Irretrievable (22 page)

There was a short silence and then Holk said: “But the real hero of that story seems to me to be Otto Rud. However, I should not like to argue about it and no doubt Herluf Trolle had some part in it; what I should like to know is, what became of him and how he met his death.”

“As befitted a hero, he died the following year from a wound received in an engagement off the Pomeranian coast. The wound was not in itself a fatal one but it was during that remarkable war in which everyone who received a wound, whether slight or serious, died from it. At least, that is what the history books say.”

Pentz suggested poisoned bullets but Ebba rejected this (Sweden was not a country of poisoners!) and added that she would rather hear something about Brigitte Goje, for the pastor had already said that she was almost more famous than her husband. “I don't see why we are always concerned with husbands or even with their naval battles; the story of their wives is usually much more interesting and perhaps even in this case. What was the story of Brigitte?”

“She was very beautiful.”

“That seems to go with the name,” said Ebba, with a glance at Holk. “But beauty doesn't stand for much when you're dead.”

“And by her very beauty,” continued Schleppegrell, unperturbed, “she became the pillar of the new faith, so that some say that without Brigitte Goje, Denmark would have remained wrapped in Popish darkness.”

“How terrible. And how did it happen?”

“It was a time of religious strife and the Danish nobility and high clergy were opposed to our people, who at that time were already following the new doctrine. Above all Joachim Rönnov, Bishop of Röskilde, wished to extinguish the flame and exile the weaker and poorer Lutheran clergy, in spite of the fact that they were already numerous. Then Brigitte Goje went to the bishop and pleaded that the oppressed Lutherans be allowed to stay and, moved by her beauty, he withdrew his edict and his heart and soul were so touched that he asked Brigitte's father, Moga Goje, for his daughter's hand in marriage.”

“Is that possible?” said the Princess. “A Catholic bishop!”

Schleppegrell smiled. “Perhaps he wanted to borrow this much at least from the new doctrine, just as they did in England. In any case, we have accounts of the wooing of this beautiful young woman as detailed as if they were accounts of the wedding ceremony itself.”

“And did it come to marriage?”

“No, it came to nothing and she eventually married Herluf Trolle.”

“She was right. Wasn't she, Ebba?”

“Perhaps, your Highness, and perhaps not. I am not really one for bishops, but when they are exceptional bishops like this one of Röskilde, then I am not sure whether they don't rank higher than heroes. A bishop who wants to marry seems to me to have some amenable qualities, quite apart from his episcopal grandeur, and I wonder if he might not have been the sort of man to bring about a reconciliation between the churches.”

The tiny pastor's wife was delighted at this remark and came up to whisper a small declaration of her affection in Ebba's ear. But before she could do so, the scene was transformed as tables, already laid, were carried in through a low side-door at the far end of the gallery and, immediately afterwards, double-branched candelabra were placed on them, brightly illuminating the half of the gallery that had hitherto been totally in darkness and considerably enhancing the splendour, not only of the room, but especially of the huge wall-paintings, with the two portraits in between.

It was Pentz who first noticed this. “Look how Brigitte Goje is smiling, Holk. All Brigittes have something strange about them, even when they are devout …”

Holk laughed. The day had passed when such a remark would have embarrassed him.

The company
remained together until eleven, but, in spite of this, Holk insisted on accompanying the Schleppegrells for part of their way home. This offer was gratefully accepted and Holk went with them to where the path went round the end of the lake. He had left Erichsen to accompany Ebba, much to her amazement.

From the point of the lake back to the castle was not very far, but far enough to justify Holk's astonishment when, on climbing the tower-stairs to his room, he found Erichsen and Ebba still in lively conversation at the door of her room. But his surprise was not of long duration, for it was quite obvious that Ebba had only detained the poor baron in order to make it plain to Holk that she was not accustomed to finding herself neglected for anyone and least of all for the provincial Schleppegrells. “Ah, we meet again,” she said addressing the count as, with a polite smile, he tried to go past her and Erichsen. “Oh dear, those Schleppegrells … and particularly the pastor! As a young man, the Princess assured me, he used to win every heart with his apostle's head and now, in his old age, he does it with Herluf Trolle. I can't really consider it an improvement.”

With these words she made a bow and went into her room, where Karin was awaiting her.

