A Fortunate Man (1905)

Chapter Seven

Amongst those men who each day at around two o'clock would come strolling through the arch of broad crowned trees lining the approach to the Børs, there were not many whom the door flunkey, all tassels and epaulettes, greeted with greater veneration than a tall, stout man who radiated a particularly ruddy glow from beneath his dark locks. A man, moreover, whose double chin was shaved as tight as a white drum over which sat a pair of extraordinarily thick and blood red lips, all framed by the customary side whiskers befitting a powerful merchant. Hats were also lifted and heads bared inside the brown entrance hall1 with its imposing columns as this man came by. His arrival aroused most attention amongst the corn agents in the window recesses facing the canal, and amongst the skippers seeking a cargo, who sat in quiet expectation along the bench to the left of the entrance door. This commanding personage was none other than the merchant Philip Salomon, the head of the trading concern Isaac Salomon & Søn, and one of the city’s richest men. Rumour had it that Salomon presided over a fortune that ran into many many millions.

His visits to the Børs rarely lasted very long. As a rule, his business was already done and dusted, and he had returned to his own office, by the time the usher was executing his daily duty in ringing the [larmende?] bell to proclaim that share notations and trading had commenced. He was not one to regard the Børs as some kind of exclusive club, where gentlemen were wont to gather after lunch in order to discuss the latest gossip in the town and pass judgement on the latest theatrical events. He rarely graced the theatre with his presence and attended society events only when they could not be avoided. Salomon’s life was divided equally between the world of commerce and his family; whereby he gave the former his cool and clear business head and the latter his solicitous and easily moved heart. And, as was often said about him – with an allusion to the fact that his office and his house were in the same street – he knew his way home.

Philip Salomon was the only child of Isaac Salomon, a man who was subject to much public comment in his day and in whose name the company had been founded. Isaac Salomon was a remarkable man in many ways, a genius where business matters were concerned, who, from being a lowly Sjakrer, an itinerant peddler of various wares, had dragged himself up to a preeminent position in Danish commercial life. So much so that a new title was bestowed upon him in ordinary street parlance – “Salomon the Golden Fleece”2. In his day, Salomon the elder would often have a score of fully loaded ships at sea at any one time; he had been a factory owner and had run plantations in the West Indies. Moreover, with his innate business acumen, Isaac Salomon had opened up several new overseas trading markets for Danish business. He had also, during the anti Jewish pogroms of 1819, been one of those who had suffered most at the hands of the Copenhagen mob.

It was the very same Isaac Salomon who had bought the “Palace”3 and had furnished it with such overflowing munificence. Just as he was unperturbed by the outrage of the prim and proper classes and the attempts of the envious to hold him up to ridicule, Isaac Salomon had never shrunk back from cocking a snook at even the highest echelons of the aristocracy itself. He saw fit to travel through town in a full blown coach and four and had been known, on certain festive occasions, to have two flunkeys stationed at the back of the carriage. He took on the role of a patron for the advancement of the sciences, established trust funds and declared his home an open house for artists. All this he did, despite being a feeble, humpbacked little man, who, there is no doubt, had by dint of frenetic self learning gradually acquired a leavening of knowledge but absolutely no cultivation. A man, moreover, of whom it was said, on good authority, that he had purchased his wife for the sum of a hundred rix-dollars from an impoverished Jewish widow in Jutland with whom he had lodged during his wandering about the country.

The collection of oriental weapons in the lobby of the Salomon “Palace” was a legacy from the old man’s days, as was the hotchpotch of costly gimcrack articles which still festooned this grand house to overflowing. Indeed, the whole ensemble of artefacts, which lurched between pure ostentation and jumbled confusion, was nothing less than a museum that recorded the arrival of objects brought home in Isaac Salomon’s ships from the far flung corners of the world and which the son – more from filial loyalty rather than a question of taste or personal preference – had allowed to remain, more or less unmolested, ever since.

In general, a talent for business and hard work were the only things that Philip Salomon had inherited from his father. However, there was perhaps a direct connection between the old man’s years of wandering and the unfettered joy Salomon the younger felt during his sojourns in the great outdoors. In the summer months, he would remain in his country retreat far longer than most other captains of commerce and for the rest of the year had the habit of driving out on excursions on any Sunday that gave even the slightest hint of tolerable weather. The whole family would be in tow and on the road almost from the cock’s first crow. Philip Salomon himself would drive the carriage with his wife alongside him, whilst a swarm of their own children and assorted friends packed the rear of the Charabanc. It was only when they were and well and truly in the countryside that they would pull up at an inn, or clearing in a forest. Fru Salomon and the smallest children would then guard the picnic basket whilst Salomon and a clump of children deemed old enough took off on an expedition into the interior of the region. With his large, broad brimmed hat shoved to the back of his neck and his overcoat draped over his arm, this much feared king of the Børs jungle would saunter cheerfully off as a pack of snub nosed youngsters danced, shrieked and scrapped all around his feet with the ferocity that infuses city children, and especially Jewish children, when they are let loose in the countryside. And, of course, no hill could be approached without an assault party being organised; no farmer could be encountered without Salomon having to engage him in conversation; no shepherd boy would be left in their wake without being the richer by at least a Mark. But, above all, Salomon was an eager flower picker and never was he as glad as when, on his return his country expeditions, he was able to present to his wife a huge bouquet of wild flowers, for which she would give thanks by smiling and offering her left hand for him to kiss. Fru Salomon was none other than the legendary Lea Delft – or Fru Lea Moritz as she for a short period was called – whose dusky eastern beauty had, at the start of the eighteen fifties, provoked a stream of fashionable gentleman to make their way to a small bespoke clothing and tailor’s shop in Silkegade - a good number of these gentleman subsequently being driven to amorous distraction, whilst visiting the shop. In fact, Onkel Heinrich – Lea’s brother – had always insisted that she had been the real reason why the new lunatic asylum had been built. The shop belonged to her parents, who had emigrated from Germany, where she too had lived in the earliest years of her life. She was already married by the age of eighteen – the result of a burning passion for her cousin Marcus Moritz, a poor, consumptive German savant who was to become father to her eldest children, Ivan and Jakobe. The latter of these was not even born when he passed away and Lea then moved back in with her parents. Their state of penury notwithstanding, Lea’s parents (who were also cousins) belonged to one of Germany’s most distinguished Jewish famies, a circumstance which made them both very proud. When, after several years as a widow, Lea got engaged to Philip Salomon it was almost regarded as a deliberate step downwards. In the eyes of the bride’s family, the groom’s millions were scant compensation for the fact that his father had run like a camel from country to country with his wares on his own back. For the young widow, on the other hand, Salomon’s financial status, and her concerns regarding the insecure future facing her children, had settled the argument. As she had said to herself: She had once allowed her heart to completely rule her head; now it was time for her head to overrule her heart. That said, there was no suggestion that she was engaged in a deceit. Her heart was bountiful enough to give common sense its rightful due without becoming scourged because of it. Any sense of sacrifice was eased by its overwhelming