Читать книгу The Queen's Physician - Edgar Maass - Страница 5

November, 1774

Rotterdam, about to sail for England

I F ANYONE HAD TOLD ME three months ago that I should wake up one morning and find myself a secret agent mixed up in international intrigue, I should have laughed him down. Or had anyone prophesied to me that I should be hopelessly in love with an unattainable lady, and that on her account, merely in the wild hope of seeing her again, I should be engaged in the most hazardous adventures, I should certainly have sent him packing as a fool. For, understand, up to three months ago I was a confirmed bachelor, ready enough to please women as they chanced along, but no more than that.

We all know that German roads are about the world’s worst, surpassed in inconvenience only by those of Russia. I, personally, can bear witness to the difficulties of travel in Germany, for I have been jogging over German highways weeks and weeks on end in the most wretched conveyances imaginable. I have encountered autumn storms and cruel winter weather. There have been coachmen to put in their place and, of course, grooms to bribe. This while I have been wearing all manner of disguises, going about with my hat pulled down over my eyes, laboriously composing letters in code and in general leading a catch-as-catch-can existence. Nights I have scarcely slept at all this past three months, and this not entirely because of the armies of fleas devouring my hide in all sorts of miserable taverns and posthouses. The fact is, and I should like herewith to record it, that I have been profoundly absorbed in a new book called The Sorrows of Werther. It was written by a young German poet and came out, I should say, about the time of the Leipzig Fair.

Up to very recently I might have tossed such a sensitive piece of literature out the window without a second glance. But not now. The story of Werther exactly hits off my present mood and circumstances. Like my own life, it is bizarre, quite mad, in fact. Each night I drink thirstily of its effusions, and take pride and comfort in having Werther as a spiritual comrade, poetic figment though he may be. At the same time it is obvious, as anyone can see, that I could never write of my own experiences in Goethe’s exquisite style. No matter. Let me talk a little about myself as best I can.

Not so long ago I celebrated my twenty-second birthday. I was just an ordinary young Englishman, comfortably off but by no means wealthy, and living without a single real tie in the world, or indeed without any paramount interest to develop into a career. Still, I had a normal desire to make something of myself. My parents had died when I was young. A couple of years at Oxford had taught me little, for I was not attracted by the pedantry of philosophical pursuits. After leaving Oxford I toyed with the idea of selling my English properties and settling in Virginia. But the unsettled situation there, the increasing unrest, indeed, throughout all our American colonies, counselled against this move.

A distant relative of mine chances to be secretary in our embassy in St. Petersburg. On his invitation I journeyed to that capital in order to acquaint myself with life at the Tsarina’s court. Since England is grossly ignorant of Russian affairs, it was my aim later to write a book about this enlightened, revered and yet imperfectly understood sovereign. Eventually considering my Russian experience adequate and having collected much material of an intimate nature, I then traveled to Sweden and Denmark, that I might get to know these lands as well, the peculiarities of their governmental forms and their courts.

By this time, however, my interest in the game was beginning to flag. Homesickness had overtaken me. I longed to be back in England, home again in London, installed in my peaceful quarters on Jermyn Street. Because of this unsettled state of mind I paid scant attention to the situation at the Danish court, although an event recently occurred there which was a sensation throughout all Europe, and had repercussions in England itself. I was simply saturated with the many impressions of my long trip, and was only too glad to arrive in Hamburg at the beginning of September of this same year. From Hamburg I hoped to take passage to London. This, however, proved impossible. Like it or not I had to drive by coach through Hanover, Westphalia and the Netherlands to one of the Channel ports. The weather, fortunately, was still pleasant, and so I was not too much disconcerted by the delay.

The first night of my journey I reached the little Hanoverian city of Celle, which lies about halfway between Hamburg and the city of Hanover. I was disappointed to find that not till the morrow could I catch another post. I should very much have liked to continue on, for in Celle there was nothing to see but the one-story houses inhabited by a provincial population. I reconciled myself to this fresh delay and took what solace I could in the evening meal that the landlord—I recall his wearing an old-fashioned cap with a long peak—hospitably arranged for me. The main course was the finest brook trout I have ever tasted. The landlord uncorked a bottle of excellent Rhenish wine, which did much to lighten my spirits.