It was morning and the sun was shining brightly through the window, as it does only on November mornings; but the night had been very stormy. A south-easter had made the lightning-conductor, which ran down the side of the tower, rattle furiously all night, but even more disturbing had been the moon which, despite the storm, had shone straight on to Holk's bed, although it stood in a deep recess in the wall. He could have protected himself from its strange effect by drawing the blinds, but that went even more against the grain; he wanted at least to be able to see what it was outside that was depriving him of his sleep. Towards morning, he fell into an uneasy slumber disturbed by frightening dreams. Blown up with the
Immaculate
, he had just seized a piece of mast to save himself when Ebba emerged like a mermaid from the other side, tore him from the mast and hurled him back into the water. At this point he awoke. He recalled his dream and said to himself: “She would have been quite capable of it.”

He was about to follow up this train of thought when he was prevented by the arrival, with his breakfast, of an old gardener who acted as a house-servant whenever the Princess had guests in the castle and who apologized, as he laid the table, for being so late. Fräulein von Rosenberg had already expressed her disapproval, he said, and rightly so, but it would soon be different, things were not yet properly organized. While talking, he handed Holk his newspapers and a letter. Holk took it and saw that there was no postmark. “No,” said the gardener, “it didn't come through the post. Pastor Schleppegrell sent it by hand and another one for the Fräulein.” And the old man departed.

“Ah, from Pastor Schleppegrell,” said Holk, when he was alone. “Splendid. I'm curious to know what he has to say.”

But his curiosity could not have been over-strong, for he put the letter on one side while he finished his appetizing breakfast and then picked it up again and sat down at his writing-table, in a rocking-chair that hardly seemed to match the other furniture in the room.

Enclosed with the letter was a pink sheet of paper covered with verses in a feminine hand. “Ah, presumably the handwriting of my tiny friend the pastor's wife. She seems to be one of those kind people who believe in making themselves useful by doing favours, because I can hardly imagine that she nourishes a personal passion for Herluf Trolle. But be that as it may, I'm curious to know how Pastor Schleppegrell has christened his piece.” He picked up the pink sheet and glanced at the title, which read:
The Burial of Admiral Herluf Trolle
. “Excellent, at least we know what it's all about”; and he pushed his rocking-chair up to the window and read:

“Ah, that must be Brigitte Goje, his pious wife whom we heard all about yesterday; pious and pretty and as hard as a stone towards the Bishop of Röskilde. But let us see what Schleppegrell has to say about her in his ballad.”

Holk pushed the sheet back into the envelope and repeated softly to himself: “
Dann in die Herlufsholmer Gruft senken wir Herluf Trolle
… Hm, I like that. I like it very much. There is no real content and it is just a situation and not a poem but that doesn't matter. It has a certain tone and just as the colouring makes a picture, at least my brother-in-law has assured me so more than once, in the same way the tone makes a poem. And Alfred is probably right as usual. I shall make a copy of it today and send it to Christine. Or better still, I shall send her the sheet of red paper straightaway and the fact that the poem comes from a pastor's house will be a special recommendation for her. But I must first remember to ask the little woman to write her name and above all her status on the paper, otherwise the whole thing may misfire. The pink paper is suspect enough, in any case, and that handwriting as stiff as a laundry-list, well, who could say where that comes from? Court ladies also have strange handwriting sometimes.”

Looking at his watch, he perceived that it was approaching eleven o'clock and so he interrupted his reflections. If he was going to be dressed and ready by the time the Schleppegrells appeared, he would have to hurry. What would the paths be like, incidentally? Shortly before midnight, rain had fallen, and even if the south-east wind had dried up a good deal of it, he knew from his park at Holkenäs that paths are usually difficult after rainy weather. He chose his dress accordingly and hardly was he ready than the Schleppegrells appeared in the courtyard. He called to them not to trouble to come up; he would fetch Ebba and be with them at once. Less than five minutes later, they all met at the front entrance and passed through the castle to leave by an equally imposing back entrance giving on to the park. Here they met Erichsen, who was just returning from a ninety-minute constitutional but expressed his readiness to join them for another walk, an offer which was admiringly accepted. Erichsen therefore gave his arm to Ebba, while Holk followed with the little pastor's wife, with Schleppegrell himself in the lead. As at their first meeting, he wore a voluminous, shapeless cloak, which covered him from shoulder to toe, and a soft felt hat; he carried a heavy oak stick which he brandished vigorously, when he was not throwing it up and catching it again.

Although Holk would have greatly preferred to be walking beside Ebba, he showed Frau Schleppegrell every attention and asked her, in case he should not have the opportunity of doing so himself, to express to her husband his delight at receiving the ballad; adding that he was hardly less indebted to herself, since he had no doubt that the copy had been in her hand.