Portrætter I Ord Portraits in Words ~

PORTRÆTTER I ORD ~ PORTRAITS IN WORDS

MERETE PRYDS HELLE

INTRODUKTION INTRODUCTION

Det kan være svært at finde ind bag Finding a way behind the white mar- den hvide marmorhud og frem til ble skin can be difficult, to reach the de mennesker, der i 1800-tallet stod people who, during the nineteenth model til Thorvaldsens skulpturelle century, modelled for Thorvaldsen’s portrætter. Merete Pryds Helle har sculptural portraits. Merete Pryds givet marmormenneskene nyt liv og Helle has breathed new life into the- lader os i 30 små fiktionsbiografier se marble people, and through thirty møde personer, der engang elskede, short fictional biographies, invites sørgede, dansede, slikkede tæer og us to meet people who once loved, huggede i sten. mourned, danced, licked toes and Fantasi og frie associationer får sculpted stone. lov til at blande sig med biografiske In these texts, imagination and læsninger i teksterne, som er blevet til free association are allowed to mingle i åbne skriveværksteder, hvor Pryds with biographical study, which have Helle har inviteret museets besøgende come to life during open writers’ til, sammen med hende, at digte nye workshops, where Pryds Helle has livsfortællinger til portrætterne. invited the museum’s visitors to help Fiktionsbiografierne er skrevet her compose new life stories for the til udstillingen Ansigt til Ansigt. Thor- portraits. valdsen og Portrættet. De 10 værker, The fictional biographies have som danner udgangspunkt for de 30 been written for the exhibition Face to tekster, er markeret med lyserøde sil- Face. Thorvaldsen and Portraiture. These kebånd i udstillingsperioden. ten works, which form the starting point for the thirty texts, are marked with pink silk ribbons for the dura- tion of the exhibition.

INDHOLDSFORTEGNELSE TABLE OF CONTENT

Lord Byron Lord Byron 6 7

Ida Brun Ida Brun 12 13

Ludwig I Ludwig I 18 19

Marianna Florenzi Marianna Florenzi 24 25

Bertel Thorvaldsen Bertel Thorvaldsen 30 31

Ubekendt mand Unknown Man 36 37

Ubekendt kvinde Unknown Woman 42 43

Frederik VI Frederik VI 48 49

Adrian John Hope Adrian John Hope 54 55

Jane Craufurd Jane Craufurd 60 61 FORSLAG TIL LORD BYRON

BYRON 1

Billedhuggeren siger: De lægger Deres ansigt i unaturlige folder, vær da naturlig. Som om mit ansigt er ét. Jeg har tusind ansigter, det ene gemt bag det andet; digteren, drengen, dandyen, den jeg er, der altid vil et andet sted hen. Jeg forsøger at vise billedhuggeren det ansigt under de andre, som jeg kalder det melankolske, det ansigt der lå, jeg var 9 år, under barnepigens ramt duftende, kødforvitrede køn. Hun sagde, Slik mig. Jeg var et ansigt, hun slog hårdt og længe, hvis jeg ikke gjorde, hvad hun sagde. Hun sagde, Læg dig på maven, og kødforvitringen gled rundt på min balle, som var også den et ansigt. Jeg fandt som ung et kranie i skoven til mit gods, forvitret og hullet som godset selv, jeg fik det dyppet i sølv og drak af det ansigt. Jeg drak, til jeg var ansigtsløs, til jeg kunne glemme min mors ansigt fortrukket i vrede igen. Det eneste sted, jeg kan gemme mig, er ved at gå ud over mig selv, altid at ville væk, altid at ville videre. Kvinderne kommer til mig, jeg ved, at det er det, jeg er skabt til, at trænge dybt ind i kønnet, at møde mig selv under mange forskellige ansigter. Billedhuggeren bygger mit ansigt op, som er det af blødt ler, og det eneste jeg kan er at finde et nyt ansigt frem.

6 SUGGESTIONS FOR LORD BYRON

BYRON 1

The sculptor says: You’re making a face, act natural. As if I only have one face. I have a thousand faces, one hidden behind the other; the poet, the boy, the dandy, the one I am, who always wants to go elsewhere. I try to show the sculptor the face beneath the others, the one I call melancholic, the face that lay, I was nine, beneath the nanny’s pungent, weathered flesh. Lick me, she said. I was a face, she struck long and hard if I didn’t do what she said. Lie down on your stomach, she said, and her weathered flesh slipped around on my buttocks, as though it too were a face. As a child, I found a skull in the woods on my estate, weathered and as full of holes as the estate itself, I had it dipped in silver and drank from its face. I drank until I was off my face, until I could again forget my mother’s face, twisted in anger. The only place I can hide is to go beyond myself, always wanting to go away, always wanting to move on. Women come to me, I know that’s what I am created for, to penetrate deep into their sex, to be confronted by my many different faces. The sculptor builds up my face, as if out of soft clay, and all I can do is make a new face.

7 BYRON 2

Jeg ser mig selv i eftertidens spejl; jeg ser min datter, Allegra, den glade, som jeg rev fra hendes mor med min adelstitel og mit køn som argument. Jeg ville ikke have moren og satte pigen i kloster, hvor hun døde af tyfus blot fem år gammel; men jeg ønskede jo bare, at al den moral jeg forkastede i mit liv, skulle min datter bære og lære af nonnerne. Og så døde hun der hos nonnerne; hvilken moral er det? Der er min første datter, som jeg fik med en matematiker, hvis klarttæn- kende hoved stødte sammen med mit hoved brusende af alkohol. Jeg ville have, at min kones krop skulle være min i timen efter den datter blev født, lige der på sofaen i fødestuen. Hun syntes ikke, det var morsomt. Men tiden griner, for den datter, Ada, min Ada, er ikke kendt under mit navn, men under sin mors navn, som betyder den broderede kærlighed, Lovelace, min datter lagde grunden til den computer, tiden læser mine digte på. Jeg ser den tid, hvor jeg kurtiserede Allegras mor ved den store blanke sø i Genève, hvor min tilstede- værelse, min ånd, det er jeg overbevist om, lagde grunden til Marys monster Frankenstein. Jeg buldrer gennem tilværelsen, jeg lægger mine æg, ingen kan vige for mig, mand som kvinde, jeg penetrerer alt og alle, der møder mit behag. Men i tidens have klækkes de æg så forunderligt anderledes, end jeg havde tænkt, eller måske netop ikke tænkt, tankeløs, livsædende. Jeg fremstiller mig selv i tiden, jeg skaber mit billede i tiden, men tiden gør ting, jeg ikke havde forestillet mig, men som alligevel, i umoralens kloster, fornøjer mig.

8 BYRON 2

I look upon myself in the mirror of posterity; I see my daughter, Allegra, the cheerful one, whom I had torn away from her mother, putting forward my nobility and my gender as an argument. I didn’t want the mother, and I had the girl placed in a convent where she died of typhoid just five years old; but the only thing I wanted was for my daughter to bear all the morality I had rejected in my life, and for her to learn from the nuns. And then she died there with the nuns; what kind of moral is that? There is my first daughter, whom I had with a mathematician whose clear-thinking head clashed with mine, a head roaring with alcohol. I wanted my wife’s body to be mine in the hour after that daughter was born, right there on the sofa in the delivery room. She did not find it funny. But time is laughing, because Ada, my Ada, does not carry my name, but her mother’s; embroidered affection, Lovelace, my daughter laid the foundation for the computer that time reads my poems on. I see the time when I courted Allegra’s mother by the large, glistening lake in Geneva, where I am convinced that my presence, my spirit, laid the foundation for Mary’s monster, Frankenstein. I thunder through existence, I lay my eggs, no one can yield to me, men and women alike, I penetrate everyone and everything that is to my liking. But in the garden of time, those eggs are hatched so remarkably different from what I had thought, or maybe that was just it, not thought, thoughtless, life consum- ing. I depict myself in time, I create my image in time, but time does things I had not imagined, but which still, in the convent of immorality, delight me.

9 BYRON 3

Til John Murray, Rom 9 maj 1817. (...) Jeg har fået et til fra min stakkels kære Augusta, som er i et trist oprør på grund af min forgange sygdom; vil du, jeg beder dig, fortælle hende (sandheden) at jeg har det bedre end nogensinde - & er påtrængende sund - er ved at blive (hvis ikke er blevet) stor og rødmosset -& bliver lykønsket af næsvise personer om min robustiøse fremtræden - hvor jeg burde være bleg og interessant ...

Til John Murray, Venedig 4 juni 1817. (...) Jeg glemte at fortælle dig, at i Bologna (som er kendt for sine paver - malere - og pølser) så jeg et anatomisk galleri - hvor der er en del voksarbejder - i hvilket begge køns skamfulde dele er livagtigt udstillet - alt lavet og formet af en kvindelig professor, hvis billede og dyder er bevaret og beskrevet for dig - Jeg syntes, at den mandlige del af hendes arbejde ikke fremstod særlig gunstigt i hendes fantasi - eller i det mindste de italienske ophavsmænd, som var betydeligt under vores nordiske standard - & standard af dimensioner i disse dele - især da det feminines fremstilling var lidt ekstremt i den anden retning - hvilket dog også er misundelse i det mindste efter min egen erfaring og observation fra denne side af Alperne - & begge sider af Appenninerne ... P.S. - Torwaltzen har lavet en buste af mig i Rom for mr. Hobhouse - som betragtes som meget god - han er den bedste efter Canova - & af nogen foretrukket frem for ham ...... den anden dag var der en østrigsk officer, der var forelsket i en venetianerinde, som blev beordret til Ungarn med sit regiment. Udspændt mellem kærlighed og pligt købte han en dødelig medicin, som han delte med sin elskerinde, og begge slugte den - De efterfølgende smerter var forfærdelige, men pillerne var afførende - og ikke giftige - hvilket den usentimentale apoteker havde fundet på - så alt det selvmord blev bare smidt væk - du kan forestille dig den forudgående forvirring og efterfølgende latter - men intentionen var god fra alle sider.

10 BYRON 3

To John Murray, Rome, 9 May 1817 (...) I have had another from my poor dear Augusta who is in a sad fuss about my late illness - do, pray, tell her - (the truth) that I am better than ever - & in importunate health - growing (if not grown) large & ruddy -& congratulated by impertinent persons on my robustious appearance - when I ought to be pale and interesting ...

