Читать книгу Nightcap and Plume - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 10

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Gustaf preferred his other palaces to the magnificent residence on the Skeppsbro—the beauties of Ulriksdal, of Drottningholm, the charm of the little summer house at Haga, even the majestic splendour of Gripsholm, all of which he was improving and furnishing entirely to his own taste, pleased him more than the costly pile erected by Tessin, so superbly situated on the stately quays, with steps down to the water where the royal yacht Amphion was anchored, yet embellished with stove houses where grew those rare fruits, peach, apricot and nectarine, those blooms of the South, tuberose, freezia, camellia and African carnation; the menagerie where the lynx with tasselled ears prowled behind gilded bars; the statues from Italy, the temples from Greece. When Gustaf was in residence in his capital, he usually occupied a suite of small rooms, not the state apartments, that were so vast and lofty, and, even in the summer, cold. But lately he had been conducting his affairs in these impressive chambers, dining and receiving in the great salons, in order to give dignity to his position and, at the same time, to deceive the nobility with his appearance of extravagance and frivolity.

Only he retained his small sleeping apartment that he had used as Crown Prince, from a dislike of the ornate state bedroom with the alcoved bed canopied in blue velvet with the three crowns worked in gold bullion as a recurrent design in the centre and the gorgeous ornament of gilt foliage and amorini encircling the wheatsheaf arms of Vasa.

He had played his part for the day, supped in public, taken his place at the silver card table, laughed with the tight-laced ladies in the furbelowed hoops, jested with the shaven poodles and parrots chained to swinging hoops, been witty, light, amusing—"no one surely, could suspect my design," he thought, and his full lip curled as he recalled that he had sensed the surprise, perhaps the contempt, with which his signature to the new Coronation Oath, that deprived him of the last rag of political power, had been received even among those who had not held him in much esteem.

It was to his mother's apartments that he went and as he entered her presence he was vexed by a recent loss; the cherished little white glove had disappeared, he had misplaced it among all the trifles with which he made play, in order to divert his ministers and his servants from his real intentions; he succeeded however, in fixing his thoughts on Toll, travelling to Scania, to rouse a province without credentials and supplied only with a hundred dollars. Gustaf much wished he could have provided a larger sum, but the advance from Messrs. Hornesca had largely gone in the expenses of the Coronation, despite the ruined harvests and the sufferings of the people, the prestige of the crown must be upheld by that lavish display of the rare and the costly that marked the King from his subjects.

The Queen Mother was extravagant and always in debt, her taste was noble and she insisted on surrounding herself with brilliant wits, scholars and courtiers, whom she fee'd and pensioned lavishly; usually in the summer she resided in the island palace of Drottningholm, set amid French and English gardens and avenues of pungently scented pines, or in Ulriksdal; she was in Stockholm merely for the Coronation; her mood was haughty, used to rule, to domineer, to be flattered, she accepted second place in her son's establishment with a secret fury sharpened by her scornful hatred of her daughter-in-law.

Ulrika Lovisa wore a purple velvet undress on white lace, ruffle on ruffle, and caressed a string of pearls twisting it, as a pet serpent round her bare arm, clipped with sapphires. Gustaf wished the value of it were in Toll's pocket; she nodded to his reflection in the mirror beside her needlework chair. Ulrika Lovisa had the grace and bearing that survives the loss of bloom, time had not misused her beauty nor quenched her spirit; a weak amiable husband, three sons, a daughter, a circle of flatterers, picked for their parts, for she did not tolerate the mediocre or the humble, had not satisfied the eager pride and bounding zest for life of this proud daughter of the House of Brandenburg.

She received her son with a calculated smile; she had taken passionate care of his education and personally seen that his gifts were developed and adorned with all that the brains of notable men could spend on him. She admired her own gifts repeated in him, but she had always preferred his brothers, especially Frederik and she had never forgiven Gustaf his marriage nor his refusal to share with her, his brilliant mother, all his affairs.

She did not, however, believe that he concealed anything important from her, for she thought him slight and incapable of dissimulation.

The King saluted her, then went to the window place and looked across the bridge that crossed Norrstrom, beyond on the mainland, he could see the Arsenal, the Opera House in front of which was the statue of Gustaf Adolf II; there were carriages going to and fro, sledges on which were bound logs of wood and barrels, sedan chairs and a jostle of people on foot; the capital was crowded for the Coronation.

"You always go to the window, my son, as if you wished to escape," remarked the Queen Dowager.

