The Willow King Read online

  “Trees, pointed leaves, sinewy trunks,” he said to himself.

  He started to recall that he had also seen a house through the branches and leaves. A dark, low building. He had been standing on a muddy road in the dim light, and he had started walking, holding his birdcage in his hand. Over yonder stood a king, with a high crown and a broad dark cape. And there were alders or willows growing in thick straight rows either side of the road.

  “There was something else there as well,” Laurentius said to himself.

  Then he remembered what had been bothering him. While he was still asleep he had desperately tried to commit everything to memory, but he had realized that it was a dream—and then he woke up.

  He grabbed a quill and ink from his chest and scribbled on a blank sheet of paper. A king, willow trees, a coffin-shaped building. He knew from past experience that without any reference points his dreams were quickly lost; even the memory of them would cease to be. A couple of words were enough at first—then one could leave associative memory to do its work, as Aristotle had written. It was quite possible that some seemingly unconnected event would later enable him to recover the whole dream, or at least some part of it.

  He folded the sheet of paper in two, stuffed it back into his case, and stood there irresolutely.

  Images were whirling round his mind, sensory impressions of the building, the trees and... that smell. Only now did he realize that the smell from yesterday had not gone anywhere, that it had even been part of his dream. It was as if it had seeped so deep into him that it had become a part of him, so that he sometimes even forgot about it. But then inevitably it would remind him of its presence, just like a feeling of guilt over things left undone, like despairing remorse for crimes committed unwittingly.

  He shook his head, knelt down beside his chest and read the first Psalm to himself:

  “And he shall be like a tree,

  planted by the rivers of water,

  that bringeth forth his fruit in his season;

  his leaf also shall not whither;

  and whatsoever he does shall prosper.”

  He tried to imagine the flowing waters and fruit trees, but it didn’t help to calm him one bit. Instead, wiry willow trees and dark, dirty waters reared up in his mind’s eye.

  “Now then,” he said, eventually managing to get to the end of the Psalm.

  He decided not to make too much of the trees. To start with he had to go to speak to the rector and put his name on the list for matriculation with the other students. It was important to make sure he received his stipend in its entirety: even with his godfather’s generosity he wouldn’t be able to get by without state support.

  He took a couple of brisk paces backwards and forwards and practised a few fencing moves, trying to shake off the memories of yesterday’s journey, the stinking barn, the ragged old man’s eyes and his dream. He bent down over his chest and inspected his neatly packed clothes. They were almost completely new, with not a single patch to be seen on them.

  To be on the safe side he put on his long boots; then he straightened his shirtsleeves and adjusted his lace neckerchief so that it would be visible above his jacket collar. It had turned a bit yellow on the journey, but that couldn’t be helped. Laurentius did not want the rector to think that he came from a poor family, but he certainly didn’t want to make a foppish impression either.

  Having finished with his garments, he checked that his sword was hanging at an appropriately gallant angle from his hip, and went through to the public room of the inn. His bedmate hadn’t moved once since Laurentius had woken, and he left him lying there.

  “I have some matters to take care of at the university,” Laurentius announced to the innkeeper.

  The innkeeper smiled and explained in a slightly patronizing tone that the university was actually not at all hard to find. It was not far from the inn, next to the church of St John, which one could spot from a distance by its metal-plated spire. So if Laurentius headed straight in the direction of the church tower he would be sure to end up at the academy.

  Laurentius followed the instructions precisely, and arriving at his destination he discovered that the academy building had been completed just recently and was indeed “in the latest fashion and rather fancy”, as the innkeeper had told him. Although there were other newly built houses in town, stone constructions were still in the minority, and in several places the overgrown plots bore witness to the fact that these parts had been ravaged by war just twenty years previously. But even if it had still not been fully rebuilt, the general impression which the town made was not a bad one. The streets had been paved, and judging by the way the houses had flower pots and glass windows, people lived fairly comfortably. The academy building was clean and light inside, and the wide, spacious vestibule was surprisingly cheery and welcoming. Laurentius had already started to feel much better.