Outdoors it was already dark. The mild September moon hung among the fruit trees of the inn garden. I had little desire for bed, and so inquired of the landlord whether there was any diversion in Celle for a bird of passage. Wiping his hands on his blue apron he told me that Schroeder and his players were in town. I had already seen Schroeder in Hamburg. He was what one might call the German Garrick, and had done much to popularize Shakespeare, up to his advent practically unknown on the German stage. I decided to have another look at the troupe. The landlord told me that Schroeder often came to Celle with his wandering players. “On the command of the King of England,” so he said.

This made me laugh to myself. With the best will I simply could not imagine why our plump George should bother his head about having plays performed in such an out of the way place as Celle. Moreover, it struck me as exceedingly comical, I remember, that my tasseled landlord should have so reverential an opinion of the king we had imported from the unprepossessing territory of Hanover. The landlord was only too ready to accommodate me, but I sought no further information, took my hat and cloak and made for the theater.

It was a very lovely evening. The houses dreamt in the moonlight, the clean smell of apples was in the air. I felt extraordinarily gay and prepared for interesting adventures. It had been a long time since I had kissed a pretty girl. The happy prospect of being homeward bound and within fair distance of my goal buoyed up my heart. I was free as a bird. Not a soul in the whole town knew me, and tomorrow I would be gone, in all likelihood never to return.

The performance was given in a barn furnished with rough benches for the spectators, who were packed in as tight as herrings in a tub. Just as I entered, before I had time to look around, the lights were turned down and the violins scratched out an overture. Not Shakespeare this time, but one of Holberg’s comedies was being presented. Schroeder did very well in the role of a respectable pater familias. Then, very suddenly, something happened to me. In the oddest way imaginable, even as the audience was roaring with laughter, anxiety gripped me. I could hardly draw my breath, the heavy air inside the barn-theater nearly made me swoon. From the footlights, the actors’ painted faces had inexplicably taken on a queerly threatening significance. And ordinarily I am the last person to give way to such quirks.

I had to get up and leave. Stammering apologies I forced my way through a thicket of knees and legs, trying not to see the annoyance in the white faces turned up into my own in passing. I threw a last glance at the stage. Two children, a boy and a girl, were clinging to their mother’s skirts to prevent her from leaving them. With a rush I went out into the lobby.

There I mopped my brow, shook my head to clear it of vapors and was just getting my cloak about my shoulders when I became aware of a gentle weeping sound. I looked around in amazement. A few steps away from me was a young woman, her face turned to the wall. She was dressed in black silk which set off the remarkably pure white nape of her neck and her silvery blonde hair, worn combed high. Her shoulders shook convulsively with emotion; indeed, emotion ran through her in waves that cramped her back and hips. I moved closer. I wondered at the tenderness of her skin and the quiet elegance of her costume, so much were they at variance with my expectations of Celle. “Madame,” I said softly, “could I be of help to you?”

Swiftly she wheeled about and faced me. Her features, though blurred by teariness, were the most enchanting I had ever seen. Her face was round, yet not overly full. The cheeks were refined by suffering, the lips rich, the eyes large, blue and at this moment stary and out of focus from grief. She tried to control herself but again pain got the upper hand. “I cannot live without my children,” I heard her say thickly. “I cannot go on like this.”

“Madame, were those your children?” I asked in bewilderment. “I mean the children up on the stage?”

“No,” she whispered.

In my confusion once more I offered to help her, though I could see she was hardly listening to me.

“It’s my fault,” she said. “All my fault.”

