documents, and which put on record everything that had happened between Annie and Ankerkrone.

  The first in the pile was a folder with loose pages, on the cover of which was written in the Captain’s firm, meticulous hand:

  From Arvid Ankerkrone’s diary.

  Motto: Wie man Geld und Zeit vertan,

  Zeigt das Büchlein lustig an. 1

  The diary was divided into short sections, each of which was introduced by a quote from Goethe’s Venetian Epigrams. In several of the passages, the master’s words from these epigrams were woven into the text in translation. It was clear that Ankerkrone had been heavily influenced in his youth by this writing, and had even attempted to build his diary upon its verses. But life had strangely and jarringly intervened in this poem and bent it more and more towards serious prose, until Ankerkrone had laid his pen aside with heavy, bitter words to close his diary for ever. Its content was as follows:

  An dem Meere ging ich und suchte mir Muscheln. In einer

  Fand ich ein Perlchen; es bleibt nun mir am Herzen verwahrt.2

  Twenty-six years old and in Venice! In truth, you great immortal poet, I didn’t need you to show me the way in the whirring labyrinth. I have seen Baiae and the fish and the sea, as I have seen Venice and the pool and the frogs. I don’t sleep, I’m wide awake. “Which woman do I want?” you ask me; I have found her, just as I want her to be – the pearl in the mussel, which I will keep by my heart.

  Giulia Cassini: “Yes, I understand it so well; it is my body that travels, while my soul will forever rest in my lover’s bosom.”

  In short, I’m in love – in love and young, I’m in Venice.

  It’s summer and the heat is hanging heavily over St Mark’s Square, while the water splashes lazily in the Grand Canal. Spending hours leaning back in the gondola, I let myself be conveyed past the house of my beloved.

  “I can liken the gondola to a gently rocking cradle; the box shielding me from the sun is like a black sarcophagus. And it carries me between cradle and grave in the canal of life, carefree I dream, gliding lightly on water.”

  I know she is coming and, when she arrives, she is mine.

  She promised me the first kiss in Venice; Venice is her home, and I’ll be looking for her there. I’ll meet her there when she arrives.

  She hasn’t arrived yet.

  Meanwhile, I will have to comfort myself with Venice and Goethe.

  The waiting certainly isn’t easy.

  “Oh, how I would pay attention to all the seasons,

  Greet the embryonic spring, yearn for the autumn.

  But now is neither summer nor winter; for I am happy

  In the shelter of Cupid’s wings, surrounded by eternal spring.”

  Giulia has arrived.

  “Tell me, how do you live? I am alive! And if hundreds and hundreds

  Of human years are to come, I want tomorrow to be as today.”

  Great master, whose lovely verse a fool like me has tried to reproduce. Thank you for what you were for me during these days.

  Thank you in your own words:

  “I had become tired from just looking at paintings,

  Those splendid art treasures which Venice has preserved,

  For these delights also demanded recreation and leisure;

  My yearning eyes sought lively enticements.”

  Forgive me, master – now I am trying to write poetry.

  Paolo Veronese once painted a portrait of a Giulia, but no one has been able to paint that glow in your eyes – my Giulia. And your lips, Giulia – are now the reality of dreams.

  On 14th July, 1875, in Venice, the noble Donna Giulia Cassini promised to marry Arvid Ankerkrone.

  * * *

  Oftmals hab’ ich geirrt und habe mich wieder gefunden,

  Aber glücklicher nie; nun ist dies Mädchen mein Glück!

  Ist auch dieses ein Irrthum, so schont mich, ihr klügeren Götter,

  Und benehmt mir ihn erst drüben am kalten Gestad.3

  These four lines say everything. I have erred, and I didn’t realise until here in this lovely green valley by the Laga what my error consisted of. I have loved Giulia and, in the first years of my marriage, I believed in happiness. But I have acted wrongly in wanting to plant a rose from the south in the cold ground of the north. The first puff from the merciless northern wind has turned the rose to ice. Giulia has given birth to a son, and I have baptised him with the name of Claes, which comes from my family’s history. Giulia has given birth to other children, but they have died and, with them, it is as if her blood is spent. My rose has become pale.

  Giulia has gone to the south, towards Venice; she didn’t ask me to join her, nor did I want to because our dreams have been dreamt to their end. Five years is a long dream and the dream was sweet. Now it’s over.

  “I have often erred and come to my senses again, but never more happily.”