  The university rector, Professor Below, received him almost immediately, and was friendly and obliging throughout their conversation. He even made a point of praising his fellow professors at Dorpat, stressing that they were in no way inferior to those in Uppsala.

  “Where do you plan to live?” Professor Below eventually enquired.

  “I haven’t managed to rent a room yet. I was hoping I could get some advice from the university. One can’t normally trust the landlords in these matters.”

  Below sighed. “I am sure that you are aware that the lectures started a few weeks ago, and that we are therefore entitled to withhold a proportionate sum from your stipend. As far as advice is concerned, I fear that you will have to share a room with someone. The lodgings situation is truly dire currently, although no doubt you will find something eventually.”

  “I’m sorry, but the journey proved harder than expected. The sea was so stormy that not a single boat dared to set sail any earlier. I’m sure you know what the weather can be like in September,” Laurentius replied.

  But he was not convinced that that would be a good enough excuse. It was indeed well known that the sea could be stormy by September, which meant that it would have been wise for him to set out in August, not October.

  Professor Below raised his eyebrows absent-mindedly and then immersed himself in the papers which Laurentius had submitted.

  “Well now, I see that you gained your first degree in Leiden! I studied in Holland myself, a splendid place. Very well, let’s leave your late arrival aside for now. Go to see Professor Dimberg; he is professor of mathematics and can assess your level of knowledge. Such are the formalities here. You probably don’t need to go through the initiation ceremony again. It’s a most unpleasant custom in any case.”

  Laurentius nodded a little distractedly. The university examination system had been established some time ago, when students who were little older than boys and others who experienced difficulties with their studies started coming to university. But it was probably not so much his knowledge as the possibility that he had been forced to leave Holland due to religious convictions which was the issue now. The situation in the Netherlands was known to be conducive to free thinking, and students who arrived from there sometimes had the strangest of beliefs, from atheism or pantheism to Anabaptism and Pietism. According to official Swedish policy, however, all religious sentiments other than orthodox Lutheranism were strictly proscribed. The king himself led by example in this respect, quoting the Bible in court, and holding a very firm position regarding other denominations.

  “I have indeed already been through the initiation ceremony,” Laurentius said politely, avoiding the question of his late arrival. “In that respect I would like to request that I not be assigned to any particular national group. I don’t suppose that I have any compatriots studying here anyway.”

  The rector looked straight at him in evident surprise. “How do you know? Anyway, it’s our custom to assign all students to national groups. I see no reason to make an exception in your case. That way you would get yourself lodgings as well.”


  “By the grace of God,” Laurentius bowed low. “I am a loyal subject of Our Esteemed Majesty, but my ultimate loyalty belongs to the ruler of the heavenly hosts.”

  “Hmm,” the rector mumbled sceptically, and Laurentius thought he saw a faint grin appear on his face. “First go and see Professor Dimberg all the same; he will definitely be interested in hearing about your religious convictions. And let’s see what can be done about those lodgings.”

  “I’m a committed adherent of orthodox Lutheranism: the Spenerists’ attitude to the Holy Scriptures and outward piety are theologically inadmissible to me. That whole approach is directly contrary to the presumption of salvation through faith alone,” Laurentius said, trying to dispel any doubts regarding his theological convictions.

  “Ah, is that so?” the rector said, this time with a clearly visible smile, which even seemed to convey a hint of Schadenfreude. “So that is your position on the matter. Most interesting.”