abundance. At any rate, she had subsequently bestowed generous recompense upon Philip Salomon for any possible absence of love that he had endured from his wife on their wedding day. For twenty years now, they had lived together in a happy marriage. There was no doubt that Fru Lea – about whom one of her worshipful admirers had once said that she possessed the most beautiful face in Copenhagen, the most delightful figure in Denmark and the loveliest hands in the whole world – had become somewhat matronly as the years had progressed but she still, both outwardly and in her inner essence, retained the exotic stamp of “race”, which the discerning eye would immediately recognise. In the shape of her head with its hooked nose and triple chin – and not at least the way in which she held it aloft – there was a regal air that brought sculpted busts of ancient empresses to mind. Her heavy, black hair, which hung from a parting in two plaited ringlets flowing down over her ears, bore only individual strands of silver; whilst the rich, creamy complexion of her skin was sooth and unblemished; her teeth were in good order and health and her jet brown eyes boasted a lustrous sheen. For his part, Philip Salomon was still so besotted with his wife that he would sometimes forget himself, even in the sitting room, and continue pressing his big orang-utan lips against her hand or cheek, so that in the end she would be obliged to fix him with a hard stare to remind him that the children were present. Indeed, Fru Salomon felt only one lingering cause for regret - a regret that seemed to deepen as the years went by. For the great swirl of life as it was played out in foreign parts had left such an impression upon her during her frequent visits to relatives, and in her first marriage, that she could never really feel at home in Copenhagen. And, though she was careful not to betray these feelings to anyone other than her husband, her heart still pined for the country she regarded as her real homeland. One of her greatest delights in life were the month-long family visits she would make to Germany each year. Moreover, it was still the case that when she wished to express herself with the utmost precision, she would have to resort to a word from her mother tongue. It had also been Lea who had insisted that her two eldest children – Ivan and Jakobe – would for the most part be educated abroad. She was not – as she used to say in her, especially at that time, rather faltering language – going to have her children turned into “garden dwarfs” in the provincial town which Copenhagen represented for her. On top of this, there was, where Jakobe was concerned, another motivation. She had always been a difficult child; so susceptible to the impressions life made upon her; so sensitive, above all, to any insult that referred to her Jewish identity. Thus, a mixture of Jakobe’s delicate sensibilities aligned with her physical frailty meant that her childhood had been one long tale of suffering. She would often return home pale as a ghost if a boy had so much as shouted “grease features!” at her in the street. Jakobe became sick with distress and vexation, any time one of her small blue eyed Kammerater humiliated her – as happened time after time - by rejecting her many attempts at securing a confidante as all young girls aspire to do. Despite all her previous bitter defeats, her passionate desire for understanding and a reciprocated affection led her to continually go back and simply suffer further derision. She had inherited her mother’s exaggerated emotional propensities but not her happy go lucky nature; nor her sound mental equilibrium; nor for that matter proud and patronising smile, which she presented as a riposte both to the blatant prejudice of society’s sophisticates and the rough tongues of the rabble. Nor had she inherited Fru Salomon’s conventional beauty. The natural bloom that lights up the early teenage years had more or less passed her by. She was thin and gaunt, had large unappealing facial features and could not even boast of that willowy grace which compensates most youths for other defects during their early years of flirting and courtship. She became even less appealing in the view of her peers by eagerly seeking redress for the humiliations visited upon her by her friends by outshining them in those areas where she was able to assert her superiority. Given that she had a clever head on her shoulders and was a fanatically diligent pupil, she was always able to negotiate her way through examinations with a brilliance that was unparalleled for a girl of her age. Moreover, she often had the habit, in the depths of her girlish anguish, of seeking other ways of inflicting pangs of jealousy on others by recourse to her substantial funds of pocket money. She might, for example, turn up to school with a bag of the finest confectionary, upon which she would become the centre of a short lived and dearly bought form of attraction. Gradually, the tension between Jakobe on the one hand, and her classmates and teachers on the other, became so fraught that the headmistress personally recommended that her parents remove her from the school; after which, her education was completed at a finishing school in Switzerland. However, Jakobe’s time at a foreign boarding school, coinciding as it did with her brother Ivan’s placement at a German business academy, aroused no little indignation amongst people whose patriotic sentiments – so soon after the disastrous war – were still very much to the fore. For this reason, the Salomons declined to repeat the exercise with any of the other children. Nanny came next in the row of siblings and in her nature this child was like a warm summer’s days to Jakobes dark night. A sheer delight from the cradle onwards, she radiated health and physical robustness and had grown up under a state of general worship, stroked and petted as she was like a cuddly kitten and with no apparent damage done to her apart from a perhaps rather exaggerated charm and an inclination to melodrama. Her father called her his “little miss normal”, because she had always seemed to be in a state of balance, had never been known to be sick; even toothache was an unknown thing to her. For all the truth in the above, Nanny was also the “whirlwind” in the Salomon household – constantly either just coming in, or getting ready to leave, and thus usually to be seen bustling around in her hat and coat. Her voice could be heard all over the house and at least ten times a day would signal her most recent arrival home. And should the sound of laughter and shrieks emanate from up in one of the girls’ bedrooms, accompanied by the thud of heavy steps across the floor; then one could be sure that Nanny had taken a bath and was now, in a flowing white robe and her hair flung back, in the midst of dancing a tarantella for her sisters. There was, however, one more volatile character in the Salomon household; or at least he appeared there everyday, and this was Fru Salomon’s brother Onkel Heinrich. This small, wizened man, whose physical appearance was so markedly different from his sister’s, was also in other regards living testimony to the uneven way in which family characteristics are handed down within Jewish families. Hr. Delft was a bachelor and dubbed himself “Hr. Director”. An “accident” had befallen him in his youth, involving a sum of money with which he had been entrusted. The aftermath of this saw him spending many years in America and also (according to his own account of things) periods in India and China as an agent, or traveling rep., for English companies. He had now returned home with a small amount of capital in his pocket, with which, even at his advanced age, he was still able to enjoy life’s material indulgences without ever tiring of their being repeated day after day. Where his travels and experiences were concerned, and likewise with regards to his financial position, he maintained a reserve that was meant to suggest the existence of untold abundance. Even with his nearest relatives, he gave the impression that he was concealing a fairy tale treasure trove; just as he continued to insist that he was still a co-director of an Anglo Chinese steamship company. All that notwithstanding, Onkel Heinrich lived in an extremely modest three room apartment, and approached any potential expense, that was not directly connected to his bodily welfare, with extreme caution. However, he made no little effort where his physical appearance was concerned; adopted all the new fashions sported by the young Herrer in the the town; suffered the daily attentions of a friseur who would curl and perfume what was left of his dark hair and on festive occasions saw it as his sartorial duty to wear an ostentatious pin brooch, which would, he often averred, have “some queen