To John Murray, Venice - 4 June 1817 (...) I forgot to tell you that at Bologna - (which is celebrated for producing Popes - Paint- ers - and Sausages) I saw an Anatomical gallery - where there is a deal of waxwork - in which the parts of shame of both sexes are exhibited to the life - all made and moulded by a female Professor whose picture and merits are preserved and described to you - I thought the male part of her performance not very favourable to her imagination - or at least to the Italian Originals - being considerably under our Northern notions of things - and standard of dimensions in such matters - more particularly as the feminine display was a little in the other extreme – which however is envy also as far at least as my own experience and observation goes on this side of the Alps - and both sides of the Appennines ... P.S. - Torwaltzen has done a bust of me at Rome for Mr. Hobhouse, which is reckoned very good. He is their best after Canova - & by some preferred to him ... An Austrian officer the other day, being in love with a Venetian - was ordered with his regiment into Hungary. Distracted between love & duty he purchased a deadly drug, which dividing with his mistress, both swallowed. The ensuing pains were terrific, but the pills were purgative, & not poisonous, by the contrivance of the unsentimental apothecary; so that so much suicide was all thrown away. You may conceive the previous confusion & the final laughter - but the intention was good on all sides.

11 FORSLAG TIL IDA BRUN

IDA 1

Al den ynde, der er mig, består af luft. Jeg er luft, og jeg indånder luft, og al min næring er luft. Kun når jeg bevæger mig og så standser og så flyver igen gennem luften som en fugl og så standser igen og er marmorluft, er jeg til. Når jeg ikke flyver, vil jeg ikke være krop. Min krop er luft, jeg danser gennem rummet, jeg er en fugl, jeg standser, jeg er en hvid marmorfugl, det hvide marmor er en anden slags luft. Ingen kan få mig til at spise, for luft spiser ikke, luft bevæger sig kun. Jeg bevæger mig, jeg er en fugl. Til nøds en nød eller et par korn kan jeg spise, som en fugl i luften, til nøds et lillebitte stykke skåret agurk, der smager som fortættet luft. Alt andet vil tynge mig til jorden, alt andet vil svulme mig op som en kalkun, der ikke kan flyve, hæve mig op som en dej, der glider ud over fadet, vil gøre mig til min mors krop, der klamrer sig til mig om natten, som om jeg kan tage hendes smerte væk.

12 SUGGESTIONS FOR IDA BRUN

IDA 1

All the grace that is me is composed of air. I am air, and I breathe air, and all my nourishment is air. Only when I move and then stop, land then soar through the air again like a bird and then stop again, becoming marmoreal air, only then do I exist. When I do not fly, I do not wish to be a body. My body is air, I dance through the room, I am a bird, I stop, I am a white marble bird; the white marble is a different sort of air. Nobody can force me to eat, for air does not eat, it simply moves. I move; I am a bird. If needed, I can eat a nut or a few grains, like a bird in flight, if needed a tiny slice of cucumber that tastes like compressed air. Anything else would weigh me to the ground, anything else would make me swell up like a turkey – which cannot fly – would make me rise like dough over the edge of the bowl, would transform me into my mother’s body, which clings to me in the night as though I could erase her pain.

13 IDA 2

De siger, jeg vender øjnene indad. De bryder sig ikke om at se det hvide i mine øjne. Men jeg ser derinde mig selv, mit indre landskab; jeg ser antikkens kvinder i procession for mit blik. De er til lige nu og her, de er morgenrødmen Aurora, Eurydike, der stiger op fra underverdenen, Diana, der jager som jomfru. De antikke kvinder er mere levende for mig end jer, der står foran mig. I vil have mit blik, men mit blik er hos dem; Dianas nøgne fødder i det dugvåde græs, Auroras vidunderlige ferskenfarve, Eurydike der vender sig, mens hun ser Orfeus i øjnene, som jeg aldrig ser jer i øjnene.

14 IDA 2

They say I turn my eyes inwards. They do not like seeing the whites of my eyes. But I look in, inside myself, at my internal landscape; I see a procession of antiquity’s figures before my eyes. They exist here and now; they are Aurora the morning blush, Eurydice rising from the underworld, Diana hunting like a virgin. The figures of antiquity are more alive to me than you who stand before me. You want my gaze, but my gaze is with them – Diana’s naked feet in the dewy grass, Aurora’s marvellous peachy hue, Eurydice as she turns to look Orpheus in the eyes, in a way I can never look you in the eyes.

15 IDA 3

Min fod gør så ondt; hele dagen fra klokken syv, da morgenrødmen farvede himlen, stod jeg op og øvede mine trin. Det italienske marmorgulv er smukt og glat og skinner i solen, men min fod bryder sig mere om de bløde trægulve hjemme på Sophienholm. Jeg bruger fire timer hver morgen på mine trin og ryggens bevægelser, hændernes ynde, benenes gliden frem i stilhed; men i dag må jeg standse efter kun halvanden times trin, fordi den fod gør så ondt. Jeg siger ingenting til min mor, for det vil gøre hende ulykkelig, hvis hun vidste det, hvis hun skulle tænke, at min optræden i aften for Thorvaldsen vil blive forhindret. Så jeg sidder nu med foden i varmt sæbevand og lader vandet lindre, for jeg er ingenting, det ved jeg, hvis ikke mine trin bliver set, hvis ikke min mor bliver set i mine trin.

16 IDA 3

My foot aches so much; all day starting from seven o’clock, when the morning blush painted the sky, I got up and practiced my dance steps. The Italian marble floor is beautiful and smooth and glistens in the sun, but my foot prefers the soft wooden floors at home on Sophienholm. I spend four hours each morning working on my steps and the movements of my back, the gracefulness of my hands, the silent forward slide of the legs, but today I have to stop after only an hour and a half of steps because that foot aches so much. I say nothing to my mother; it would make her unhappy if she knew, if she thought that my appearance for Thorvaldsen tonight would be forestalled. So now I sit with my foot in warm soapy water, allow the water to alleviate the pain, because I am nothing, I know that, if my steps are not seen, if my mother is not seen in my steps.

17 FORSLAG TIL LUDWIG I

LUDWIG 1

Jeg læser Platon. Fortællingen om hulen, fortællingen om at den virkelighed vi ser, kun er skygger på en væg som den virkelige verden, ideernes verden, idealernes verden, kaster fra sig. Jeg var sådan et menneske som barn. Nu ved jeg, at ideerne er virkeligheden, og jeg sliber ideerne til, som er de en diamant indfattet og sat ned over en af mine kongelige fingre. Figuren, der afbilder mennesket, skal ikke vise personens forfald, skal under ingen omstændigheder vise mit røde modermærke i panden, mit læbear, mit flade bryst. Det skal vise den jeg er i den virkelige verden; den jeg er i mine tanker, når jeg læser Platon, læser Plinius den Ældres kunsthistorie. Det jeg, I ser her. Mit virkelige ideale jeg trukket ud af grottens skyggeverden, det jeg, der bygger en hal som et græsk tempel og kalder det Walhalla.

18 SUGGESTIONS FOR LUDWIG

LUDWIG 1

I am reading Plato, the allegory of the cave. The story goes that the reality people see is merely shadows on a wall which the real world, the world of ideas, the world of ideals, projects. As a child, I was such a person. Now I know that the ideas are the reality, and I polish the ideas, as though they were a diamond, set and lowered onto one of my royal fingers. A figure depicting a person should not reveal that person’s decay; under no circumstances should it show the red birthmark on my forehead, my lip scar, my flat chest. It should show who I am in the real world, the person I am in my mind, when I read Plato, read Pliny the Elder’s Chapters on the History of Art. The I you see here. My true ideal self, extracted from the shadowy world of the grotto, the one who builds a hall like a Greek temple and calls it Walhalla.

19 LUDWIG 2

Det er tid at tage tøj på, en af dagens skønneste timer. Jeg stikker fødderne i sølvsko med guldtresser, jeg elsker de sko, jeg stikker dem frem under den hvide kjole med sølvskær og guldbroderier på ærmerne, trækker tørklædet med guldfrynserne sammen i livet, bagefter den tunge røde velourkåbe med flere guldbroderier, jeg elsker også guldbroderier, så hermelinskraven med den hvide stivede blondekrave over. Jeg lader fingrene glide gennem mit fipskæg, der dækker læben, gennem det krøllede hår, der falder naturligt, for jeg er en naturlig mand, inden jeg trækker de hvide handsker på og folder fingrene om mit scepter. Kraven bruger jeg igen, jeg elsker de stivede hvide blondekraver, jeg ville ønske jeg også kunne bruge den under uniformsjakken, men der må jeg nøjes med den stramme, men i det mindste guldbroderede, krave; og når jeg undflyr mig kongerollen og går rundt i Roms gader, har jeg den åbne italienske krave med en tynd bort i rød - og guld naturligvis - og står der, åben i halsen, nærmest nøgen, og råber op til Thorvaldsens vindue: Sind Sie zu Hause, Thorvaldsen?

20 LUDWIG 2

It is time to get dressed, one of the most delightful hours of the day. I slip my feet into a pair of silver shoes with gold braiding; I love these shoes. I poke them out below the white dress with the gold embroidered sleeves and a silver sheen, draw the scarf with gold fringes around my waist, then the heavy red velour cloak with more gold embroidery – I do love gold embroidery – and finally the ermine collar with the starched, lacy white collars at the top. I run my fingers over the goatee covering my lip, through my naturally curly hair, for I am a natural man, before slipping on the white gloves and wrapping my fingers around my sceptre. The collar I reuse; I love the starched, lacy white collars. I wish I could wear it under the uniform jacket too, but I have to settle for the tight, though at least gold-embroidered, collar, and when I flee my royal role and tramp the streets of Rome, I wear the open Italian collar with a thin border of red – and gold, naturally – and stand there, open at the neck, practically naked, shouting up at Thorvaldsen’s window: Sind Sie zu Hause, Thorvaldsen?

21 LUDWIG 3

De siger, at mit blik går direkte i hjertet på kvinderne, og derfor ligner mine pupiller hjerter. Kvinderne går forbi mig, og mit hjerteblik fanger deres strøm- per, deres lårs runding under skørtet, den blottede hud på brysternes runding under silkestoffet, de runde øjne; halsen, kindernes buttethed; jeg kan ikke blive mæt. Jeg beder Stieler male mig et galleri af kvindelige skønheder, 36 malerier bliver det til, Durck laver to til for at stille min appetit. Skønhedernes galleri, mit skønhedsskab, jeg går rundt og rundt imellem malerierne, blandt mine elskerinder, Charlotte, Marianna, og da årene går, jeg runder de 60, kommer hun, min kronjuvel, Dolores, min Lola. For hendes øjne, hendes lår, hendes bryster vil jeg gøre alt, alt for at slikke hendes danserindefødder. Så jeg runder den af, min kongetid. Jeg har bygget kanaler, jernbaner, de snor sig gennem Bayern, mens jeg snor Lolas hår mellem mine fingre, tager en lilletå imellem mine læber. Jeg er ikke længere konge, men hun er min dronning.

