THE TURN OF THE TIDE.

1771.

Struensee had now reached the highest pinnacle of power, but no sooner did he gain it than the whole edifice, which he had reared with consummate care, began to tremble and to rock; it threatened to collapse into ruins and involve in destruction not only the man who built it, but those who had aided him in the task. The winter of 1770-1771 had been a very severe one in Denmark, and the harvest of the summer that followed was very bad. In the country there was great distress, and in Copenhagen trade languished, largely in consequence of the new order of things at court, which had caused so many of the nobles to shut up their town houses and retire to their estates. The clergy did not hesitate to say that the bad harvest and the stagnation of trade were judgments of heaven upon the wickedness in high places. The nobles declared that until the kingdom were rid of Struensee and his minions, things would inevitably go from bad to worse. In every class there was discontent; the people were sullen and ripe for revolt; the navy was disaffected, and the army was on the verge of mutiny. All around were heard mutterings of a coming storm. But Struensee, intoxicated by success, would not heed, and so long as he was sure of himself no one dared to dispossess him.

The rats were already leaving the sinking ship. Rantzau was the first to break away; he had never forgiven either Struensee or the Queen for having so inadequately (as he considered) rewarded his services. He had expected a more prominent post in the Government, and failing this had demanded that his debts, which were very heavy, should be paid. But to his amazement and anger, Struensee had refused. Rantzau was jealous of the Privy Cabinet Minister for having arrogated to himself all power and all authority. He could not forget that this upstart favourite, this ex-doctor, had been a creature of his own making, employed by him not so long ago for base purposes, and he hated and despised him with a bitterness proverbial when thieves fall out. Rantzau had often traversed the dark and slippery paths of intrigue, and, finding that nothing more was to be got from the party in power, he resolved to traverse them once again. Not being burdened with consistency, this time they led him in the direction of the exiled Bernstorff, whom he had been instrumental in overthrowing. It seemed to him that if Bernstorff would but return to Copenhagen, supported as he was by the powerful influence of Russia and England, and the whole body of the Danish nobility, Struensee would surely be overthrown. But Bernstorff, though he lamented the evil days that had fallen upon Denmark, refused to have anything to do with a scheme in which Rantzau was concerned. “He knows,” said Bernstorff, “that I cannot trust him, and I would rather remain here in exile than return to office through his means.”

Rantzau then determined on another plan; he shook the dust of the Struensee administration off his feet; he took formal leave of the King and Queen while they were at Hirschholm, and ostentatiously went to live in retirement. This was only a preparatory move, for he now determined to gain the confidence of the Queen-Dowager and her party, to which he felt he naturally belonged. After all he was the inheritor of a great and an ancient name, and his family was one of the most considerable in the kingdom. His place was rather with the nobles, who were his equals, than in filling a subordinate position in the councils of a mountebank minister. The Queen-Dowager, like Bernstorff, listened to all that Rantzau had to say, but, unlike Bernstorff, she did not repulse him. On the other hand, she refused to commit herself to any definite plan, for she knew well the character of Rantzau as a liar and traitor. He was the very man to carry out some desperate attempt, but Juliana Maria had not yet made up her mind whether her cause would be better won by waiting or by a coup d’État. At present she was inclined to agree with Catherine of Russia, who repeatedly said that if Struensee had rope enough he would hang himself before long, and so save others the trouble.

Osten also had differences with Struensee, which at one time he carried to the point of sending in his resignation.[1] But he was “told that his services in the post he now filled could not be dispensed with, that he was not only useful but necessary, and that he might be assured his remonstrances would always have their weight”.[2] So Osten, though he hated and despised Struensee quite as much as Rantzau did, consented to remain, and, wily diplomatist that he was, performed the difficult task of running with the hare and hunting with the hounds. For he saw more clearly than any one that the present administration could not last long, and he therefore determined, while taking all he could get from Struensee, to put himself in the right with the other side, so that when Struensee’s ship went down in the tempest, he would ride on the crest of the wave. To this end he paid assiduous court to the English and Russian envoys, though careful to keep on good terms with those of France and Sweden. He also managed to convey to the Queen-Dowager and her party the idea that he wished them well, and that he only remained in his present post under protest, for the good of the country.