of the ball swooning in his presence”. Should a sense of devilment descend up on his nieces, they would resort to teasing their Onkel Heinrich by saying that it was nothing more than an imitation and he had once left the house in a violent rage, without returning for a whole week, because his sister and brother in law had stopped so low as to question the authencity of its stone. Nor was Onkel Heinrich, it has to be said, an easygoing or pleasant person to have in one’s company; albeit that there was a sense of half conscious tomfoolery in his permanent air of indignation. In his self adopted role of guard dog in his sister’s home; the utter relish he displayed whenever an opportunity arose to chase after people who, for one reason or another, had inflamed his ire, especially when this concerned anyone who might be suspected of sniffing around his nieces’ respective dowries – all this signalled his fixation with the idea that his true mission in life was to give counsel and protection to the young ladies of the house. If there was an ounce of real gravity in the man, it was contained in this personal crusade. Dark and private thoughts of his own were the catalyst for his desire to protect these much sought after Fraulein. For, hidden behind his boastful deportment, lay an acknowledgement of the shame he had brought down upon the proud name of his family and it was as penance for this that he now wished to play a providential role in the lives of his sister’s daughters; so that the choices they made were not done on a whim but rather represented a good and, more importantly, a distinguished liaison for the family. The Salomons had not, for many years, maintained any kind of large social circle. Copenhagen’s orthodox Jewish community tended to avoid them because of their “irreligion”; something which Fru Lea in particular quite happily acknowledged. Indeed, the family as a whole had never felt any impulsion to throw itself into the town’s social scene and had, therefore, been content to hold Open House twice a month, and otherwise let it be known that all friends and acquaintances were welcome to drop by unannounced and at any time without fear of causing offence. However, a change in this house policy occurred when Ivan returned from Germany and Nanny achieved adulthood. Though Ivan never completely managed to realise his dream of reinventing the Salomon home in the style of a Renaissance Prince’s court, a number of the younger members of the intellectual Avant-garde, with authors and artists in their ranks, were now regularly received in the family circle. During this period, Jakobe mostly lived abroad. She had found a new home in her old boarding school in Switzerland, amongst whose high peaks she sought a remedy for her delicate, and with each passing year, more sensitive physiognomy. She would spend the summer months at home, during which time her parents had decamped to the countryside, but she would soon feel the urge to escape again whenever the cold, damp air began once more to take hold and the first visitors in the winter social circuit began to appear. But one day – when she was nineteen years of age – and barely a month after she had taken off on her winter flight south, her parents received a rather confused letter from her, in which, mixed up with various other things, she issued a throwaway remark that she might give up her alpine retreat in favour of permanently settling down at home in Denmark . A few days later, a new letter arrived that confirmed her imminent return. Almost simultaneously, a telegram arrived to the effect that she was already on the way home and was to arrive the following day. Typical as this hasty enactment of a decision was for Jakobe, her parents were still left in a state of unease by it all. They sensed that something serious had happened to her and Fru Lea confided to her husband that affairs of the heart were very possibly involved. During the summer, Jakobe had spoken very animatedly about a young lawyer from southern Germany who was also a well known politician. He was the nephew of the owner of the boarding school and had visited his aunt on a number of occasions. Fru Lea knew only too well her daughter’s susceptible bloodline, which had already led to some bitter disappointments. When Jakobe came home, it was clear to see that her heart had been broken, but as she did not offer any explanation as to the reasons for her return, other than that she had on this occasion felt lonely amongst all the new boarders and became homesick, nobody attempted to pressure her into any kind of admission – least of all her mother, who had always insisted that as far as she was concerned the secrets of the heart had to be respected. As an example of this policy, she had never explained to her husband exactly why she would not allow him to kiss her right hand. She had merely given him to understand that this was to do with a promise she had given the love of her youth in a moment that had become sacred for both of them. Jakobe had now been at home for four years. She had reached the age of twenty three and was still not engaged to be married. Not that this, in any way, meant that she had wanted for suitors in the intervening period. Indeed, some of these had been of a most flattering nature. For in spite of her physical frailty, she had grown into a state that bordered on beauty In particular, the more mature gentleman felt themselves drawn to her pale and singular demeanour. In fact, some amongst them actually preferred these attributes, to her sister Nanny’s radiant but rather more conventional beauty. Set within her face, with its powerful, hooked nose and its absence of chin – a face her admirers described as an eagle countenance and her detractors as nothing more than parrot features – were a pair of large, sombre eyes, where the whites struck a strong blueish tone that at times could almost appear black. There was no question that her nose was too big, her mouth too thin lipped and wide, but these eyes of her boasted an unforgettable gaze; proud and shy at one and the same time; burning with loneliness and wide ranging thoughts. Her figure was longer and taller than that of her brothers and sisters; a stature that was accentuated by her long, slim legs and her curious way of walking with quick steps that never made a noise. Those rare mortals who had seen her smile, spoke of her beautiful teeth. Then, in general, there was over her desiccated and nervous figure this peculiar, spectral grace, which suffering and loss can impart upon the female form. However, it was primarily her inner strengths that people thought of whenever Jakobe was discussed. She was widely famed for her intellectual capabilities, her willpower and encyclopaedic knowledge. In her solitude, she found comfort in books, studied ancient and modern languages, history and literature, and ceaselessly sought out new fields of knowledge that might satisfy her impatient yearning for new vistas of learning. Fru Salomon had always said about her that she was the very spit of her father. It must though be said, that the majority of the young, or at least youngish, men who were the most frequent guests in the Salomon household at the time when Per made his first appearance, were there because of Nanny. It was not just the fact that the vast majority of them simply viewed her as being far more attractive; there was the also the consideration that as Philip Salomon’s own physical offspring, Nanny would be much the greater beneficiary in terms of family inheritance; this despite the fact that Salomon had moved to declare his legal parentage of both Jakobe and Ivan whilst they were still very young children. Another consideration was that Jakobe did not exactly encourage the rituals of courtship. She was seldom to be seen about the house and her reticence often came across to strangers as cold hostility. At the modest gentlemen's dinner, which Per attended as a first time family guest, he met – apart from some more seasoned Herrer from the world of business – the writer Povl Berger, a lieutenant Hansen-Iversen who was in the Hussars, a university gradate called Balling and a Journalist by the name of Dyhring. He had only ever met the first of these before but the truth was that he had barely recognised him. Povl Berger, the fanatical, barricade revolutionary and worshipper of Doctor Nathan had, since he had last seen him, lost his Mephistophelian goatee and had allowed his sideburns to spread across his whole face. In fact, his facial demeanour was completely different. Now, Berger was for all the world like one of the currently fashionable pictures of the suffering Christ figure, which was precisely the visage he strove to achieve – as one of the other gentlemen, in all confidence, subsequently whispered to Per. Berger had in