22 LUDWIG 3

They say my gaze goes straight into the hearts of women, and therefore my pupils resemble hearts. Women walk past me and my hearty gaze catches their stockings, the curve of their thigh beneath their petticoats, the exposed skin above the curve of the breasts beneath the silk, the round eyes, the neck, the plump cheeks; I cannot be satiated. I ask Stieler to paint me a gallery of female beauties, and it comes to 36 paintings; Durck creates two more in order to sate my appetite. The Gallery of Beauties, my beauty cabinet, I walk around and around among the paintings, among my lovers, Charlotte, Marianna, and as the years pass – I’m rounding 60 – she arrives, my crown jewel, Dolores, my Lola. For her eyes, her thighs, her breasts, I would do anything, anything to lick her dancing feet. So I round it off, my royal rule. I have constructed canals, railways; they wind through Bavaria as I wind Lola’s hair around my fingers, take her little toe between my lips. I may no longer be king, but she is my queen.

23 FORSLAG TIL MARIANNA FLORENZI

MARIANNA 1

Til Baron Bunsen i Cannes, 2. maj 1860. Men vi er enige i den forstand, at vi ikke vil acceptere en personlig Gud uden for universet. Hvad ville det overhovedet være for en Gud, der betragter universet fra et eller andet fjernt sted, som en general der ser på sine tropper? Aristoteles, som gerne vil påstå, at Gud er adskilt fra verdenen, ender med en ingentings-Gud. For at finde Aristoteles’ Gud er vi nødt til at lede efter ham i den rige, uendelige, evige natur, som Aristoteles maler med så klare farver. Også Bruno beskriver et uendeligt univers der er fuldt af liv, levende ånd, sjæl og sind, for så at adskille Gud fra det som et tilsvarende ubevægeligt, ufrugtbart og ubrugeligt væsen. Schelling foreslår en natur, der er fuld af liv og styrke, som indeholder og fra hvilken der udvikler sig en barne-Gud, der som et menneske vokser op for til sidst at blive til den fornuft, hvori Gud kan opnå sit mål og fuldstændighed. En sådan Gud kan ikke være den sande Gud. Derfor har alle de filosoffer, der har ført naturen ind i Gud og Gud ind i naturen, ladet det guddommeliges egentlige natur forblive ubeskrevet, samtidig med at de beviste det fuldstændigt. Men for at undgå den anklage, vi ind i mellem har hørt – i nogles mund er den absurd – om at disse filosoffer skulle være panteister, har de undgået at lægge vægt på dette eller sige det ligefrem. Marianna de Florenzi Waddington

24 SUGGESTIONS FOR MARIANNA FLORENZI

MARIANNA 1

To Baron Bunsen in Cannes, 2 May 1860. But we agree to the extent of not accepting a personal God outside the universe. Indeed, what would that God be who contemplates the universe from some faraway place, like the head of an army watching his troops? Aristotle, who wants to claim that God is detached from the world, has a nothing-God. To find Aristotle’s God, we must look for him in that rich, infinite, eternal nature of his that he paints in such lively colours. Bruno, too, after describing an infinite universe that is full of life, living spirit, soul, and mind, sets God apart from it, as inert, barren, and useless in equal measure. Schelling posits a nature full of life and strength in which is contained, and from which develops, a child-God who grows up like a human and at last becomes the reason in which God attains his end and his perfection. Such a God cannot be the true God. Therefore, all those philosophers who have expanded nature into God and God into nature, have, in some sense, left the true divine nature unstated while by implication demonstrating it absolutely. But in order to escape the accusation that we have been hearing now and then – absurdly from some people – that these philosophers are pantheists, they do not want to emphasize this or clearly admit it in so many words. Marianna de Florenzi Waddington

25 MARIANNA 2

Lad det være sagt; min fod slikker Ludwigs tunge, så den bliver levende, altså foden slikker tungen, eller er det hans tunge, der slikker min fod? Alt i verden er et emne til overvejelse. Min tå er som en filosofisk sten; Ludwig siger – alle siger – at den fod er så lille og så bedårende, som han selv bliver ganske lille, når han slikker den og glemmer, at han er Bayerns konge. Men først når det lykkes os at hæve os over materien; over fod, sener, hud, blod, og gøre det at eje en fod, en krop, til noget, der er større end selve foden, til noget, kunne man sige, der repræsenterer livet, giver udsagnet mening. En del af helheden er helheden. Ludwig slikker min væren; først da, når vi mødes i tanken, får han lov til at lade tungen lege. Den lille grimme mand; han elsker mig, tror jeg, også fordi jeg er så lille, og jeg elsker hans grimhed, der lader hans tanker skinne som kontrast. Den raffinerede tanke ses i langt renere og mere udsøgt grad bag en hæslig pande end bag en smuk pande. Hos manden altså; jeg selv, at jeg er lille er vel ingen skam, men jeg sætter mit hår højt, ruller det op, så det løfter mig op blandt de andre, så de ikke ser ned i mine tankers kammer, men ind i det. Jeg sætter min hovedprydning med de brillantbesatte kærlighedsfugle øverst på det opsatte hår; for således, hovedet løftet, tanken løftet, forener jeg krop og ånd, og da bliver natten levende og flagrer som fuglenes vinger.

26 MARIANNA 2

Let it be said; my foot licks Ludvig’s tongue, so it becomes alive, that is, the foot licks the tongue, or is it his tongue licking my foot? Everything in the world is subject to deliberation. My toe is like a philosophical stone; Ludvig says – everyone says – that my foot is so small and so adorable, that he too becomes quite small when he licks it and forgets that he is King of Bavaria. But only when we succeed in raising ourselves above the pus; above foot, sinew, skin, blood, and turning the notion of owning a foot, a body, into something greater than the foot itself, into something, one could say, representing life, does the statement make sense. A part of the whole is the whole. Ludvig licks my existence; only then, when we meet in our thoughts, is he allowed to let the tongue play. That ugly little man; he loves me, I think; also because I am so little, and I love his ugliness, which allows his thoughts to shine in contrast. The refined thought can be seen in a far more pure and more exquisite degree behind a hideous forehead than behind a beautiful forehead. With men, that is; I myself, the fact that I am little is not shameful, but I put my hair up high, roll it up, so it raises me up amongst the others, so they do not look down upon the chamber of my thoughts, but into it. I adorn my head ornament with the brilliant-encrusted lovebirds at the top of my set hair, because thus, the head raised, the thought raised, I unite body and spirit; and then the night grows lively and fluttering like the wings of the birds.

27 MARIANNA 3

Min tante Cornelia, som tog med mig til universitetet i Perugia, er ligeledes, som jeg, gjort udødelig, for vi vil gerne være udødelige i både form og tanke. Jeg blev det af Thorvaldsen, hun af Canova og i et digt af Foscolo om De tre gratier. Cornelia tog med mig til Perugia, hvor tankerne dansede, og hvor jeg fik lov at studere hos professorerne Torrigiani og Mezzanotte og lærte om de græske idealer i det filosofiske og i medicinen. Ettore havde jeg efterladt derhjemme; jeg var så ung, da vi blev gift, nærmest bare et stort barn, og Ettore var en ældre herre. Der var så tavst imellem os, så han mente som jeg selv, at kunne der komme flere tanker i mit hoved, kunne der være flere ord i min mund. Hvor havde vi begge ret. Ordene svømmede fra min mund, jeg åbnede mine huse for flere ord, for samtalen, for tanken, der løb igennem huset som musik fra et usynligt orkester. Der var naturligvis også mad og drikke på bordene i huset ved Piazza Piccola, men ordene var det, der gav os næring, og den samtale er fortsat overalt, hvor jeg har sat min fod, også når jeg sad på min hvide silkepude og lod hænderne kysse, indtil omsider den engelske vals gik i gang, så jeg kunne danse, danse. Som filosofien danser i mit hoved; Schelling og Hegel især. Jeg ønsker, at der også kunne findes en ideal tid for kvinder, hvor jeg ikke skal stå i døren til universitetet og blot kigge ind, hvor forslaget om at gøre mig til professor gør andre professorer, der ikke ved, at det kønne køn kan tænke, rædselsslagne. Men vil den tid komme, vil jeg være til stede i den med mit udødelige marmorblik.

28 MARIANNA 3

My aunt Cornelia, who went with me to the university in Perugia, has also, like me, been made immortal, for we would like to be immortal in both form and thought. I was made so by Thorvaldsen, she by Canova and in a poem by Foscolo about the Three Graces. Cornelia went with me to Perugia, where my thoughts danced, and where I was allowed to study with Professors Torrigiani and Mezzanotte and learn about the Greek ideals in philosophy, and in medi- cine. I had left Ettore at home; I was so young, when we married, practically a child, and Ettore was an older gentleman. There was such silence between us, so he thought as I did, that if more thoughts could enter my mind, more words could enter my mouth. How right we both were. The words swam from my mouth, I opened my houses to more words, to conversation, to thinking that ran through the house like music from an invisible orchestra. Naturally there was also food and drink on the tables in the house at Piazza Piccola, but it was the words that gave us sustenance, and conversation continues everywhere I have stepped, also when I sat on my white silk pillow and let my hands kiss, until at last the English Waltz began, so I could dance, dance. The way the philosophy dances in my head; Schelling and Hegel in particular. I wish there could be an ideal time for women too, where I do not have to stand outside the door to the university merely looking in, where the proposal to make me professor makes other professors, who do not realise that the fairer sex can think, terrified. But if that time comes, I will be part of it with my immortal marble gaze.