  Now my happiness is called Annie. She is sixteen years old and was bathing in the river when I first saw her. She was standing naked by the bush which drinks from the creek and as I stepped forward without suspecting she was there, she lifted her eyes towards me and laughed. As beautiful as
Venus rising out of the sea, she hid nothing because she had nothing to hide her, and there was laughter in her eyes while the river rippled around her feet.

  Annie is the daughter of Corporal Bengt Bengtson, born in Småland among the heather, flowers and shimmering lakes. And Annie is as docile and good as she is gentle and patient.

  Annie is my mistress…

  Cedersköld and Kurk have been hunting today. I don’t hunt any more; I’ve bruised my foot. The magistrate laughs, as he knows I’m going to the river to fish.

  Annie is knowledgeable about casting lines and the fish comes in to her. Annie catches it easily with a playful hand.

  I’m leaving tomorrow and Annie is coming with me.

  There’s no point in asking, and why should I? What happiness would Annie find in Småland?

  Giulia has sent me a letter. She asks if I’m coming to Venice.

  No, I’ve chosen Annie – if it’s the wrong choice, may the gods spare me and let me keep on believing…

  * * *

  Arm und kleiderlos war, als ich sie geworben, das Mädchen; Damals gefiel sie mir nackt, wie sie mir jetzt noch gefällt.4

  The beech trees in the Danish forests north of Hamlet’s town whisper their silent language in our ears. Annie is a good, loving woman towards me and the days pass so gently and easily beneath kisses and sunshine. It isn’t the great Eros… but…

  I haven’t forgotten Giulia. Day after day, it seemed that her picture was becoming clearer to me… but these days belong to Annie.

  Up in the fringe of the forest lies an unfrequented little lake, where we like to linger, Annie and I. Tightly bordered by the forest, it lies like a small shiny shield between flowering bird cherry trees and hawthorns. We sit on the root of a wind-felled beech, where the lake cuts in under a bank which is stabilised by the interlacing roots. It’s a place we both love.

  Annie is mournful and afraid. She often leans her head against my shoulder and whispers: Arvid, I’m so afraid you’ll leave me to go to her. Say that you will, and I will slide quietly into the lake with my unborn child – quite quietly so that you can go away to her; she has rights over you.

  Then I answer: Annie – no one has any rights over me except the one I choose.

  Then she kisses me with tears in her eyes – Annie, who came up to me that bright summer’s day in Småland – and I slowly pull her back from the edge.

  But at times I feel heavy of mind when the people come home from work and they squabble out in the yard.

  Then I think of the master’s words:

  Why do people carry on so and make such a fuss? They want to be fed,

  To beget children and feed them as best they can.

  Take note of this, traveller, and do likewise at home!

  No man can do more, no matter how much he wants to.

  * * *

  Eine Liebe hatt’ ich, sie war mir lieber als Alles!

  Aber ich hab’ sie nicht mehr! Schweig, und ertrag’ den Verlust!5

  I am nevertheless a soldier. When we break camp and the signal trumpet sounds, my heart beats freely and easily in my chest and I restrain my black and brown Flora, dancing under me on the sandy roads. Then I ride across country, with Ljunggren, my worthy captain of the guard, riding silently behind me until we reach the farm where his wife and his curly-headed children wave to him. Sometimes, we ride in there and drink a glass of milk while I stroke the fair hair of his little Johanna, whose clear blue eyes smile at me.

  Then we continue at a fast pace.

  Annie has gone – Giulia is still in Venice.

  What do I care about Annie and Giulia now?

  I am nevertheless a soldier and now we are approaching camp; I have no more time for thoughts of affectionate games and my friends are waiting, both Cedersköld and my good friend Kurk, whom I have neglected so shamefully because I was dreaming with Annie. Why did she leave me, I wonder?

  “If I were a domesticated wife, and had what I needed,

  I would loyally and happily caress and kiss my man.

  That’s what a young woman sang to me, among other bawdy songs,

  In Venice, and I never heard a more devout prayer.”

  Now we are on our way to camp – and who thinks about women then?

  * * *

  Und so tändelt’ ich mir, von allen Freunden geschieden,

  In der neptunischen Stadt Tage wie Stunden hinweg.

  Alles, was ich erfuhr, ich würzt’ es mit süßer Erinnerung

  Würtzt’es mit Hoffnung; sie sind lieblichste Würzen der Welt.6

  Back in Venice – but at first glance, how changed – perhaps mostly myself? Only eight years have elapsed since I last visited you, Venice – only 8 years, and what has not happened since then. I’m not looking for the first bright days of my love, its brilliant nights; Giulia has asked me to come, and I come.