recent days, his informant revealed, amazed his friends by distributing certain sanctimonious verses with which he both prostrated himself before Nanny’s munificence and looked forward to his own immortality on Denmark’s Parnassus. The person relating all this information was the university gradate Balling, who also considered himself to be a writer but as a literary historian. Balling was a well over six foot drainpipe of a man with a mane of hair above his dangling limbs and a face that was about as expressive as a frying pan. Subsequently, the poet and author who had now converted to piety drew Per into a corner and confided to him that Balling was nothing more than an idiot who had fallen under Doctor Nathan’s spell and now wanted to become a genius and trailblazer. However the only thing he had achieved thus far, Berger continued, was to study his way to chronic gastritis. Now, there was no doubt that Balling was immensely well read; had indeed consumed whole libraries of books and was so full of quotes that some witticism would escape from his lips on the flimsiest of pretexts. He was, in short, that kind of bookworm who clamps himself on to the literary canon as fiercely as a leech and proceeds to gorge on its very lifeblood but for all that is forever doomed to be lacking in substance. The year previously, Balling had succeeded in getting a book on classical tragedy published and, given that it had received some favourable comments in the press, Ivan had immediately moved to secure his attendance at the gathering of intellects in his home. Per, who beforehand had been slightly uneasy at how he would compare against his rival suitors, was utterly reassured once he actually caught sight of them. Even the presence of the lieutenant in the Hussars did nothing to shake his confidence; though he granted that this man was turned out superbly and boasted a pair of bold blue eyes framed by light, rakish sideburns in a face that had been kissed by the spring sunshine. Where the journalist Dyhring was concerned, Per was not even sure that he could in any way be regarded as a potential rival. His slapdash deportment amongst the ladies of the house suggested the opposite. For reasons that Per could not fathom, Ivan had been extremely keen to bring them both together. As soon as Dyhring arrived, they were introduced to each other and, once the meal was over, Ivan was at pains once more to initiate a conversation between them, where Per could explain the great project he had in mind. But Per was in no mood for common sense conversation. His thoughts were far too occupied with Nanny’s presence for that. Her low cut dress of raw silk and the red roses in her black hair were both tempting and lovely to behold. Per had been given the honour to lead her to the table and this privilege, the pleasantries at table and the, for him, unexpected delights of the cuisine set before him emboldened his spirits to the point that he became completely overwrought. Indeed, in the post prandial smoking room, where the gentlemen were served coffee and liqueurs, Per teetered on the brink of causing genuine scandal as Onkel Heinrich, full of Schadenfreude and displaying a sly, diabolical mien, continued to fill his glass to overflowing. He gave a country slap to Philip Salomon on his shoulder, praised his wine cellar and gave a veritable speech in praise of the house’s Damer. Some of the veteran visitors to Salomon soirees gradually gathered around Per and proceeded to engage in some playful baiting of this young man who was so obviously in polite company for the first time in his life. At the same time, Fru Salomon and Jakobe were in the sitting room entertaining a middle aged, fair-haired gentlemen who did not partake of tobacco. This was a certain Hr. Eybert, who was one of the town’s more significant factory owners and, moreover, a well known politician of the liberal – or so called “European” – persuasion. In other words, a well educated man, lacking in prejudice and commanding widespread respect. Within the inner sanctum of the Salomon family’s social circuit, Eybert was quietly mentioned as Jakobe’s future husband. Being in his mid forties, he had gone beyond his best years, and was also a widower with two children. His love for Jakobe was an established fact. He made no attempt to hide this, either from her parents, or from Jacobe herself. For their part, both of them looked favourably on idea of a match; Hr. Eybert was a proven friend of the family and on top of that was a very affluent man who could never, therefore, be suspected of entering into a gold digger marriage. For lots of reasons, they wanted to see Jakobe married; and in this regard they were subject to the constant urgings of the family doctor, a Jewish Professor who quite forcefully declared that “the child was simply not made for living life as a bloody nun”. With the sort of suspicion that perpetually rests in the bosom of an older suitor the moment a new, and young, male face suddenly appeared in the Sallomon household, Hr. Eybert immediately steered the conversation round to Per and asked who this young man was whose voice levels had steadily increased in volume as the meal had progressed. “That is a Hr. Sidenius …one of Ivan’s friends,” said Fru Salomon in a tone that she ensured carried something of an apology on behalf of the hosts. “Yes, indeed. I have him – a Sidenius! Is he not supposed to be a bit – you know –?” As he spoke, Hr. Eybert made circular movements with his index finger at his temple . “Ah, I don’t think so”, Fru Salomon replied with a slight laugh. “But there’s no doubt that he is somewhat temperamental.” “Well if that’s the case, we can put it down to a family trait.” Whilst thus far seemingly being unengaged with the conversation, Jakobe raised her eyes from a book that she had been leafing through. “But he is the son of a priest,” she said. “Yes, indeed,” the manufacturer remarked. “The family seems to have produced a a veritable rash of clerics.” “And it is presumably for that very reason that the seed throws up a deviant strain from time to time. I mind that one of my uncles, a large estate owner in Jutland, once told me of a Vendsyssel priest – obviously now long dead – who went by the name of “Mad Sidenius”. By all accounts, this epithet was well deserved. If the words of my old Jutland uncle are to be believed – and believe me his word was his honour – this man was more of a highwayman than a “priest” who thought nothing of resorting to fisticuffs in the most dubious of hostelries roundabout. I also remember a story about a parish clerk in the same locality. By all accounts, and in utter inebriation, the Mad Sidenius, well, without wishing to impose upon the modesty of two ladies; didn’t he drag the clerk’s breeches down and proceeded in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, to give him an almighty shellacking that rang through the church and was witnessed by the whole congregation. I suppose you might call it a it a kind of religious awakening! But the upshot of the whole affair was that the good was finally defrocked and locked up.” Whilst Fru Salomon had smiled at this story, Jakobe had listened with an increasingly gloomy countenance, and it was precisely this darkening of her mood, expressing as it did a vehement disgust, that had inflamed this wealthy manufacturer to, for him, otherwise unknown heights of eloquence. Indeed, led him to flesh out the tale, so as to render it all the more terrifying. From within the gentlemen’s smoking room, Per’s voice could be heard booming out. Jakobe almost visibly jumped. The sound of this voice froze her to her very marrow. She picked up the book once again and began to browse its pages, whilst a particularly bitter memory filled her mind. – – The time was four years ago and the place was one of Berlin’s large railway stations. She was on the way to her lodgings in Switzerland, and this was actually the last trip she was ever to make there; for it was shortly after this event that she had surprised everybody with her sudden return to Denmark. In Berlin she had arranged to link up with a female friend coming from Breslau with whom she would continue the journey south. She was ill at ease and nervous. She knew that she was soon to meet the lawyer who had taken her heart and believed that he too felt the same way about her. It was for this reason she had been unable to settle at home that summer and had departed even earlier than usual. – As she now entered the large railway concourse and its glass arch, she saw something further along the platform she was to take – a flock of pitiful scavengers. These creatures were surrounded by a circle of gawking onlookers who were held at a slight distance by a couple of police constables. Because of the motley nature of the clothes they were wearing