29 FORSLAG TIL BERTEL THORVALDSENS SELVPORTRÆT

BERTEL 1

Solen danser og cirkler i palmebladformer og grenlinjer på den okkerfarvede mur ved hjørnet, den jeg drejer om på vej mod osteriaet. Gadestenen skurrer under min hæl, jeg er sulten, solen er så småt ved at gå på hæld, en anelse kølighed lister sig ind mod huden med et vindpust. Hvis jeg vender mig fra muren og ser bagud ind over det røde tag, har himlen allerede en tone lilla i det højblå, luften er tung af timian og hestelort. Farverne er sluppet løs, mens linjerne fastholdes af skyggen på muren; jeg lader min finger glide over skyggelinjerne; bladet fra palmen, der stikker og stritter i alle retninger, pal- mebladets lange lange skyggegren, op og ned i vinden. Min håndflade sveder endnu, jeg lukker øjnene. Alt er linjer og buer og bevægelse. Det er det jeg vil; at fastholde den bevægelse et øjeblik, at lade skyggedansen få fast form og træde ud i verden. Jeg kan høre Anna Maria kalde fra vinduet, jeg vender mig og vinker; hun kalder igen, jeg kan se, hun har min hue mellem hænderne. Jeg går tilbage imod hende, de store romerske sten under mine lædersko er afskårne, så de passer ind i hinanden, linjerne løber mellem stenene under skosnudens bue. Anna Maria kaster min hue ned til mig og råber: Caro asino og lukker skodden igen. Jeg tænker et øjeblik, at jeg burde tage hende med ned til middagen, men jeg ved, at det vil gå galt. Der går en linje imellem mig, det jeg kommer fra, buet, forvredet, groft, og den jeg er blevet til, linje, renhed, det skønne, som de kalder det. Men for mig må det skønne have den grove bue bag sig for at funkle, og Anna Maria er den grove side af mig, selv om hendes krop er en fuldendt bue. Sulten rumler, jeg ser Zoëga, han vinker mig frem mod osteriaet, ufødte lam, råber han, i dag har de ufødt lam i mælk, og jeg tænker altid, denne sol, denne vinken fra vindue til gade, bue til linje; her kan jeg være med min bevægelse.

30 SUGGESTIONS FOR BERTEL THORVALDSEN’S SELF-PORTRAIT

BERTEL 1

The sun dances and circles in palm-leaf patterns and branch-lines on the ochre-coloured wall at the corner, the one I turn past on my way to the osteria. The paving stone grates beneath my heel, I am hungry, the sun is slowly on the wane, a touch of coolness slips in under the skin with a gust of wind. If I turn away from the wall and look backward over the red roof, the sky already has a shade of purple against the bright blue, the air is heavy with the scent of thyme and horse dung. The colours have broken free, while the lines are held in place by the shadow on the wall; I let my finger slide across the shadow lines; the leaf of the palm, which sticks out every which way, the palm leaf’s long, long shadow branch, moving up and down in the wind. My palm is still sweating, I close my eyes. Everything is lines and curves and movement. That is what I want; to maintain that movement for a moment, to let the shadow dance solidify and enter the world. I can hear Anna Maria calling from the window, I turn around and wave; she calls again, I see that she is holding my cap. I walk back towards her, beneath my leather shoes, the large Roman stones are bevelled, so they fit together, the lines run between the stones beneath the curve of the tip of the shoe. Anna Maria throws my cap down to me and yells; Caro asino and closes the shutters again. I think for a moment that I ought to take her with me to dinner, but I know that it will end badly. A line passes between me, where I come from, curved, twisted, coarse, and the one I have become, line, purity, the beautiful, as they call it. But for me, the beautiful must have the coarse curve behind it in order to sparkle, and Anna Maria is the coarse part of me, even though her body is a perfect curve. My hunger rumbles, I see Zoega, he waves me towards the osteria, unborn lamb, he shouts, they have unborn lamb cooked in milk today, and I always think, this sun, this waving from window to street, curve to line, with my movement, I can be here.

31 BERTEL 2

Jeg ser mig selv som ung mand, jeg ser mig selv tungsindig spørge: Hvad er meningen med dette liv? Jeg ser mig selv tage dette liv som en stor hvid mar- morblok fra Carrara og gå løs på den hver morgen med folkene omkring mig, og jeg ser den kraft overvinde tungsindet, det tungsind, der troede det vidste alt, men intet vidste om meningsløshed. Vi maser med dette hvide liv, disse krystaller af stenflager, der springer af under mejslen. Jeg ser mig selv dengang jeg følte, at jeg ikke kunne løfte mit liv, ung og uvidende. Og nu! Jeg håner mig selv, råber til mit unge jeg, tåbe, du ved ingenting, skriger jeg til ham. Jeg skulle bare have levet. For nu; min søn, død. Min elskede lille levende mening, min Carlo Alberto. Min sorg er som den flod, der løber ned fra marmorbjerget og sliber alle stenene små på sin vej. Min sorg er som den enorme okse, der tungtpustende trækker marmorstenen ned til det ventende skib. Min sorg er som gipskrystaller, der størkner i en form, de aldrig igen kan forlade. Jeg siger: Jeg vil aldrig igen knytte mig på den måde til et andet menneske. De andre siger jeg er hård, jeg ser forbløffet på dem; marmor, gips, mejslen - forventer de, at jeg er blød? Kun han var jeg blød overfor, kun han, kun han

32 BERTEL 2

I see myself as a young man, I see myself ask with a heavy heart; what is the point of this life? I see myself take this life as one great white block of marble from Carrara and attack it every morning with people all around me, and I see that force overcome the heavy heart, the heavy heart that thought it knew everything, but knew nothing about pointlessness. We toil with this white life, these crystals of stone flakes, which fly off beneath the chisel. I see myself back when I felt that I could not elevate my life, young and ignorant. And now! I taunt myself, yell at my young self, fool, you know nothing, I scream at him. I should just have lived. For now; my son, dead. My beloved, little living purpose, my Carlo Alberto. My sorrow is like the river that flows down from the marble mountain and grinds down all the rocks to nothing on its way; my sorrow is like the enormous ox, which, panting heavily, pulls the marble block down to the waiting ship. My sorrow is like gypsum crystals, which harden into a shape they never again can leave. I say; I will never again become attached in such a way to another human being. The others say that I am hard, I look at them in astonishment; marble, gypsum, the chisel – do they expect me to be soft? Only towards him was I soft, only him, only with him

33 BERTEL 3

Jeg læner mig tilbage i stolen, skubber den lidt tilbage, benet driller. Christine skubber en lille skammel, hun har broderet, ind under den, og Andersen digter straks et eventyr om en skammel, der blev forelsket i et kunstnerben, og kunstneren huggede sit ben i marmor og forærede det til skamlen, der først blev lykkelig og så ulykkelig, for marmorbenet var koldt, hvor kunstnerbenet var varmt, og vi griner, og jeg er Stampe, siger Christine og stamper i gulvet. Oehlenschläger er ved at trille ned ad sin stol af latter, og den besynderlige baron Stampe forsøger med et lille stamp, så Meyer falder på gulvet og Oeh- lenschläger springer op og råber: En sagte Torden Dundrer! Hele Norden Undrer! Jeg griner, så jeg knap kan få vejret, og det er hver dag, jeg knap kan få vejret, det slår mig ihjel, det ved jeg, det er som om det allerede har slået mig lidt ihjel. Jeg ser pludselig bordet, vi sidder omkring, oppe fra, jeg hører samtalen flimre rundt om bordet, og under mig bliver bordet skiftet ud med alle de borde, jeg har siddet omkring i mit liv, alle ordene på alle sprogene, der er blevet sagt, bliver til en enkelt lang sætning. Jeg kan hive den op til mig, den sætning, men den bliver ved og ved, kvindestemmer, mandestemmer, latteren, det vrede råb. Jeg har levet i den samme samtale om det samme bord altid, og det er, tænker jeg, det skønne. Det er det, der har hugget mig til, som jeg har hugget alt det til, der blev talt om; alle de tanker, der blev til ord, der blev til form i mig. Jeg tager mit ur frem af vestelommen. Det er tid. Jeg skal i teatret. Ingen vil med mig, de vil fortsætte samtalen, så jeg går alene, og alene midt i teatersalen dør jeg. Men jeg sad ved det bord, jeg var levende længe.

34 BERTEL 3

I lean back in the chair, push it back a little, the leg is playing up. Christine pushes a small footstool that she has embroidered, beneath it, and Andersen immediately composes a fairy tale about a footstool that fell in love with an artist’s leg, and the artist sculpted his leg in marble and gifted it to the footstool, which at first became happy and then unhappy, because the marble leg was cold, whereas the artist’s leg was warm, and we laugh, and I’m Stampe, Christine says and stamps on the floor. Oehlenschläger is about to roll off his chair from laughter, and the peculiar Baron Stampe attempts a small stamp, causing Meyer to fall on the floor and Oehlenschläger jumps up and shouts: A gentle thunder! The North Wonders! I laugh so hard I can hardly breathe, and it is every day, I can hardly breathe, it is killing me, I know that, it is as if it has already killed me a little. I suddenly see the table we sit around from above, I hear the conversation flitter round the table, and beneath me the table is replaced with all the tables I have sat around in my life, all the words in all the languages that have been spoken become one long sentence. I can draw it up towards me, that sentence, but it goes on and on, female voices, male voices, the laughter, the angry shout. I have lived in that same conversation around that same table always, and it is, I think, the beautiful. It is what has sculpted me into existence, I have sculpted all that into existence, that is what is talked about; all those thoughts that became words, that were formed within me. I take out my watch from the pocket of my waistcoat. It is time. I am going to the theatre. Nobody wants to join me, they want to continue the conversation, so I go on my own, and on my own in the middle of the auditorium, I die. But I sat around that table, I was alive for a long time.

35 FORSLAG TIL UBEKENDT MAND

UBEKENDT MAND 1

Det hvide marmor er hvidt som sukker, sukkersort som det blod, der drypper ind i min hånd, mens jeg skriver under på, hvad skibets last indeholder: Tre- hundrede sorte kroppe er der i lasten, de skal veksles til tre ton hvidt sukker. Trekantshandlen, Ghana, Vestindien, Danmark - på samme måde som skulpturen er den en perfekt form, der kaster rigdom af sig. Som fattig dreng legede jeg, at sneen i min lomme var guldstykker, og når de hvide krystaller var smeltet, forestillede jeg mig, hvad jeg havde brugt dem på. Dengang skænkede jeg ikke marmoret en tanke, jeg brugte mine snestykker på fed sild og brændestykker. Til tankerne. Skulpturen kaster åndelig rigdom fra sig som en snestorm, mens trekantens menneskesukker kaster den forrygende rigdom af sig, ligesom franskmænde- nes korn, jeg ejer, gør det. Alt det, der betaler for også denne hvide skulptur. Således hænger alting sammen; det ufarvede sukker rejser sig som marmor, en fast hvid og evig form, der holder mit ansigt i sin hånd.