"That is so," he assented. "My fancy is too lively. I feel trapped, even in this large room—you recall, Madame, the engravings by M. Piranesi the elder—the Prisons, in each of them there is the figure of a man trying to get out from a chaos of machinery."

Ulrika Lovisa was surprised at the turn to the conversation, she remarked that the Italian had been insane when he had executed those eccentric designs, and asked her son if he had come to discuss art with her?

He was instantly aware of her sneer; once they had been eagerly at one in the matter of all the elegancies of life, choosing together the buildings, the gardens, the books, music, statues, pictures and other luxuries in which they both delighted, but since his marriage Gustaf had consulted his own taste only.

"You will be crowned to-morrow, Sire, it will be a pretty show, no doubt, but the man, not the crown, makes the King. I do not commend the signing of the Coronation Oath after so long a refusal."

"The man involved in those stairs, dungeons, wheels and ladders, had to find a way out, Madame."

"Your simile is tiresome. Since you have been to Paris you have affected too much the airs of a petit maître." The Queen-Dowager slid the pearls onto her velvet lap and looked at her son with narrowed, tired eyes; he wore, as it was often his whim to wear, the national dress of Sweden, black and red satin, with a falling collar and cuffs of delicate lace, and the long scarf of the period of Gustaf Adolf II he always affected, now of black taffetta, his hair was free of powder and shone in the light of the clear May day.

His mother believed him resigned to the part that her husband had played so meekly, that of a marionette, whose strings were jerked by the oligarchy of the nobles, and, much as she despised such feebleness she had no temper for politics and cared little for anything but her immediate ease and supremacy over her own circle.

"I have considered, Madame," said Gustaf softly, "that Sophia and myself should be united, this nominal marriage is against nature and honour. I come to ask you to speak to her for me, to put before her, as you alone can, the need for our reconciliation."

Ulrika Lovisa saw through the tact of this direct approach and disdained it—"Reconciliation?" she countered. "Did you ever quarrel?"

"No—it is more than a quarrel. I meant, reconcile our natures, so different—a task for you alone and worthy of you," he emphasised, turning towards her with a graceful appeal; he knew that if he approached his wife directly all his mother's crafty jealousy would be aroused to blight them both; but she was not placated by his tribute to her skill and tenderness.

"Sophia is a silly shame face," she threw out contemptuously, "unable to put two sentences together, without wit or feeling, without dignity or spirit. Is it possible that you, after all these years, tolerate this Danish marriage into which you were weak enough to be forced?"

"Had you been more tolerant, Madame, it had been more successful—now, she is my wife and I intend—"

The Queen-Dowager cut short his sentence as if he had been a child.

"Do not ask my help or sympathy. Had you, as I wished married a Brandenburg Princess, you would not have found me unkind to your wife—but this! And now, when the court of Denmark is disgraced—"

"Sophia has long left Denmark," put in the King. "Shy, reserved and pious she shows no sign of the disorders that have ruined her family."

"She is sister to Kristian, an imbecile, a lunatic," remarked Ulrika Lovisa distinctly. "You must have heard what some of her ladies say of her—recall that Kristian's child is puny, witless." As Gustaf, holding his left side, did not speak, she continued with easy malice. "Do you, who dream of heroes, wish to beget a half wit?"

"Do you not wish to see an heir to the crown?" he asked with that calm she so detested.

"Your brothers will marry," she replied fondling the lustrous pearls against her powdered cheek. "Your sister's child could inherit—the blood would be the same." She rose. "Leave Sophia to the retirement that alone suits her stupidity, she is half imbecile and so would any child of hers be—"

"No one save yourself would dare say that to me," he smiled. "I do not believe Sophia has this taint."

"You do," Ulrika Lovisa insisted. "She provokes disgust in you, revulsion, someone else has your heart, you are very cold or very sly in your amours. You are resolved that no one shall influence you, eh?" She spoke mockingly as if she did not consider him important enough to be so secretive. "You wear Madame d'Egmont's colours. What trick is that? Do you ever hear from this paragon?"

"How should I hear from anyone at Versailles save our Ambassador?" he parried. "Sophia does not disgust me, I treat her with respect and compassion."

"Compassion! She can console herself with her religion, blind with superstition, she has always a Bible or a prayer book in her hand."

"One cannot grudge her that support. She is virtuous."

"You think so? Were you as weak as Kristian, her brother, maybe she would dare to find a Struensee—Caroline is her cousin—all that blood is tainted."

"How you hate her," sighed the King. "On the eve of my Coronation I had hoped to find you in a tender mood."