and the southern European appearance, Jakobe assumed at first that it was a band of gipsies whom the authorities were deporting to their homeland. In her agitated state, she turned aside to go to the opposite end of the platform in search of a waiting room. On her way there, she encountered two men carrying a stretcher and on this – covered only by a cloak – was an old and haggard man who looked about him in bewilderment. His eyes were bulbous and bloodshot, gleaming with an obvious fever. Completely disconcerted, she approached a railway guard and asked where the waiting room could be found. The man looked at her, offered an impertinent smile, and remarked that she ought to be able to smell her way there. All she had to do was follow her nose, he said. At that, she turned her back to him and moved on. Outside a set of double doors that again was blocked by policemen, there was another assembly of curious people who were lifting their heads and standing on tiptoes to look at something going on inside. Jakobe could only make her way through the throng with great difficulty and then suddenly she was confronted with a sight that stopped her dead in her tracks. Beyond the doors, on the floor of a large, dimly lit waiting room, another group or people were sitting or lying on the ground. They were the exact same kind of outlandish creatures she had seen on the platform except that here they numbered in their hundreds: Men, women and children, grey old men and suckling babies latched on to their mother’s breast. Some were almost naked; many had bloody bandages wrapped around their heads or hands. They all had a deathly demeanour, were exhausted and filthy; as if they had been wandering for an age in blistering heat and dust. It was immediately obvious that this huge ragbag army, in which only the white headscarves worn by the women gave any hint of uniformity, had grouped themselves according to family origin. Thus, they were gathered around the head of the family, who for the most part were small, black eyed men, dressed in long kaftans with belts around their waists. They all carried staffs and some kind of drinking vessel on their belt. These seemed to be the only possessions that most of them had. However, a small number had cooking utensils with them and, here and there, tied bundles could be seen, which obviously contained family possessions and were jealously guraded by the children. In the first moments, Jakobe simply stood nonplussed at the scene that was being played out before her. Then her heart froze. In the dim interior of the room, she glimpsed a number of Jewish men who had white marks on their arms. In the company of some women, these men were walking around distributing clothes and food. In a flash, she understood everything. Now gripped by dizziness, she realised that what she was looking at was one of the small armies of outcast Russian Jews, who in the past six months had been pushed through Germany before being shipped off to America. All summer long, she had been reading about how the newspapers were scandalised etc etc by these legions of refugees and also about the shameful acts which the mob had visited upon them; either to the indifference of the authorities or even with their outright collusion in such acts. The newspaper articles described how Jewish homes had been set alight with the families still inside; Jewish families had been robbed down to the very clothes they stood in; their womenfolk had been abused; old Jews and children alike had been stoned to point where the gutters ran with blood … all this she had read about every day of the summer but had reassured herself with the thought that the reports were just typical press exaggerations; that such bestiality, perpetrated moreover against a friendly and hard working race, was simply an impossibility in this century of freedom and humanity. “Achtung!”, came a cry from behind her. It was the two men with the stretcher who had now returned and, with some difficulty, were pushing their way through into the room in order to carry away yet another of the many sick and wounded who were to be found within. In their wake, a pair of uniformed senior police officers appeared and, with the undeniable air of statutory authority, took up a position at one of the doors. For a moment they observed the depressing scene and then they moved on, their sabres rattling in time as they progressed down the platform. Jakobe did not dare to watch any more of it. She recognised the angry flashes, like red lightning, in front of her eyes. She gasped for breath and staggered into an adjacent first class waiting room. The windows looked out on to a square, where people were strolling about, having conversations and laughing. Trams hooted and dogs ran about in the summer sunshine. She was forced to grip the window ledge so as not to faint. – – And this was no dream! This was reality! These blatant outrages could take place right before Europe’s eyes, without one powerful voice to speak out against what was happening! And the church bells rang out God’s peace over this town, and its priests preached from their pulpits on the blessings of Christianity and the victory of Love Thy Neighbour in a country where crowds could with coldblooded curiosity – in fact a downright Schadenfreude – observe this mass of homeless wretches who had been herded through a succession of countries like some pestilential plague and abandoned to privation and destruction in Christ’s name! She gave a start.. Out on the square, she could see the two senior police officers. There was no doubt that both of them were the very cut of Prussian lieutenants with their precise hair parting, full length sabres that almost dragged along the floor and silver epaulettes on their broad shoulders. Her hands clenched involuntarily. With their autocratic insouciance and utter arrogance, these two officers of the law seemed to Jakobe to symbolise the whole brutal, self satisfied smugness of Christian society. To her, they resembled more a nest of Pharisees and she praised her great fortune in not having a lethal weapon ready to hand given that these officers were so close to her. In hindsight, she now felt that she would have been able to kill them with her bare hands. Her subsequent disappointment in love had affected her equilibrium so much precisely was because this soul destroying episode had taken place immediately prior to it. The one humiliation worked itself in upon the memory of the other. Indeed, her impressions of the two events gradually merged in her mind and gained a fateful power over her. Amongst many other decisions she made at that time, she resolved never to bind herself to a man ever again. A fellow Jew, she would not marry. She would never see her children going through what she herself had had to suffer because of her unhallowed antecedents. But starting a family with a Christian was just as unthinkable. Thus she developed an implacable hatred of this society, which down through the centuries had been nothing more or less than a pitiless executioner of her kinsfolk. Moreover, even the people themselves terrified her and seemed to pose a constant threat. The sight of such a thick set, blue eyed, bull of a Viking such as Per quickly aroused her memories of those two broad shouldered, power mad officers. Even after several years had passed, she could not think of them without feeling a murder lust beginning to wring at her fingers. Then there was also the fact that she was starting to feel old. She was now a good way into her adult life – eleven or twelve years. She had experienced deep feelings of love and equally deep feelings of rejection as early as her thirteenth year. Thus she felt that her heart deserved refuge from the whole thing. The fact that her old friend Ven Eybert was fond of her and wanted her as his wife, she had long been aware of. For her part, she set great store by the conversations they often had. For all their personal differences, they had many common areas of interest – both political and literary – and they looked at events both at home and abroad with almost the same level of circumspection. Essentially, she really liked him. This diminutive, gentle man, with his wispy beard and fair hair that as wet combed to his head, had a positive and calming influence upon her; nor did he remind her in way of that bulldog brutality, which so often terrified her in her encounters with other men. It was true, on the other hand, that not one scintilla of his persona was able to arouse her basic female instincts. Except that is, when he occasionally spoke to others about his two small children who were bereft of a mother. In these moments, something would move deep within her heart and she would briefly feel the blood rising into her cheeks. Indeed, there were fleeting moments where, in