36 SUGGESTIONS FOR UNKNOWN MAN

UNKNOWN MAN 1

The white marble is white as sugar, black as the sweet blood dripping in my hand, while I sign off on the contents of the ship’s hold: there are three hundred black bodies in the hold, they are to be exchanged for three tonnes of white sugar. The triangular trade, Ghana, West Indies, Denmark – in the same way as the sculpture, it is a perfect shape, which yields riches. As a poor boy I pretended that the snow in my pocket was pieces of gold, and when the white crystals had melted, I imagined what I had spent them on. Back then I did not give a thought to the marble, I spent my pieces of snow on rich herring and pieces of firewood. For the thoughts. The sculpture yields spiritual riches like a snowstorm, while the triangle’s human sugar yields its tremendous riches, like the Frenchmen’s grains that I own, all that, which also pays for this white sculpture. In this way everything adds up; the uncoloured sugar rises as marble, a solid white and eternal form that holds my face in its hand.

37 UBEKENDT MAND 2

Mit navn er måske Constantin Brun, manden måske, hvis kone bruger sine sukkerpenge på Thorvaldsens hvide marmor, og manden måske, hvis datter danser sine fødder sorte på de hvide marmorgulve. Den hvide marmor er hvid som sukker, og jeg sukker, mens jeg skriver under på, hvad skibets last indeholder: Trehundrede sorte kroppe er der i lasten, de skal veksles til tre ton hvidt sukker, og den hvide farve går igen i mit landsted, Sophienholm. De sorte slaver, jeg har sejlet hjem for at vise verden, at den hvide sødme, der dækker damernes tunger og får dem til at kvidre, stammer fra den sorte huds sved. Mine slaver kalker huset hvidt, som er huset et stort snefnug faldet fra den gode Vorherres himmel, som er huset en skefuld sukker. Hvidt som føllets tænder, hvidt som mine drømme, hvidt som den farve, solen brænder mine øjne med bag mine øjenlåg, når jeg en sjælden gang sover uden mareridt. Sukkeret rejser sig som marmor, en fast hvid og evig form, der holder mit ansigt i sin hånd. Eller mit navn er måske Ernst Schimmelmann, jeg er måske statsminister Schimmelmann, med det sukkerhvide landsted Sølyst, jeg er måske far til slaven Hans Jonathan, der er flyttet til Island, jeg er måske en anden end jeg tror, jeg er.

38 UNKNOWN MAN 2

Perhaps my name is Constantin Brun, the man, perhaps, whose wife spends her sugar money on Thorvaldsen’s white marble, and the man, perhaps, whose daughter blackens her feet on the white marble floors while dancing. The white marble is white as sugar, and I sigh sweetly as I sign off on the contents of the ship’s hold: there are three hundred black bodies in the hold, they are to be exchanged for three tonnes of white sugar, and the whiteness haunts my country house, Sophienholm. The black slaves, I have sailed home to show the world that the white sweetness that coats the ladies’ tongues and makes them chirp, originates from the sweat of black skin. My slaves white- wash the house, as if the house is a giant snowflake fallen from the good Lord above, as if the house is a spoonful of sugar. White as the foal’s teeth, white as my dreams, white as the colour the sun burns into my eyes through my eyelids when on rare occasions I sleep without nightmares. The sugar rises like marble, a solid white and eternal form that holds my face in its hand. Or perhaps my name is Ernst Schimmelmann, perhaps I am Prime Minister Schimmelmann, with the sugary white mansion, Sølyst, perhaps I am the father of the slave, Hans Jonathan, who has moved to Iceland, perhaps I am someone other than I think I am.

39 UBEKENDT MAND 3

Jeg kunne være digter, født på Thrakiens græsenge, jeg kunne være en sky adelsmand fra Napoli, der spiser blød bøffelmozarella i tavernaen til frokost siddende overfor Thorvaldsen, mens vores vinglas slår mod hinanden. Jeg kunne være uldfabrikant fra Skotland, der savner mine hunde og ilden i pejsen og forbander denne kolde italienske vinter, jeg kunne elske at tage min kones silke over mig, når vi ligger i sengen og mærke dens vidunderlige bløde hånd mod min hud. Jeg kunne være Thorvaldsens bror, som ingen kender, der ser forundret på den mand, han er blevet til. Jeg kunne være gartneren, hvis ansigt Thorvaldsen tager imellem sine hænder som en fersken, når han går forbi. Jeg kunne være en tyrolsk isvinsfyrste, hvis råddenguld læsker Thorvaldsens tunge. Jeg kunne være kommet sejlende fra Amerika på en damper, der stadig føles som om den ruller under mig. Jeg kunne være, jeg kunne være enhver og ingen andre end mig selv.

40 UNKNOWN MAN 3

I could be a poet, born on the meadows of Thrace, I could be a timid nobleman from Naples, who eats soft buffalo mozzarella in the taverna for lunch sitting opposite Thorvaldsen, while our wine glasses clink together, I could be a wool manufacturer from Scotland, who misses his dogs and the fire in the fireplace and curses this cold Italian winter, maybe I love to pull my wife’s silk over me when we lie in bed and feel its wonderfully soft hand against my skin. I could be Thorvaldsen’s brother, who nobody knows, who looks in surprise at the man he has become, I could be the gardener, whose face Thorvaldsen grabs like a peach when he walks past, I could be the Tyrolean prince of ice wine, whose rotten gold quenches Thorvaldsen’s tongue, I could have come sailing from America on a steamer, which still seems to be rolling beneath me, I could be, I could be everyone and no one but myself.

41 FORSLAG TIL UBEKENDT KVINDE

UBEKENDT KVINDE 1

Jeg kunne hedde Anna Maria Magnani, jeg er et barn af Rom, af de hvide huse i via Gregoriana. Jeg bliver sendt til blomsterpladsen for at købe blomster til min fars herskaber, jeg går med armene fulde af mimoser ind i de store kølige lejligheder hvor de rige bor, mens vi andre stuver os sammen oppe under taget. Herrerne i husene stirrer på mig, trods det, at mine øjne ser til hver en side. Dit blik falder, som solens skygger falder på de romerske mure, siger Hr. Wilhelm Uhden, pavegesandten, og jeg sætter mimoserne fra blomsterpladsen i store krystalvaser i hans stue, og duften vifter i den svale luft. Han ser på mig, som om jeg er en kvinde, der kunne sidde i denne stue og ikke en tjenestepige, og han ser, at jeg ser på ham med mit skæve skyggeblik, der fejer over hans brede smukke ansigt. Han vil mig, men min far sætter foden ned - intet forhold uden præstens velsignelse! Så pludselig er jeg fru von Uhden, mindre pludseligt kommer børnene, Carlotta og Friderike, men mit blik flakker, mit blik falder videre, ned ad via Gregoriana falder mit blik på Thorvaldsen. Han ser på mig, som om jeg er en kvinde, der kunne være hans og ikke Wilhelms; og jeg ser på ham med mit skæve blik, jeg vakler, alting vakler, Thorvaldsens hånd brænder hårdere end hans blik. Han får mig til at glemme mig selv, mit alt, han får mig til at glemme, når han er hos mig, at Wilhelm tager mine børn fordi jeg tager en anden mand. Alberto Thorvaldsen giver mig nye børn, Carlo Alberto og Elisa, han giver mig nye skæve steder at kigge, skæv siger hans venner, at jeg er, men de ser ikke, hvordan Alberto falder blid om i stolen i stuen med børnene på skødet og ser på mig. Furbina kalder han mig kærligt, selvom det er ham, der er furbo, andre kvinder, andre steder, jeg siger han må have en skeløjet elskerinde som mig, fordi jeg skal holde øje med elskerinderne, der kommer fra alle sider. Han kysser mig og hans hånd over min krop, den bliver levende, blød som ild, og kun en af de ting, han lover mig, holder han, nemlig aldrig at lukke mig inde i marmorets stivnede evighed.

42 SUGGESTIONS FOR UNKNOWN WOMAN

UNKNOWN WOMAN 1

My name could be Anna Maria Magnani, I am a child of Rome, of the white houses in Via Gregoriana. I am sent to the flower market to buy flowers for my father’s masters and mistresses, I walk with my arms full of mimosas, entering the large, cool apartments where the rich live, whilst the rest of us are stowed away in the attic. The masters of the houses stare at me, despite the fact that my eyes look to both sides. Your gaze falls like the sun’s shadows fall on the Roman walls, says Mr. Wilhelm Uhden, the papal emissary, and I put the mimosas from the flower market in large crystal vases in his drawing room, and the smell wafts in the cool air. He looks at me as if I were a woman who could sit in this drawing room and not a servant girl, and he sees that I am looking at him with my crooked shadow gaze, which sweeps across his beautiful broad face. He wants me, but my father puts his foot down – no relations without the blessing of the priest. Then suddenly I am Mrs Uhden, the children, Carlotta and Friderike, arrive less suddenly, but my gaze wanders, by gaze falls further, down Via Gregoriana, my gaze falls on Thorvaldsen. He looks at me as if I am a woman who could be his and not Wilhelm’s; and I look at him with my crooked gaze, I am reeling, everything is reeling, Thorvaldsen’s hand burns more ardently than his gaze. He makes me forget myself, my everything, when he is with me he makes me forget that Wilhelm takes my children because I take another man. Alberto Thorvaldsen gives me new children, Carlo Alberto and Elisa, he gives me new crooked places to look, crooked his friends say I am, but they don’t see the way Alberto collapses gently onto the chair in the drawing room with the children on his lap and looks at me. Furbina he calls me lovingly, even though he is the one who is furbo, other women, other places, I say he must have another squint-eyed mistress like me, because I have to keep an eye on the mistresses, who come from all quarters. He kisses me, and his hand is over my body, it becomes alive, soft, like fire, and only one of his promises does he keep, that is to never encase me in the frozen eternity of marble.