"You should have known better than to expect any softness from me towards Sophia."

"Yes. Your rebuke is just, Madame," he turned, as if to bow himself from the room, but with a quick gesture, well known to him from nursery days she stayed him; he stopped instantly and with respect; he never forgot how much she had meant to him once. His liberal, brilliant education, his free mind, his splendid entourage were due to her, not to the weak father he had loved.

"The country is in an alarming state. Do you not intend to make an effort against these disasters?"

"I shall try to hold the balance between the parties—to set Russia, England and Denmark against one another."

"Russia has bought Sweden," said the Queen Mother. "And France has bought you." She laughed softly. "I should have been the man in this family."

He allowed her challenge to pass; he did not even feel tempted to tell her of Toll riding fast to Scania, of the plot daily spreading cautiously wider and wider, he considered her, despite her imperious temper, unfitted to dominate in any but backstairs intrigues and he knew that her once proud passion for him had turned to dislike since he had superseded her on the throne. He had hoped to stir that old affection to-day and that she would rise to the lofty part he had assigned her, of peacemaker between himself and his wife, but he quickly acknowledged how vain this hope had been, he was used to expecting too much from others and being disappointed. Brilliant, wayward, dangerous, jealous, a disciple like her brother, of the negative side of Voltaire's philosophy, artful and selfish, the beautiful Prussian Princess, for all her gifts and charms, had not brought comfort, ease or pleasure into anyone's life while her own had been embittered by the feebleness of the husband who had brought her nothing but a crown; she had found it difficult to tolerate even the memory of this amiable, affectionate man who had been beloved by all her children for his amusing ways, his indulgent temper and his elegant tastes. Now she was stung by the breach she had herself provoked and began her usual taunts; she struck skilfully at the King's high minded patriotism that had always irritated her and that she affected to regard as a theatrical pose; though she had herself educated her children in the fashionable atheism and lofty idealism of the French philosophers, she mocked, when it suited her, at the results of her own training—the cult of abstract honour and heroism.

"I hope," she remarked, "that when you speak to the people it will be in a sober style—your oratory is splendid no doubt, but it is ridiculous to hear you refer so constantly to the glories of the Vasa line—that are vanished forever, and that you are attached, too, by so slight a connection."

"Why do you warn me?" he asked gently, "does it affect you, Madame? You are always finding some trait in me to rouse your irony."

She knew him invulnerable to her taunts and her anger hardened.

"Keep to that kind of cross answer," she replied, "that I myself taught you, practise a clever evasion of the difficulties and disagreeables of life, write your verses, act your plays, build your pleasure houses, be Madame d'Egmont's knight—all these affectations and refined occupations suit you very well, but do not strike any heroic attitude—you are not suited for the part of saviour of a country that is, after all, only by chance yours."

"Kingship," said Gustaf, "is a special profession—the attachment of a Prince to a country he rules is beyond the patriotism of the common citizen. The Vasa Kings whose names I bear influence me, however remote my descent from them, this country where I was born and bred is mine—why do I argue with you?" he checked himself smiling, with compassion and regret.

He forebore to add that he felt no allegiance to the House of Brandenburg, that antagonism only had arisen between himself and his uncle when he had visited the King of Prussia at Potsdam. His mother resented his tolerance, if he had quarrelled with her she might, she thought, have conquered him, as it was he lay without her reach; through a weak despised husband she had ruled the court, even if the country had always been alien and untouched, now, with sons she had herself trained with passionate care, she was in the background; she did not wish them to be as feeble as their father, but she wanted them to be in her power; she had not succeeded in avoiding the Danish marriage for the King, but she had discounted it, there, at least, she had been successful in reducing Sophia to a cipher. Yet still this clever woman's son had escaped her and she knew it; using candour to surround his secret he had baffled her as completely on the subject of Madame d'Egmont as on the matter of his politics; his days were spent in frivolous, if elegant, diversions and yet he talked of "the heroes of the Vasa line" and "lofty patriotism;" she tried to sneer, she should have been used to these noble, vapid, senseless sentiments of the salons where, in idle luxury, the over educated and the over sensitive made toys of virtue and honour.

Gustaf watched his mother as keenly as she watched him, but not with contempt or fret, rather with understanding and compassion for a brilliant, beautiful creature, frustrated in most of her desires. He knew she was dangerous and that, as she could not dominate him, she might intrigue against him, with adroit, bitter little backstairs schemes whispered among her women, her pages, even among her servants, with hostile actions and hurtful words.

