1864 just gets better and better by the episode, which makes blogging it harder and harder. There are an abundance of riches here, in all the three principal elements of the story, and the greatest difficulty is to find a way of describing what is being done without descending into endless gosh-wow.
Take episode 5, to begin with. It begins once more with Claudia reading Inge’s words, a reflective moment in her diary that once more refreshes us as to where things stand in what might be called the soap-opera strand. She loves both Laust and Peter, but is pregnant and disowned by her family. It’s Laust’s child and the concealment of their sexual relationship has caused Peter to become estranged from both, which has separated the brothers in the stage of the War.
Claudia, who has violently lost her nose-ring in her attempt last week to con money out of the perverts in the pub, is by now fascinated by this tale, but the Baron distracts her from it momentarily by displaying to her two sabres, and showing how easy it is to determine if they have been used. One is shiny, pristine, razor sharp: it belonged to his grandfather, the traumatised, cowardly Didrich. The other is stained with uncleaned blood, chipped and blunted where it has cut into bone and metal buttons: this belong to Dinesen, who survived the war completely unscathed, the man soldiers should stand next to.
Whilst we digest the information that Didrich is the Baron’s grandfather, and recall that last Saturday he called Inge his grandmother, and muse on that will mean, Claudia’s voice draws us back into the War. It’s like an abstract of what happens, a non-cohesive account of this phase, Peter’s group have stayed behind to disable the abandoned Dannevirk, and must now run north toward Dybbol with the Prussian Army at their heels, Laust is far ahead, under Didrich’s command.
Both undergo traumas in the swirling snows that make so much of the episode look as if it is filmed in black and white. Laust loses a cannon which runs into a lake. Didrich insists he and his squad retrieve it and not leave it, frozen solid, for the Prussians. Laust has to jump into the lake, which is pitifully stupid, and which gets him nothing but a fever that seems bound to kill him. Peter’s squad is forced to confront Prussian officers. Dinesen saves them from certain death, but Peter is forced to shoot a hussar, who collapses onto his bayonet: the man hangs there, staring into Peter’s eyes.
And around them, bits of the war take place, the reality of war, of death, dismemberment and destruction, not the increasingly blind fantasy being pursued by the fanatical Mrs Heiberg and the increasingly absurd Monrad. The disowned Inge heads south with the gypsies, including the mute Sophie, whom she discovers is also pregnant, by Didrich’s rape. Inge has no idea, but Sophie’s brother Djarko knows the truth: it’s a horrifying shock that he rants at Sophie, calling her a whore, for being raped. Nineteenth century morals: so wonderful.
But in a series that’s been so resolutely down-to-earth, whose depiction of the horror of war has been admirably practical, unafraid of the truth without wallowing in gore, there’s an odd moment midway through this episode in which things start to take a strange turn, that continues to lightly brush the remainder of the hour. Inge and Laust communicate telepathically in their non-sleep, Laust sees visions, Monrad curls up on his desk like a fearful child, and Larssen sees his squad through to safety by overcoming a German squad by what is probably hypnosis (or animal magnetism, as it would have been then).
This episode ended with the beginning of bombardment, the warfare of the trenches unleashed on Dybbol. For the Danes there will be no hope.
Moving on to the back half of the series, the ‘action’ stays in Dybbol: we do not even approach Copenhagen save by morse, when the Government refuses to allow the Army to retreat further, despite the inevitability of massacre – the bombardment has extended to the town of Sonderburg as well. The Army’s new General-in-Chief has been appointed because he is a weakling who will follow orders: knowing that everyone under his command will die, he refuses to countermand the stupidity.
Inge and Sofia arrive in Sonderburg and the former finds Didrich. But the coward lies to her, telling her that both Peter and Laust are dead. In the latter case, he’s all but correct. Didrich piously explains to the coma-overtaken Laust that he’d lied to spare Inge the sight of seeing her lover like this, but then gloats about ‘looking after’ a dishonoured whore.
There’s a timely interlude where, the German’s having introduced a military band to their trenches to improve their soldiers’ morale, and wind up the Dane’s, Peter’s squad is sent out under cover of darkness to slice sentries’ throats and gun the band down. Unfortunately, success goes to Alfred’s drunken head the next day, when the band is silent: climbing out of the trench, he celebrates, but gets both hands shot off by snipers.
He is rushed to the hospital, where Inge and Sofia have argued their way in as nurses. In an almost unbelievable moment, Inge and Paul literally brush shoulders, but they are turning in opposite directions, and neither sees the other.
This scene immediately prefixes the strangest moment so far: Larssen enters the closed off sector where Laust is waiting to die, straddles his chest, forms the fingers of his hand into a pyramid and plunges it into Laust’s chest, above his heart. Blood runs, Laust spasms, but Larssen withdraws a lump of ice which he first holds above Laust’s mouth, dripping meltwater from it, before dropping it in. He tells Laust that he’ll be well now, and as the pisode ends, a fully healthy Laust returns to duty.
It’s an astonishing moment, yet whilst seeming so completely inimical to what 1864 has been thus far, it does not seem wholly implausible, and I want to see where this element is going.
Because episode 6 has thrown in a twist that may yet be a derailment for the whole series. Instead of our usual start at the old Baron’s decrepit home, Claudia has gone to her home, to her mother, still pitifully mourning her dead son, Sebastien. The woman can barely function, but Claudia manages to direct her to her purpose. She believes there is a trace of Gypsy in their heritage, which her mother confirms comes from Claudia’s dad’s side. There’s an old album of photos, but these contain more than just photos, but also old letters. One that Claudia reads is about war: she is shocked that it mentions Laust. Moreover, it is signed Peter.
At the end, she takes these to the Baron. There is an old photo, of a couple, with children, a very old photo. The woman is Claudia’s Great-great-great-grandmother. We recognise her as Sofia. The Baron, being blind, asks Claudia to describe the man to him. He recognises every word but we don’t need them. Even through the full beard we’ve already recognised him as Peter. The Baron is almost crying as Claudia, still puzzled, ask what it means. It means we’re related, he says.
This I’m not sure about. More than the unbelievable, this is perhaps a moment too far to accept. But there are four more episodes to go, and I’ll await the end before I seek to judge.
It’s not the end though, not quite. The last word goes to a peace conference in London, presided over by Palmerston, who, gently but frankly, tells the Danes they are doomed to massacre. When the stiff-necked Lundby marches out, insisting that God will intervene since the Danes are in the right, the resigned Palmerston politely asks the German, Moltke, if the inevitable can be done gently. Moltke asks if he has ever heard of a gentle war.
The ungentle battle comes next week. And apparently I’ve got it wrong with my assumption of ten episodes: 1864 weighs in with only eight. It’ll all be done by this time next week.