43 UBEKENDT KVINDE 2

Jeg kunne hedde Signe Læssøe, let skelende er jeg, og min tegning, tænker jeg, for jeg kender ikke denne buste, har min kære unge ven Hans Christian haft med på sin Italiensrejse til sin ven Thorvaldsen, der så har lavet denne skitse i gips af mig, som Hans Christian ville overraske mig med, men så blev det ikke til noget. Der er alligevel så meget, jeg kunne have været, som jeg ikke blev. Det var mine brødre der blev skolet, men jeg læste, hvad de skulle læse, og lærte det hele hurtigere end dem, men som pige var den eneste bog, jeg skulle skrive i kirkebogen, hvor mit bryllup stod. Og med brylluppet kom børnene, og tro mig, jeg elskede, dem; jeg hævdede også for alle og enhver og måske især mig selv, at kvinden som husmoder og moder fandt sit kald. Alli- gevel; jeg blev måske ikke lærd, men jeg blev jo nødt til at læse og studere for at kunne opdrage mine sønner, det er klart. Og det gjorde jeg, og jeg kunne konversere, det er også en dyd, men indimellem tænker jeg, mens jeg kigger over verden med mit skæve blik, om det havde været anderledes, hvis jeg var født i en anden tid.

44 UNKNOWN WOMAN 2

My name could be Signe Læssøe, slightly squinting, I am, and my drawing, I think, because I do not know this bust, my dear young friend Hans Christian has brought with him on his trip to Italy to visit his friend Thorvaldsen, who has then made this plaster sketch of me, which Hans Christian wanted to surprise me with, though nothing became of it. There is nevertheless so much I could have become, which I did not. My brothers were the ones who were schooled, but I read what they had to read, and learned everything faster than them, but as a girl the only book I was to write in was the church register, where my wedding was recorded. And with the wedding came the children, and believe me, I loved, them; I also insisted to anybody and everybody and perhaps to myself in particular, that the woman found her calling as a housewife and mother. Still; I may not have become learned, but I did have to read and study in order to raise my sons, obviously. And I did so, and I could converse, that is also a virtue, but once in a while I think, as I look over the world with my crooked gaze, whether it would have been different if I had been born in another time.

45 UBEKENDT KVINDE 3

Jeg kunne være dig; altså selvfølgelig hvis du havde været en ung kvinde, der spadserede ned ad via Gregoriana for sådan lidt over tohundrede år siden og havde dit lange hår flettet og sat op på hovedet (måske som en ekstension?), og naturligvis hvis du tilhørte den type mennesker, vi i dag kalder samfundets elite; men hvorfor skulle du ikke være det? Det er så tilfældigt, hvornår det slægtsled i slægtskæden, der er vores, kommer frem til verdens lys. Det er så tilfældigt, hvem vi er, om vores far gik konkurs, om vores mormor fik skabt en formue, så det kunne altså sagtens have været dig, der skulle stå stille der i det bageste atelier i gården med kjolen krænget ned over skuldrene. Thorvaldsen ville nok have sat en assistent, en ung studerende til at forme leret efter dit ansigt, men du kan se Thorvaldsen selv gå frem og tilbage over gården derude med sine folk omkring sig. Han er lavere end mændene i din tid, men stærk, han bevæger armene, når han taler, og du læner dig til siden for at se nøjere på ham ud af vinduet. Den unge kunststuderende foran dig rømmer sig og siger frøken, måske eller frue, og uanset hvad du er, læner du dig tilbage og smiler til ham. Undskyld, siger du, det er bare, hvordan er det egentlig at arbejde for Thorvaldsen? spørger du, og han lægger den lerklump, han står med i hånden fra sig og begynder at fortælle, mens den italienske sol stryger ind gennem vinduet i mørkere og mere orange toner, som timerne går, og I ikke gør andet end at tale, indtil du beder ham følge dig hjem til dit hotelværelse, hvor han bliver de næste 53 år, altså ikke på hotelværelset, men hos dig, og efter I er gået, kommer Thorvaldsen ind og ser på dit ufuldendte portræt, men han har set dig tidligere på dagen og husker alle dine træk og med et par strøg gør han dig færdig.

46 UNKNOWN WOMAN 3

I could be you; that is if you had been a young woman strolling down Via Gregoriana a little more than two hundred years ago and had your long hair in plaits and done up on your head (maybe as an extension?), and naturally if you belonged to the type of people we today call the elite of society; but why wouldn’t you be? It is so arbitrary, when the generation in the chain of gen- erations that is ours sees the light of day, it is so arbitrary, who we are, whether our father went bankrupt, whether our grandmother managed to amass a fortune, so it could easily have been you who had to stand there quietly in the rearmost atelier in the courtyard with your dress pulled down over your shoulder. Thorvaldsen would probably have had an assistant, a young student, shape the clay after your face, but you can see Thorvaldsen walking back and forth in the courtyard outside, surrounded by his people. He is shorter than the men of your time, but strong, he moves his arms when he speaks, and you lean to the side to get a closer look at him through the window. The young art student in front of you clears his throat and says Miss, or maybe Mrs, and no matter what you are, you lean back and smile at him. Sorry, you say, it’s just, what’s it like to work for Thorvaldsen? you ask, and he puts down the lump of clay he is holding in his hand and starts to explain, while the Italian sun streams through the window in darker and oranger shades as the hours pass, and you the two of you do nothing but talk, until you ask him to follow you back to your hotel room, where he stays for the next fifty-three years, not in the hotel room, that is, but with you, and after you have left, Thorvaldsen comes in and looks at your incomplete portrait, but he has seen you earlier in the day and remembers all of your features, and with a couple of strokes he finishes you.

47 FORSLAG TIL FREDERIK VI

FREDERIK 1

Som De ved; der er intet skønnere end naturen, end det naturlige, som for eksempel Rousseau, De ved, beskriver i sin bog Èmile, som min mors elsker, ja andet kan vi vel ikke kalde ham, Struensee, med så stor ihærdighed havde læst og opdrog mig efter til at være en sand og naturlig konge. Fra jeg var to år, De ved, levede jeg med Karl, en dreng af pøbelen, De ved, det folk, jeg regerer over som konge, vi var alene, os to naturlige børn i iskolde rum, hvor kulden krøb ind i huden og frostknuder var, hvad vi havde at fornøje os med. Vores mad blev serveret kold, stillet øverst på trappen, så jeg, fordi, De ved, mine lemmer var svagelige, måtte kravle op ad trappen for at få maden; det var udmærket, for de to hunde, der skulle lære Karl og mig at omgå naturen, og som levede med os i de kolde rum, ville hjertens gerne spise maden, når den stod på gulvet, De ved. Og jeg husker endnu den nat, min far var redet på parforcejagt og bukken løb længere, hele tiden længere ind i skoven, og jeg var låst inde i mørket uden at have mad eller drikke, hvor jeg forestillede mig, at kulden der omgav mig var Norge, og at Norge langsomt erobrede mig, og jeg faldt ind i kulden, faldt og faldt, så den hvide is gennemtrængte mig, og jeg tror, De ved, at da de kom tilbage, troede de, jeg var død, og jeg blev båret ned i tjenestefolkenes stue, hvor ilden, der aldrig brændte i mit kammer, brændte, og fruentimmeret i slagbænken knappede sin røde grove uldkjole op, så jeg kunne ligge mellem hendes brændende hud og den varme uld, De ved, og der levede jeg en kort stund som en konge.

48 SUGGESTIONS FOR FREDERIK VI

FREDERIK 1

As you know; there is nothing more beautiful than nature, than what is natural, for example as Rousseau, you know, describes in his book, Èmile, which my mother’s; lover, yes we cannot call him anything else, Struensee, with such great tenacity read to me and later raised me to be a true and natural king. From the age of two, you know, I lived with Karl, a boy of the rabble, you know, the people I ruled over as king, we were alone, two natural boys in freezing rooms, where the cold crept under the skin and frostbite was all we had to amuse ourselves with. Our food was served cold, left at the top of the stairs, so I, because, you know, my limbs were frail, had to crawl up the stairs to get the food; it was fine, because the two dogs, which were there to teach Karl and I to avoid nature and which stayed with us in the cold rooms, were more than willing to eat the food when it was on the floor, you know. And I still remember the night my father had gone hunting and the buck ran further, constantly further into the woods, and I was locked inside in the dark without food or drink, where I imagined that the cold that surrounded me was Norway, and that Norway slowly conquered me, and I fell into the cold, fell and fell so that the white ice penetrated me, and I think, you know, that when they returned, they thought I was dead, and I was carried down to the servants’ room, where the fire, which never burned in my room, was blazing and the woman on the settle unbuttoned her crude red woollen dress so that I could lie between her burning skin and the warm wool, you know, and for a short while, I lived there like a king.

49 FREDERIK 2

Jeg er 14 år gammel, gammel nok, klog nok, jeg står med hånden på min fars skulder; det kunne have været en skulder at støtte sig til, men jeg støtter mig ikke til ham, jeg støtter ham; min far, den sindssyge konge løber frem og tilbage under aftentaflet mens han synger, eller han sidder bomstille med øjnene gloende frem for sig, som ser de ind i sig selv i stedet for ud. Og alligevel, magten er hans, hans underskrift er magten. Alt for længe har hans kabinet ført den underskrift, men jeg vil ikke længere se på det, for i modsætning til min far ser mine øjne skarpt og koldt, hvad der sker. Jeg holder papiret hen foran ham. Jeg behøver ikke at sige noget, han ser ikke, han ser ikke sin magt, han skriver sit navn ved siden af, hvor jeg har skrevet, at han overlader under- skriftens magt til mig. Min såkaldte halvonkel, en såkaldt mand, arveprinsen, opdager, at jeg har taget magten i mine hænder, ud af hans, og kaster sig over mig. Han får slået mig i gulvet, men han er svag, altid så svag, så svag at han må få sin tjener til at lave sine børn, og jeg overvinder ham og rejser mig, og jeg holder magten i mine hænder.

50 FREDERIK 2

I am fourteen years old, old enough, wise enough, I stand with my hand on my father’s shoulder; it could have been a shoulder to lean on, but I do not lean on him, he leans on me; my father, the mad king runs back and forth during the evening banquet, singing all the while, or he sits stock-still with his eyes staring ahead, as if they are looking inwards instead of outwards. And yet, the power is his, his signature is power. For far too long his cabinet has guided that signature, but I can no longer watch on, because in contrast to my father, my eyes see keenly and coolly what is happening. I hold the paper in front of him. I do not need to say anything, he does not see, he does not see his power, he signs his name next to where I have written that he entrusts the signatory power to me. My so-called half uncle, a so-called man, the heir presumptive, discovers that I have taken the power out of his hands and into mine, and rushes at me. He manages to knock me to the floor, but he is weak, always so weak, so weak that he has to have his servant provide him with children, and I defeat him and rise, holding the power in my hands.

