Irretrievable (11 page)

“Here's to ‘Old Denmark',” said Pentz, to which Holk, touching glasses, replied: “Certainly, Pentz,
Gamle Danmark
. And the older the better. For the only thing that could ever part us—and may that day be far distant—is new Denmark. Old Denmark, there I'm with you, and I drink to Frederic VII and our Princess. But tell me, Pentz, what has come over my good friends the Copenhageners and particularly those in this cosy little restaurant? Just look over there how excited everyone is, snatching newspapers out of each other's hands; and Colonel Faaborg, yes, it is Faaborg, I must go and say good-evening to him later, is as red as a turkey-cock and waving his paper about like a sabre. Who is it he's talking about?”

“Poor Thott.”

“Poor? Why?”

“Because as far as I can tell, Thott is suspected of being in the plot.”

“What plot?”

“But Holk, you're at least a generation out of date. It's true that as you were packing all day yesterday and travelling all today, you may be half excused. We have something of a conspiracy on here. Hall is being relieved of his post.”

“And you call that a plot? I remember, by the way, that you said something about it in your letter to me. Why don't you want to let the poor man go? He can't be very eager to pull Denmark together if it really is falling to pieces, which, incidentally, I do not believe for one moment. Hamlet didn't want to, so why should Hall?”

“Well,
he
certainly doesn't want to, you are quite right there. But our Princess
does
want him to and that settles the matter. The less she trusts the King—and this is not unconnected with her dislike of Countess Danner—the more she trusts Hall. Only Hall can save us and so he must stay in office. And a good many people think like the Princess, so I beg you not to mention your own opinion if you don't agree. Hall must stay. And that is why you see Faaborg brandishing his paper like a gladiator.”

Erichsen had also been following this animated scene across the room. “Fortunately de Meza is sitting at the next table,” he said. “He will restore order.”

“Oh my dear Erichsen, please spare me your ‘restore order.' As if Faaborg, that quintessential Dane, were the sort of man to allow himself to be calmed down once he has been excited. And by de Meza of all people!”

“De Meza is his superior officer.”

“What does that mean, superior officer? He's his superior officer when he's inspecting the brigade but not here in Vincent's or anywhere else, particularly when it's a matter of politics, and Danish politics at that, about which de Meza understands nothing, at least in Faaborg's view. For him de Meza is just a foreigner and there is something in what he says. De Meza's father was a Portuguese Jew, like all Portuguese really, who many years ago, as Holk may perhaps not know, came over as a ship's doctor to Copenhagen. And even if it were not completely vouched for, you can look it up in any book and de Meza himself makes no secret of it, you can see his origin in the shape of his nose. And then there's that swarthy complexion.”

Erichsen was highly delighted at all this and was nodding in agreement.

“And it's not only his complexion,” went on Pentz. “Everything about him is southern European or even oriental. The most important thing for him is the weather-vane and the barometer. He is always feeling chilly, and what other people call fresh air, he calls a draught or a wind or a hurricane. I should like to know what King Waldemar the Conqueror, who used to spend fifty-three weeks of every year at sea, would have thought of de Meza.”

Up till now Erichsen had been in agreement but these last remarks were as incautious as they were tactless, applying as they did much more to the lanky gentleman-in-waiting than to de Meza.

“I can't understand you, Pentz,” he said touchily, forgetting his usual taciturnity. “Next you'll be trying to prove that it's impossible to be a good soldier if you wear anything made of wool. I know that de Meza wraps himself up in flannel because he feels the cold, but that didn't prevent him from accomplishing a great deal at Fridericia in 1849. And at Idstedt the year after, it was he who was responsible for practically everything. As for me, I am quite certain that Napoleon kept looking at the thermometer as frequently as anyone else, though I imagine that in Russia it was hardly necessary. Incidentally, I notice that in the officers' corner over there they have gone back to their newspapers and have left us to go on arguing. Shall we go over and speak to de Meza?”