  Laurentius smiled and nodded. He didn’t know what people really thought about Swedish religious policy here in Dorpat, but he could be sure that they observed it at least formally. It was anyway safest for him to try to avoid any disagreements and conflicts, even if it were among the Pietists that one would be most likely to encounter the most modern and liberal views. Pietism was gaining more and more widespread popularity among the students, and was constantly giving rise to the kinds of disagreements which he had been dragged into in Holland. Such disputes tended to get increasingly heated, and before you knew it other, more serious problems reared their head. His careless talk had been the reason he had to cut short his studies in Leiden, and he hoped that no rumours about him had arrived in Dorpat yet, especially given that the current rector had also studied in Holland; although that could also be a good reason for him not to take all the gossip as truth. Back home his godfather Theodus’ friends had advised him to come to Dorpat to continue his studies. Even if nothing good was said of the general situation at the university, the Swedish state offered stipends to come and study there.

  Dorpat was known for the constant altercations between the students and the military, the tense relations with the local Germans and its expensive lodgings. But notwithstanding all the downsides, many Swedish poets believed that it was one of the best settings in which to write poetry, perhaps because of those very tensions. In any case, it was definitely a pretty peripheral part of the world.

  “If you would be so kind,” Laurentius said, prompting the professor with a nod.

  “Oh yes. If you manage to complete the examination tomorrow, then be sure to come to Thursday’s banquet as well. It is our custom to organize a large reception for the students at this time of the year, so all things considered you have arrived quite opportunely.”

  Laurentius thanked the rector for the invitation. The gently mocking tone he had adopted when talking about Laurentius’ late arrival had not bothered him, and considering the circumstances he had got off lightly. He smiled, put his hat back on, adjusted the sword hanging from his hip and left the university building. Outside, a light drizzle was falling, and Laurentius glanced up at the sky, hoping to see what the weather promised. The days were still quite long, but for some reason it already felt like it was the end of December, when one barely has time to notice the sunlight before it starts to fade. In any case, it was still raining, and gusts of wind were sending droplets of water trickling off the leaves of the trees which grew on the sloped road outside the academy building.

  In the morning it had looked like the downpour might soon abate, but now there seemed to be no hope of that at all. Laurentius shook his head worriedly.

  He didn’t have to report for the examination until tomorrow; now the most important thing was to find himself lodgings. Laurentius wasn’t inherently opposed to the idea of sharing a room with someone, and such an arrangement would make most sense financially. But people tended to share with their fellow countrymen, and it didn’t seem likely he would find anyone from his parts here. He could have joined some folk from Småland or Skåne, but he didn’t really want to tie himself to anyone on a purely geographical basis. Not that he had anything as such against the hyperborean notion of Gothic national unity; it just seemed rather trite to flatter oneself with a noble past like that. Scandinavia was a young region, and was still quite uncultured compared with the rest of Europe. No number of imaginary genealogies or proud histories inspired by mythology could change that.

  “The land of the seven north stars,” Laurentius mumbled to himself.

  The legend of the stars known as Ursa Major, and the fables about the conquests of Theoderic, leader of the Goths, in the Roman Empire had been dreamt up to tickle Nordic statesmen’s overweening sense of self-importance. They allowed self-promoting philosophers in the vein of Rudbeckius to come up with risible ideas, such as that Sweden was Atlantis and that Latin and Hebrew were derived from the Swedish language, for example. Even if there was the slightest chance that such things could be true, Laurentius didn’t feel at all tempted to go along with this kind of chauvinism. And sharing a room might lead to other unwelcome complications.

  The most sensible thing to do would be to rent a room on his own.

  Laurentius adjusted his hat and looked down the muddy street. He noticed a young man walking past who was wrapped tightly in his cape, and had the appearance of a student, and he decided to call out to him. Having heard that the majority of students and professors were Swedish-speaking, he chanced using Swedish. As Robert Burton had said in his writings on religious melancholy: when in Rome, do as the Romans do.

  “Greetings my good fellow. I’m newly arrived in town and would like to rent a room. I have just matriculated at the university. I don’t suppose you could advise me?”

  The passer-by looked straight at him and replied, in a heavy accent but with otherwise faultless Swedish: “Haven’t you heard that there are plans to move the university to Pärnu? There’s no point trying to get settled in here. Anyway, the rents are sky high, and after the lousy summer the price of foodstuffs has gone through the roof as well.”

  “Yes, I know. But it’s the same everywhere now. It’s not as if the situation is any easier elsewhere,” said Laurentius, switching smoothly to German and trying all the time to avoid his interlocutor’s gaze.

  “Ah, so you’re German. From which region?” the young man exclaimed, his tone growing more friendly.

  “I’m actually not German. I am but a loyal subject of His Majesty. Are they really going to start moving the university in the middle of the semester?” Laurentius asked.

  “Of course not. But a delegation has just arrived back from Pärnu, where the matter was discussed. It’s said that they agreed with Pro-Chancellor Fischer that the university will move as soon as the buildings are made ready. Maybe as early as the end of the summer break,” the young man explained eagerly. It seemed as if he had recently picked up some gossip on the subject, and was now trying to make the happy and exciting possibility more real by communicating it onwards to others.

  “In that case there is sense in me renting a room at least until then,” Laurentius said.

  The student shook his head, seeming somewhat disappointed. “Well, yes, I suppose that there is.”

  TUESDAY NOON

  BY THE TIME LAURENTIUS arrived back at the inn there was a crowd of people bustling about outside it, and he could hear someone cursing loudly in Estonian. He had already learnt to distinguish when the locals were swearing—the otherwise smooth-flowing speech became harsh and disjointed, and the syllables rattled and rasped.

  “Kurat!” someone yelled out.

  A couple of men appeared and hoisted what looked like a corpse wrapped in a sheet onto a cart. They started rolling the cart through the puddles towards the centre of town, jostling and shoving their way through the crowd. The limp body was swaying about on the base of the cart and Laurentius could see skinny, bare legs and spindly, veiny forearms poking out from under the damp, tattered sheet. He
instinctively made the sign of the cross, turned away, and pushed his way past the curious onlookers towards the door of the inn. The wind was carrying a vile smell from somewhere, straight into his nostrils.

  Once Laurentius had got inside, the innkeeper greeted him with a cursory nod of the head before turning back to the window to carry on gawping at what was happening outside.

  “That won’t be the end of it,” he declared, squinting through the narrow window.

  “What happened?” Laurentius asked.

  “I don’t know exactly. There’s some sort of trouble every day now.” The innkeeper started recounting what he knew, obviously relishing the opportunity. “It looked like some ragamuffin was rushing about like a mad man, biting people. Some people reckoned that it must have been from hunger, others thought he had just gone funny in the head. In the end there was nothing for it but to have the tanner’s lad give him a whack with his pole. Not too hard, mind you, but it still must have been a right good wallop. He’s a pretty strong one, that lad, although he’s not too bright. But in any case, looks like he knocked him stone dead—the old man’s head is all covered in blood, and he’s not moving a muscle.”

  Laurentius stood and listened to what the innkeeper was telling him, becoming more and more worried by the moment. “So what do they plan to do now?”

  “They will probably take the lad to the guardhouse, and he may have to go before court. People saw what happened: it was clear that he didn’t do it on purpose. But killing someone is no laughing matter; they’ll probably give him a right going over.”

  Laurentius shook his head. “It looks like I will be moving out from here—would you be able to send my chest on?”

  “Where to?” the innkeeper asked obligingly.

  “There was a room free at Fendrius’ place; a student suggested I try there. It seems quite decent.”

  Johannes, the student Laurentius met, had directed him to the last stone house on Cloister Street, where there was a spare room on the second floor. It turned out to be pretty expensive but it seemed he had no other option. Johannes had told him that the previous lodger moved out just a couple of days ago after some scandal, and had also advised him that decent places were not easy to come by. Some soldier or another student might snap it up straight away. In general, the locals preferred to take students in as lodgers, and would sometimes even offer them cheaper rent. The soldiers were always causing trouble, although the students were of course no angels either. In any case, Laurentius needed to act quickly.