51 FREDERIK 3

Der er sne i skovbunden, soldaterne løber bag mig, vi eksercerer, her er jeg den, jeg gerne vil være; i den kolde anstrengelse, kulden der smyger sig ind i de dybe lungestød, lyden af støvler mod skovbunden. En flok gråspurve hopper rundt mellem grene med røde bær, en hest galopperer foran os, disen mellem træerne er hvid, mine lunger prikker af smerte; jeg giver tegn til soldaterne, det er, som om de standser op, som om de ler, jeg rækker min hånd i vejret. Videre! hvisker jeg, det er som om hesten galopperer inde i mit øre, mine fødder stamper i takt til den på puddersneen, videre, kroppen skal adlyde som soldaterne skal adlyde, jeg hersker, jeg søger kulden, jeg løber, videre, indtil pludselig et sort mørke stiger fra lungerne op gennem den hvide luft og slår mig til jorden.

52 FREDERIK 3

There is snow on the forest floor, the soldiers are running behind me, we are doing drills, here I am the person I want to be; during the cold exertions, the cold that slips inside with deep lungfuls of air, the pounding of boots on the forest floor. A flock of sparrows hops around on branches with red berries, a horse galops in front of us, the mist among the trees is white, my lungs are tingling with pain; I signal to the soldiers, it is as if they stop short, as if they laugh, I hold my hand up in the air. Proceed! I whisper, it is as if the horse is galloping inside my ear, my feet stomp in time with the sound on the powdery snow, proceed, the body has to obey like the soldiers have to obey, I reign, I seek out the cold, I run, proceed, until suddenly a black darkness rises from my lungs up through the white air and knocks me to the ground.

53 FORSLAG TIL ADRIAN JOHN HOPE

ADRIAN 1

Min onkel Henry Philip lægger diamanten i min hånd; den er kold og tung og minder om et af de blå jernspurveæg, Charles og jeg plejer at liste ud fra hækken og puste ud og gemme til påske. Jeg slikker forsigtigt stenens glatte overflade og forsøger at puste, men diamantens indre er som dens ydre, tungt og hårdt som intet andet. Onkel fortæller, at diamanten blev stjålet fra et indisk tempel, hvor den sad i den blå gud Krishnas øjenbryn, og at guden forbandede alle, der ville eje den. Den inder, der stjal den, blev samme nat bidt af en co- braslange, og giften var kun en halv time om at dræbe ham. Onkel fortæller, at Marie Antoinette bar diamanten om sin hvidpudrede hals, når hun fik lov af kongen, der elskede stenen og sov med den om natten, og at de begge blev halshugget. Onkel håber, ler han, at den forbandede diamant, der nu bærer mit navn, har udtømt sin kraft. Jeg vifter med den, så lyset fanger dens blå spil. Onkel slukker lyset og fører en lysende stang hen over den, og så gløder diamanten i mørket som et rødt øje. Den er vist fuld af kraft! siger jeg nervøst. Onkel siger, at jeg kun er et barn, hvad ved et barn? Jeg beder om at blive kørt hjem, jeg har det dårligt. Piveskid, kalder onkel Henry Philip mig; tøsedreng; han siger, at jeg ikke er værdig til at bære hans navn.

54 SUGGESTIONS FOR ADRIAN JOHN HOPE

ADRIAN 1

My uncle Henry Phillip places the diamond in my hand; it is cold and resem- bles one of the blue dunnock eggs that Charles and I normally sneak out from the hedge and blow out and save for Easter. I carefully lick the stone’s smooth surface and try to blow, but the diamond’s inside is like its outside, heavy and hard like nothing else. Uncle explains that the diamond was stolen from an Indian temple, where it was lodged in eyebrow of the blue god Krishna, and that the god cursed everyone who wanted to own it. The Indian who stole it, was bitten by a cobra that same night, and the poison only took half an hour to kill him. Uncle explains that Marie Antoinette wore the diamond around her powdered white neck when she was allowed to by the king, who loved the stone and slept with it at night, and that they were both beheaded. Uncle hopes, he laughs, that the cursed diamond, which now bears my name, has exhausted its power. I wave it around so the light captures its blue sparkle. Uncle switches off the light and passes a glowing stick over it, and the diamond glows in the dark like a red eye. It’s full of power! I say nervously. Uncle says that I am only a child, what does a child know? I ask to be driven home, I don’t feel well. Cry-baby, Uncle Henry Phillip calls me; sissy; he says I’m not worthy of carrying his name.

55 ADRIAN 2

Lyden kommer ud under døren ind til Charles’ værelse. Det er en lyd som en fugl, der sidder i klemme i den lukkede dør, men der er ingen, der åbner døren og slipper fuglen fri. Over det langstrakte fugleskrig, som er Charles’ - jeg ved det er Charles, for han kunne sige sådan, når vi samlede æg i hækkene derhjemme i England - lyder min mors stemme, den er våd og rumlende, og når jeg ser på mine arme, stritter hårene på dem af den stemme. Jeg sidder i en stol i den kolde stue med marmorgulvet og skodderne lukkede for den romerske hvide sol, hvid som det marmor, min far elsker så højt, og som vi er her for at få med hjem, hvid Jason. Min far klager over, at Jason endnu ikke står i vores stue, og min mor, i går skreg hun til ham: Ville du ikke hellere have haft Charles i din stue som levende blødt drengekød, nu dør Charles, råbte hun, fordi du ville hente din statue. Min far sagde, at det vel ikke var marmorets skyld, men skæbnen, som vi intet kan stille op overfor. Han sagde: Jeg lover dig hver af dine levende drenge skal leve evigt i hvidt marmor. Men hun svarede kun ved den lyd, våd gråd, den lyd, der nu stiger derinde bag den lukkede dør, eller måske har nogen åbnet døren så fuglen slap fri, for lyden af min bror, det langstrakte fugleskrig, er hørt op.

56 ADRIAN 2

The sound emerges from underneath the door to Charles’ bedroom. It sounds like a bird is stuck in the closed door, but nobody opens the door to free the bird. Above the drawn-out shriek of the bird, which belongs to Charles – I know it belongs to Charles because he would make that sound when we gathered eggs in the hedges back home in England – the sound of my mother’s voice can be heard, it is moist and lumbering, and when I look at my arms, the hairs are standing on end from hearing that voice. I am sitting in a chair in the cold drawing room with the marble floor and the shutters blocking out the white Roman sun, white as the marble my father loves so much, and which we are here to bring home, white Jason. My father complains that Jason is not standing in our drawing room still, and my mother, yesterday she screamed at him: wouldn’t you rather have had Charles in your drawing room as the soft living flesh of a boy, now Charles is dying, she yelled, because you wanted to collect your statue. My father said that it certainly wasn’t the marble’s fault, but fate’s, which we can do nothing against. He said: I promise you that every one of your living boys will live eternally in white marble, but all she replied with was that sound, moist weeping, that sound, which now rises in there behind the closed door, or maybe someone has opened the door, so that the bird escaped, because the sound of my brother, the drawn-out shriek of the bird, has ceased.

57 ADRIAN 3

Jeg er her, et stenbarn, et hjertebarn, mine kinder fæstnet i den sære gennem- trængende sorg, der er faldet ned over mig. Der er ingen steder at vende sig hen. Jeg plejede hver morgen at vågne, når min bror Charles råbte Grib inden jeg åbnede øjnene, og kastede en bold hen i min seng. Eller der var en morgen, hvor han listede ned i køkkenet og hentede en fisk, der lige var blevet bragt af fiskehandleren og lagde den på min mave, før jeg vågnede. Hans latter over mit skrig kunne fylde en hel by. En by som Rom. Da vi ankom til Rom, og byen var af sten omkring os børn, sagde min mor: Stenen ejer evigheden, mens I, drenge, ejer øjeblikket. Men det var kun et øjeblik vi ejede sammen, Charles og jeg. Han har forladt mig og det er som om min mor forlod mig sammen med ham. I stedet sidder jeg stenstille for denne mand, Alberto kalder de ham. Hans hånd bliver ved med at glide over mine kinder, som om der er noget i dem, han vil trække ud, som om de er glatte som fiskeskind. Jeg ville så gerne rejse mig og lege, men jeg ved ikke helt længere, hvordan man gør, det var altid mig, der løb efter den legende Charles. Nu må jeg løfte både legen og øjeblikket og blikket, siger Alberto, og det forsøger jeg, at løfte den tyngde.

58 ADRIAN 3

I am here, a stone child, a darling, my cheeks fixed in that strange piercing sorrow that has descended on me. There is nowhere to turn. I used to wake up every morning to hear my brother yell Catch before I opened my eyes and throw a ball over to my bed. Or there was one morning where he tiptoed down to the kitchen and grabbed a fish that had just been delivered by the fishmonger, and placed it on my stomach before I woke up. His laughter above the sound of my scream could fill an entire city. A city like Rome. When we arrived in Rome, and the city was made of stone around us children, my mother said: the stone owns eternity, while you boys, you own the moment. But it was only one moment we owned together, Charles and I. He has left me and it is as if my mother left me along with him. Instead I sit stone-still for this man, Alberto they call him. His hand keeps passing over my cheeks, as if there is something inside them he wants to draw out, as if they are smooth as fish skin. I so wanted to get up and play, but I no longer quite know how to do it, I was always the one who ran after Charles to play, now I have to raise the game and the moment and the eyes, Alberto says, and I try to do that, to lift that weight.