her yearning to have a role in life and sacrifice herself for some cause, she would allow herself to be gripped by the notion that she might be a mother figure for this lonely man and his poor little innocents. *           * * One day, as evening quickly descended, Onkel Heinrich was to be found slumped in a deep armchair in the library, lost in his own thoughts and a cloud of smoke drifting around him from one of his aromatic, post prandial Manila cigars. He had been sitting there for some time when Ivan came into the room and pulled up a chair opposite him. “Uncle – there’s something I’d like to discuss with you.” “Then you’ve chosen a most unfortunate moment to do it young man. You know very well that it discommodes me to hold conversations after I have eaten.” “But uncle, you don’t like speaking while you are eating either – you always say that, so how am I supposed to know when we can have a chat?” “When I’m asleep boy. – Well then, what is it anyway?” “Will you do me a favour, uncle?” “Ivan, you know very well that, as a matter of principle, I never do people favours. So let’s talk about something else.” “Alright, let’s call it a business transaction then – or whatever you want to call it," said Ivan as he adopted his favourites sitting position with one foot tucked up underneath him. “The thing is, that there is a young man who interests me greatly… this is a who –.” “Basically – on of your so called geniuses. Next point!” “Yes but this time I am completely certain uncle! We are talking about a major talent. One day, he will come to achieve something ground-breaking within his field of expertise. – But he is penniless.” “Penniless? Yes, that seems to be the primary condition of your geniuses, as far as I can see.” “And it goes without saying uncle, that he is not being given the chance to make his mark here at home. That, of course, is the fate of all our most gifted people. But I tell you that I’m not worried. Hi name shall be in lights. I have spoken to Dyhring about all this and he has promised me that he will interview him sometime soon and do a big piece on the great innovations our friend is working on at the moment.” “In other words, Ivan – this person you are talking about is none other than that arrogant whelp with the upstart nose who was here the other day and made a whole show of himself – him with the ridiculous name. What’s ye call him again?” “Sidenius.” “Herr Gott von Mannheim! To think that any poor soul could have a name like that!” “Well, uncle, that poor soul is seriously thinking of leaving the country; at least for a while.” “He’s come into money then?” “No uncle. That’s exactly what I wanted to speak to you about. You see, I want to provide him with the necessary travel expenses that I know for sure he doesn’t have himself. But he is very proud by nature. And so sensitive about that whole area that – – yes, well – – I am almost certain that he would refuse me, if I just simply went to him and offered the money. He would look upon it as an insult. That’s just the way he is.” “Well if that’s his damn attitude Ivan, don’t waste your money on him is what I say.” “Ah stop uncle! It is precisely that kind of person who needs help most. – And you have to find a way round it.” “Me? Are you mad?” “What I thought is that you might play a kind of decoy role for me. And I know you will you uncle, as I’m asking you with all respect. Your see, this money has to be offered to him in such a way that it could never cause offence … and absolutely anonymously; otherwise he’ll never take it. Of course you are more than capable of coming up with some device - you can say that some friends and admirers wanted to show their appreciation of him before he sets off … or you can offer him a loan; whatever you think’s best.” Onkel Heinrich raised his bushy eyebrows and considered things for a moment. In principle, he was not opposed to the idea of acting as a benefactor , as long as it didn’t cost him anything. Moreover, he did have at least a smidgen of goodwill towards Per, as someone who, amongst all Nanny’s suitors, might actually have the gumption to really get on in life and become an appropriate match for her. “And by how much were you thinking of indulging this rogue?” “Basically what needs to get where he wants. I had thought of say five to six hundred Kroner. Maybe more. I have not set a limit. He’ll be assigned account with Griesmann and then he can withdraw from me via him.” “My sister’s son is a lunatic! You are just like your mother and father, and all your brothers and sisters. The whole damn family is stark raving mad!” “Who’s got a light?” came a voice from the door leading into sitting room. It was Nanny. There she was standing with her hands on her hips, sticking her upper body forwards. An unlit cigarette jumped up and down between her lips. Her uncle pulled a face. “Here she is now with her substitute dummy! … Haven’t I said to you before that it is a disgusting, stinking habit.” “Are you in bad form uncle? What a shame. Because there was something I wanted to talk to you about.” “You as well! … Talk away young lady! My after dinner repose has been destroyed anyway.” “I’ve a bone to pick with you little uncle dearest.” “Pluck all ye want! And have done!” “I think you could show a bit more discretion than walking down Strøget with your damsels at a time of day when more refined folk are walking about there too. Or, at least, you could show due regard to your family by choosing a less frightening class of female escort than that horror bag I saw you with both today and the other day. We shouldn’t have to suffer for your awful taste in women uncle.” She had positioned herself behind his chair, on whose back she now rested her arms, whilst sending cloud after cloud of cigarette smoke tumbling down over his half bald pate. Despite his irritation at what Nanny was saying, he did not move, but preferred to stay where he was with his eyes partially closed, indulging in the pleasure of feeling the hot bursts of breath from her young strawberry lips. “I have also said to you before Nanny, that it is horrible and disgusting to listen to a young woman using such lewd language. And anyway that young damsel you are referring to –.” “What young damsel uncle?” “Herself. The one you have perhaps spotted me geleiding with; on just one occasion, and one occasion only I might – that is my landlady’s daughter; a very educated and most respectable –.” “I’m not talking about any young lady. I’m talking about what looked more like an old man with red flowers on her hat and red sauce slapped on her cheeks. And I’m telling you uncle – you really ought to be ashamed of yourself .” “And my reply to that, you little hussy, is that you are the last person in the world to be talking about shame – yes you! Or what else are we to make of the class of person you drag to this house with your coquettish flirting? A certain Hr. Sidenius d’ye mind! An utter carrot cruncher if ever I saw one who has just about learned enough manners to know that he’s not allowed to wipe his nose with his fingers anymore. And as for the phizog on that fellow! He literally looks like his mother was an ale house wench and his father a jack pudding.” “Well I think he’s a fine thing.” “Yes, a fine thing… you say”, her uncle snapped at her. “But I’ll tell you this Nanny! If you marry a you one of those pagan Christians; especially one who was not even born into, well –? “Well what uncle?” Onkel Heinrich flashed a terrifying stare up at her from the depths of his chair and said with slow and deliberate emphasis on each word: “Well then, you will not inherit my brooch pin when I die.” “But you’ve promised that to Jakobe anyway, uncle. And Rosalie told me that you’ve promised it to her as well. Ivan too, I think.” He shot up in a rage and charged out of the house, crying: “Your are all lunatics in this house! I will never ever set foot inside this house again! It’s a malignant hole! That’s it. I’ve had enough. – –" Ivan and Nanny looked at each other with an air of being slightly stunned. As was usual with their uncle, they weren’t really sure whether his words had been expressed in deadly earnest, or whether he had been half joking . Then Jakobe appeared at the sitting room door. “What did you do to poor uncle Heinrich? He was completely beside himself.” “Not a thing” Ivan replied. “You know very well that he doesn’t like my friends – and now he’s turned against Per Sidenius. Other than that… You see I told him that Sidenius was thinking of going off abroad somewhere and I asked him to do me a small favour where that’s concerned – that’s the top and bottom of it.” “Is Hr. Sidenius thinking of leaving Denmark?” asked Nanny – and there was something in her tone that made her sister standing at the door to study her more intensely. “Well he’s thinking of