A Fortunate Man (1905)
By Henrik Pontoppidan. Translation: Paul Larkin
Chapter Three
One day, following a long period of deliberation, Per placed a number of rolled up drawings and calculation sheets under his arm and went in search of professor Sandrup in his private chambers. He had decided to invite the professor to study his channel and fjord realignment project and pronounce his judgement on the plan. The professor’s eyes widened on hearing the request; he placed his spectacles quietly and precisely on his long nose and then emitted a series of small grunts to signal his irritation. And with that disquieting gift, which is the preserve of veteran teachers, to unerringly detect the weak points in a piece of work, it was not long before he discovered an error in Per’s water flow velocity calculations.
Per, for his part, could deny neither the presence of the fault, nor its significance for the plan as a whole. Instead, his face turned scarlet and he made no attempt to defend himself.
The professor then removed his spectacles. And, after acknowledging that Per had demonstrated great enthusiasm and no little application in developing his grand plan, he urged him to cease wasting his time on such pointless exercises and devote himself, instead, to a meticulous and systematic study of the prescribed examination subjects.
When Per arrived back home, he took out the papers and studied them thoroughly once again. But it was to no avail. The error was irrefutable. It had crept its way into his water velocity calculations from the start and its rectification would, as the professor had quite rightly pointed out, imply that the projected mean water level at the river’s lowest stretch would bring the water table below sea level. In other words, the whole plan had been built on a false premise and was therefore useless.
His face reddened with shame once again as he witnessed the complete and irresistible collapse of his proud kingdom. For over an hour, he remained in the same position, sat bent over his table with his head in his hands without moving so much as a muscle.
But suddenly he rose and with a devil may care attitude stuffed his drawings, calculations and estimates into a draw in his commode, lit himself a cigar and walked into town, where he spent the rest of the afternoon in a billiard hall. Exchanging banter at the top of his voice, he strolled around the hall in his shirt sleeves and accepted the challenge of anyone who fancied their luck against him. He was, moreover, unusually confident in his stroke action, winning game after game. No one would be allowed to see that, on that very same day, he had suffered such an ignominious defeat.
Towards evening, he met an acquaintance who offered to sell him a spare admission ticket for an artist and student carnival taking pl¨¨ace that same evening. The ticket was on offer at half price. Per bought it immediately.
The following evening, he was to be found, the collar of his coat turned up, standing and waiting in one of the dark and quiet corners of Vor Frue Plads. It was snowing heavily and even though the square was usually a busy thoroughfare and offered access to Vor Frue Cathedral, there was not a soul to be seen. The ground in front of the cathedral was blanketed by a thick layer of snow, which was completely devoid of footsteps. The two statues at the entrance depicting Moses and David were now adorned with two large, white hairpieces and this new headgear, along with their black cloaks, gave them the appearance of two law officers from the age of enlightenment.
The cause of his lingering there was a female, a younger Frue whom he had met at the carnival and with whom he had danced half the night. He held out no great hope, however, that she would turn up. This was his first adventure in love with a real lady and she had been very clear that she would make no promises. In fact, a more accurate description would be that she had tried to laugh off his bold request with a shy wave of her hand.
The bell up in the tower of the cathedral had struck nine some time ago and he had just begun to think about going home when he heard a polite cough from behind him. It was one of the town’s messenger boys who enquired of his name and then handed him a letter.
Per hurried to the base of the nearest available lamppost and, as his nostrils took in the violet perfume emanating from the scented paper, he read: "Not coming – of course. Will, however, try to get you an invite for Manufacturer Fensmark’s bash, which is next Sunday. I believe they have a deficiency of gentlemen who like to dance." – The letter was unsigned. There was, however, a postscript, which said: "I am actually quite cross with you. I do hope you are at least slightly ashamed of yourself."
Per placed the letter in his pocket and smiled contentedly. Then his thoughts turned to Lisbeth. At last, he had a good reason to dump her. The fact was that he had felt a growing distaste for this kind of brassy slut with their coarse manners and continual cadging, as well as their dirty rooms that were nothing more than flea pits. Now was the time for a more expansive love life. In his imagination, an alluring distant horizon beckoned full of noble and uplifting experiences: risky assignations, secret trips in horse drawn carriages, the furtive squeezing of hands under tables, stolen kisses from behind quivering ladies’ fans, timorous admissions of love – –
He had just come through Skoubogade and made to turn into Vimmelskaftet when he roused himself abruptly from his reveries with a severe oath. For there, walking directly towards him, was a diminutive figure clad in a sable overcoat and carrying a large umbrella. Despite the fact that the umbrella hid the whole of his upper body, Per immediately recognised him because of his rapid foot movements. It was none other than Ivan Salomon.
In an attempt at avoiding the need for a conversation, he jumped quickly across the gutter and made for the opposite side of the street but it was too late. A cry, a shriek of delight: "Hr. Sidenius! … Is that not Hr. Sidenius?" stopped him dead in his tracks.
"If you are on the way to the Cave" – said Salomon, – "I would advise against it. I have actually just come from there. I am afraid that tonight the place is just mind-numbingly boring. There’s nobody there except Enevoldsen; but our precious author is sitting there in his own little world, polishing his spectacles and clearly having difficulty producing so much as a comma. No, good sir, let’s go somewhere else. You will do me the honour of dining with me this evening? – You are free, are you not?"
Per knew that he might as well give up all ideas of resistance – try as he might, there was no objection or excuse that Salomon would not be able to beat down in a trice.