I dared not pry any more closely into the mystery of the beautiful stranger. A singular nobility radiated from her, a proud loneliness which bade me keep my proper distance. And so there we remained, she staring at me wide-eyed with sadness, I taut with solicitude. I noticed that despite the elegance of her attire, she wore no ornaments at all except a small, old-fashioned cross set with dark-red garnets.

At this point a man dashed into the lobby, a fellow of about sixty or so, carrying a stick and wearing an official’s gold braid. He was red in the face from excitement. Immediately he took me by the shoulders and pushed me away from the weeping lady. “How dare you molest Madame!” he menaced. “Get back, there!” A boy of twelve, dressed in silken livery, obviously a page, had come trotting in behind the man. He now placed himself protectively between me and the lady.

“It’s quite all right, Count Seckendorff,” the unknown lady said. “The gentleman simply wanted to be helpful.”

“My name is Wraxall,” I took this opportunity to announce, and bowed to the lady.

“There’s a Wraxall in the English embassy at Petersburg,” said the Count, suspicion still tightening his mouth.

“That’s my cousin, sir,” I told him.

“What are you doing in Celle?” the Count demanded.

“I am on my way from Hamburg to England,” I explained.

“And where were you before that?”

I had to smile at the man’s impudence; the conversation was becoming an inquisition. However, I stayed calm and said:

“Since you must know, I was in Copenhagen, sir.”

“What were you doing there?” insisted the Count.

“I had an idea I might write a book on the courts of the North,” I informed him. “With that in mind, though it’s none of your concern, I visited the court in Copenhagen.”

Now the lady was looking at me with great intensity. Gently she pushed the page aside. “Did you happen to see the King’s children when you were there?” she asked tremulously.

“I saw the heir-presumptive in Christiansborg,” I said. “He’s a fine young fellow.”

Tears sprang into the lady’s eyes. “Did he look well to you?” she asked. “Was he happy, did you think?”

“Why, yes,” I said in surprise. “He did look quite well, I’m sure, Madame.”

“And the little girl?” she asked, pressing closer.

“She is still very small,” I said. “I saw her with her nurse in the garden of Frederiksborg.”

“Tell me what the little girl was doing when you saw her,” the lady asked imperatively.

“Not a great deal,” I stammered. “As a matter of fact she was playing—playing with a ball, as I remember.”

From within the theater came a surf sound of applause. Benches scraped loudly on the floor as the audience scrambled to leave. “We must go now, Madame,” the Count put in. “We shall only cause talk if we stay here.”

“I must speak further with Mr. Wraxall,” the lady said. She nodded at me, turned and swept away.

Count Seckendorff took me by the arm. “Naturally you will stay as she suggests,” he said firmly. “However, I implore you, be very discreet.”

“Discreet?” I said. “Stay here? What are you talking about! Who is this lady, if I may ask?”

“You don’t know who she is?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” I said.

He bowed his head until it almost touched mine. “She is the Queen of Denmark,” he whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

I was rooted to the spot. My mouth hung open like a hungry carp’s. The spectators were now streaming out, pleased with the play; respectable burghers and burghers’ wives with their countless children. Seeing that we were attracting a great deal of notice, the Count motioned me to accompany him outside. There he made arrangements to see me in the morning.

Afterwards I wandered through the town, mechanically putting one foot in front of the other as if walking in my sleep. I ran into the night watchman with his lance and rattle, and he stared at me over his shoulder. Moonlight and shadow filled the narrow streets. The wide, still night beyond the walls of the town was bathed in light, the masses of copse were inky dark. It was a changed, an enchanted world.

Count Seckendorff, for whom I was waiting on tenterhooks, arrived the next forenoon at the agreed time and at once invited me to dinner and an audience at the castle. Again he cautioned discretion. “Don’t mention Copenhagen at the table,” he warned me. “The Queen’s sister will be there, the Princess of Braunschweig, you know. Do you understand?”

Actually I did not understand at all, but I bowed in silent assent.