it, yes,” Ivan said. No more questions were forthcoming from Nanny. As if distracted, she moved across the room and threw her half smoked cigarette into a bronze bowl that was on the table. “I think Nanny is really casting a line out for Hr. Sidenius,” Jakobe said to her mother later that evening. They were alone in the sitting room; both sat around one of the table lamps. “And how do you come to that conclusion now?” Fru Salomon asked rather sharply – as if that very thought had slowly bur surely working its way through her mind and unsettling her slightly. “Hr. Sidenius is like a bull in a china shop. And Nanny is not that stupid. – Besides, I believe he is leaving us and if that’s the case we wont have to worry about him anymore.” “I’ve a feeling mother that this so called trip abroad might become a bit of a saga,” said Jakobe after a moment’s silence, – she leaned back into the corner of the sofa and away from her mother; staring straight ahead of her and lost her in own dark tribulations. “Dear child! What would you know about all this?” “Och mother, I’m not blind! From the moment I set eyes on that man, I knew what he was about. And from the look of him, once he sets his mind to something, there’s no going back. Ivan says that himself anyway. Whatever else you might say about him mother – and there’s a lot of ground to cover! – he’s a bit of a character; there’s no doubt about it.” Fru Salomon smiled to herself. “I think you might be changing your mind about him, Jakobe.” “No, I’m not mother that … and I would never be able to. His whole personality is far too different from my own for that to happen. But it seems to me that he still has a lot to learn. Who knows what way he might turn out if things go well for him. Maybe one day he really could prove to be the best man for Nanny. At any rate, I almost think I would prefer Per Sidenius as a brother in law than, say, the likes of that Dyhring fellow.” “Well Jakobe, you’ve turned into a proper little matchmaker all of a sudden,” Fru Salomon cried. “The other day it was Olga Davidsen’s future happiness you were sorting out, and now it’s your own sister you want to marry off .” Jakobe cheeks became suddenly hot and flushed. She felt that her mother’s reproach had hit the mark. “Mother dearest,” – here she bowed her head slightly to conceal her mortification and laid a hand on her mother’s arm – “You know very well that that’s just how we old maids carry on.” *           * * In these spring months, Per became a frequent guest in the Salomon household. It was true that, primarily, it was still Nanny’s presence in the house that attracted him there; but it was also true that the new and exotic style of family life to which he was now exposed was a point of pure fascination for him. One evening, just after he had left, Jakobe could not help but throw out a question: “God knows what Hr. Sidenius is really thinking about when he sits there like that; just staring straight ahead and not saying a word?” In fact he had been sitting there thinking of is childhood home. He saw the living room in front of him in exactly the way it had become lodged in his memory: those long winter evenings when just a single, dim lamp burned and smoked at the table in front of the horsehair sofa, and his father dozing in the stiff backed armchair, the green cardboard eye shade partially concealing his face, whilst Signe read aloud from one of the newspapers; the smaller sisters meanwhile were sat bent over their sewing chores, regularly stealing quick glances up at the clock to see whether it was soon time for the night watchman to pass by and declare the day over and time for bed. Once again he heard the small sighs that would emanate from the bedroom next door, where his mother lay bedridden and giving occasional vent to her anguished heart. He heard the quiet rattle from the lamp, and smelled the turf burning in the stove, a smell that was always tinged with the tang of polish or medicine. However, it was not the disparity between the opulence all around him and the wretchedness of his youth that most struck him. It was much more to do with the difference in tone; in the empathy found within the hum of conversation; the vivacity of life that pertained in the two homes. Here, when he heard the children of the house, with their helter skelter chatter, speaking to their parents almost as if they were friends; when he heard Fru Salomon discussing the new spring fashions with her daughters, seeking their views on the colours and styles that suited them best; in fact, directly prevailing upon them that it was their duty to be well turned out; when he continually found their minds enthusiastically engaged in what was happening out there in the big wide world but with never a mention of that mysterious “hereafter”, which like an open grave had permeated his own home. Yes, his own childhood home, where the routine morning noon and night was to turn a collective back on the world so as to pray and sing psalms; his own home where to be well dressed and pay attention to one’s appearance was tantamount to a desecration of all born again souls. When he considered all these things, he felt a deep sense of gratitude that he really had found right there in his capital city what he had thought would only be found in foreign climes – children of Nature, whose heads had not been turned by thoughts of Heaven and Hell. All that said, his attachment to the Salomon household meant that he had come to revaluate the concept of wealth. Prior to this, and in true bucolic fashion, Per had always viewed money like some kind of weapon with which – in the manner of an assassin– a man could battle his way through the dog fight of life. Now his eyes had been opened to the influence a good and secure standard of living actually had in securing the healthy spiritual growth of a person; the composed and free development of a person’s character. He began to understand the reverence that Jews were supposed to have for hard currency and which all right thinking Sideniuses were scandalised by. He remembered his father’s contemptuous words about “those who worship Mammon” and his religion teacher, a pale and worn out theologian who – as he stroked his pupils’ hair with a hand stinking of the contents of his pockets – earnestly exhorted them never to yearn for the kind of treasures that one day, like all man himself, would become no more than dust and ashes. He pondered on the way that, in this dirt poor country, generation after generation had been browbeaten into a philistine contempt for all “earthly goods”, and how spiritual enervation, pettiness and slovenliness had, at the same time, spread throughout the whole of society. Per felt a defiant urge to shout out across the land: “Show respect for money! All hail Mammon … the people’s champion and redeemer!” However, he felt good about the fact that he still could not stare directly into the dazzling sheen of gold. The passion had not entered his bloodstream. As he looked around at the lavishly decorated rooms, he could still feel the remnants of his innate troll like nature stirring within him. Indeed, every time he was sat in this veritable Palace of the East, he would think back to his own young life; those days of meagre joys and the horrors of a tortured conscience and he sensed with shame that he really was what his father had always called him – “a child of the night”, an underworld troll – a true Sidenius. Life in this rich, very grand and sociable merchant’s home, where so many freeborn and confident people were gathered, was for him more like looking at a mirror into his own soul, which challenged him to renew his search for self awareness. For the first time in his life, he had encountered people to whom he felt inferior. Even when speaking to the young girls or their friends, he had been forced to use all kinds of deceptions in order to conceal the deficiencies in his own cultural awareness and the huge gaps in his general knowledge. In all haste, and discreetly as possible, he set about obtaining what he lacked in terms of erudition and discernment. In particular, he threw himself into the study of Dr. Nathan’s books, which in these circles he had so often heard described, discussed and disputed. Per also sought to improve his woeful language skills so as not to appear like a complete bumpkin in a house that received so many foreign visitors, and where even the younger children spoke the three main European languages with great accomplishment. Thus, despite the fact that he mainly went to the house because of Nanny, he sometimes gained more pleasure from simply sitting and chatting to Fru Salomon and Jakobe, whose interests and topics of conversation he found to be most enlightening. His respect for Jakobe, in particular, had grown immensely. With consummate ease, she