General Gahler, the minister for war, was also disaffected, and had frequent quarrels with Struensee on matters connected with the army. But Gahler was too deeply committed to Struensee’s policy to make any course possible to him except that of resignation. And Gahler was reluctant to resign, not only because he was a poor man and loved the emoluments of office, but also because his wife was a great friend of the Queen, and one of the ladies of her household. Both Osten and Gahler from time to time remonstrated with the arbitrary minister on the wanton way in which he stirred up public feeling against his administration, and counselled more conciliatory policy; but Struensee would not hear.

Even Brandt, whom Struensee trusted absolutely, and whom he had loaded with benefits, was jealous and discontented, and ready at any moment to betray his friend if thereby he could benefit himself. Brandt was greatly dissatisfied with his position, though Reverdil had relieved him of his most onerous duties, and said with regard to some reproaches he had received from the Queen, “that alone is hell”. He made so many complaints to Struensee that the Minister requested him to formulate them in writing. Brandt then addressed him a lengthy letter in which he complained bitterly of Struensee’s interference in his department at the court, which, he declared, rendered him contemptible in the eyes of all. He told Struensee that his was a reign of terror. “No despot ever arrogated such power as yourself, or exercised it in such a way. The King’s pages and domestics tremble at the slightest occurrence: all are seized with terror; they talk, they eat, they drink, but tremble as they do so. Fear has seized on all who surround the Minister, even on the Queen, who no longer has a will of her own, not even in the choice of her dresses and their colour.” He also complained that Struensee compelled him to play cards with the King and Queen, with the result that he lost heavily, and his salary was thereby quite insufficient. He therefore requested permission to leave the Danish court, and resign all his offices in consideration of the yearly pension of five thousand dollars a year. With this handsome annuity he proposed to live in Paris and enjoy himself. He also asked for estates in Denmark to sustain his dignity as count. His letter ended with a covert threat that if his requests were not granted it was possible that he might be drawn into a plot against Struensee, or put an end to an intolerable position by “poison or steel”.[3]

This letter was not only very insolent, but also incoherent, and showed every sign of an unbalanced mind. Yet Struensee, who apparently cherished a peculiar tenderness for Brandt, treated the epistle quite seriously, and instead of dismissing him from court, as he might well have done, he replied in a lengthy document which almost assumed the importance of a state paper. He traced the whole of Brandt’s discontent to his amour with Countess Holstein, whom he disliked and distrusted. He justified his interference in court matters on the ground that Countess Holstein and Brandt together had introduced changes which were displeasing to the Queen, and with respect to the Queen’s dresses he wrote: “The Queen, though a lady, is not angry with me when I recommend retrenchment in respect to her wardrobe.” With regard to Brandt’s losses at cards, he replied that loo was the only game the King and Queen liked, and therefore it was impossible to change it, and if Brandt and Countess Holstein did not understand the game and consequently lost, he recommended them either to learn it better or put on more moderate stakes. He took no notice of Brandt’s demand for a pension, but he declared that neither for him, nor for himself, would he ask the King to grant estates to maintain their new dignities. Brandt received Struensee’s letter with secret anger and disgust. The minister’s evident wish to conciliate him he regarded as a sign of weakness, and he immediately began to plot against his friend.

Thus it will be seen that Struensee’s colleagues were all false to him, and were only waiting an opportunity to betray him. The Queen still clung to him with blind infatuation, and lived in a fool’s paradise, though her court was honeycombed with intrigues and she was surrounded with spies and enemies. Even her waiting women were leagued against her. They sanded the floor of the passage from Struensee’s chamber to the Queen’s at night, that they might see the traces of his footsteps in the morning; they put wax in the lock, and listened at the keyhole; they laid traps at every turn, and the unconscious Queen fell readily into them. All these evidences of her indiscretion were carefully noted, and communicated to the Queen-Dowager at Fredensborg. In Copenhagen and in the country the discontent daily grew greater, and the boldness of Struensee’s enemies more and more manifest. In giving freedom to the press he had forged a terrible weapon for his own undoing, and papers and pamphlets continually teemed with attacks on the hated minister. Threatening and abusive letters reached him daily, coarse and scurrilous attacks were placarded on the walls of the royal palaces, and even thrown into the gardens at Hirschholm, that the Queen and Struensee might see them on their daily walks.