"Karl," she said suddenly, "is nearer to me than you are—he, at least, opens his heart to me."

These words, spoken in good faith, emphasized to Gustaf the isolation in which all of them stood, Karl had not revealed the plot to his mother, yet he had betrayed it to a girl who would have been ignored as a fool by Ulrika Lovisa. Yet Gustaf was not sure of Karl nor of Frederik, though he had to trust them as Sprengtporten and Toll had to trust him; all their lives hung by gossamer threads. They trod near such a horror as had eclipsed the court of Denmark, the conspirators moving masked in the splendid, waxlit ball room, the midnight arrests, Struensee in rose silk and sables, swooning, cursing, chained, Caroline Matilda, in dishevelled cambric and swansdown, trying to cast herself from her bedroom window while the soldiers dragged at her soft limbs, the running up and down dark stairs of armed antagonists, the pistol shots, the blue sheen of bared steel, the long shadowed corridors and twisting flights of marble steps, the vast and lofty rooms and behind all the sombre vistas of the dungeon, the red sawdust on the scaffold. He, Gustaf, saw all this, in such a bitter streak of vision, that for a second he felt faint and snatched into an hallucination where he was Piranesi's haunted figure, caught in a web of wheels and vaults, ladders and pulleys, a phantasmagoria of crazy architecture gigantic, impalpable, then his nimble mind was serene again, he smiled at his mother and spoke to her gently of her debts; she must endeavour to live within her allowance and he recommended that she should retire in an honoured seclusion to Gripsholm, away from the fatigues of the court where she must endure so much that was displeasing to her taste. She knew this meant banishment from the capital, from public life; she had, warned by Frederik, expected as much. Her narrow face hardened, she countered in a manner that was, for her, childish—what expenses had he not piled up in Paris? Those crates of porcelain, of pictures, of furniture that came so frequently from France? His buildings, the academies he proposed to found, the Italians paid to send him antiquities from Rome and Florence—his expensive musicians, his richly staged dramas, his superb Opera House?

These last words sent the chords of the Iphigénie overture through his mind, a supplication and a warning, evoked by this malicious silliness peculiar to a clever woman.

"I am the King," he replied quietly. "What I do is for Sweden."

Her sneers sighed into silence on her lips; he stood in the doorway, as a full length portrait in a frame, and his likeness to the Vasa Kings with whom he was so remotely connected in blood abashed her, as if she, atheist as she was, had suddenly seen something that might have had some spiritual meaning. Her son had the elegant, narrow athletic body of Karl XII, the blond hair, brighter than gold, the long features, the pale, clear carnation, the noble features, the inscrutable smile of those dead Vasa monarchs, to her so bleak and remote, who had never been influenced by man or woman. She moved abruptly, impatient of her bewilderment at her own son; she could not believe that the spirit of Karl XII, the grim and ruthless hero, was concealed in the body of this graceful, accomplished and charming dilettante—it was his eyes that deceived, those blue eyes that changed from a flash as a sword, or moonlight on ice to the blue of a summer flower; his secret lay there, a mere physical peculiarity, those blue eyes, so uncommon in size and brilliance as to both fascinate and alarm, even in this country of blue eyed people.

"I wonder," he said softly, "you cannot like me, I wonder you cannot try to heal my wretched marriage. I wonder you harbour my enemies."

"It is not true!" she caught at his last words. "I labour entirely for your advantage."

"As does your friend, Baron Pechlin?"

"Yes, the ablest man in Sweden—you vaunt an open mind, you should admire how aloof he held himself from petty party politics."

"He betrays all in turn," replied Gustaf slightly, "as it suits him. A very dangerous, worthless man."

Ulrika Lovisa twisted the string of pearls in her pretty hands, she felt baffled and duped.

"I wish," she complained, "you would not wear that old-fashioned scarf—merely because it is the Gustavan manner."

Tears came into her eyes, mother of three sons and one of them a King, she had no power open to her beyond the usual kitchen maid intrigues, available to every slut in the world; she glanced at the lilac, green and silver favour her son wore at his lapel, there was something in his life from which he shut her out; how different with Karl, who wished to marry Fersen's niece, there, at least, she could meddle and spoil.

"Go," she whispered bitterly. "You are no use to me—nor to anyone. Weak, yes, I could have managed that, as I managed your father, but weak and obstinate, close and secretive."

He bowed and left her; never had she been able to make him angry; her rage with him always returned on herself, making her sick, weary and meditating mischief.