“I think we had better leave it,” said Holk. “He might ask questions about this and that which I shouldn't like to have to answer today. I'm not particularly anxious about de Meza because he respects everyone's opinion, but I am far less sure of some of the others there, although I don't know them personally—but I think I can recognize some die-hards. For example, Lieutenant-Colonel Tersling on the left by the window. And I must also think of the Princess who because of her interest in politics is bound to be kept informed of everything straightaway. In any case, I'm dreading the interrogation that I shall have to undergo tomorrow or the day after.”

Pentz laughed. “My dear Holk, I hope that you know what women are like …”

Erichsen's eyes were twinkling, because he was well aware that Pentz, in spite of his own conviction that he knew, most certainly did not.

“Women, I was saying. And if not women, at least princesses, and if not princesses, at least
our
Princess. You are quite right, she is greatly interested in politics and you must not approach her with a programme for Schleswig-Holstein's future. In that matter, there has been no change in her view and certainly no change for the worse, because with all her interest in politics, she remains completely
ancien régime
.”

“All right. But what advantage is that to me personally?”

“Every advantage. And I am surprised to have to enlighten you on the subject. What does
ancien régime
mean? Under the
ancien régime
, they were also interested in politics, but for them it was all a matter of sentiment, certainly for the women, and that's perhaps the best way. In any case it was the most amusing, and there you have the important word. What was
amusing
—and that is always equivalent, in politics at least, to
chronique scandaleuse
—what was amusing was always the most important, and it is exactly the same thing today with our Princess. So if you are afraid of a political interrogation, all you need to do is to talk about Berling or Countess Danner or Blixen-Fineke and just hint at the pastoral or bucolic comedies that are being played in Skodsborg or in the villa of the worthy Frau Rasmussen, and every political topic will be immediately dropped and you will have escaped the horns of the dilemma. Am I not right, Erichsen?

Erichsen nodded.

“Well gentlemen,” laughed Holk, “I shall make use of your information but I can't agree that my own situation is very greatly improved by it. The difficulties merely cancel each other out. What is supposed to protect me from a political discussion is almost more difficult than the political discussion itself, at least for me. You forget that I'm not an initiate and that in spite of my occasional visits, I only know Copenhagen quite superficially from
Dagbladet
or the
Flyveposten
. Countess Danner and Berling or Danner and Blixen-Fineke—it seems that I'm supposed to be able to talk about them impromptu. But what do I know about them? Nothing but what I have learnt from the latest review, and the Princess knows that too, because she reads reviews and papers all day and all night. I have nobody but Frau Hansen who is hardly adequate as a source of information.”

“You are quite mistaken, Holk. When you say that, you have no idea of Frau Hansen—or her daughter. They are a complete work of reference for everything that happens in Copenhagen. Where they learn it all is a mystery. Some people talk of Dionysus' ears, others of an underground passage, others of a special Hansen telescope that is able to extract from their hiding-place things hidden to mortal eye. And last of all, there are those who speak of a chief of police. To me, this seems the most likely supposition. But whatever it is, one thing is certain and that is that those two women—or ladies if you like, since their social status is difficult to ascertain—both know everything that there is to know, and if you appear on duty every morning with ammunition supplied by Frau Hansen, then I guarantee that you will be proof against any tricky political discussions. The Hansens—especially the younger one—know more about Countess Danner than she does herself. You see, police officials have, as it were, something of a diviner's or a poet's skill in this most fascinating sphere, and if nothing can be discovered, then it has to be invented …”

“You are making me see our good Frau Hansen in quite a new light. I had assumed the very greatest respectability …”

“And so there is, in a certain sense …. When there's no prosecution, there's no case …”

“And in those circumstances, I shall have to be extremely cautious …”

“Now there I venture to disagree. The disadvantages of such a course are obvious and the advantages highly questionable. In that house, nothing can be concealed, even supposing your character made it possible. The Hansens can read into your very soul and the best thing that I can advise is to be completely free and natural and to talk as much as possible. Talking a great deal is an excellent thing and in some cases it is by far the best diplomacy, because if you talk a great deal, then the details can never be properly ascertained, or better still, one detail cancels out another.”