When such efforts were made to fan the embers of popular discontent, it is no wonder that they soon burst into a flame. The first outbreak came in this wise. An inglorious and expensive naval war against the Dey of Algiers, inherited from the Bernstorff administration, was still being prosecuted, and Struensee had ordered new ships to be constructed, and sent to Norway for sailors to man them. Such was the maladministration of the navy department that the work proceeded very slowly, and the Norwegian sailors who had been brought to Copenhagen wandered about in idleness, waiting for the vessels to be finished. The Government, with manifest injustice, would neither give these sailors their pay nor allow them to return to their homes. The only effect of their remonstrances was that the dockyard men were ordered to work on Sundays so that the vessels might be finished sooner. The dockyard men asked for double pay if they worked on Sundays, and this being refused, they struck off work altogether, and joined the ranks of the unemployed sailors, who had been waiting eight weeks for their pay, and were almost starving. The Norwegians had always taken kindly to the theory of the absolute power of the King. Their political creed was very simple: first, that the King could do no wrong, and secondly, that he must be blindly obeyed. It therefore followed naturally that, if an act of injustice like the present one were committed, it must be committed by the King’s subordinates, and not by himself, and he had only to know to set matters right. Having petitioned the Government repeatedly without receiving any redress, they determined to take matters in their own hands. Early in September a body of Norwegian sailors, to the number of two hundred, set out from Copenhagen for Hirschholm with the resolution of laying their grievance before the King in person, in the confident hope that they would thus obtain redress.

When the sailors drew near to Hirschholm the wildest rumours spread through the court, and the greatest panic prevailed. It was thought to be an insurrection, and the mutineers were reported to be swarming out from Copenhagen to seize the King and Queen, loot the palace, and murder the Minister. The guard was called out and the gates were barred, and a courier despatched to Copenhagen for a troop of dragoons. At the first sound of alarm the King and Queen, Struensee, Brandt, and the whole court, fled by a back door across the gardens to Sophienburg, about two miles distant. Here they halted for a space, while the Queen and Struensee seriously debated whether they should continue their flight to Elsinore, and seek refuge behind the stout walls of the ancient fortress of Kronborg. Eventually they resolved first to despatch an aide-de-camp back to Hirschholm to reconnoitre, and to parley with the supposed insurgents. The aide-de-camp, who was a naval officer, met the malcontents outside the palace gates, and was surprised to see no mutineers, but only a body of Norwegian sailors, whose sufferings and deprivations were clearly marked upon their countenances. He asked them what they wanted. “We wish to speak with our little father, the King,” was the reply; “he will hear us and help us.” The aide-de-camp galloped back with this message to Sophienburg, but Struensee thought it was a trap, and made the officer return and say that the King was out hunting.

The sailors replied that they did not believe it, and prepared to force their way into the palace that they might see the King face to face; the guard, which had now been reinforced by a troop of dragoons, tried to drive them back. The sailors, whose intentions had been quite peaceful, now laid hands on their knives, and declared that they would defend themselves if the soldiers attacked them. Fortunately the aide-de-camp was a man of resource, and resolved to act on his own initiative and avoid bloodshed; he saw that the men were not insurgents. He made a feint to go back and presently came out of the palace again and announced that he had a message to them from the King. His Majesty commanded him to say that if his loyal sailors would return quietly, he would see justice done to them. With this the sailors professed themselves to be content, and they walked back to Copenhagen as peacefully as they had come. The promise was kept, and more than kept, for the sailors, on their return to Copenhagen, were treated with spirits, temporarily appeased by a payment on account, and all their arrears were settled a few days later. The aide-de-camp had gone again to Sophienburg and told Struensee that this was the only way to pacify them, and a courier had been sent in haste from Hirschholm to the admiralty at Copenhagen to order these things to be done, for Struensee was by this time frightened into promising anything and everything.