59 FORSLAG TIL JANE CRAUFURD

JANE 1

Jeg ankom til hertuginden af Richmonds bal ved 22-tiden sammen med min kusine. Det var den 15 juni 1815, jeg var 17 år gammel og det var mit første store bal. Jeg havde fået syet en kjole i lys blå taft, bundet stramt i livet med en sløjfe bagpå, og et kjolestykke, der skubbede min herlige barm op og frem, hvilket fornøjede, kunne jeg se, de mange officerer fra Wellingtons hær, der var til stede. Ballet fandt sted i en lavloftet sal, der tidligere havde huset husets hestevogne, men hvor der nu var pyntet med det yndigste tapet af rosenespa- lierer, og hvor store krystallysekroner svajede fra loftet. Vi satte os på stolene langs væggen og stirrede stift frem for os, indtil valsen begyndte, som jeg havde aftalt hjemmefra, at jeg skulle danse med fætter Charles. Det er vidunderligt at valse, vi fløj rundt mellem de mange mennesker og mine kinder glødede. Så kom hertugen af Wellington, og da han gik forbi mig, så han direkte på mig med sine smukke, melankolske øjne. Så dansede de skotske soldater reel, vi andre klappede til, og en ung officer, der dansede lige foran mig blev ved at fange mit blik, og da de havde danset færdig, startede gallopaden. Den unge mand skyndte sig hen til mig og bukkede, og vi dansede den sammen. Hans handskehånd i min handskehånd, som var vi allerede forbundne for livet. Jeg var så lysende lykkelig, mit første bal og jeg vidste, at denne mand, som viste sig at hedde John Cameron, var min udkårne. Klokken et om morgenen var der middag; min mor gav tilladelse, lige så henrykt som jeg selv, til at jeg sad ved siden af John Cameron ved bordet. Hertugen af Wellington rejste sig brat fra bordet og gik ud, kom ind igen, gik ud igen, og så blev det bekendtgjort: Napoleon stod ved Forte Bras, der var ingen tid at spilde. Eller rettere; al tid blev spildt. John kyssede mig på kinden og panden med sin bløde mund og sagde: Jeg kommer tilbage og anholder om din hånd, og min mor sagde: Ja, gør det. Klokken tre om natten forlod min lykke ballet med Wellington og de andre officerer. Vi kørte hjem til min tantes logi og ventede. Vi fik det først at vide efter slaget ved Waterloo, men det var allerede ved Forte Bras, at min allerede elskede John mistede livet og tog min ungdoms glæde med sig.

60 SUGGESTIONS FOR JANE CRAUFURD

JANE 1

I arrived at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball around ten in the evening with my cousin. It was 15 June 1815, I was seventeen years old and it was my first big ball. I’d had a dress made in light blue taffeta, tied tightly around the waist with a bow on the back and a bodice that pushed my splendid bosom up and out, which I could see pleased the many officers from Wellington’s army who were present. The ball took place in a low-ceilinged hall, which had previously housed the house’s horse-drawn carriages, but which was now decorated with the most delightful wallpaper of rose espaliers and large crystal chandeliers swaying from the ceiling. We sat down on the chairs against the wall and stared stiffly ahead of us, until the waltz started, which I had agreed back home that I would dance with my cousin Charles. It is wonderful to waltz, we flew around all the many people and my cheeks were ablaze. Then the Duke of Wellington arrived, and when he walked past me, he looked directly at me with his beautiful melancholy eyes. Then the Scottish soldiers danced a reel, the rest of us clapped along, and a young officer, who was dancing right in front of me, kept catching my eye, and when they had finished dancing, the galop started. The young man hurried over to me and bowed, and we danced together. His gloved hand in my gloved hand, as if we were already joined for life. I was so incredibly happy, my first ball and I knew that this man, who it turned out was named John Cameron, was my chosen one. At one o’clock in the morning, dinner was served; my mother gave her permission, delighted as I was, for me to sit next to John Cameron at the table. The Duke of Wellington suddenly got up from the table and went out, came back in, went out again, and then it was announced; Napoleon was at Forte Bras, there was no time to waste. Or rather; all time was wasted. John kissed me on the cheek and on the forehead with his soft lips and said: I will be back to ask for your hand in marriage, and my mother said: Yes, do. At three in the morning my happiness left the ball along with Wellington and the other officers. We drove back to my aunt’s lodgings and waited. We first found out after the battle of Waterloo, but it was already at Forte Bras, that my already beloved John lost his life and took my joyful youth with him.

61 JANE 2

Min mor er desperat; jeg er 20 og endnu ikke gift. Det er ikke, at jeg ikke vil, men det er som om jeg trækker mig tilbage fra alle, jeg møder. Og der er sygdommen, vi ikke taler om, den lange vinter jeg lå med blødende underliv, og som lægen siger betyder, at jeg aldrig vil kunne få et barn. Det taler vi som sagt aldrig om, for det, mener min mor, vil skræmme de få mænd væk, der er villige til at gifte sig med mig trods min alder. Men jeg har, mener hun, en usædvanlig smuk ansigtsform. Sådan en ansigtsform, siger hun, som enhver mand vil gifte sig med. Så jeg sidder her stille som en mus, mens Thorvaldsen modellerer mig, og vi taler om Napoleon, der sidder i eksil på St. Helena og som jeg håber, vil dø der. Det sidste siger jeg åbenbart ukvindeligt heftigt, for Thorvaldsen ler og siger, jeg er en furie, men at han godt kan lide furier. Jeg derimod, kan lide mit portræt. Der er noget i det, hvor jeg genkender mig selv som den jeg er, når jeg er helt alene i mit værelse med kun et tællelys tændt. Min mor beder Thorvaldsen lave 12 kopier af mig, som hun kan sende rundt til huse med giftefærdige mænd, der vil sætte pris på min skønhed. Jeg forestiller mig, at hele verden er en balsal, og at jeg vil danse tolv danse, en som hver kopi af mig selv.

62 JANE 2

My mother is desperate; I am twenty and not yet married. It is not that I do not want to, but it is as if I pull away from everyone I meet. And there is the disease we do not speak of, the long winter I lay with a bleeding abdomen and which, according to the doctor, means I will never be able to have children. As mentioned we never speak of it, because my mother thinks that will scare off the few men who are willing to marry me despite my age. But I have, she believes, an uncommonly beautiful facial shape. A shape, she says, that any man will marry. So, I sit here quiet as a mouse, while Thorvaldsen moulds me, and we talk about Napoleon, who is in exile in Saint Helena, and whom I hope, will die there. The last part, apparently, I say vehement and unwomanly, and Thorvaldsen laughs and says that I am a Fury, but that he likes Furies. I, on the other hand, like my portrait. There is something about it, in which I recognise myself as the person I am when I am completely alone in my room with only the light of a tallow candle. My mother asks Thorvaldsen to make twelve copies of me, which she can send to the houses of any marriageable men who may appreciate my beauty. I imagine the whole world is a ballroom, and that I am dancing twelve dances, one for each copy of me.

63 JANE 3

Min første mand, som jeg giftede mig med i den høje alder af 25, var et venligt fjols, som fra da vi blev gift til han døde, kun vågede over, om jeg ville sætte ham en arving i verden. Han havde set min portrætbuste hos en ven, og red direkte derfra for at bede om min hånd, selv om alle advarede ham om, at fem år var gået, siden jeg havde så ferske træk. Han mente dog stadig, at jeg var værdig til at sætte hans børn i verden, og gjorde hvad han kunne, for at det skulle ske. Jeg morede mig med ham og fortalte ham aldrig, at hans anstrengel- ser var forgæves. Først efter hans død, der faldt sammen med min mors, lærte jeg kærligheden at kende. I kirken, af alle steder. Den nye pastor, min Henry, min elskede. Jeg var 40, og han 45. Han fyldte ethvert rum ud, stort som småt, verdsligt som kirkeligt, med sin enorme kraft. Jeg var endelig lykkelig i 22 år, og Henry forventede ingen arvinger fra mig. Hans smukke brede ansigt med det krøllede hår, som jeg fik foreviget hos den storskæggede og temmelig underlige Camille Silvy i albumenprint, en teknik der gengiver vores kære mere virkelige, end noget maleri kan, det er, som er det virkeligheden selv trænger ind i papiret. Det billede græd jeg så meget over efter Henrys død, at jeg måtte bede Silvy lave mig en kopi, som nu står på hylden over min seng ved siden af mit 20-årige marmorjeg.

64 JANE 3

My first husband, whom I married at the ripe old age of twenty-five, was a kind fool, who from the time we were married to the time he died, his only concern was whether I would provide him with an heir. He had seen my portrait bust at a friend’s, and rode straight from there to ask for my hand in marriage, even though everyone had warned him that five years had passed since I had such fresh features. Yet he still thought that I was worthy to bring his children into the world, and did all he could to make it happen. I had fun with him and never told him that his efforts were in vain. Only after his death, which coincided with my mother’s, did I find love. In the church, of all places. The new pastor, my Henry, my beloved. I was forty and he was forty-five. He filled every room, large and small, secular and religious, with his enormous strength. I was finally happy for twenty-two years, and Henry expected no heirs from me. His beautiful broad face and curly hair I had immortalised by the bushy-bearded and rather strange Camille Silvy in albumen print, a tech- nique that depicts our loved ones more realistically than any painting can, it is as if reality itself seeps into the paper. I cried so much over that picture after Henry’s death that I had to ask Silvy to make me a copy, which is now on the shelf above my bed next to my twenty-year-old marble self.

ISBN 978-87-7521-004-6

Redaktion/Editing: Line Brædder, Line Esbjørn Oversættelse/Translations: Paul Russell Garrett Breve oversat af/Letters translated by: Merete Pryds Helle Grafisk design/Design: Jonas Lau Markussen Tryk/Printing: Vester Kopi

Hæftet er udgivet i forbindelse med Booklet published to accompany the exhi- udstillingen: Ansigt til ansigt. Thorvaldsen og bition: Face to Face. Thorvaldsen and Portraiture, Portrættet, Thorvaldsens Museum, 8. marts Thorvaldsens Museum, 8 March–18 Octo- – 18. oktober 2020 samt forsknings- og ber 2020 and the research- and dissemina- formidlingsprojektet ”Powerful Presences – tion project ‘Powerful Presences’, 2017-2020. det skulpturelle portræt mellem nærvær og fravær, individ og masse”, 2017 – 2020. The letters from Lord Byron and the letter from Marianna Florenzi are based on Brevene fra Lord Byron og brevet fra excerpts from actual letters published in the Marianna Florenzi er baseret på breve fra following publications: følgende udgivelser: Murray, John, 1976. ’So late into the night’ Murray, John, 1976. ’So late into the night’: Byron’s Letters and Journals 1816-1817. Great Byron’s Letters and Journals 1816-1817. Great Britain: William Clowes & Sons, Limited Britain: William Clowes & Sons, Limited London, Beccles and Colchester London, Beccles and Colchester. Copenhaver, Brian PA. and Rebecca Copenhaver, Brian P.A. and Rebecca Copenhaver, 2012. From Kant to Croce: Copenhaver, 2012. From Kant to Croce: Modern Philosophy in Italy, 1800-1950. Toronto: Modern Philosophy in Italy, 1800-1950. Toronto: University of Toronto. University of Toronto. TAK FOR THANKS FOR BIDRAG OG GENERØS CONTRIBUTIONS AND STØTTE TIL: GENEROUS SUPPORT TO:

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