Erichsen smiled.

“You're smiling, Erichsen, and smiling becomes you. In addition, however, since a smile, being rather vague in its effect, always suggests all kinds of veiled criticism, it warns me that it is time to release Holk. It's already a quarter past eleven and the Hansens are respectable folk who don't like staying up after midnight, at least not if they can be seen from outside and with the hall light on. Moreover, the tables over there have already dispersed. Let me see to the bill; you can wait for me outside.”

Holk and Erichsen strolled up and down until Pentz rejoined them and all three went off to Dronningens-Tværgade where they parted opposite the Hansen's house. The house was in complete darkness and only the moonlight, between the clouds, was shining on the top-floor windows. Holk lifted the knocker but before he could let it go, the door opened and young Frau Hansen stood before him. She wore a matching skirt and jacket of some light material, simple in cut yet skilfully calculated for effect. In her hand she held a hanging lamp as shown in pictures of ancient Greece. All in all, it was a remarkable
mélange
of
frou-frou
and Lady Macbeth. Holk, somewhat taken aback, was speculating how to address the young woman when she anticipated him and, with drooping eyelids expressive of the greatest lassitude, explained that her mother asked to be excused as, although she was quite robust, she needed some sleep before midnight. Holk expressed his regrets at having stayed talking so late, adding at the same time that, next time, there was no need for anyone to wait up for him. The young woman, without saying it in so many words, indicated that they could not allow themselves to be denied the privilege of waiting up for their guest. At the same time, she slowly led the way with her lamp, but stopping at the foot of the stairs, she rested her left hand on the bannisters and held the lamp high in her right hand to show the count upstairs. As she did so, the wide sleeve of her loose coat fell back, baring her very beautiful arm. When Holk reached the top of the stairs, he said good night to the young woman once more, and as she slowly and quietly withdrew along the passage, he saw the play of light and shadow in the hall and staircase gradually diminishing. For a minute or two he stood listening at his half-open door and then, when all was quite dark downstairs, he quietly closed his own door.

“A lovely young woman. But rather uncanny. I must certainly not mention her in my letter to Christine, otherwise she will reply with dreadful reminders about all the dubious females from the Old and the New Testaments.”

Before
going to sleep, in spite of his tiring journey Holk found his thoughts more preoccupied by the younger Frau Hansen than with politics and princesses. The following morning, however, all this was forgotten, and when he chanced to remember the apparition with the lamp, he merely smiled. He tried to think what goddess or lover was usually depicted in antique wall-paintings as carrying such a lamp but, unable to remember, he finally ceased searching and, pulling the latch, he opened the window to enjoy a breath of fresh air before breakfast. He glanced into the street. There were few people passing through Dronningens-Tværgade at this comparatively early hour but everyone of them was brisk in bearing, blooming and fresh, and he felt that he understood the Danes' pride at thinking themselves the Parisians of the north, the only difference being that they felt superior to their model. At this moment the curtains billowed out and, looking round, he saw that the widow had come in with a heaped breakfast tray. They exchanged greetings and after the routine inquiry as to how the count had slept and what his dreams had been, “because first dreams always come true,” Frau Hansen laid the cloth and placed everything from the tray on to the breakfast table. Holk studied the magnificent array and said: “There certainly is no better place than Frau Hansen's. Everything so cheerful, so spick and span, and, most of all, Frau Hansen herself. And the lovely China tea-service! It's obvious that your late husband was on the China run and, as Baron Pentz was telling me yesterday evening, your son-in-law does the same and is also called Hansen. The same name, the same rank, one could easily find oneself confusing mother and daughter!”