When the sailors had gone and quiet was restored, Struensee was persuaded to return to Hirschholm, but only after great difficulty; the guard round the palace was doubled, and the dragoons patrolled all night, for Struensee greatly feared that the sailors would shortly return more furious and better armed. The Queen, who was determined, whatever happened, not to abandon her favourite, ordered that her horses should be kept saddled and in readiness, so that at the first sign of tumult she might fly with him and the King to Kronborg. She went to bed in disorder, had her riding-habit laid in readiness by the side of the bed, and in the middle of the night rose to have her jewellery packed up. Struensee was in abject terror all night, and would not go to bed at all. With the morning light came reflection and renewed courage, and then the court was ashamed of the panic it had shown, and did the best to conceal it; but the news travelled to Copenhagen.

The way in which Struensee had capitulated to the demand of the Norwegian sailors on the first hint of tumult led other bodies of men, whose claims were less just, to have their demands redressed in a similar way. Therefore, a fortnight later a body of some hundred and twenty silk-weavers proceeded on foot from Copenhagen to Hirschholm to complain that they were starving because the royal silk factories had been closed. Again the alarmed minister yielded, and orders were given that work in the factories should be continued, at least until the silk-weavers could obtain other employment. These demonstrations roused the fear that others would follow, and the guard at Hirschholm was increased, and soldiers were now posted round the palace and the gardens day and night. For the first time in the history of the nation the King of Denmark lived in a state of siege for fear of his own people.

Keith wrote home on the subject of the recent disturbances: “The general discontent here seems to gain strength daily, and the impunity which attended the tumultuous appearances of the Norwegian sailors at Hirschholm has encouraged the popular clamours (which are no more restrained by the nature of this Government) to break out in such indecent representations and publications as even threaten rebellion....

“I pray Heaven that all lawless attempts may meet with the punishment they deserve, and I sincerely trust they will. But if, unfortunately, it should happen that the populace is ever stirred up to signalise their resentment against its principal objects, the Counts Struensee and Brandt, your Lordship will not be surprised if the vengeance of a Danish mob should become cruel and sanguinary.”[4]

The “indecent representations and publications” became so bad that Struensee was provoked into revoking his former edict and issuing a rescript to the effect that, as the press had so grossly abused the liberty granted to it by foul and unjustifiable attacks on the Government, it would again be placed under strict censorship. This edict had the effect of stopping the direct attacks upon Struensee in the papers; but the scribblers soon found a way of evading the censorship by attacking their foe indirectly, and bitter pasquinades were issued, of which, though no names were mentioned, every one understood the drift. For instance, one of the leading publications, The Magazine of Periodical Literature, propounded the following questions for solution: “Is it possible that a woman’s lover can be her husband’s sincere friend and faithful adviser?” and again: “If the husband accepts him as his confidant, what consequences will result for all three, and for the children?” The answers to these questions contained the fiercest and most scurrilous attacks on the Queen and Struensee, under the cover of general and abstract statements.

The alarm which the Norwegian sailors had caused Struensee was followed by the discovery of a plot against his life which increased his terror. There were about five thousand men employed in the Government dockyards at Copenhagen as ship-builders and labourers of every description. These men were also dissatisfied at the changes which had lately been introduced into the naval department, and their attitude for some time had been sullen and mutinous. To punish them for their discontent Struensee had excluded them from the festivities on the King’s last birthday, but now, fearing another outbreak, more formidable than that of the Norwegian sailors, he swung round to the other extreme, and determined to give these dockyard men a feast of conciliation in the grounds of Frederiksberg to compensate them for the loss of their perquisites on the King’s birthday. September 29 was the day chosen for the fÊte, and it was announced that the King and Queen, the Privy Cabinet Minister and all the court would drive over from Hirschholm to honour the gathering with their presence. The corps diplomatique were invited to meet their Majesties, and a detachment of the new Flying Body Guard was told off to form the royal escort.

The fÊte was favoured with fine weather, and the day was observed as a day of gala; the dockyard men, with their wives and children, and drums beating and banners flying, went in procession to the gardens of Frederiksberg, where they were lavishly regaled. Oxen were roasted whole, and sheep, pigs, geese, ducks and fowls were also roasted and distributed. Thirty tuns of beer were broached, a quart of rum was given to each man, a pipe of tobacco and a day’s wages. After dinner there were games, dancing and music. All day long the revellers waited for the coming of the King and Queen, but they waited in vain.

