A Fortunate Man (1905)
By Henrik Pontoppidan. Translation: Paul Larkin
Chapter Four
About a week later, on a gloomy, foggy evening, a thin gentleman in grey apparel stood off a tram at the corner of Grønningen, went past Husar barracks and proceeded to walk across the lengthy, triangular square leading to Nyboder. With one hand behind his back and the other gripping the handle of an umbrella, with which he forcefully struck the pavement at each stride, he moved with vigour and a steady rhythm along the streets of Nyboder. As the gentleman went along, he would stop for a moment and scrutinize each new street sign, which was illuminated by the feeble glow from a street lamp.
As he completed the row of houses in each street, without finding the name he was looking for, and when in this desolate place there proved to be not one soul that might help him on his way, he turned a corner at random and thus quickly found himself completely astray in the warren of tightly knit and identical streets for which Nyboder was renowned. All the windows in the low slung sitting rooms facing on to the street had their shutters in place. There was nothing more than a small round, or heart shaped, peephole in each shutter, and street lights were even fewer than those found on the outer square. That said, life behind these shutters was lively enough. For, there was a general hubbub of conversation to be heard, as well as the cries of children and, here and there, music from a harmonica. Indeed, every word that was uttered could be clearly heard out on the street. Of a sudden, a door might be flung open and a housewife clad in her nightgown would empty a chamber pot into the gutter, or a little dog would be let out. Then, a pair of cats would run by and proceed to perform a courting duet.
Eventually, the grey suited man happened upon a solitary individual with whom he could make enquiries and thus make his way to Hjertensfrydgade, where with the help of matches he read the numbers above the doors in the street until he reached the house in which Per lived. At first, he fumbled with his hand looking for a bell wire and when this was to no avail, he set about the old fashioned door latch, finally worked out how it opened the door and stepped into the house’s tiny lobby. Here, it proved to be so dark that he could not see his own hand in front of him. With the intention of alerting the house’s occupants as to his presence, he gave several exaggerated coughs.
At this point, the door leading to the downstairs living quarters was opened. A young ship’s carpenter and his family lived here. A fledgling housewife, who carried a baby at her breast, looked out into the lobby. The light from a lamp in the room shone above her severely combed head and threw the stranger’s facial features into stark relief. He had a young, but rather long and pale face with red rimmed eyes and a small clump of whiskers below his ears.
"Am I right in saying that Hr. Sidenius lives here?" he asked, without prefacing his question with any kind of greeting.
"Yes that’s right – he lives there in the back chambers. But he is not at home."
"I see! … would I be talking to the mistress of the house?"
"No. He’s renting from the Olufsens up above … I’ll call up to Madam."
At that moment, the steeply inclined staircase began to creak under the weight of a ponderous step, and Madam Olufsen, who had been standing and listening from behind the door up above, revealed herself on the landing with a small tin lamp in her hand.
"Does the good gentleman wish to speak with Hr. Sidenius?" she asked.
"Yes, – but I presume he is not here," the stranger replied in a tone which suggested that he held her personally responsible for his wasted journey. "Is there any point in waiting for him, in your view?"
"No, I am afraid not. It’s not that long since he left."
"What time of day is most likely to find him indoors, in your view?"
"Well now, see, he doesn’t spend much time at home just at present. But I would say that early evening is the best time for catching him at home."
"Thank you. – Goodbye."
"Who shall I say called?" Madam Olufsen asked.
But the stranger had already turned and disappeared through the door. The sound of his steady footfall and the smack from the tip of his umbrella as it hit the pavement could be heard gradually fading as he moved down the street.
"He had the cut of a Priest," said the diminutive ship carpenter’s wife with no little concern in her voice. "Why is he looking for Hr. Engineer Sidenius d'ye think?"
But on this occasion, Madam Olufsen was in no mood to discuss the affairs of her lodger. She gave a short "good night" and returned to her own chambers.
Here, the Senior Boatswain was to be found with a pair of large silver spectacles perched on his nose reading "The Runaway Negro Slave or Shipwrecked on the Coast of Malabar", a novel he would bring home with him each winter from Miss Jordan’s book lenders and which he would scrutinize with the same wonder and excitement as in many other winters gone by.
"Sounded like someone looking to speak with Sidenius" he asked, without lifting his eyes from his book.
"Indeed and it was," Madame answered, pulling her shoulder shawl tightly round her, as if responding to a sudden chill in the air, and shovelling some scraps of turf into the stove. Then she sat down in her armchair to set about knitting. There had been little in the way of conversation between herself and her husband during this period. They were forced to acknowledge that their lodger had drastically changed his course in the last while and that he was steering straight into a headwind. Yes of course he had always been one for cutting loose; but these long bouts of gallivanting, which at one time he had passed off as a bit of a laugh, had never gone on for more than a day or two. Now though, he had hardly been home in three weeks, and when they did see anything of him, he was taciturn, closed off and surly to boot. He had even talked about moving out. Nor could the company he was keeping be so choice if it was true, as he had let slip one day, that he had known the senior civil servant, whose name had been all over the papers after he had poisoned himself.
Then, on top of that, they had another reason to be vexed with him. For not only was his rent in serious arrears but they were also tortured by a daily stream of irate people coming to their door waving bills from tailors and shoemakers who were owed money. "Who was it exactly down below who wanted to talk to Sidenius?" Senior Boatswain Olufsen finally asked.
"I didn’t know him at all. But now that I think on it, I mind seeing him before. A long time ago. If I am not wrong, at that time Sidenius told me it was someone from The New World. But he doesn’t look like a Yankee to me."