  But I’m not expecting anything – I’m not hoping for anything – it’s a pilgrimage to holy places…

  I dream, but I’ve never dreamt a more delicious dream. Giulia is my own, and my youth lives on, lives a new life after a torpor which I thought was death. I planted the rose of the south in the cold soil of my homeland and the rose didn’t flourish; its head bowed and its leaves withered. Now it has drunk the dew of its mother earth, now its petals unfold towards the sun, now it smiles redder than before, and its fragrance rises in the light air. Giulia, I love you now, love you more ardently than I have ever loved you. You are the Rose of Venice, my lovely, you are my only one. And you smile, you don’t ask, you know your love is all; it doesn’t doubt because it doesn’t see; it doesn’t ask because it doesn’t hear. Now life begins again.

  “You inspired love and desire in me; I feel it and I’m on fire.

  Beloved, now inspire faith in me!”

  From that day and hour, I am Giulia’s and Giulia’s alone – everything else has to be forgotten, everything else.

  The name too – everything.

  The memories grow out of every stone, out of every painting and whisper the same sweet story about me as in bygone days.

  Giulia…

  But we will linger in Venice – linger a long time, forever if you want to, and I’ll prepare a herb garden for my rose where the wind doesn’t kiss its pot with sleet, where the dew falls mildly and sweetly and the sun caresses it.

  If that is your wish.

  Here you shall give birth to a child who will be the child of our love, a daughter who will bear your name; or no – only you shall bear your name. No one else.

  Venice for me is the city of memory and hope. The memory and hope are you.

  * * *

  Widerfahre dir, was dir auch will, du wachsender Jüngling -

  Liebe bildete dich; werde dir Liebe zu Theil!7

  Giulia has given me a daughter; she was baptised with her mother’s name, but we have decided she should be called Ulla. Because there is only one Giulia. When Giulia is well again, we will visit Capri and Palermo, and when the summer arrives, we will return to Gammalstorp while the sun shines. The post is troubling – it has brought me letters from Annie.

  Annie was a name – Annie is forgotten.

  But the letters demand to be remembered. I have asked Holger Kurk to care for Annie and her child. I say her child. I have children, but they are Giulia’s. A mistress shouldn’t give birth to children. Children should only be bred by the hearth.

  I don’t wish to see Annie again, nor her child. It surely isn’t in distress; it was conceived in love – but it was a love that vanished – a jest.

  Es sei, Liebchen, des Scherzes genug!8

  * * *

  Wundern kann es mich nicht, daß Menschen die Hunde so lieben,

  Denn ein erbärmlicher Schuft ist, wie der Mensch, so der Hund.9

  There were three of us, from our years as youths: Kurk, Cedersköld and I. Our fathers were friends and we spent our childhoods playing together. We grew up together and we received our education under the same roof. If anyone had asked me which
one of these two was closest to my heart, I wouldn’t have been able to answer, because I valued both of them equally highly.

  And now. I am writing because I once committed these things to paper, so that in many years’ time I would be able to see what I once felt; so that one day my boy would be able to read of the honest, true fate of his father as it confronted him in life. But every stroke of the pen is a rift in an open wound.

  Annie has spoken. She had gone to Småland to stay with her father, and she wrote from there to Giulia and told her everything. Giulia will forgive me, I feel that, but we didn’t discuss it, and Giulia fell ill. I was sad. Not because I felt regret – I had followed a voice in me which spoke at that time and which is now silent. But Giulia’s suffering was painful for me. She didn’t understand how infinitely higher my love for her was compared with my infatuation with Annie.

  And I couldn’t tell her, because you can talk to a woman about your love for her, but you can’t, not even with a single word, touch upon a friendly feeling for another, let alone infatuation.

  Autumn passed and it was heavy and dark. I wanted to head south, but Giulia didn’t.

  Giulia was more beautiful than ever before, but she didn’t want to see me.

  Winter arrived and, with winter, parties, where Giulia shone like a queen among all the pretty maids.

  She was friendly towards me again, but she didn’t match my dream. I would wait and hope. Then it happened.

  I didn’t believe it – I didn’t want to believe it – but I couldn’t be in any doubt.

  (Between the pages of the diary was a yellowed letter in Annie’s handwriting.)

  Arvid Ankerkrone.

  You’ve caused me sorrow and injury more than anyone can bear, but for my child’s sake I’ve borne it faithfully. I write my child because you say that the child isn’t yours and that’s a possibility because I have known other men than you, also at that time – you have said that to Cedersköld and that’s also true, because I have known him too. And now I only have him to comfort me, because I don’t want anything to do with your money. And Cedersköld will provide for both me and the child.