was able to discuss anything from old, Greek philosophers or the new developments in Bismarck’s policies; but at the same time she was no raving suffragette. The disagreeable impression she had first made upon him, notwithstanding; and despite the fact that she sometimes seemed to throw barriers up against him, he enjoyed talking to her about what he had been reading or intended to read. For her part, and almost in spite of herself, Jakobe gradually yielded to Per’s keen interest in Dr. Nathan, a man whom she saw as the country’s greatest leading light and the herald of a new dawn. In Nathan, they had found a source of common interest; a deep well from which, in their different ways, they could draw up the emotion that ran deepest within them – hatred of a Church which had cast a blight over their childhood lives. And Per made no effort to hide the what lay in his heart He gave vent to his feelings with the kind of naïve openness that gradually won, if not her sympathy, then at least her forbearance. In fact, the truth was that it was Jakobe during this period who was overseeing Per’s development, far more than even she herself realised. Nor was Per fully aware of the influence that her dominant personality was gradually working on him. Thus, despite the great respect for her that he clearly had, Per did not fully comprehend the extraordinary esteem in which Jakobe was held. This manifested itself, for example, at the large scale evening receptions held in the house, where the cream of the Liberal party’s leadership was to the fore. Whilst Nanny would flit like an effervescent elf from room to room on such occasions, with literary aesthetes like Balling and Povl Berger in tow, Jakobe was the exact opposite. For in spite of her naturally reserved, or even at times dismissive, comportment, the leading lights at the party would always end up gathered around her chair. These included the truly famous university professors and the many distinguished doctors who constituted such a significant part of Copenhagen’s already extremely influential progressive political movement. At one such gathering, Per overheard a man in this same group complaining over the fact that a woman of such obvious intellect and with so much ability didn’t seem to be able to make some man happy by settling down with him. “But then, who would ?” the man had rhetorically asked himself. “I mean a woman like Jakobe who has so much of a queen about her - she should at the very least be wooed by a Prince. That old bore Eybert is hardly going to light her candle.” These words, though said in jest, had a serious impact on Per and, bit by bit, also began to affect the way he viewed Jakobe’s physical appearance. He had to admit that she carried herself in a particularly proud way, and that her facial profile really was more redolent of an eagle than a parrot. His eyes were opened to the beauty in her light, yet purposeful gait with its strangely silent, predator like footfall. Per noticed the imperious way she eased herself into an armchair – yes, she even managed to make blowing her nose look like a graceful act. One evening, and by complete chance, they came to be alone together in the study. Nanny was attending a dinner party and was not expected back for another hour. It was for this reason that he had sat down so as to await her return. Per and Jakobe were sitting on their respective sides of an octagonal table with mother of pearl buttons around its edge. The lamp stood between them, throwing the shape of its yellow silk shade on to its dark surface. Jakobe sat with her hand under her chin, leafing through a picture album. They had remained silent for some time when she suddenly asked how it had actually come about that someone like him, who came from a long line of priests, had decided to go down the technical route and become engineer. “Does engineering not appeal to you then?” he asked by way of a diversion. “Yes, of course – why shouldn’t it,” she asked before going on to speak with great passion on the important role that the great engineering companies would one day have in the liberation of humankind, in that by reducing the distance between countries via railways, telegraph systems and steamships, they contributed to a leavening of national differences and thereby had already taken the first step towards finally realising of one of man’s oldest aspirations - brotherly understanding between all races of the earth. Per stole quick glances over to her a couple of times as she spoke and his face reddened somewhat. He had never looked at his own efforts from that viewpoint but felt an extraordinary attraction to the idea that his canal project might be seen as working towards such high ideals. His mood took on a veritably regal air. In general, Jakobe always seemed to have that effect on him. Her words and Dr. Nathans books were all of a piece; at times they had the power to illuminate the far shores of certain remote and mysterious thought processes, with the result that they seemed more like a series of alluring revelations. – – My God, she’s bright!, he often thought to himself when he was sat opposite her and observed her striking Sphinx like features, and he would then sometimes experience the amazing sensation that he was sitting face to face with nothing less than a young sibyl. In such moments, Jakobe became a force of nature - the inscrutable guardian of wisdom’s fathomless depths . “I wish, Frøken, that we had met a long time ago.” Though he had tried hard to inject some levity into his tone of voice, he could hear how corny his statement sounded. And the way that Jakobe smiled in response let Per know that she was by no means flattered. But, undaunted, he ploughed on: “Yes, I know that was a stupid thing to say. But it is true for all that – I really am, for the first time in my life, walking around with the sense that I’m becoming a fully rounded person. And like it or not Frøken… Jakobe Salomon has played her part in that process.” “And what kind of creature does Per Sidenius think he was before all this?” It was a while before he gave a reply: “Do you recall your Danish lessons at school and the reading book that told the legend of the mountain troll who crawled up through a mole hill so he could live amongst human beings but got terrible fits of sneezing whenever the sun broke through the clouds? – Ah, I could tell you a long tale that would explain exactly where that legend comes from!” And as they sat there, Per began to reveal to her some of the most intimate aspects of his being. Ambushed by a sudden need to confide in someone, he spoke – albeit using a partially humorous tone – about his childhood and his estrangement from the parental home. Jakobe had already heard something of this from Ivan. This sudden outpouring made her cautious and she gave him no encouragement to continue. However, they were soon interrupted anyway by Onkel Heinrich who came into the room from the hallway. The old lecher rarely missed a chance to scrutinise his nieces when they were in grande toilette. Naturally, therefore, he first inquired as to Nanny’s whereabouts. At that very moment, they heard the carriage roll into the forecourt and moments later Nanny swept into the room. As she caught sight of Per, she stopped abruptly and with no little calculation allowed her white fur stole to fall slowly down so as to reveal her shoulders. Per had stood up and was confused by what he saw. Of course he saw a beautiful female form in front of him, dressed as she was in a white, very low cut silk dress; still flushed by the party’s conviviality and her eyes sparkling with festglæde. And yet – when he allowed his gaze to settle back on her sister’s black clad figure, as she sat there deep in thought with her hand under her chin and bathed in the soft light from the lamp, it occurred to him that Jakobe came out well from the comparison. Felling strangely ill at ease, he took leave of the Salomon household and walked slowly homeward. And in the middle of the street, he stopped dead in his tracks and spoke to himself in a kind of half terror as he pushed his hat back from his forehead: “My God – could it actually be?! Is it really Jakobe that I love?”

 
[1] entrance hall: Der er ikke tale om en "indgangshal/entre", men selve børssalen hvor alle forretningerne foregik. Se f.eks. dette link. tilbage
[2] the Golden Fleece: Goldkalb er jo en (tysk) hentydning til Det Gamle Testamentes fortælling om Guldkalven, 2.Mos., kap. 32. Det er jo ikke helt det samme som Jasons "gyldne skind", og det er jo især en hentydning til ham som jøde, derfor den tyske form. "Folkeviddet" vil jo at det skal være morsomt. tilbage
[3] Palace: Ville "mansion" ikke være en bedre oversættelse af "Palæ"; der er jo hverken tale om kongelig eller embedsmands-residence. Eller brug Palæ? tilbage