As this conversation unfolded, Per was waiting for Fru Engelhardt in the same dark corner of Vor Frue Plads, where he had previously stood watch in the hope that she would come. On this occasion, he had better grounds to believe that she would actually turn up. For, whilst it was true that he had not seen her since the evening of the ball – she had strictly forbidden him from greeting her in the street or, indeed, from attempting any other form of contact with her – but today was the day that her husband was to travel to London, and the previous day he had received a signed note from her saying "Tomorrow Evening". His assumption was that the rendezvous point and time would be the same as the last arrangement.
He had, however, received other correspondence that very morning which had animated him to an almost greater degree than this, albeit long awaited, amorous tryst. The correspondent was none other than Neergaard’s solicitor, who, to his great consternation, informed him that Neergaard had, in a letter to be opened after his death, "bequeathed a certain sum which would accrue to him by way of the proceeds from a public auction of the deceased’s property, fixtures and fittings, in accordance with said deceased’s last will and testament." ¹ This will, the letter went on to point out, was actually invalid, as it had not been set out in the legally prescribed manner; but given the fact that the deceased’s two sisters and sole legal beneficiaries were married and of prosperous means, there was no reason to believe that these parties – who at the moment were both domiciled outside of the kingdom – would not consent to the deceased’s last wishes. Thus, in his capacity as executor of the deceased’s estate, the solicitor requested an interview with Per at a convenient moment when his business affairs brought him in the vicinity of the solicitor’s offices.
Per could not decide what his best approach should be to this turn of events. His initial feelings were of embarrassment. For all his fatalistic belief that his star was hitched to Lady Fortune’s wagon, and even though money was being thrown into his lap at a time when he could not have needed it more, he just could not bring himself to believe that this final capricious gesture on the part of a suicide represented some kind of heaven sent succour. On the other hand, he felt that he could hardly refuse such a substantial sum, which would set all his hardships to rights for the foreseeable future. Very little remained of the loan he had raised and yet, despite this, most of his equipment was still not paid for.
– – But then a closed carriage rolled up besides him from a side street. A hand, adorned by a bright glove, motioned from the gloom beyond the window frame and, in one brisk set of movements, Per stopped the carriage, flung the door open and shouted up to the jarvey, giving the name of a restaurant famous for its view across Kongens Nytorv, and stepped in.
What he experienced during the short carriage journey paved the way for a series of crushing disappointments. He had hoped to find his Frue nervous and ill at ease … to observe that under her fur cap she was blushing and quivering from sheer angst and mortification. He had even prepared a few phrases that might conquer her shyness; – but he was never given the opportunity to show off his skills in the art of seduction. For Per had barely taken his seat and thanked her for her gracing him with her presence when she threw herself up on to his lap, like some fille de joie, pushing into him with such a violent gusto that he was left almost completely winded.
It has to be said, that she allowed her veil to drop over her face as they mounted the brightly lit staircase in the restaurant; but when they were led in to one of the discreet dining rooms by the major domo and a table waiter, she immediately threw off both cape and hat without showing the slightest deference to the presence of these strangers. Whilst Per’s actions were slightly and awkward, in what for him was a completely new situation, his good lady seemed to feel quite at home there, arranging her hair in front of a mirror, pulling off her gloves and plumping her full figure down in the middle of the sofa behind the immaculately laid table.
Per, meanwhile, quietly took his seat on the opposite side of the table. It was obvious to him that this was not the first time she had made this kind of social engagement. In fact, he was fairly sure that he had seen a knowing smile spread across the face of the bewhiskered waiter when they had first entered the place.
"Why are you looking at me in that funny way" she asked, once they were alone, placing her head to one side and pouting in the exaggerated manner of a flirtatious school girl. "My God, you are actually running the rule over me Sir! … Does my look displease you?"
She looked down at her breasts, which filled the square cut bosom part of her dress to overflowing. Her look was black and strictly tailored; thus emphasising her ample upper body and the cut of her waist, which was as slim as a young maiden’s. "Well say something then! – You are a terrible man altogether. You are like a moody bull or something. … Ha ha … let’s see if I can get a bulls eye then!"
As she began to pluck red berries from the centrepiece table decoration, to obtain the necessary projectiles, Per’s attention was drawn to her hands. His mouth pale and tight with sudden passion, he gazed at their tender plumpness, the soft, dextrous fingers, the clear, lustrous nails like stunning pearls and the little dimples which, as her hand’s moved, revealed themselves around her delicate knuckles like tiny pink mouths only waiting to be kissed. He caught one of the berries she had thrown in midair and captured her hand in the same movement. He was just about to draw her hand across the table to his mouth when the door was thrown open and the waiter and his assistant marched in with the first course.
The champagne was poured and the dishes were presented for their delectation. Once they were left to themselves again, Per smiled and lifted his glass in homage to her. A few more glasses were consumed, by which time his circumspection was completely dispelled. For God’s sake, he said to himself - why should he worry about her past? The main thing was that she now belonged to him, was his property, his conquest. – –
By the time the dessert had arrived, he had begun to speak of Neergaard’s suicide. Per offered his considered view that the man was mentally disturbed and eventually began to describe their late night tête-à-tête at his home and the frazzled state of mind displayed by Neergaard on that occasion as he revealed his wish to leave his earthly remains to him. He also pointed out that he could not have known the fatal dynamic that was at play in their conversation. Per then prattled on about certain rumours referring to the fact that there was a woman in the background to it all. For example, an acquaintance of his who averred that he had gleaned his intelligence from Neergaard’s landlord, had spoken of a certain lady who, her face always covered by a veil, had for many years been a regular visitor to his home, and it could be reasonably inferred that this was the same lady who on the evening before his burial had gained access to the funeral parlour and had strewn a veritable cascade of roses across his coffin.