In the morning, at Hirschholm, the King and Queen made themselves ready and were about to start, when a rumour reached the palace that a plot had been formed to assassinate Struensee at the festival. Immediately all was confusion. The King and Queen retired to their apartments, and Struensee summoned Brandt and Falckenskjold to a hurried conference. Falckenskjold urged Struensee to treat the rumour as baseless, go to the festival and present an unmoved front to the people. This display of personal courage would do more than anything else to give the lie to the rumours of his cowardice at Hirschholm, and now that he was forewarned he could be safely guarded. Nothing would induce Struensee to go; he shuddered at the slightest hint of assassination. Falckenskjold then advised him cynically, as he was so much afraid, to be more careful in the future how he stirred up his enemies, or he might find himself not only dismissed from office and disgraced, but dragged to the scaffold on a charge of high treason. Struensee said such a charge was impossible, as he had done nothing without the consent of the King. “Well, at any rate see that your papers are in order,” said Falckenskjold significantly. “My papers are arranged,” Struensee replied; “on that account I have nothing to fear, if my enemies will only behave fairly in other respects.” Brandt also joined in urging Struensee to modify some of his more objectionable measures, and attempt to conciliate his enemies. But Struensee, though he trembled at the mere hint of personal violence, was obstinate as to this. “No,” he said emphatically; “I will withdraw nothing which in my belief promotes the welfare of the state.” “The time will come,” said Brandt emphatically, “when you will have to yield.” Struensee went to see the Queen, and shortly after a message came countermanding all orders, as neither the King nor the Queen would attend the festival.

The dockyard men were much disappointed at the non-appearance of their Majesties, and their disappointment was changed to indignation when they learned that it was fear which kept them at Hirschholm. It seemed incredible that the King of Denmark should distrust his own people. The King, in point of fact, did not distrust them; he showed himself quite indifferent whether he went to Frederiksberg or stayed at home; it was Struensee who feared for himself, and the Queen who feared for her favourite. The proceedings at Frederiksberg passed off without any disturbance, though the dockyard men jestingly remarked that the ox sacrificed for them was not the ox they had been promised—an allusion to Struensee’s corpulence. Struensee probably showed discretion in keeping away from the festival, for there was a deep-laid plot to capture him, alive or dead, when he mingled with the crowd.[5]

The terror and irresolution displayed by Struensee were quite foreign to the character before conceived of him both by friends and foes. “I have begun to see his character in a different light from that in which it appeared formerly,”[6] writes Keith; and again: “It has been whispered about that, upon the late disturbances, he betrayed some unexpected signs of personal fear, and the natural result of this suspicion is to loosen the attachment of the persons whom he has trusted, and to diminish that awe which is necessary for the maintenance of his unbounded authority.”[7]

Struensee’s cowardice, now twice proved, dealt a fatal blow to his prestige: the man of iron had feet of clay; the despotic minister, “the man mountain,” whose reign, according to Brandt, was based on the terror he inspired, was himself stricken with craven fears. It seemed inconceivable that a man who had dared everything, and braved every risk to gain power, should, the moment he reached the goal of his ambition, reveal himself a poltroon. For two years Struensee had shown an unmoved front to the threats of his enemies; for two years he had carried his life in his hand; but now the mere hint of insurrection, or assassination, made him tremble and cower behind the skirts of the Queen. This inconsistency has never been satisfactorily explained in any of the books written on Struensee and his administration. His admirers pass it over as lightly as possible. His enemies say that it reveals the man in his true colours as a sorry rogue; but this theory will not hold, for the courage and resource which Struensee showed all through his career until the last few months give it the lie. The key to the mystery is probably to be found in physical causes.

Struensee was still a young man as statesmen go; he was only thirty-four years of age—an age when most men are entering upon the prime and full vigour of their manhood—and he came of a healthy stock; but the herculean labours of the last two years had told upon him. No man could overthrow ministers, reform public offices, formulate a new code of laws, and change the whole policy of a kingdom without feeling the strain. For two years Struensee had been working at high pressure, toiling early and late. He left little or nothing to subordinates; his eagle eye was everywhere, and not a detail escaped him, either in the Government or in the court. He was a glutton for work, and gathered to himself every department of the administration. No step could be taken without his approval; no change, however slight, effected until it had first been submitted to him. We have seen how Osten complained that Struensee meddled in his department; we have seen how Brandt complained that even the comedies and dances, the colour and shape of the Queen’s dresses, had to receive the dictator’s approval. It was not humanly possible that any man, even though he were a “beyond-man,” could work at this pitch for any length of time. He could not do justice to matters of high policy and government, and supervise every petty detail of a court; either one or the other must suffer, and with Struensee the more important, in the long run, went to the wall. He lost his sense of the proportion of things, and became burdened with a mass of detail. It was not only the work which suffered, but the man himself; overstrained, he lost his balance, overwrought, he lost his nerve. To this must be ascribed the fatal errors which characterised the last few months of his administration. To this and his self-indulgence.

It was almost impossible that a man could work at so high a pressure without injury; it could only be possible if he took the greatest heed of himself, carefully guarded his bodily health, and led a regular and abstemious life. Two of Struensee’s greatest contemporaries, who achieved most in the world, Frederick the Great and Catherine the Great, were careful to lead simple, abstemious lives;[8] but Struensee was by nature a voluptuary, and he lived the life of the senses as well as the life of the intellect. In early years he had to check this tendency to some extent, for he lacked the means to purchase his pleasures; but when, by an extraordinary turn of fortune’s wheel, he found himself raised from obscurity to power, from poverty to affluence, with the exchequer of a kingdom at his disposal, and unlimited means whereby to gratify every wish, he gave full rein to his appetites. He was a gourmand; the dishes which came to the royal table were made to tickle his palate, and what he did not like was not served, for this mighty minister even superintended the cuisine, and took a pleasure therein. Rich food called for rare vintages, and the choicest wines in the royal cellar were at Struensee’s disposal. He did not stint himself either with food or drink; he was a wine-bibber as well as a glutton, and habitually ate and drank more than was good for him. All his life he had been a scoffer at morality, and now he deliberately made use of his opportunities to practise what he preached. In fine, when he was not at work, his time was spent in the gratification of carnal pleasures. He never took any real rest; a few hours’ sleep, generally not begun until long after midnight, were all he allowed himself, and the moment his eyes opened he was at work again. The result of this excess, both in work and pleasure, was a nervous breakdown; he became corpulent and flabby, his physical and mental health was shattered, and he was no longer able to keep that firm grasp upon affairs which the position he had arrogated to himself demanded from the man at the helm. He relaxed his hold, and the ship of state, which he had built with so much care, began to drift rapidly and surely towards destruction. In the royal archives at Copenhagen may be seen many specimens of Struensee’s signature which he inscribed upon documents during his brief rule, and in the last months of his administration this signature is no longer bold and firm, but wavering and disjointed, as though written with a trembling hand. This was accounted for at the time by the statement that Struensee had hurt his wrist in a heavy fall from his horse, while riding with the Queen at Hirschholm towards the end of September. But the cause probably lay deeper than that, and the trembling signature was an evidence of the rapidly failing powers of the man, who, until he showed fear at the arrival of the handful of sailors at Hirschholm, had been considered almost superhuman.

This theory of physical collapse also explains much that is otherwise inexplicable in the closing days of Struensee’s career. When, by royal decree, he had arrogated to himself the kingly authority, and wielded without let or hindrance absolute power, it was thought that he would use this power to complete the work he had begun, and to revolutionise the whole political government of the kingdoms. But, to the astonishment of all, Struensee did nothing; the power lay idle in hands that seemed half-paralysed, or only showed intermittent signs that it existed by some feeble revocation of previous acts, as, for instance, the re-imposition of the censorship of the press.

As Keith wrote: “It would seem as if the genius of the Prime Minister had wasted itself by the hasty strides he made to gain the summit of power. Daily experience shows us that he has formed no steady plan either with regard to the interior affairs of Denmark or her foreign connections. From such a man it was natural to expect that the most decisive and even headlong acts would distinguish an administration of which he had the sole direction; instead of which, the business accumulates in every department of the state, and only a few desultory steps have been taken, which lead to no important or permanent consequences.”[9]

To the same cause must be attributed the apathy with which Struensee regarded the treachery of his followers, and the increased activity of his enemies. Though beset by dangers on every side, he disregarded alike warnings and entreaties, and drifted on to his doom. It is true that this indifference was broken by spasms of unreasoning panic; but the moment the threatened peril had passed he fell back into apathy again.