And the truth was that he was of no great mind to go home to his lonely abode, and thereby ruin his good spirits, by being reminded of the thing that lay in a drawer in his commode. Sleep was out of the question. And now that this man had more or less insisted on having his company; well, a one off occasion could do no harm. – –
Shortly afterwards, he was sitting on a wine coloured velvet sofa in a newly built hotel restaurant, which was the preferred haunt of the landed aristocracy and of the military officer classes whilst they were on their travels. An expensive Brussels carpet adorned the floors of the restaurant, the walls were essentially huge mirrors, the service was provided by formally dressed waiters who glided silently about, and conversations amongst the clientele, which included several ladies, were conducted in subdued voices.
At first, Per felt slightly intimidated. He was not used to frequenting such distinguished establishments. But he was especially uncomfortable to find himself in such a place with Salomon. For he had immediately attracted attention to himself, which was by no means favourable, by dint of his rather boisterous and intrusive behaviour.
There was one particular guest – a gentleman sitting alone, whom Per had not yet seen – that had looked up in great irritation from his newspaper. This man was in his forties, a tall, skeletal being with certain slackness about him whose head was bald to the point of being naked. His face was haggard and was dressed by a long, drooping moustache above which a gold pince-nez hovered. He had shot a baleful glance at Ivan Salomon; but when he noticed Per, a slight reddening appeared in his pale yellow cheeks and he had quickly hidden himself so completely behind his newspaper that the only thing now visible to the other guests was a pair of crossed legs.
"What do you want to eat? Oysters perhaps?" asked Salomon, as he pulled off his russet gloves and placed them in between the two lowest buttons on his front vest. "I presume that you have completely fresh shellfish on the menu this evening?" he said, addressing the waiter who gave his reply with a rather slapdash bow.
Per could not bring himself to say that this particular exclusive dish did not appeal to him in the slightest. But on the other hand, he was not going to turn his nose up at a solid evening meal. The long wait in the cold frosty air had brought a great hunger upon him. Meat was what he needed, cheese and eggs. – lots of eggs.
"Oysters are fine," he said. "But I’ll tell you straight out sir: I’m as hungry as a wolf."
"Bravo! Excellent!" Salomon exclaimed, as he clapped his hands together in excitement, whilst the other patrons of the restaurant – including the ladies – turned in consternation to look at him. The gold pince-nez sitting on the nose of the unaccompanied gentleman also came momentarily into view as he peered enquiringly over the edge of his newspaper.
Oblivious to all this, Salomon continued to address the waiter: "Now, do tell us good man … what else is there on offer tonight?"
The waiter then proceeded to reel off a list of dishes.
"Very good, we’ll take the lot … the whole shebang!" he exclaimed, seized as he was in complete and utter euphoria, whilst he waved his arms in swimming movements across the table. "Load her up! A grand souper my friend! … And no hanging around there! We are as hungry as a pack of wolves."
Per, who very quickly perceived the supercilious air now adopted by the waiter, could see only one way to conquer his own embarrassment and that was to throw in his lot with his companion and let the rest go to the devil. With great deliberation, he selected a toothpick from the container on the table, leaned back into the corner of the sofa and proceeded to flash challenging glances across the restaurant at anyone who looked his way.
The "shellfish" was now served, arranged on a bed of ice cubes and accompanied by a bottle of chilled champagne. Next came the wildfowl, the asparagus, an omelette, various cheeses, celery and then the fruit bowl. Per attacked everything that was put in front of him with gusto. He justified himself by saying that, as he had been landed in this situation, it was as well to make the most of it. It was also the case that he had never before in his life beheld such regal culinary splendour.
As for Salomon, he had merely picked at the first course but had, on the other hand, maintained a barrage of chat. For he had started upon his favourite topic – the Renaissance. "Ah the great age of Man" – he said – " when writers, artists, inventors, all the great talents lived like emperors, were feted as kings, were adored by queens; whilst our present day geniuses sit half starved in their garrets and must beg for the leftovers from the table of polite society. That’s why their creations so often lack that majesty, that gigantic power which is not to be denied and carries all before it. I referred earlier to Enevoldsen. And, with God as my judge, I have the utmost admiration for his talent. For example, I regard his "Creation" as a lyrical masterpiece. And yet – is this not also true? – He works in filigree, bewitching tricks of the mind, beautiful statues instead of great monuments. That for three days he will sit and worry his head over an adjective. The problem is that he has never really seen the world in all its epic scale and splendour. That is the heart of the matter! … Ah to be rich … to be rich! … to have riches!"
He leaned against the back of the sofa, placed both hands behind his head and slid one of his feet underneath the opposite leg, thus revealing a red silk stocking.
"Rich? But I thought you were rich," Per remarked drily – more for something to say than anything else.
"Oh, rich! … No, I’m talking about having millions to play around with … mountains of gold sovereigns to get rid of as and when you pleased! The geniuses in our midst should be lauded as minor deities; they should hold court, go hunting and stage masked balls, take lovers … Think of Rubens! Think of Goethe! Think of Voltaire!"
Salomon leaned across the table in order to fill up Per’s glass once again. He then attempted to extricate more information from his guest about himself and his plans for the future. For he had discovered from a mutual acquaintance who was an engineering student at the technical institute, that the common view amongst Per’s fellow students was that he was engaged in developing some great technical innovation; and it was to his great sorrow that he had been unable to prize any information from Per in this matter, so that he might have a pretext to offer his support.
But now, more than ever, Per was of no mind to be on such intimate terms with his host. Instead, he simply pretended that he did not understand where the conversation was going. When he eventually had finished eating, he simply lit a cigar, leaned against the high sofa back and gave up any pretence of actually listening to his dinner companion’s utterances.
Per's thoughts, goaded by the good wine, drifted away in search of the woman he had met at the carnival … Fru Engelhardt was her name. As his eyes followed the whirls of smoke from his cigar, the shapes evolving therein transformed themselves into profusions of flowers; then, a fine billowing alcove curtain through which he was offered glimpses of her full figure in all its naked splendour. With a start, he realised that he had actually fallen head over heels in love. If he was to be completely honest with himself, he mused; his feelings for her up to this point had not been that different from those he usually felt when in the presence of beautiful and full bodied women. The only thing which cooled his ardour slightly was her age. She was not exactly young anymore; although his guess was that she still had not reached her thirties. But so what? The glance from her dark brown eyes, soft and deep as perfectly formed chestnuts – her audacious stature in that gorgeous columbine pattern dress, her sculpted shoulders and that little button nose with its flaring nostrils – all this betrayed a youthful ardour, an inherent drive to abandon herself to her passions, which rendered the question of age and years as meaningless.
Suddenly his eyes lit upon the gentleman with the gold pince-nez who had finally put his newspaper to one side and was calling the waiter to pay for the bill. As their eyes met, both men rose slightly out of their seats and gave ceremonial greetings to each other.
"My God, that’s Neergaard!" Salomon exclaimed. "Do know you him?"
"Actually no … I met him by chance at the carnival."
"What? Were you there too? … I didn’t see you."
"Well the place was absolutely jammed. – So you were there too Salomon?"
"I was indeed. Playing Hamlet! You obviously didn’t see me, or recognise me."
Per could well remember having seen a little man dressed in black who was in the company of a lady dressed as the Snow Queen. She, for her part, had aroused no little indignation amongst the other ladies present, partly because of her daring décolleté arrangement and because of her ostentatious show of diamonds, which hung like hoar frost within her white veil, reflecting all the colours of the rainbow as they played in the light.
"You were in the company of a lady?" Per ventured to ask. "Yes – my sister!"
"Ah –."
In the meantime, the gentleman with the gold pince-nez was putting on his overcoat, assisted by the waiter. It was with no little envy that Per observed both the attention to detail in his sartorial elegance and the man of the world superiority with which he allowed the waiter to bring his hat and cane before concluding the little drama with a flourish of his hand to signal his need of a light for his cigarette. During the previous evening’s festivities, Per had only managed to exchange some common pleasantries with him. Shortly after his first dance with Fru Engelhardt, the gentleman had suddenly appeared by their sides and introduced himself. After that, he had kept a watch on them from a distance, to the extent that Per finally took him to be a fellow suitor for the lady’s hand.
In order to make his exit from the restaurant, Hr. Neergaard was obliged to pass the table occupied by Per and Salomon, at which point Salomon flapped his hand in a familiar gesture and shouted:
"Good evening, Neergaard … Good evening … how’s life treating you?"
Hr. Neergaard’s eyebrows were raised in an expression of complete surprise at this outburst. He then gave a patronising smile and acknowledged the greeting with a careless nod, without even bothering to extract the cigarette from his mouth. On the other hand, he greeted Per with an almost exaggerated politeness, who was thereby in turn obliged to give an acknowledgment.
"What kind of fellow do we actually have there?" Per asked after his departure.
Salomon shrugged his shoulders.
"Don’t really know what I should say … I basically don’t know him that well. Only really meet him at this or that ball or function. He was, at one time, quite a distinguished personage. Also a law graduate, is always spoken well of and has excellent connections with people that matter … in short, has been presented with many outstanding opportunities to make a big fish of himself in our relatively small pond. In fact, there was talk of a position being opened for him in the diplomatic service… at the London embassy I believe. The Prince of Wales himself has supposed to have suggested that this would be to his liking. I do not know what it was that upset the apple cart. But the bottom line is that he declined the offer of a position. He is without doubt something of a rare breed. Now holds nothing more than a modest position in one of the ministries."
* *
*
The very next day, Per received the invitation to the ball promised him by Fru Engelhardt and he now busied himself with improving his wardrobe so as to ensure that he might stand comparison with the finest of his fellow cavaliers as he made his entry into Copenhagen’s high society circuit. Thus, there was nothing else for it but to obtain the necessary funds via a credit arrangement. To this end, one of his acquaintances from the Cave café introduced him to a retired farmer who had the habit of feathering his equity nest by lending to young people at sixty percent interest, with security being demanded in the form of their life insurance policies, books, furniture, birth and vaccination certificates; all augmented by a solemn, witnessed declaration of good intent on the part of the borrower with his hand placed on the Bible.
Madam Olufsen’s eyes were as large as saucers when she saw the many new things arriving daily at the house from the town’s most eminent Magasiner. She and her husband had long discussions about all this "to-ing and fro-ing" and their conclusion was that something was definitely up. Per himself kept his own counsel. He had overall been quite reticent in the last while and, apart from that, was hardly ever at home.
The only one who could have shed some light on events was the even more reticent Trine. With the heightened perception which comes with the thousand eyes of love, this girl – as far as her limited understanding of these things went – established very quickly what was afoot and, with increasing regularity, she would retire to the outhouse privy, which was her place of retreat when she could no longer ignore her sore heart or stop the tears from flowing.
Despite all this, it was perhaps with even greater care and a clearer sense of devotion that she pottered about in his small rooms and attended to his personal belongings. Her loving care was especially bestowed on all the newly purchased items, which she took to be his betrothal finery. It was as if her own future happiness depended on it. She sewed labels onto the fine linen garments, on the handkerchiefs and on the wafer thin silk stockings and also placed clean paper in the unlocked bottom drawers of the commode, where they were all to be stored. When the evening of the ball arrived, it was also Trine who was obliged to tie his cravat, button his gloves, tell him whether his new coat tails were sitting correctly at the back and reassure him that his machine clipped hair really suited him. And when the clock struck half past nine and the carriage that had been ordered failed to appear, it was of course herself who was branded a fool, and herself who had to venture out bareheaded and without a shawl into the dark sleety evening, all the way down to Adelgade to get another one.
The dance had already begun when Per entered the ballroom itself. A dozen or so couples were dancing around the floor with an air of ceremony about them, whilst a similar number either stood or sat along the walls of the room. It was amongst this latter group that he quickly spied Fru Engelhardt. She was dressed in fire red silk and was fanning herself with a large fan, which had feathers at its peaks. A gentleman sat by her side. He was completely bald and could be seen rocking his collapsible cylinder hat on his knee – Neergaard.
The sight of this man, and more especially the pangs of jealousy which he then felt – the fact that this man’s presence might also be due to Fru Engelhardt’s enticing correspondence completely ruined his mood. In the first quarter of an hour, he would not even grace the ballroom with his presence, preferring a decampment to some adjoining rooms where a group of older gentlemen were playing cards. Only towards the end of the first waltz would he deign to go in again. He then bowed stiffly to Fruen as an invitation to dance. At no point did he establish eye contact with his fellow cavalier. She seemed at first reluctant to acknowledge him. At last, however, she rose, gathered her train about her and with a somewhat motherly mien swept her bountiful body into his arms.
"My what an ungrateful so and so you are," she said, in her unapologetically strong Copenhagen accent, when they had danced a couple of circuits without a single word emanating from Per’s lips. "You don’t even thank me for getting you the invitation. And let me tell you that it was no easy task."
"I am extremely grateful to you Frue!"
"My, aren’t we formal! Has something upset you?"
"Yes – slightly."
"And what might that be … assuming you can tell a lady?"
"Why is that man Neergaard here? I don’t like him. You would be doing me a great service by refraining from dancing with him."
"Well, really! … You are certainly not slow in setting your stall out."
She laughed, but at the same time leant her full weight into his body.
Then it was Per’s turn to laugh. This clandestine token of intimacy, the fragrance from her hair and her partially exposed bosom resting against his chest, set him momentarily on fire. They danced around the ballroom for several more turns and by the time he led her back to her seat, Neergaard had disappeared. He saw him sometime later standing at the other end of the room, courting the attention of a quite young girl with long, corn blonde plaits down her back.
The ball then proceeded at a sluggish pace, and without much apparent enjoyment, other than that shown by the house servants who were occasionally allowed to peek into the ballroom from behind a door. It was only after the assembled Herrer noticed that certain liquid refreshments had been laid on for them in some of the side rooms that the occasion began to find some spark.
It should be pointed out that the Herrer in question were something of a mixed bag and quite lacking in the finer social graces. This is very often happens when otherwise cultured families, having no sons of their own, must press ball cavaliers into service via friends and friends of friends without any guarantees as to good breeding other than the address of the individual concerned.
These invited gentlemen felt no obligation towards their hosts. They were at liberty to behave as they please, yawn, criticise alleged shortcomings and generally be as demanding as they would be in a public place of entertainment.
The host, a small white haired man who even himself did not know the names of his guests, moved in a state of angst around the rooms as if he were the greatest stranger of all. With a forced "society occasion" smile on his lips, he persevered with the prime duty demanded of him by the lady of the house and her daughters, namely – to get the ball cavaliers to "work the rounds". Whenever he found a gentleman standing at his ease in front of one of the paintings in the sitting room, or tarrying too long at the refreshment stand, he would sidle up to him and begin a conversation, which always began in a quite innocent fashion with some remark on the visual arts, the theatre, or whether it was cold enough for skating on the canals, but without fail ended with his charge being led back to the dancing room where he was then presented to one of the older female patrons of the house who was bereft of a male consort.
Fru Engelhardt had promised to keep the Cotillion for Per. But after he had eaten and the dance had begun, he sought her both in the ballroom and the adjoining rooms without success. He found her finally in a small dimly lit alcove, which formed part of a hexagonal turret room on the other side of the sitting room. She was sitting all alone in the corner of a sofa, which was arranged in such a position that it was concealed from view, unless one actually entered the room itself.
She received him with a gentle but tired and melancholy air, saying that now he would no doubt now be cross with her, but the fact was that she could not face any more dancing and she could not, of course, demand of him that he too should quit the ball in order to sit there and entertain her. That kind of sacrifice she just would not accept … he must not under any circumstances feel beholden to her.
For all his inexperience in the mores of high society, Per was not so stupid as to misunderstand her intentions. He shoved a chair alongside her, and for a while they both sat quietly, whilst the music and general hubbub from the ballroom washed over them – softened substantially as it was by having to pass two or three large rooms on its way to them. Then Per suddenly took her hand, which had been left at liberty on the arm of the sofa, and when she offered no resistance he declared his love for her in very frank and direct words and repeated his previous request for a romantic assignation. At last, she promised to submit to his wishes and he bent across her white arm and placed kisses, once, twice, three times above her elbow. He had, in fact, assumed that she would give him the cold shoulder and she did, in truth, give a warning that she would be extremely cross with him if he tried that again – but the bright sheen of joy in her eyes and the palpable animation in her ample breasts served to contradict the words coming from her mouth.
But just at that moment, footsteps could be heard in the outer room. Per just managed to throw himself back in his seat when Neergaard’s long shape showed itself in the door opening. He gave a polite and apologetic bow, but remained standing there with his hands on his back, as if pondering the wisdom of entering the room.
"Do come in," the Frue said."Why are you in need of company?" Neergaard asked, in a manner which Per did not like – it was almost gruff in its delivery.
"Ah, not really I suppose, but if you have some entertaining tale or ditty to recount, we would love to hear it."
"Well, given that madam and Hr. Engineer Sidenius are obviously so lacking in entertainment … quite abandoned by the world you both are."
"Yes," she said, as she waved her fan listlessly and leaned back into the corner of the sofa. "It is a pain I admit … tiredness overcame me … I came over all faint, what with the dancing and all those people. But you Neergaard? Why are you not dancing? After all, you’ve not wanted for potential partners."
"Ah no Frue," he said – as he finally took the decision to move in to the room – "I believe that I too should retreat into this kind of atmospheric gloom and get used to the idea of not being part of the dance anymore. – May I?"
He wheeled a chair over to the sofa from the opposite side of where Per was sat. In this way, the two men came to sit face to face without even having greeted each other. At which point, Fru Engelhardt suddenly found her tongue. She launched into an attack on the guest list, waxed lyrical about the supper provided which, on the other hand, she praised highly before moving on to the varying standards of "toilette" and "etiquette" shown by the ladies that evening. Per simply sat there, observing Neergaard and saying nothing. Neergaard was equally taciturn. He had bent forward slightly in his chair so that his face was no longer visible. His elbows now rested on his knees and his long hands – which betrayed a slight shake – played with the gloves which he had removed."My God Neergaard, you really have turned into such a bore," she suddenly exclaimed, breaking off from the flow of her own conversation. "You, of all people, who was always the life and soul of the party. Come on, do tell us the secret. What has happened to you? … I take it that there is a lady involved."
"You may be right there madam."
"Ah, I bet it’s that Frøken Holm! Sweet little thing she is. Of course! She is just up your street Sir. It’s only fair to enlighten you Hr. Sidenius … Hr. Neergaard was once honest and entertaining enough to admit to me that he finds any blonde and blue eyed beauty quite impossible to resist. And to cap it all, this particular one is from the country," she said, turning again to Neergaard. "She is the essence of daisies and clover, summer sunshine and full cream milk … the perfect dairy maid you have always wanted sir. – When can we expect to hear wedding bells?"
Hr. Neergaard, who had lifted his head during this repartee, now leaned back in his chair, placed his hat over his stomach and then his hands on top of it and, with an almost breathless sigh, said: "The wisest thing, perhaps, when you get to my age, is to face the fact that you have at least one foot in the grave. All that remains is to ensure that you have a decent burial."
Fru Engelhardt laughed.
"Oh come now…what a bleak view of the world! What would we poor ladies do if every man carried on so? … Look at Hr. Frick, the retired captain in the cavalry. He is sixty two and still dances like a young lieutenant. And I have no doubt that he is still something of a conquistador with the ladies … Ah no, men of your age still have things to look forward to."
Neergaard bowed his head in acknowledging her words.
"I thank you Frue, for your kind words despite the fact they have the ring of a graveside oration. Of course, I am aware that nowadays the skill in preserving the bloom of youth has been developed – by both men and women – into a fine art so that even those of an advanced age can seem strikingly fresh faced; just in the same way that we have learned to conserve peas and asparagus and other vegetables. But, to me, the thought of an old, desiccated Ritmester cavalier on his horse is an abomination. No, a timely exit is the only option…give youth its day… and thereby avoid constant humiliation. And a thousand humiliations await those of us who achieve my vintage. Gout, poor digestion, old man’s gruel, kidney stones, the trials of the operation table– this is the reality of life for anyone on the wrong side of his forties."
"But the memories," Fru Engelhardt said softly. "All those great memories you have Neergaard …have you forgotten them?"
"Memories? … Hm! … Are they not also in a kind of petrified state, brought down from the shelf to provide some meagre sunshine in the winter of life – a reminder of the summer that disappeared so quickly? No madam, please do not talk to me about memories! They are just something else to plague the spirit … memories are the very thing which make us feel that all of life’s subsequent events are but more evidence of a vanishing tide, a wearisome and fading recurrence of what once was."
"My dear Neergaard you are simply impossible tonight. But I forgive you. You are obviously out of sorts… there’s some kind of irregularity there. You really should see a doctor. He will almost certainly recommend a trip to the hot springs at Carlsbad to get things back in line."
"Perhaps madam. Or perhaps some of those world renowned iron pills … a revolver full at a time. Nothing beats them where pain killers are concerned."
"Oh for God’s sake!... I am not talking to you any more. You just won’t take anything seriously!"
As if watching a tennis match, Per had shifted his attention backwards and forwards between the two speakers throughout the whole of their verbal exchange. The convivial tone of their repartee had once again left him slightly uneasy as he mused on the relationship that existed between them; but he reassured himself by recalling that Fru Engelhardt had already told him on the night of the carnival that she and Neergaard had known each other since childhood. Besides which, her whole attitude towards him– not to mention the sarcasm underlying her recommendation of a stay in far flung Carlsbad – clearly pointed to one thing, and one thing only, and that was how his obdurate behaviour had annoyed her immensely.
At this point, however, the adjoining rooms came alive with the sound of breathless dancing partners throwing themselves down onto the chairs by the refreshment tables. The ball was coming to an end. That said, there were still at least three or four couples who were too in love and caught up in the occasion to let the music stop and they danced to its frantic tattoo in an ever quickening tempo so that dust whirled from their feet.
Outside, the carriages began to manoeuvre up to the front entrance. Fru Engelhardt then went round bidding farewell to everyone with her arm linked to her husband’s. This man was a tall and stout wholesaler with a jovial demeanour who had spent the whole evening at one of the card tables. When they passed the place where Per was sitting, and to his extreme consternation, Fru Engelhardt actually stopped and introduced the two gentlemen to each other. Her husband shook his hand and passed a few polite comments. Per, for his part, felt extremely uncomfortable and could not bring himself to make eye contact.
Why, for heavens sake, had she done that? – he wondered anxiously, just as he overheard her speaking to her husband in a deliberately loud voice amongst the throng of departing guests:
"Is it not next Tuesday, you’re off to London darling?"
The wholesaler answered this point in the affirmative. And Per reddened visibly and smiled. It was a smile that got ever broader as he turned quite pale and his wide eyed gaze followed her white Amazon shoulders framing her fire red silk dress. – Ah yes. Life was now really beginning for him in earnest!
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As the clock struck three, Neergaard and Per made their way home in the moonlit night. Per had no wish to be accompanied, but when the two men took leave of the ball and Neergaard had asked him where he lived, and did it not make sense to go home together given that they lived so near to each other, he was hardly in a position to say no. And at least he had the pleasure of accepting this offer as a final acknowledgment of his victory in the battle for Fru Engelhardt’s favours – a white flag. There was also the undeniable fact that he had been overwhelmed by the urbane politeness which his erstwhile opponent had at all times shown him despite the huge age gap between them.
Neergaard began talking about the party, and about social events in general, but Per was too wrapped up in himself and the events of the evening to really take in what was being said. In spite of the sharp frost and the long walk that was ahead of them – Neergaard was already staggering slightly – Per had thrown open his coat. His conquest and subsequent feelings of superiority had made him positively hot. With a contented smile on his face, he blew out smoke rings into the clear air as he walked.
They turned away from the canal at Holmens Bro and then proceeded along the left side of Kongens Nytorv. They then passed the National Bank, whose imposing contours rose before them into the sky like some great ancient tomb. A sentry in a red cape guarded the entrance to this grave yet elegant monument to mammon.
Shortly afterwards, Neergaard stopped in front of one of the old, narrow and dilapidated houses, which lived on borrowed time along this broad and distinguished thoroughfare.
"Well, here is my humble abode. Would Hr. Sidenius not consider honouring my home with his presence and partaking of a glass of wine? It is not that late after all."
Per hesitated but then said yes. He wanted the night to live on for some time yet and was in no mood to return to his quarters. From that day, when he had locked his drawings into the upper drawer in his commode, he had moved around in his own rooms with a feeling of dread, as if he had buried a corpse under his own floorboards.
Soon he found himself comfortably ensconced in the corner of a sofa, which lay behind a large table. A high necked lamp with a green silk screen burned upon the table. Whilst Neergaard rummaged in the adjoining room in search of suitable drinks, Per ran the rule over what was obviously a very well appointed and elegant bachelor apartment. He could not help but make comparisons with his own tiny and impoverished home. How on earth was he supposed to entertain a lady like Fru Engelhardt in such a place? – He noted that the room was completely carpeted. His inquisitive eyes also took in the carved mahogany furniture, the vases and gold plated candelabra. There was no doubt that these things had been handed on to him as part of an inheritance. And across the dimly lit room, on the opposite wall, he could discern a set of small and large pictures representing a veritable army of portraits: Paintings in gilt edge frames, daguerreotypes, engravings, small ivory pendants, lithographs, hand drawn likenesses and modern photographs… a long cortege depicting the dead generations of the Neergaard line.
On closer inspection, everything bore the mark of a growing neglect. The carpet was nearly worn out and the furniture covers faded beyond repair. At the same time, he noticed that there were a number of cracks in the glass panes of the large, beautiful book cabinet, which contained an impressive range of bound books.
Neergaard then appeared to curtail his musings. He was carrying a long necked bottle and two large green goblets. He sat down in an armchair opposite Per and took great care in pouring out two measures into the glasses.
"I am delighted to have made your acquaintance," he said, as he lifted his glass. "Allow me the honour to toast your health, Hr. … Hr. Lucky Per!"
Per shot him a glance. He was taken aback and slightly annoyed at this direct allusion to the evening’s events. But given that the intention was to crown him as Victor Ludorum, he was reluctant to reveal his displeasure. He grabbed his glass and gulped down the wine.
"I am, however, obliged to hold up my hands and admit that your not particularly witty nickname is not my own invention," Neergaard continued as he proceeded to polish his glasses. "It is actually one of your friends that I am quoting … that little fellow Salomon whom I saw in your company the other day. He is a great admirer of yours. My own view is that the name is hardly flattering. There is an old saying that good fortune is the preserve of fools. And an esteemed Latin author wrote that luck is the begetter of sorrow."
Aye, Per thought to himself: Seek ye your crumbs of comfort! They are yours to keep!
"But for the fact that it sounds like an abominable paradox ," – Neergaard continued – "I would say outright that the miserable seem to me to be the most fortunate of all. After all, they have the satisfaction of being able to damn their fate, insult the good Lord himself, hold providence to account and so on; whilst they whom – as they say – Lady Luck smiles upon, may only bemoan their fate when their luck occasionally deserts them." "But why would anyone want to be unlucky?" Per enquired, smiling to himself, as he watched the smoke from his cigar.
"Why?" Neergaard asked, whose whole speech was tinged with a tone of soft pity, even though Per was not receptive to its particular timbre. "I believe you don’t quite grasp my point, Hr. Engineer! My belief – despite my aversion to paradoxes – is that luck itself is actually the greatest turn of ill luck that could ever affect a human being because … well, because we human beings in nine hundred and ninety nine cases out of a thousand lack the ability to make sure that our great fortune does not do us more harm than good. In our day and age, we are no longer instructed in the art of handling the magic that life has to offer us – that’s the truth of it. Lady Luck invites us to a sumptuous feast but we decide we’d rather be peasants at the king’s banquet. When all is said and done, we all prefer home made porridge and our little mother’s pancakes, regardless of the dazzling delights that confront us in Aladdin’s Cave. – I presume you know the tale of the young swineherd who wins the princess's hand and half the kingdom with her. It ends, in my opinion, just at the point where it starts to get interesting; at least where we adults are concerned. We should have been allowed to follow this clodhopper in his velvet slippers and brocade waistcoat as he went round and became progressively paler and scrawny from his pot of good luck. We should have seen him lying in the princess’s silken sheets, whimpering in longing for Daisy the milkmaid and the thought of her hefty arms around him. For there is no doubt that this is the way that things would have ended up. Not one hour would have passed without heartache for him until he once again stepped into his farm clogs and abandoned his crown and sceptre in favour of his father’s manure fork."
Neergaard had put his glasses on again and sat back in his chair, his long hands folded beneath his chin. His lacklustre eyes rested on Per with a look that was at once inquisitive and engaged and yet bore a slight angst, as he continued:
"For all our celebrated Danish fantasising, we all retain an immovable partiality for the tried and tested. Regardless of how fervently we, in our young days, rush to embrace the magic and all encompassing wonder of life… the moment that wonderland opens it gates to us and the king’s daughter beckons to us from her balcony, we become filled with doubt and turn to look back at that familiar seat by the oven range."
"You are probably right ," said Per – he was still studying the depths of his cigar smoke with a smile on his lips. "That’s probably the way things will turn out for most people. But there are always exceptions to the rule."
"Not one in a thousand Hr. Engineer. Perhaps not one in ten thousand! One day, you yourself will discover the kind of dark power that the force of habit and the echoes of home exert upon us, even though we might perhaps hate them at the same time. For example, look around you right here sir! There we go, plodding on through life and dragging with us an accumulation of remnants left to us by our ancestors, all of which stacks up around us like the Great Wall of China but we just cannot face the idea of parting with any of it. We make ourselves cosy in a mausoleum full of family heirlooms and, in the end, we have no other feelings left to cling on to, save those of filial piety."
"Well, perhaps – but that cannot be true of everybody," said Per. "I for one could hardly be tempted by that particular devil. Because the things that I can drag round with me from my past would just about fit in my breast pocket."
"Then, I congratulate you! But then, what help is that really? The power of the spell that family and home holds over us is not just about material things. For we allow our possibly long dead father’s meaningless exhortations, or a simple mother’s prejudices, to influence our actions right up to our own old age. And then on top of that we have our dear brothers and sisters and fretting uncles and aunts – –."
"For my part, I happen to be quite fortunate in that regard as well, because with my background I will never be caught that situation."
"Well then, I must once again congratulate you. – But, with respect, you must have come from some kind of home….. and presumably one of those famous Danish vicarages which are so renowned for their cosiness. Actually, I must admit that I am drawing this conclusion from your surname – if I am not mistaken?"
Per let this last remark pass by as if he he had not heard it and said that he did not know, and had never known what was commonly called next of kin.
"No, really! Are you, perhaps, a –."
"Yes," said Per, deliberately cutting across him. "I stand alone and on my own two feet in this world."
"Well, I never!" – Neergaard leaned forward with his hands on the chair’s armrests and stared at Per in wonder and astonishment. – "So little Salomon has a point after all. There really is the sense of mystery and adventure about you. No family worries! No brothers or sisters to plague you! No well meaning uncles and busybody aunties … Free as a lark in the clear air!"
Per's refusal to comment was simply confirmation that this was indeed so.
Neergaard sank once again back into the armchair, and a moment’s deep silence followed.
"You really do seem to have been blessed by providence Hr. Sidenius. Were I not so old and decrepit, I might even be tempted to envy you in all your good fortune. Not only free but carefree in all matters of family and society. And with a hunger for life’s bounty that’s as urgent as a blackbird in a cherry tree. Yes, that’s just how it should be! – But then? What help is it? Even if we are not born with chains, we seem to feel an urge to make chains for ourselves as life progresses. We are, and will ever be, a band of slaves. We only ever feel really at home when we are in chains and shackled – What would you say to that?"
"To be honest, I can’t quite follow your drift," Per said, as he looked up at the clock on the book cabinet, which told him that the time was a quarter past four. He had begun to tire of the monotone nature of the conversation. He had also begun to fear that he had let his tongue run away with him in his replies.
Another short while passed before Neergaard answered. Still, he maintained his preoccupied and tense gaze whilst looking across at Per.
"The drift of my thoughts? … Ah, we acquire friends and habits and, as time goes on, allow ourselves to be hamstrung by all kinds of commitments and obligations. That is before we even begin to touch on the stuff that binds men and women together, which we prefer to glorify by calling it love, affection, our natural instinct, or whatever you will. Even such a free spirit as your good self must admit that women have arms which, in spite of their softness, can wrap themselves around a man like an iron vice."
"Ah now, not to the extent that it would annoy me," said Per, who laughed out loud. "And least of all when you are in a really tight clinch with them."
"Yes, you are young yet. But stay with my point – see if by some chance it should befall you that some woman or other whom you desired purely physically, even though you at the same time possibly hated her … a tart perhaps, or some big bosomed Bessie, who you in the innocence of your youth had kissed … in short, a creature to whom you felt attached out of pure habit or fond memories … see now if this woman were to betray you in a particularly coldblooded fashion, behind your back. How would that free spirit react in such circumstances?"
Where is he going with all this? – Per thought to himself. But out loud he said:
"What would I do? Why, just go and get another one."
"Very good! But what if the new one should prove to be less than satisfactory – and you have to admit that there’s always that risk – what then?"
"Well, I’d just take a third, a fourth, a fifth … for God’s sake Hr. Neergaard, there’s no shortage of women in this world!"
"Yes, that is true! … That is so true!"
He went on repeating these words, closing his eyes as he did so; as if he had discovered the secret of the Holy Grail itself.
Per stirred himself in order to signal his imminent departure. The conversation had become a bit too personal for his liking. It was also getting very late. A couple of bakers’ wagons had already been heard dashing along the street outside, heralding as they did so the breaking of a new dawn.
But Neergaard became suddenly gripped by a strange exhilaration. He refilled Per’s glass and begged him to forget about the lateness of the hour.
"I count myself truly fortunate to have made your acquaintance, Hr. Sidenius. You really are a breath of fresh air and also very enjoyable company. I hope you will not be offended if I raise a certain issue with you – a proposal if you like."
What now? thought Per.
Neergaard explained that though this issue might, on the face of it, seem rather strange, from what he now knew of Per he was sure that he would accept the whole thing in the right spirit. All this was to do with one of his friends, a close relative, who was dying. He was terminally ill … his time was very short … he was sick both in soul and body. Never mind that, that wasn’t the heart of the matter. A long story short then: This man, who had never married, was in a quandary as to what he should do with his worldly remains – which, by the way, amounted to no more than some furniture, a pair of poor paintings, a few books … in fact not unlike what you see around you here. One thing was sure – he was not going to hand them on to his family. He did not want them put in places where they risked becoming objects of veneration. He has made it explicitly clear that the whole kit and caboodle should be put up for auction and sold – spread to the four winds. This had now become an obsession with the poor man and, given that his own people were well to do, and besides which were more than likely to oppose his wishes, because most of what he owned was inherited, he had then begun to talk about leaving it all to someone who might benefit from it more, or at least enjoy some fleeting moments of pleasure thereby.
"Now it occurs to me… may I not propose your name to him? I am convinced that, if he knew you, the same thing would occur to him. You are precisely the kind of person he so often wanted to be himself. Free and frank and without a care in the world. – – No, please … as long as you have no objections to my proposal, please don’t say anything. It’s agreed and there won’t be another word about it. As I say, the whole thing doesn’t amount to much … it is probably no more than a few thousand Danish crowns, that’s after debts and other obligations have been reconciled."
He must be drunk as a lord, – thought Per, who felt that raising any objection to the idea was just not worth the bother. Instead, he made a joke of the whole thing.
"Well – I suppose it’s better than a slap in the face!" he said. "Money always comes in handy, wherever it’s from. – But I really must get home. Thank you for the entertainment!"
"Ah no Hr. Sidenius, you are not leaving? Stay a bit longer! … it’s so stuffy in here. We'll let some air in. That’s it!" – He rose awkwardly and threw a window open, allowing cold air to stream into the room, which immediately aroused the flame in the glass lamp. A long smoky tongue of flame briefly illuminated the whole room. – "Do sit down again! I know that we’ve sat here and all the talk has been so melancholy. But the bottle is not empty. and it’s good wine, you have to say."
But Per would not be persuaded a second time. He had begun to feel a slight unease at his host’s rising agitation. He also noticed for the first time the pallor in his face and how clammy his hand was – a hand that shook slightly as they took leave of each other.
So many strange people in the world!, he mused to himself, as he finally escaped into the street and, with a freshly lit cigar in his mouth, struck up a steady pace through the town, which was now truly coming to life. Thoughts came flooding back to him recalling the night time scene in the Cave with the larger than life Fritjof. – As soon as they get you on their own, they can’t wait to tell you about some great dread that hangs over them. They already have one foot in the grave. And then they deliver their own graveside sermon.
Here and there in the grey morning mist, men could be seen lifting rubbish and sweeping the streets. Small licensed premises in cellars and down stairways were opening for business, along with a single tobacco kiosk. All the street lanterns were now extinguished, but soft lights spilled out onto the street from all the baker’s shops and the aroma of freshly baked bread filled the air, tempting passersby to stop and gaze at the large display windows. Outside one such shop, Per himself stopped for a moment and became witness to a scene just unfolding between a sweet little bakery maid, who was perched up a stepladder easing some cake plates onto a shelf, and a half naked apprentice baker who was sat below her on the counter, his legs dangling to and fro. Per could not hear what passed between them but the apprentice’s wide grin and the feigned indignation of the young girl, who was using her foot to fend off his hands, made all words redundant.
Per smiled, whilst his own thoughts tangled with Fru Engelhardt in exactly the same way. Yes, the night was over now. Life was waking to a new day and yet the urge to love, and be loved, had already banished thoughts of breakfast and breaking bread. – Then, the factory horns began to blow. He stopped and listened with the air of a worshipper being called to prayer. At first, there was just a couple of blasts coming from the direction of Nørrebro; then one started in the docks at Kristianshavn, eventually the sound was coming from everywhere – a cock crowing with a thousand voices – an Evangelium for a new age, which one day would drive away all the dark forces of spookery and superstition – never to return!