As Per spoke, Fru Engelhardt sat in a meditative pose with her elbows on the table, whilst her little finger continually ran around the edge of her wine glass. Her face revealed a half distracted demeanour. She looked for all the world as if she was listening politely but without any great interest to a tale that was a bit too long in the telling for her liking. When Per then went further and began to delve into Neergaard’s past and pass on the gossip that told of him turning his back on a promising career as a diplomat, she began to show clear signs of impatience. She took a grape from the fruit bowl, dipped it into her wine and proceeded to suck on it. Then she interrupted him apologetically with a question relating to some other matter entirely, which had suddenly "occurred" to her; almost simultaneously she asked him to ring for the waiter and have the coffee brought in. Finally, when it became obvious to her that Per was still not of a mind to drop the issue, she rose demonstratively from the table, said "the meal was lovely thank you" and went over to the piano.
"What shall I play for you?" she asked after testing the instrument by performing a few quick scales up and down the keys. "Do you know this?", she asked, as a barrage of flat tones was thumped up from the depths of the piano. – "Waldtraum!", she declared during the performance, clearly happy herself with the din she was creating.
But Per had once again become withdrawn and taciturn. He could not help but notice the lack of concern she displayed in the fate of this poor soul, even though he had been part of her social set, had worshipped humbly at her feet; indeed, had he not been her escort to the ball the night before he took his own life? Then a vague suspicion flitted across his mind like some dark dread emerging from the shadows: What if Neergaard had been more than that? Was her indifference all a front? But he was given no time to do any more than grab at the thought as it came and went. For, disturbed by his prolonged silence, Fru Engelhardt had abruptly cancelled her concert and stood up. She now approached him from behind and placed her arms around his neck, forcing his head backwards as she did so in order that their eyes could meet. No, it is impossible!, thought Per, as he regarded the playfulness dancing in her gaze. And now soft, becalming kisses rained down on his brow, his hair and eyes … until her lips finally sought his mouth in a sudden fervour, a signal of her urgent and insistent desire. Then she whispered something into his ear and he rose forthwith. Without waiting for coffee to be served, she scorned any attendance and threw her cape around her whilst Per paid the bill, after which they hurried downstairs to the waiting cab. Closely entwined and with lips constantly seeking lips, they were conveyed to a hotel, whose guest book would record them as a Hr. and Fru Svendsen from Aarhus.
However, in the long night that followed, as Per lay awake in the half light of the hotel room, his dread suspicion reared up again and again until he finally succumbed to the grip of a terrible waking nightmare. His thoughts flew once again to the time spent in the dead of night in Neergaard’s chambers, echoes of the words they exchanged came back to him, words he had dismissed as being of no consequence. And with a grim clarity, the reality of how things stood dawned upon him: that woman who lay sleeping by his side was also part of the estate which Neergaard had bequeathed to him, to have and to hold in perpetuity – indeed, she had been his very "lodestar" and her casual indifference to him had driven him over the edge.
And he – yes he himself, hade been her willing accomplice!
His overwrought mind conjured forth lurid images of the deceased. Wherever he looked in the room his bare skull would emerge from the shadows and stare balefully at him, as if in mocking pity. And there she was, by his side, the murderess; who had sneaked in like a thief and bestrewn his coffin with roses. There was no other way of explaining it. … She slept the sleep of an innocent child in its cot; her breath rising and falling in long, contented draughts. At the very same time as her husband was being tossed about in his bunk on the high seas, and even before her lover’s corpse was cold in the grave, she had sought the joy’s of someone else’s embrace. And he – yes he himself, hade been her willing accomplice!
Per became gripped by feelings of disgust, a sheer horror, that drove him out of the bed. He had to get up. He would leave right there and then.
At that moment, Fru Engelhardt turned slowly in the bed, threw an arm above her head and spoke in a drowsy voice: "Are you up?"
He gave no answer. Even the sound of her voice made him shudder. – She tried to force her eyes open but the effort was too much for her. And, after a weak attempt at a smile, she returned to her dreams.
Per, for his part, moved quickly to make good his escape. In all silence, he would disappear without bidding adieu. His plan was to leave a note with the porter down below. One word would suffice by way of explanation: Neergaard.
However, by the time that he stood at the end of the bed with his overcoat on and his hat in his hand, ready to steal away, his gaze could not help but linger once more on the partially exposed figure, which lay in a position of complete abandon. Yes, there she was, lay on her back with both hands under her neck and one knee raised. Those very fine shoulder straps, that were meant to keep her underwear in place, had slipped down so that the ample, creamy flesh of her breasts was revealed in all its glory. Her dark hair, meanwhile, flowed across the pillow in a frenzy of disarray; her head was slumped down and her face pale and drawn from the night’s exertions.
Per felt his heart thumping against his chest. His knees buckled slightly. For he just could not wrest his gaze from the sight before him. The truth was that for all his fear and loathing, he felt once again irresistibly pulled towards her white, outspread arms, the soft tremble from her breasts, her partially open lips, still blushing from the passion of their embraces. More than anything, perhaps, he was shocked at what he saw in himself. He, for whom any talk of contradictions and dual personality in human nature had hitherto been a non issue; he, for whom women in particular had simply been harmless playthings, now stood shaking as he was confronted by the hidden powers who roll their thunderous dice and toy with the will and fate of man as a storm blows dust and chaff where it will along a country road. For the first time in his life, he felt himself to be at war with demons in whom he had not even wished to believe, whom he had scoffed at with a superior air. Deep down, he heard his father’s commanding voice pronouncing half forgotten words about "the power of the Dark One" and "Satan’s snare", words that made him physically blanche. But then Fru Engelhardt opened her large, brown eyes, as if she had become conscious of his unrelenting gaze. Groggy with sleep, she threw her hair back from her face and sat up in the bed.
"My God! … Are you up and dressed already?"
He gave no answer.
"Is it morning already?"
Still, he gave no reply.
"What’s going on, for God’s sake? Are you sick, or what?"
"No … at least, not yet."
"Not yet?" What are you talking about man? And why are you looking at me like that? Tell me what’s wrong with you!"
"What I am saying is … I am trying to make sure that I don’t catch a sickness … a terminal sickness … the way Neergaard did."
A spark of understanding flashed across her face like lightning in the gloom. But a moment later she was smiling again. For all that her countenance was now pale and drawn, she maintained a measured, even tone as she spoke:
"What utter nonsense you come out with sometimes! What on earth has … ahm … your friend’s ill health got to do with you? Come on, calm down and be nice to me again – there’s a good man!"
"I’m glad to hear that you avoid the mention of his name in this place. But at the same time it shows you up for what you are and you will forgive me madam if I now speak more bluntly. Whilst you slept, I worked out, in what way is no concern of yours, that you were Neergaard’s mistress, and that it was your deceitfulness and downright treachery madam that led him to take his own life. Now do we understand each other?"
As she listened, she bowed her head and bit at her quivering lips.
"Go!" she said softly, but with no little pride, as she flung a corner of the bed sheet across her bosom. "Go, I said! … A country bumpkin you are, and a country bumpkin you will remain!"
Per took a step toward the bed, jutted his head forward and was on the verge of casting the words "whore’s bitch" into her face but thought better of it. His own feelings of having been complicit in the affair strangled the words in his mouth and he turned silently and left.
Once down at the concierge’s booth, he woke the night porter and settled the bill. As he totted up the amount to be paid, it occurred to him that there could now be no question of his accepting Neergaard’s bequeathment. He went home in great haste through the dark, deserted streets.
It was at that hour when the footsteps of those few souls who are abroad in the dead of night echo backwards and forwards across the empty streets and houses. The last diehard patrons of the bars and cafés have made their uncertain way home and the night constables stand chatting at the junctions of major thoroughfares. Only thieves and the notorious shadow dwellers in the back lanes and alleys were abroad.
Another Herre, with coat upturned and his hat pulled down over his eyes, hurried past him having emerged from just such a mean passageway into the glare of a streetlight. Per was normally wont to find a measure of entertainment in these sinners slinking homeward with their at once haughty yet shameful demeanour. Now, though, he turned his head away to avoid the sight and wondered how he must look to other people. He did not have the nerve to look into the mirror of his soul and behold his own degradation.
Per got home to Hjertensfrydgade and, standing once again in his own small rooms, which he had tried at all costs to avoid just lately, he was immediately comforted and felt a hitherto unknown sense of security. He quickly threw off his clothes and in jumping into bed was minded of his feelings when, as a child at home in the rectory, he had pulled the bed quilt up around his ears after sitting in the dark and hearing the old, one eyed nanny telling one of her ghost stories.
* *
*
"After a few hours of troubled sleep, Per awoke to the sound of a starling whistling in the garden. The bird’s glad tones told him that the sun was shining. For all that, he remained in bed and had no inclination to get up. He was tired. And why shouldn’t he just stay where he was? After all, there was not a reason in the world to get up.
Then, in his semi-conscious state, he stole a quick glance over to the upper drawer in his commode. With that, he turned to the wall with every intention of finding sleep again.
This, however, proved impossible. For, the moment his thoughts had turned to these cursed drawings, he was immediately wide awake. Thus, for an hour, he lay with his hands behind his head staring up at the soft, low wooden ceiling and its myriad threads of resin, which could be studied to eternity. In the clear light of this bright new morning, he went over the events of the night before and could not help but feel a certain embarrassment at the way he had behaved. It occurred to him now that he had betrayed a certain lack of maturity. It had to be said that a lady of Fru Engelhardt’s style and substance deserved a modicum of deference. … By the time he had risen from his bed and taken his morning coffee, it was absolutely clear to him that he had behaved stupidly. He had been far too sanctimonious, that was for sure, too edgy over the whole thing – perhaps a case of having drunk more than his sufficiency?
Nevertheless, the singular delight of simply being at home remained with him. A feeling he had not felt for a long, long, time. He had lit his pipe and was sat, rocking slightly, in his poor wreck of a chair, whilst his gaze tarried at one of the small houses in the neighbouring street, whose first floor windows he could see across the fence. In one of the windows, a pair of children with ruddy cheeks could be seen along with their mother who was sat darning socks, whilst on the outside wall which was bathed in sunlight, a linnet was chirping and hopping around in a green painted cage. He could not decide what exactly it was in the scene across the street that captured his imagination so vividly. After all, it was just the same everyday image of home comforts that he had observed year in and year out. But on this particular morning, it was as if something new had entered the frame, as if he was really seeing it for the first time.
A knock at the door gave him a start.
It was Madam Olufsen, who then entered to let him know about the gentleman who had been there asking for him the previous evening. "What class of gentleman was this?"
"Well, I don’t really know but I can say that I didn’t like the cut of him anyway. And, if I am not wrong, he was here once before, the same man."
A debt collector probably – Per thought to himself, and thoughts of Neergaard’s inheritance came unbidden to his mind and disturbed his newfound equilibrium. Could he actually contemplate turning his back on that sudden windfall, of which he was in such dire need?
Madam Olufsen’s tall, big boned figure remained standing at the open door, blocking nearly all the incoming light. There was more she wanted to say to Per.
"While I am it, Sidenius, I wouldn’t mind knowing how the land lies. Were you not talking about moving out?"
Per smiled sheepishly.
"Ah! – that was a bit off the top of my head kind of talk, you know yourself. No, of course I want to stay on here Madam Olufsen! … That’s if you still want me here?"
"Oh … of course … if ehm …"
"I can see there’s something on your mind … Ah, I know what it is. I have been a bit distracted this last while. But let’s not talk about that… And gracious me Madam Olufsen there I go again – do forgive my inattention. For there you are in all your finery so early in the day! Is my good landlady gracing a church with her presence today?"
"No but – well, did you not know Sidenius? – Skipper Mortensen arrived in town the other night. And we are paying him the courtesy of a visit this afternoon."
"Count me in good madam! I’m joining the ship’s muster. I’ve actually been longing to see that old sea dog again."
"I’m sure that’s your talk Sidenius. You’ve moved on in life and our little gatherings are not really for gentlemen like you." "Oh Madam Olufsen, what nonsense, if you don’t mind me saying! Oh come on, it’s not like you to dig your heels in with me. No, it will be as I say – the old crew is reassembling! And let’s hear no more about it!"
Madam Olufsen could not resist a smile, in spite of her, in truth, heavy heart. She could never stay cross with him when he was in this kind of humour.
"Well Hr. Sidenius," she said. "You know that there will always be a welcome for you where Mortensen is concerned. He is never as glad to see anyone as when you walk through the door. I would go as far as to say that he is a little forliebt with you."
Skipper Mortensen was an old friend of the household. He lived in Flensburg but brought his ship to Copenhagen on regular twice yearly visits to sell cheese, butter and smoked foodstuffs to some of the town’s larger pork victuallers and individual customers and acquaintances. When, on his daily and meticulous inspection of the Ships and Harbour List in the "Telegraph", Senior Boatswain Olufsen saw that the sloop "Karen Sofie" had passed through the customs boom and was tied up by the Børs, he could not settle before the day and hour of a courtesy call was decided and Trine despatched into town to warn young Didriksen. This being another friend of the family. Didriksen was the driver of a hackney carriage who lived in Brøndstræde and who had, for many years now, willingly placed himself and his carriage at the old man’s disposal on such auspicious occasions.
Thus, on the very stroke of three, he was to be found outside the house; his carriage all spick and span and with its roof down, as if attending some merchant’s wedding at Vor Frue Cathedral. Following a short lull in the proceedings, the veteran couple emerged before the waiting crowd, which included some dozen curious children who had gathered by the carriage, and many more older neighbours who watched the triumphal procession from door and window. Madam Olufsen was clad in a Vienna shawl and a cluster of light purple grapes danced merrily on her hat. The Senior Boatswain, meanwhile, wore his stiffest funeral collar with the 25 year service medal and silver cross glinting in the sunlight from beneath his unbuttoned overcoat.
These gallant decorations aroused no little public attention as they drove through the streets. As he sat there – his hair brilliant white and exuding a ceremonial air – with both hands as still as statues on the horn of his umbrella, Senior Boatswain Olufsen could have passed for an old Admiral from the turn of the century, and there was no doubt that he would have invoked a respectful response from the curious onlookers commensurate with his image were it not for young Didriksen’s habit – proud as he was to be in such company – of turning at every other moment to carry on a conversation with his esteemed passengers in loud and familiar tones.
They first took a round trip covering the whole of the old town, examining the large, new buildings that were rising up everywhere and the remnants of the old ramparts which were being torn down. They also marvelled at the new, far too big and clumsy omnibuses coming in from the direction of Frederiksberg, which amongst the human hordes in Østergade bore the resemblance of elephants ploughing their way through with riders on their backs. From Kongens Nytorv, they turned down towards Kanalen, stopped for a moment outside Holmens Kirke, where 52 years ago they had been joined together in matrimony and then, finally, they drew up alongside Børs Quay.
Per had already arrived. He called a greeting from the railings of the "Karen-Sofie", where he – rather dishevelled in apparence – sat and took in the heat from the spring sunshine, whilst "Skipper" himself – an older man sporting a greying full set – left his vessel to welcome the new arrivals.
Deep in the ship’s open cargo hold, "Karen Sofie’s" belly so to speak, which was accessed by a ladder running down from the main deck, a shop of sorts had been set up, whose dark interior was bejewelled with large hams, sausages, smoked joints of lamb and millstone size cheeses. It was an Aladdin’s cave holding a treasure trove of foodstuffs. With Per and Skipper in close attendance, Madam Olufsen was manoeuvred down the ladder, followed by Senior Boatswain Olufsen who, here in his natural maritime element, was keen to show that he had not lost his sea legs and jumped around like an old jack tar, spurning each and every of offer of assistance. However, he stumbled as early as the first rung of the ladder and would have undoubtedly broken his neck but for Skipper Mortensen’s life saving arms. Be that as it may, he still managed to give young Didriksen a tongue lashing when he, as the last man up above, chose to crawl down the ladder with the utmost care, securing his footing at every step of the way . "Look lively there! Why man you are like a louse crawling through a head comb!" he bellowed, using salty turns of phrase that had first been used in the Danish fleet in the 1600s during the reign of Christian the Fourth.
After an hour of meticulous searching and sampling, weighing and haggling, a deal that pleased everybody was struck and the purchased goods were brought up on to the main deck. Then the event took place which was repeated year after year with the same predictability as one of Riveter Fuss’s jokes. Namely that Skipper Mortensen would open the door to into his cabin and invite his guests inside for light refreshments, at which point Madam Olufsen would insist that she could never bring herself to abuse a good friend’s hospitality in that manner, even though such surprise invitations always gladdened her heart. Senior Boatswain Olufsen, too, was chivalrous to a fault in absolutely refusing to take up anymore of their friend’s time, whilst young, Didriksen, who was all too used to these initial formalities, calmly extracted the plug of tobacco from his mouth and stowed it away in his jacket pocket.
It was not long, however, before the guests were benched in front of a splendidly laid table and all thoughts of careful politeness were quickly forgotten.
Per still felt completely at ease amongst these plain, unassuming people. In the same way, that he never ate more heartily than when dining from tables such as this with its solid fare of pork cuts, schnapps and beer, he still found the unaffected and jovial banter of common folk more to his liking. In this company, he was not – as was the case in the "The Cave" – reduced to being a withdrawn and caustic spectator; he threw himself with heart and soul into the various discussions, offering his own opinions on the weather, the prices at the food stalls, the ferry services and military matters affecting the city.
Once everybody had eaten their fill and tea and rum was served, the conversation moved on to reminisces about the war years and the difficult times that followed. The only thing that Per remembered from the war was the first seizure made by the enemy when they took over the rectory and the courtyard and the sudden flood of soldiers and horses, which forced the evacuation of the whole house; except that is for the upstairs rooms, where the large family had to cram itself into to a couple of small rooms. At that time he was just seven to eight years of age and had found the whole thing highly entertaining. He just could not fathom why some people got so upset that they started to cry. For a South Jutlander like Skipper Mortensen, however, events surrounding the war went much closer to the bone and he described with colourful relish the atrocities he had witnessed, both in the invasion of 1864 and also in the "Three Years War" along the Danish border which preceded it. He even had the satisfaction of seeing Madam Olufsen put her hands to her ears, declaring such stories unbearable and war generally as an abomination.
But this aroused Senior Boatswain Olufsen’s ire - his fighting spirit being easily inflamed under the influence of drink. He was already retired by the time 1864 had come around and as he had had no involvement in the border war some 15 years earlier, because he had been in hospital for his bad joints, he began to belittle these "German skirmishes" and the alleged misfortune they had brought on the country as they in no way could be compared with the wars against the Englishmen, which he himself had witnessed in both 1801, 1807 and 1814. "At that time we were forced, if you don’t mind, to give up both Norway and the whole of our fleet. See, now that was a proper war!" In order to outdo the Skipper, who described the defeats at Dybbøl and Fredericia in detail, he began to speak of the bombardment of Copenhagen and the sea battle 'Slaget paa Reden', which he had seen with his own eyes, as a five year old boy, from the vantage point of the Customs House, where he watched the injured being brought ashore in a rag tag of boats that were "as full of gristle and gore as a butcher’s carving board."
However, that was enough for Madam Olufsen who would not hear a word more about it and, given that night was beginning to descend, demanded to be taken home forthwith. Unfortunately, it now transpired that young Didriksen had fallen asleep, such was the impression made upon him by the tales of his country’s humiliation. There he sat, open mouthed and his head thrown back, and when attempts were made to revive him, his upper body simply slumped forward and he slept on as his head and arms crashed onto the table, despite the fact that his impact knocked over a beer glass, the contents of which poured over onto his upper legs and knees. After a moment’s silence, as the whole spectacle was taken in by those around the table, Per lifted the bottle of rum and established beyond doubt that said bottle had been quietly nipped at until the rum was no more. Thus, it was ascertained that the man was blind drunk.
Madam Olufsen took this as a mortal assault on her dignity. Outside on the quay, their carriage awaited them, its knock kneed steed having stood patiently and munched at an empty feedbag; but it was clear to everybody that there was nothing else for it but to let the young man stay on the ship and sleep off his intoxication. The great day out had ended disastrously. ¹ The two old timers were forced to shuffle off down the quay in all their finery, each carrying a wrapped up parcel of ham under one arm and with sausages and joints of meat sticking out of their pockets.
Per followed them as far as Holmens bridge, where he managed to get them onto a tram. He himself had no intention of going home. Some air and space was what he needed after all that entertainment and heavy drinking. He then took the measure of himself in a shop window before continuing down Kanalen and up towards Højbro.
It was at that hour when the slant of the sun’s rays begins to fan across the rooftops and sets the spire of Helligaand Church aglow, whilst down below, the streets come alive with the evening crowds as they move between the bright lights coming from the shops and stores. Daylight still lingered in the open square. Here, the sparrows still hopped around, fussing at the street detritus and the newly lit lanterns burned in pale spectral tongues within their glass casings in which the setting sun also flickered. Per walked slowly into the heart of the city via Østergade, which was alive with people. The sight of such crowds brought a feeling of melancholy upon him. Despite the chill in the evening air and the red noses of passersby, a hint of spring danced in the air. The sense of expectation could be seen in the hopeful glances of the young and could be heard in their voices. Shoppers stood clustered around a dressmaker’s large window display to inspect the new spring fashions. And any fashion conscious gentleman that was abroad wore a small spray of violets in the buttonhole of his coat.
Per had come to walk behind a courting couple who moved so closely beside each other, and in such harmony of rhythm, that it was as if they were conjoined at shoulder and heel. He stole a glance at the young girl’s eyes and how she gazed at her beloved in such free and obvious devotion; his thoughts then turned to the pleasures of the previous night and he became more and more dejected. He could not stop his recriminations over what he now described, without any hesitation, as his immature indignation. In particular, he remembered one thing which completely rekindled his ardour for his passionate Frue, and this was the way in which she had covered her bosom as he was about to leave. Her gesture had been quite touching. And those roses on Neergaard’s coffin. – She must have really loved him. And, after all, what was there to get so worked up about? When push came to shove, human life paid no heed to small, piddling concerns. It demanded space to freely express itself and where it rose up in all its majesty, all society’s conventions were as nought. In fact, there was something rather noble, almost spiritually uplifting, in such an unbridled zest for love, which vanquished all those petty waverings of the heart, yes even the horror of death itself. That kind of undaunted, all consuming abandon to nature’s laws was perhaps the highest expression of humanity. The "dark forces" which had gripped him so violently when standing at the end of her bed – yet despite his qualms of conscience he had still been incredibly drawn to the soft luminance of her embrace – yes, they represented the very essence of his nature; the shackles binding the very centre of his elemental urges were being sundered after generations of repression! Yes, that was it! There was no such place as Hell, other than that place which human beings themselves created in their superstitious fear of life’s pleasures and the sovereign power of the flesh and its delights. And heaven was to be found in the physical coming together of a man and woman, wherein lay the soothing amnesia for all life’s sorrows and absolution for all sins; where two souls met in guilt free nakedness, just as Adam and Eve had done in the Garden of Eden.
There were some half forgotten words, a vague recollection, which suddenly came to him in an image of flaming letters. It was Neergaard’s mocking description of the peasant boy in the fairy tale who had ventured out into the world to win a kingdom for himself but who continually looked back and who had – when the wonderland for which he yearned was suddenly there before him in all its enchantment – fled home again to his seat by the cosy fireside and the familiarity of his mother’s apron strings.
He reddened with shame. That’s how pathetically he had come short when, for the first time, life had tested his courage and convictions. – But could not the damage that had been done, be undone? If, for example, he wrote a letter to her, explaining everything and asking her forgiveness? – –
He had reached his home in Hjertensfrydgade. The ship carpenter’s wife in the downstairs living quarters opened her door and told him that there was a Herre inside who had been awaiting his arrival.
"It is the same gentleman that was here last night … I’d say he is a man of the cloth. He has been sitting in there for over an hour."
The visitor proved to be none other than his brother Eberhard. He sat in the rocking chair by the table; the lamp was lit and the shadow of his head was thrown across the bare wall like that of some ancient troll. He had kept on his overcoat and his hands, kept warm by a pair of woollen gloves, rested on an umbrella stationed between his knees.
"I had almost given up the hope of ever meeting you," he said, after they had exchanged a handshake. "You are aware perhaps that I was here yesterday evening?"
Per made no reply. His heart thumped in his breast. He understood that his brother must have had some message of a serious nature to impart to him if he had sought him out two days in a row. Nor was it difficult to ascertain, judging by Eberhard’s countenance, that he himself was aware of the import of his visit. His whole demeanour was clearly designed to make an impression upon Per; but it was precisely for that reason that he marshalled all his inner forces together and, with great effort, managed to give off an air of complete indifference.
"How about a Cigar?" he asked, whilst at the same time being on the verge of fainting, and all the time thinking: Has mother died?
"I will not be smoking thank you," Eberhard replied.
"A beer maybe?"
"I have turned my back forever on all forms of alcoholic beverages. I find that suits my disposition entirely. And I might add that, as a matter of principle, I never partake of meals or refreshments outside of mealtimes."
Per smiled. And whilst he felt no craving whatsoever for alcohol, he brought a bottle of ale from his cupboard in the corner and opened it up.
"Well, my own view would be that it would equally be a sin to deny a man’s thirst, regardless of the time of day," he said.
Eberhard sat for a while, twisting his umbrella back and forth, whilst his large, pale eyes regarded his brother, who had seated himself at the other side of the table and now quickly emptied his glass.
"You seem to be more conscientious in that regard than is necessary," he remarked finally.
"Have you come all this way just to say that?" Per retorted in an immediately aggressive tone of voice.
Eberhard made a slight, dismissive movement with his hand.
"You are well aware that I do not involve myself in your affairs. – The reason for my visit lies in another direction altogether."
Per did not wish to enquire any further – in fact, he dared not. His own reactions had taken him aback, he did not understand how even the very idea of some kind of bad news from home had made him so agitated. He had believed that the days when those kind of feelings could still affect him were long gone. The fact was that in recent years, his people at home had been as good as dead to him, and the close proximity of his brother had not exactly given him great longings to return. Quite the opposite. As Eberhard sat there, his hands resting on his umbrella and watching him with sidelong glances from his billy goat eyes, all the hostility that had been buried in his past was aroused once again. The arrogant tone of censure in his bearing and the air about him, the silent demonstration of wounded family honour, the whole stultifying and self righteous atmosphere, which Eberhard exuded from his tightly buttoned deportment, brought back the memory of the ordeals of his childhood so vividly that the hated and all pervading reek of the turf fire at home in the rectory became personified in the shape of the brother who sat in front of him.
And yet there was in the gaze with which Eberhard beheld him, an expression of genuine sorrow, of real brotherly attachment. The small, cellar like room with its second hand furniture, the bare floor and sparse walls, the sad, empty space which – in spite of all the care and attention little Trine lavished upon her shrine – was the very picture of a rootless existence, had evoked his sympathies and he awaited just some little signal that would allow him to speak from the heart.
But Per gave him no such opening and so they sat for some time without a word being exchanged between them.
"You might as well know that I have just returned from a short journey," Eberhard began, as if feeling his way towards something. "I was at home for a few days."
"Oh really, they are keeping well I take it?" Per ventured.
"Oh no, I could not exactly say that. Father has failed somewhat in the last while."
"I see."
"In fact he is actually quite bad."
"Bad with what?"
"How can I put it … before my return, I spoke at length with Doctor Carlsen, and he confirmed what I had already suspected for some time based on the letters from home – in other words, that father’s condition raises the most serious grounds for concern. To speak bluntly, we must prepare ourselves for the time, very soon, when he will no longer be with us."
Per, who was aware that his brother’s eyes were watching him like a hawk, betrayed no change of emotion, even though his heart hammered against his chest. However, he felt no sorrow on hearing this news, not even sadness nor remorse. No, the unease which had gripped him came essentially from a vague sense of disappointment. It had never occurred to him that his father or mother might die before he had completed his livsværk, his engineering masterpiece; that they would never witness the triumph that would vindicate him. And now this news had arrived at just that point when his great hopes had been shamefully dashed to the ground.
"In all probability, it is cancer we are talking about," Eberhard continued. "Doctor Carlsen did not exactly use that word, but it was clear from what he was saying that he had no doubts about it. Though father is still up and about and performing his duties, … you know yourself his strict sense of duty. But a few months more, perhaps less, will see the end of that and I believe he is fully prepared for the end. Of course, mother is stricken with grief but – strangely enough – it is as if her concern for father’s condition has given her a new lease of life. She has even begun to get up from her bed to spend more time with father; but I believe that this wonderful grace that she has received, grateful as she is to have been blessed with it, is also a portent that God would soon call father to his side."
Though Eberhard was not a theologian by profession, he was wont to express himself in biblical language. He was a lawyer and was viewed by his peers as possessing an extraordinarily clear and sharp legal mind. Despite his relative youth, he had already attained a high level of social esteem. This was exemplified by the stir he had caused after the publication in a journal of an essay he had written about the prison service and its educational role. He actually had a position at the headquarters of the administration section for prisons and, given that he was a paragon of diligence and duty, was held in the highest regard by his superiors.
"It was my view that you should be informed in good time of the way things are," he continued, as Per had still not uttered a word. "I did not want you to be ill prepared, should the catastrophe come upon us with greater speed than expected. We – for here I am speaking on behalf of all your brothers and sisters and after consultation with them – we believed that once you were apprised of father’s condition, you might feel obliged to … I mean, feel moved to seek a reconciliation with Father before it is too late."
"I don’t understand … what are you talking about?" Per asked brusquely, but without being able to look his brother in the eye.
"Well, – as I have already pointed out, I have no wish to involve myself in your affairs. It is simply meant as well intentioned counsel for you – your own conscience must now decide whether the attitude you have adopted towards your parents for so long is defensible … other than that, I have nothing more to say. However, what I do find necessary to clarify, even at this stage, is that father’s death will, of course, have a significant affect on fiscal factors at home. I am aware that father has hitherto – and without any form of acknowledgement from your side – provided you with a regular subvention, which whilst perhaps not being a huge amount, did – and I can say this with complete confidence – stretch him over and beyond his limits. And he has done this so that he would not censure himself for showing indifference to your studies – or whatever term one might use to describe them – in spite of the fact that he has never been afforded the opportunity to assess your abilities or the progress you have been making."
"I am well aware of that."
"This support will, of course, not disappear overnight should father leave us. But mother’s situation will be modest enough, and the greatest thrift will be required in all areas."
"Where that is concerned, you need have no worries for my sake" Per answered, who had now determined that he would after all accept Neergaard’s inheritance in order to gain complete independence from home. "I had actually intended to write home to say that from now on I was fully able to get by on my own two feet. I have no need of assistance any more."
His brother’s eyes widened. But as Per did not provide any further information, he adopted a solemn air and held his counsel for a time.
Eventually, however, Eberhard’s curiosity got the better of him.
"May I ask … exactly how you intend to –" he began.
But Per cut across him.
"I really feel, in all honesty, that you should be as good as your word and keep out of my affairs. I have also told you before that it annoys me."
Eberhard rose. He was pale, and his mouth with its low slung lantern jaw was stiff with vexation.
"Well, I can see that it is waste of time trying to speak to you. I think it would be best if we do not take this any further." "As you wish."
Eberhard took his hat in preparation for his departure. But when he got to the door, he turned again towards Per, who had remained sitting at the table, and said:
"There is one more thing I have to say to you Peter Andreas! Even though you – given your obvious disposition – would perhaps have difficulty understanding this, you should bear in mind that at this moment in time there is nobody who father thinks more about than you. Now, when I was at home, not one single day went by without him speaking about you … and the same goes for mother as a matter of fact. Of course, the time has long gone when they believed their words might have some influence upon you. They have been left with the hope that life itself would make you think again and that you would come to understand how great your debt is to them. Now it looks like father’s time with us will soon be up. Beware Peter Andreas, that you don’t commit a sin which you surely – sooner or later – will come to bitterly regret."
For some time after his brother had left, Per remained sitting with his hand under his chin and looking gloomily down at the floor.
"Think again" … "bitter regret" … "Sin" … "Grace" … How he knew all those lectures so well! The whole demonic catechism repeated yet again! And how typical it was – a genuine characteristic of the "Sidenius" clan – to use sickness and death as a pretext for renewed attempts to panic him back into the embrace of home and the church … invoking death itself as a recruiting sergeant for the black clad guardians of the cross. For what did they really want from him except that he bowed his neck in obedience, to be chastised in the name of his forebears? Where did all their concerns actually lie? Was it for him as a person, in the way that mother nature in one of her bright, joyful moments had created him? No, it was his subjugation they waited for with such impatience. It was his humiliation that was required so urgently now that his father was about to die. He knew them! It was for the sake of the turmoil in their own souls that his lust for life had to be extinguished. Their piety could not bear the sight of a straight back and a raised head where "Grace" was not present.
He looked up and shivered uncontrollably. It had become so strangely cold and gloomy in his room after his brother’s departure. Why could they not just leave him in peace? Had he not, with his own hands, buried the grim, old feelings from the past and hammered a stake through them all? Why come now and stir them up again? … As for his father? Yes, let him die! There was no debt of love there. In fact, he it was who owed Per a number of years, which he preferred not to think about. But now he, in turn, he had wiped him from his memory. They were quits.
He emptied his glass. Then he jumped up, as if trying to shake off the memory of an evil dream, and then he went up to the old couple to talk himself into some kind of equilibrium.