The dinner passed quite uneventfully. However, my state of mind was anything but tranquil. I was constantly wavering between intense happiness and unhappiness. I was desperately afraid that the Princess of Braunschweig should notice my agitation, though to all appearances she was a harmless sort, lusty, plump and red of cheek. In any case, I flushed with showers of fever, only to pale the next instant with chill. It was all I could do to get off some coherent sentences about my stay in Petersburg to satisfy the Princess’ lively curiosity.

Again and again my eyes drifted to the head of the table where the Queen sat beside her sister. Again she was wearing a black dress and her blonde hair was unpowdered, contrary to the prevailing mode. The little garnet cross lay in the faint hollow where her breasts began, I could not help but notice, for she was wearing a very daring décolletage. At the beginning of the meal she smiled at me in friendly recognition. Her eyes, I saw, were the color of forget-me-nots. After this silent greeting she seemed to forget me completely. It seemed as if she were sitting in a trance, from which she awoke only momentarily when someone addressed her directly, as her sister did fairly often.

Once I caught myself staring at her in delight, and looked away in utter confusion, though I am sure she had not even noticed my boldness. If the truth be known, I was glad when the dinner was at an end and the Queen rose from her place. An elderly servant of ice-gray mien came over to me as quietly as a cat and told me in whispers that I was to follow him. He conducted me to the second story of the castle, into an octagonal room where the windows were hung with blue silk curtains filling the place with a mild blue twilight. The hangings were pulled back at only one window which gave out on a neglected formal garden, beyond which stretched the Hanoverian countryside of heath and woods. A harp stood at the open window, with a bench for the harpist.

The Queen came in immediately after me and motioned with her hand for me to sit down. She herself took the bench beside the harp, but in deference to her rank I determined to remain standing. She inquired after all the particulars of my sojourn in Copenhagen. She mentioned her children repeatedly. Unfortunately there was little I could add to what I had already told her, but this little I offered freely. She did not forget to inquire about my family and my plans, and I had a distinct feeling as we conversed that we were becoming fast friends. However, when I summoned the courage to look her straight in the face, it was terribly upsetting. Several times I stopped short in the middle of a sentence, then blundered and stammered like a fool.

The Queen’s physical beauty was by no means the only quality that attracted me. She showed every sign of resignation amid a most penetrating unhappiness. An innate humanity illuminated her gaze, her features were faintly carved by sadness and loneliness. Her withdrawal was especially moving because she was so young and pretty, still at that age when other women with gifts like her own look on life with imperious confidence.

However, I saw that behind the sadness and withdrawal lurked vestiges of what must once have been a totally different personality. I could imagine her as candid and gay, utterly trusting of the future, bubbling over. A chance remark, an unconscious movement of her hands, an almost childlike and inexpressibly tender way she had of widening her eyes revealed this other, brighter person. I was reminded of how the wind, blowing a woman’s garments tightly about her body, reveals the otherwise hidden curves and sweet promise of the wearer.

In other days I had often laughed coarsely to myself when I heard some smitten lover describe the object of his affection as an “angel.” Now, in the Queen’s presence, this epithet sprang naturally to my lips. She seemed, I swear, not to belong to the crude world of everyday. The melancholy pervading all her words and gestures, a sort of intangible element in which she lived as a bird lives in the air, seemed to me, in my heightened awareness, to emanate from the small, dark-red, simply cut garnets of the cross on her breast.

We talked for a time and then she led me to a portrait hanging on the wall. It was a very bad likeness of her son, the heir to the Danish throne. She had received it quite recently, she informed me, through the good offices of Baron Buelow. The execution was wooden, but somehow the very stiffness of the image was attractive. The boy in the portrait was seven years old, I judged. He looked out blond and pale from the canvas, his hands dangling helplessly at his sides and the much too large Order of the Dannebrog pulling at the breast of his jacket. He was unmistakably the Queen’s son. The similarity, however, resided not so much in the cut of the two faces as in the expression of sadness common to both, a certain anxious reserve tightening both faces. Under the picture the Queen had written the following verse in a steep, girlish script: