The Black Cauldron E-Book

William Heinesen

• Herausgeber: Dedalus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

The Black Cauldron is not a war novel properly speaking, but a work of magic realism which traces a serious of boisterous, tragic-comic events in one of the more unusual western European societies. Spanning the tragedy of war, the clash of sectarian interests, the interplay of religion and sex, The Black Cauldron develops into a presentation in mythical form of the conflict between life and death, good and evil.

Leseprobe

Contents

Title

The Author

The Translator

By the Same Author

Part I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Part II

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Part III

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Part IV

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Copyright

The Author

William Heinesen (1900-1991) was born in Torshavn in the Faroe Islands. The son of a Danish mother and Faroese father, he was equally at home in both languages. Although he spent most of his life in the Faroe Islands he chose to write in Danish as he felt it offered him greater inventive freedom. Although internationally known as a poet and a novelist he made his living as an artist. His paintings range from large-scale murals in public buildings, through to oil and pen sketches, caricatures and collages.

It is Dedalus’ intention to make all of William Heinesen’s seven novels available in new translations by W. Glyn Jones. Published so far are The Black Cauldron, The Lost Musicians, Windswept Dawn, The Good Hope, which won The Nordic Prize for Literature in 1964, Mother Pleiades and The Tower at the Edge of the World.

William Heinesen is generally considered to be one of the greatest, if not the greatest, Scandinavian novelist of the twentieth century.

The Translator

W. Glyn Jones (1928-2014) had a distinguished career as an academic, a writer and a translator.

He taught at various universities in England and Scandinavia before becoming Professor of Scandinavian Studies at Newcastle and then at the University of East Anglia. He also spent two years as Professor of Scandinavian Literature in the Faeroese Academy. On his retirement from teaching he was created a Knight of the Royal Danish Order of the Dannebrog. He has written widely on Danish, Faeroese and Finland-Swedish literature including studies of Johannes Jorgensen, Tove Jansson and William Heinesen. He is the author of Denmark: A Modern History and co-author, with his wife Kirsten Gade, of Colloquial Danish and The Blue Guide to Denmark.

W. Glyn Jones’ many translations from Danish include Seneca by Villy Sorensen and for Dedalus The Black Cauldron, The Lost Musicians, Windswept Dawn, The Good Hope, Mother Pleiades and The Tower at the Edge of the World by William Heinesen, Ida Brandt and As Trains Pass By (Katinka) by Herman Bang and My Fairy-Tale Life by Hans Christian Andersen.

Before he died, he translated William Heinesen’s novel Noatun which Dedalus will publish in 2019.

Books by William Heinesen available from Dedalus in translations by W. Glyn Jones:

The Black Cauldron

The Lost Musicians

Windswept Dawn

The Good Hope

Mother Pleiades

The Tower at the Edge of the World

Forthcoming in 2019:

Noatun

I

1

Serpent Fjord is a long inlet stretching into the island deep between lofty grassy fells. At the bottom it opens into the broad pool officially called Kingsport, but in everyday parlance simply known as The Cauldron. The sea is always smooth in there, and safer anchorage cannot be found. There it lies tucked away like a womb deep inside the island, a fruitful, teeming uterine passage in the midst of the desolate ocean, a favoured spot amidst the ravages of war, a haven for weary seamen, a refuge for déracinés and refugees, a breeding ground for religious sects, a cosy nest for profiteers of every kind.

Here it is that Solomon Olsen has his home; he is said to be the richest man in the country, though many are of the opinion that M. W. Opperman is not far from catching up with him. And there are other citizens of importance: Consul Tarnowius, Stefan Sveinsson and J. F. Schibbye’s widow. Olivarius Tunstein deserves a mention as well: he began by hiring an old sand-pump dredger to export fish, and now he is the owner of the huge and lucrative cutter the Gratitude. Then there is Inspector Joab Hansen’s sister Masa, the owner of the biggest retail store in town.

But Opperman stands out among the whole bunch. He is legendary. His reputation is not based principally on his shipping and fishing company; he only owns a couple of small cutters, whereas a Solomon Olsen has a whole fleet including schooners and trawlers. No, it is his wholesale business that has rightly made Opperman famous. Only a few years ago he was a quite ordinary travelling salesman, and now he runs a wholesale business in the grand style. Despite war and want this man has been extraordinarily successful in procuring even the scarcest of goods, and there is hardly a tradesman in the entire country with whom he does not have some profitable connection. In addition to this he is the owner of the Bells of Victory restaurant, a major shareholder in the Flora Danica margarine factory, the North Pole Cold Storage Plant, the Congo Steam Laundry, the Vesuvius Machine Shop and the Angelica Bog Fox Farm; moreover, he is Portuguese Consul and Chairman of the Employers’ Association. And he is constantly expanding his activities, erecting new buildings and appointing new staff.

As a person, Opperman is something of a mystery, but he is by no means unpopular; he is affable with everyone, not arrogant like Consul Tarnowius, curt like J. F. Schibbye’s widow or sectarian and self-righteous like Solomon Olsen. But of course he has his faults and his comical sides. He speaks a language known to no man, and there are many who find his manner somewhat effeminate. But more than almost anyone else Opperman has one excellent quality: he never loses his temper. You can call him what you like – soft or sly, old-maidish or ruthless, stick-in-the-mud or loose-liver, even lecher and murderer – as some indeed have done: he will always disarm you with his quiet, forgiving, one might almost say fond smile, his Mona Lisa smile, as Mr Heimdal the bookseller, himself a great lover of the arts, has facetiously described it.

The new office and warehouse that Opperman has had built and recently taken into use is the work of the bookseller’s young architect son, Rafael Heimdal, designed in the most up-to-date style in concrete and glass. He has economised on nothing; there is plenty of light and air and heat here, a lift, a toilet and a rubbish chute, an air-raid shelter, kitchen and cafeteria for the employees, comfortable offices with plenty of space, and cosy inner rooms furnished with Chesterfield chairs for visitors and customers to sit at their ease. Here, too, there is what is called a news bureau, a kind of waiting room or whatever, where Opperman’s employees can go and listen to the news and stimulate their intellects with good reading. The benches lining the walls in the news bureau are covered in red oilcloth, and the long polished tables are strewn with copies of Picture Post, Life and other illustrated periodicals and price lists laid out for general use. On the walls there are advertisements and pictures illustrating the progress of the war, explosions, sinking ships, aeroplanes shot down in flames, ruined cities, maimed women and children, maps and statistics and portraits of Churchill, Roosevelt, Stalin and General Smuts. These comfortable rooms, with an entrance from the street and giving direct access to the air-raid shelter in the cellar, Opperman has generously placed at the disposal of anyone desirous of resting and relaxing, discussing current affairs and generally feeling at home; for whatever else Opperman might or might not be, he is a democrat through and through, and he never misses an opportunity to show this in practice.

For instance, he is totally indifferent to social status, eschewing the company of Consul Tarnowius, Doctor Tønnesen, Mr. de Fine Licht the pharmacist, Villefrance the bank manager, Ingerslev the director of the telegraph office, and other so-called leading people. But he is fond of the company of quite ordinary men and women and of the non-commissioned ranks; he has employed people of doubtful reputation like Black Betsy and the infamous Frøja Tørnkrona, and indeed he does not even turn away in disgust from drunks like Selimsson the photographer or down-at-heel scholars like the Icelandic researcher Engilbert Thomsen; he gives them all a forbearing smile and takes them into his employment.

Indeed, Opperman is a friend of the people. Nor does he forget widows and the fatherless. For instance, the young bard Bergthor Ørnberg came to see him yesterday to ask for a contribution to a newly-formed association with the object of helping children in distress, the offspring of sailors killed in the war; without hesitation Opperman put a cheque for 15,000 kroner on the table, earnestly pleading at the same time that no mention should be made of his name in connection with it. Bergthor was speechless and said he could make no promises. On the contrary, he went straight up to Mr. Skælling, the newspaper editor, with the splendid news, and this morning The News has a front page article in bold lettering telling of Opperman’s magnificent gesture. This is all the more remarkable as even Solomon Olsen himself has only thought fit to support this noble cause to the tune of 2000 kroner, while Stefan Sveinsson only has 500 to his name; those of Consul Tarnowius and J. F. Schibbye’s widow are nowhere to be seen on the list of subscribers.

Little wonder that the name of Opperman is on everyone’s lips. Old Ole the Post, who is delivering the newspaper in the slowly awakening town sees all lips curling round the syllable op. “Op, op, Opperman,” he mutters a little crabbily but inoffensively to himself. Ole is one of those who say little, but at times the adulation of the great figures and their English pounds becomes too much for him. Pounds and endless pounds … pounds and war, pounds and war.

Down in the harbour a newly-arrived ship is docking. It is Opperman’s Manuela, skippered by young Ivar Berghammer from Angelica Cottage. And there comes Opperman himself. Ole’s mouth contorts, but then he has to stop for a moment and savour the picture of this man whose name is on everyone’s lips. Opperman is dressed in his checked summer suit, small but elegant; he is carrying his white cane and sporting an artificial red flower in his button hole. His upper lip is marked with a thin black moustache and the well-known kindly smile. There are those who say that he is a Portuguese. Others maintain that his mother came from Mexico and his father from Hamburg, but that he was born in London. Yet others argue that he is English born and bred. “No concern of mine,” thinks Ole as he turns away and vigorously ejects a stream from his chewing tobacco. “As far as I’m concerned he can be from the Dodecanese or Ivigtut or Timbuktoo. They’re all confounded foreigners, the whole lot of them: Consul Tarnowius is Danish, Stefan Sveinsson’s Icelandic, Schibbye’s widow’s from Bornholm, Villefranche the bank manager’s a Jew, Doctor Tønnesen’s a Jute, and Pastor Fleisch comes from Ringkøbing. There’s folk from every country conceivable in the Cauldron here: Tørnkrona the tailor’s Swedish, Selimsson the photographer’s Finnish, Batt the smith’s father was a Scot, and the pharmacist’s wife is from Antwerp. And Mrs. Opperman was born in Frederiksted on St. Croix. Then there’s that Italian sculptor Schiaparelli. And Miss Schwartz in the pharmacy is supposed to be Polish. Not to mention all the new flotsam that’s been washed up by the war – soldiers, refugees and wrecks, spies, blacks and muslims. And what about those three queer lodgers of Mrs. Lundegaard’s: Thygesen and Myklebust – always as drunk as lords – and that curious Icelandic tramp Engilbert Thomsen.”

But Thygesen and Myklebust are probably fundamentally decent men. It was heartbreaking to see their emotion the other day when Ole delivered their wretched Red Cross letters … Those two tough men sobbed like school-girls, whether from sorrow or joy. They were both well under the influence, and Ole the Post was given an enormous glass of snaps. And Myklebust stuffed a whole bottle of Ainslie into his jacket.

Ole stops in front of Mrs. Lundegaard’s little private hotel. A creel full of offal is standing on a packing case near the entrance to the kitchen. The sounds of a guitar and a deep unsteady voice can be heard coming from the attic; it is Thygesen; he is very musical. Mrs. Lundegaard takes her newspaper and pouts her mouth for her “Opperman”. And now the Icelandic researcher appears, chewing away at something, shabbily dressed, long-haired, pale and unshaven, but big and strong and with a sort of melancholy omniscient smile in his brown eyes. He is in a good mood and nods good morning as he lifts the heavy creel and puts the sackcloth straps around his forehead to steady it as he carries it off on his back.

Ole remembers he has a letter for Liva Berghammer, the lass from Angelica Cottage. He fishes it out and asks the Icelander to do him a favour and take it with him as he is going that way in any case. Engilbert stuffs the letter under his jersey and moves slowly up the hillside.

It is said of Engilbert Thomsen that he is a visionary, and that he believes in trolls and witches, sprites and mermaids. Others maintain he is a spy. He can’t really be a nice person to have under your roof, but Mrs. Lundegaard always speaks of him with as much respect as she would of an archbishop. Oh well, when all is said and done, she’s a lonely widow in her mid-thirties, and the huge Icelander is a man in the prime of life. In general Ole the Post is inclined to feel a little envious of Mrs. Lundegaard’s three lodgers. They must live a very comfortable life here, for Mrs. Lundegaard’s benevolence knows no bounds; there is an abundance here of good food and drink. Ole himself never crosses the threshold of the hotel without Mrs. Lundegaard putting her cigar box and the little flower-covered snaps bottle on the kitchen table. He shakes himself in elated anticipation as he turns around in the doorway and rids his mouth of the morning’s well-worn chewing tobacco.

2

Meanwhile, Engilbert Thomsen was plodding on, stepping out up the green hillside with his heavy burden of meat destined for Opperman’s foxes.

High up on the slope he rested a while and looked down over a village just discernible through a milky membrane of haze and smoke rising from its chimneys. Life was beginning to bubble and boil down there round the black pool of water; there were the sounds of dogs barking and cocks crowing, of lorries groaning and hooting, motors spluttering, bagpipes twittering, cranes complaining, hammer blows resounding from Solomon Olsen’s slipway. Then one of the armed trawlers let off steam with an earsplitting rush like the hiss of a gigantic goose. The fells hissed back in return. The Cauldron was boiling over in a motley of sound.

Engilbert had but a smile for all this commotion with which the improvident citizens of today feel compelled to surround themselves. He viewed with patronizing contempt these complacent slaves of Mammon who knew only the crass everyday life this side of the great Curtain. He himself was moving in an entirely different direction: up, up towards the lofty plane of knowledge and spiritual liberation. But it cost him struggle and trouble and an unending and painful battle to conquer his own base desires, an eternal crusade against the irksome fetters binding him to the world of the senses… those evil, pallid octopus tentacles constantly seeking to enfold him and hold him fast.

Engilbert got up, yawning long and thoughtfully as he once more shouldered the basket of whale meat. The path up to the Angelica Bog where Opperman’s fox farm was situated was quite difficult, but once he reached the top, it was as though he were placed totally outside the undifferentiated world of reality; the village disappeared from sight, and there was nothing but sky and sea, lonesome fells and huge isolated boulders which, according to legend, were populated by subterranean spirits.

Indeed, Engilbert knew this from his own experience. One afternoon, he had with his own eyes seen a female face peering out of the crack in a cleft boulder up there, and on another occasion he had heard giggling and laughter from a deep cavern between some towering boulders. It was the place known as the Troll Child’s Cave. Engilbert wouldn’t have minded getting closer to these giggling creatures; he delighted in all strange phenomena and was not afraid, except insofar as his path upwards towards his supreme objective of spiritual perfection in the deity might be made more difficult.

The haze grew denser, and for a time Engilbert found himself in a thick grey mist. But up at the Angelica Bog the sun was breaking through; the wind was carrying with it scudding wisps of cloud which fluttered past one after another like bird spirits. There were real birds amongst them, too, crows and gulls, attracted by the smell of meat. And suddenly the sun emerged … a strange sun, breaking through the haze in the shape of a blood-red cross surrounded by two translucent circles in rainbow colours. He stretched out his arms towards this strange sign and, caught in overwhelming emotion, whispered “Logos! Logos! Can it be you?”

All this lasted no more than a second, and then the sun assumed its customary circular shape once more. And a moment later everything was once more engulfed in swirling mist.

Engilbert was lost in profound wonderment. Could it really be the symbol of Logos that had revealed itself to him to give him strength and courage to continue his struggle? Or was it merely some magic, some illusion seeking to deceive him?

For that matter, anything could happen up there in the Angelica Bog… Supernatural forces were at play. Restless shadowy spirits roamed about up here working their magic. Here wandered the ghosts of the two odious women Unn and Ura who poisoned their husbands so as undisturbed to go on fornicating with a mountain spirit, and here, too, it was that a farmer called Aasmund did combat throughout a whole winter’s night with the spherical monster Hundrik, who sought to roll him into the ground and only gave up when Aasmund guessed his name. And here, too, lay the murky Hell Water Pool, which was said to be bottomless. Hell Water was one of those mysterious lakes in which visions were sometimes to be seen. It was here that an old shepherd saw a reflection of the great fire of Moscow in 1812.

Engilbert had learned all this from old Elias of Angelica Cottage. On his way to and from the fox farm every day he would often stop and have a chat with Elias at this tiny cottage lying far off the beaten track under the Angelica Outcrop. Elias, the owner, was a sickly little man who was prone to asthma and frequent attacks of epilepsy, but otherwise agreeable enough and quite talkative.

Engilbert felt irresistibly drawn to Angelica Cottage and those who lived there for other and quite different reasons, too. Elias’ daughters were indeed unusual. Thomea, the eldest, had a face covered with whiskers and was – at least according to Mrs. Lundegaard – in possession of occult powers; and the youngest, a half-grown girl, was not quite right in the head. Then there was Liva, like Engilbert in Opperman’s employment. A lovely creature in every respect. But she, too, was a little odd, for she was a follower of the mad baker, Simon, a devotee of his fire and brimstone sect. And there was a fourth daughter who was no longer at home; she lived in Ørevík at the mouth of the fjord and was said recently to have been widowed by the war. Then there was Ivar, the son, who was in command of Opperman’s Manuela. The family in Angelica Cottage used to live in great poverty, but as a skipper, Ivar was now making a good income.

Engilbert remembered the letter for Liva, and took it out so as not to forget to deliver it on his way down. The mist was again lifting, and the sun rising pure and fresh in the sky, surrounded by hosts of harmless little fleecy clouds. The fox furs in Opperman’s cages darted about like lightning. Engilbert shouldered the creel and set off downhill.

In the yard in front of Angelica Cottage a little group of people were bent over something lying on the ground. Engilbert immediately guessed that it was Elias having one of his attacks. He hurried over. Yes indeed, it was Elias stretched out on the ground in convulsions. He was a pitiful sight, fragile and hollow-chested and with his scrawny hands pressed up under his chin as though he was trying to push his own head off his body. There was a wooden spoon in his froth-covered mouth. Liva and Thomea were watching his movements. Alfhild, the mentally deficient youngest daughter, was sitting on her own and playing with some snail shells, totally indifferent to all the fuss around her.

Engilbert wanted to be useful, and squatted down beside Thomea. Secretly and greedily he observed the three women. Despite her whiskers Thomea was not unfeminine; she was big and strong with a voluptuous figure like that of a young heifer. Liva too, a pretty girl, had a dark shadow across her upper lip, and both sisters had heavy black eyebrows. Thomea’s eyebrows met, the sign of a werewolf. It gave him a curious tingling sensation to have this whiskered girl so close to him… he trembled under the influence of the powerful magnetic current emanating from her person and making the talisman on his chest burn as though glowing with heat.

But then Elias suddenly uttered a hoarse wail, his eyes began to roll and show the whites; his body tensed upwards in a bow so that the back of his head and his heels almost seemed to be all that was touching the ground… and then it fell back; but now his arms and legs began to flail wildly, and this insignificant and inoffensive little man hit out in all directions with all the violence of a hooligan, howling and threatening those around him like one possessed. Liva received a blow to the side and got up, clenching her teeth in pain. Engilbert stepped across and took her place and set about helping Thomea to keep her ungovernable father under control.

In time the sick man fell calm; the attack was over for this time. Engilbert helped the two girls to get him indoors and laid out in the alcove bed in the living room. There he lay, pale and wasted like a corpse, and with splashes of blood around his sunken mouth.

As Engilbert looked around in the tiny living room he saw its woodwork was scrubbed white. A carefully prepared sheepskin lay in front of the alcoves; the ceiling and one wall were almost hidden by ivy leaves, but in the midst of the greenery a space had been cleared for an enlarged photograph of Elias’s late wife. It was a little faint, but it was still possible to see that the woman from Angelica Cottage had been dark-haired, with heavy eye-brows like her daughters.

Engilbert remembered the letter again… Surely he couldn’t have lost it in all that kerfuffle. No, there it was up his sleeve; he took it out, smoothed it over and handed it to Liva. She snatched the crumpled envelope from him and turned away with it. He noticed that she put it to her lips before putting it in her bosom. Then she hurried out into the kitchen and began to arrange her hair in front of the mirror.

Engilbert turned to Thomea and said, in an intimate, low voice: “You know remedies for so many things – don’t you know one for your father’s illness?”

The girl looked away and shook her head. He felt an almost irresistible desire to come closer to her and win her confidence, but she was taciturn and unapproachable, difficult to get on speaking terms with. He shook hands with her as he left. He succeeded in capturing her glance, a strange, devastating look that went right through him.

Engilbert accompanied Liva part way down the path, but she was in a hurry and had to take a short cut across the fields so as not to be late in Opperman’s office.

“Good-bye, Engilbert,” she waved. “And thank you for all your help, and for the letter.”

He followed her cheerful tripping figure until she disappeared behind a hill. He could still sense the horny scent of the two downy girls from Angelica Cottage and still had a powerful feeling of being under the influence of Thomea – there was an itch and twitching in one ear and on his chest where his talisman was hanging. And at the same time he felt with a mixture of sensual delight and horror how his desire for the hairy girl was growing into lust. There was no mistaking it: mysterious and dangerous forces were at work, forces which must be opposed at any price because they originated in evil and sought to rob him of the spiritual gains which he had made over the past six months, and to force him into fresh degradation.

This great, bewitching woman was doubtless in league with these sinister powers of darkness which sought to waylay his soul on its way to the light.

“Be steadfast, be steadfast,” he whispered to himself and through his jersey he pressed his talisman close to his heart.

3

Once she was left to her own devices, Liva stopped, took out the letter, and with her eyes closed raised the envelope to her lips. It was from Johan. Although unwilling to admit as much, she dreaded reading it, for suppose he were worse, or perhaps even wrote to say that they had given up hope. She wouldn’t open it until later when she could take her time and read it without risk of being disturbed. She slipped it back into her dress. Then she looked upwards and sighed long and audibly.

Johan had been in her thoughts all morning, for it was the second of August, the anniversary of that awful day when the Gratitude came back with seven survivors from the Albatross, the big schooner from Sandefjord that had been sunk off Shetland.

Only twelve months! It seemed like years since that disastrous morning when Johan came home unexpectedly with pneumonia after being shipwrecked and drifting helplessly for four days in the lifeboat from the Albatross. Those harrowing days as he lay in the hospital hovering between life and death. That unforgettable time of joy and gratitude when he had recovered and regained his strength sufficiently to sit outside in the sunshine. And then once more the distress of the relapse, when tuberculosis forced him back into the sanatorium in Østervaag. The separation. The hope. Until that, too, became precarious.

And although it was this misfortune that had opened her eyes and brought her to Jesus, she could not yet conceive that Johan, her burly, self-confident Johan, really lay there incurably ill, confined to a hospital ward along with a crowd of other pitiful creatures coughing their hearts out.

She had twice made the journey to the capital to see her fiancé. He was able to sit up in bed and was of course in a way the Johan she had always known, despite his indoor pallor and skinny hands yellow as straw. The thought of those waxen hands was enough to force a silent scream deep down inside her. There lay her Johan, slowly withering away. Her big, strong, self-assured Johan. Her sole consolation was that he, too, in this dreadful time of trial had found grace and redemption, and that in a brief while they would both be united in that other world that knows no end.

Near the bridge across the Storaa river Liva stopped for a moment and glanced quickly at the half-finished concrete house down by the river mouth, the house intended for her and Johan. It was a nice house, impressive even. But it was without windows and doors, nothing but an empty shell. And it would never be finished. But what did that matter? Better to have an indestructible house in the land everlasting.

“Ah, my Lord and Creator,” sighed Liva, and hurried on across the bridge. The world was racked with misfortune and terrible events. Just think of the Evening Star that struck a mine on its way to England and sank with all hands. Her brother-in-law Oluf, Magdalena’s husband, was among those who perished then, a strong, healthy man with a wife and three children. And Simon the baker lost his two sons, Erik and Hans; they were no more than seventeen and nineteen years old. Aye, a lot of ships were going down these days, leaving widows and orphans behind. And the war raged on with no end in sight; the time of evil and waste was come upon the world.

The memory of other misfortunes and sombre events passed through her mind. She almost derived a certain consolation from them now that the last days, bringing the end of human life, were approaching and the great hour of judgement was at hand. There was Opperman’s wife, lying incurably ill in her attic room. And Benedikt Isaksen’s five children, all carried off within a single year by galloping consumption. Alas, such was life: death and misfortune threatened at every turn. But a lamp had been lit, a mighty lamp – lit in the midst of gloom and despair, lighting the way for all who would open their eyes.

All that mattered was to hold tight on to this lamp, always keeping it with you in your thoughts and never letting anyone snatch it from you – in the words of the hymn:

Take hold your lamp, oh timid heart,

It lights the way so clear,

Bids evil from this world depart,

For now the night is near.

She hummed the tune to herself; it was a wistful melody with a long refrain twisting and twining, urging, admonishing:

For now the night is near,

For now the night is near,

Take hold your lamp, oh timid heart,

For now the night is near.

Liva became aware of a little group of people in summer clothes coming towards her along the road. It was the young shipowner Poul Schibbye, together with Olsen’s lanky son Spurgeon and a third man who was a stranger to her.

“Now what have we here, the darkest rose in the world,” shouted Poul Schibbye, gaily approaching Liva with his arms held out wide as though to embrace her. “How are you, my flower? How do you get on with Croesus down there?”

“Fine, Pjølle,” said Liva, making to hurry on, but Poul Schibbye stopped her and took her hand.

“Aye, you know the Rose of Stambul, of course?” he said by way of introduction. “Liva and I are bound by unbreakable bonds; we were baptised and confirmed in the same water, and we should have been married in it, but she didn’t want to… Fancy, she turned me down. Isn’t that right, Liva?”

“Yes, Pjølle,” said Liva, unable to help a smile.

Pjølle contorted his fleshy face and surrendered himself to a feigned sob. He threw himself on his knees at Liva’s feet and clutched her hand to his cheek.

“That’s enough, Pjølle,” she scolded, freeing herself and blushing; she smiled apologetically at Spurgeon and the stranger.

“No, you are in a hurry, Liva”, said Pjølle, getting up. “Well, then, fare thee well, in the name of God, and give my regards to Chiang Kai-shek, and God bless you, my own little ducksie.”

“Aye, isn’t she a delight?” he said, turning round to watch her go. “She’s the one I ought to have had. And now she’s gone and joined the Bun Sect! Lost to the world.”

“Yes, but she gave you a sweet smile, Pjølle”, said Spurgeon.

“She loves me.”

Poul Schibbye tossed his walking stick up in the air like a spear and caught it again. “I’m still her Romeo. That was pretty obvious, wasn’t it, Spurgeon?”

He waltzed around a turn, cooing and sobbing gently, with his hand on his heart: “She lo-ves me.”

4

As Engilbert left the steep path leading to Angelica Cottage and stepped out on to the road, he was met by a strange sight: two young seamen were approaching along the road, singing at the top of their voices and pushing a large, fully-laden handcart in front of them. It was Ivar from Angelica’s Cottage and his friend Frederick. On top of the load, staring around with melancholy eyes, sat – a monkey.

The men blocked Engilbert’s path and offered him a welcoming drink. As he held up the bottle in greeting, Ivar was singing in a subdued, fervent tone:

All flesh, it is but grass,

The prophets all did say,

This earthly life will pass,

Whenever comes the day.

Engilbert put the bottle to his mouth and took a hefty swig of the aromatic liquor tasting of angelica. “I’ll give you a hand if you like,” he said.

They pushed the cart a little way up the path, as far as it would go, and then each of them shouldered part of the load. Thomea and Alfhild came to meet them. The seamen put down their heavy sacks, and in transports of joy at their return Alfhild threw herself at her brother and Frederik, smothering them in kisses and caresses. Frederik offered Thomea a drink from his flask, and to his amazement Engilbert noticed that she took a hefty swig.

Ivar was more than a little tipsy. A blissful smile lit up his weary eyes, and he broke into song. The lad from Angelica Cottage was a big, muscular chap, dark and with a strong growth of hair like Thomea. Frederik appeared to have drunk less. He told of their journey home: on this occasion it had been unusually difficult, and off the Orkneys their ship had been attacked by a whole two planes at the same time; they had lavished no fewer than seven bombs on the little boat, but they had all missed. But then the beasts had taken to their machine guns and shot at them like mad things; the wheelhouse had been riddled full of holes like a sieve and the sandbags torn to shreds. But then a British fighter had turned up, and the two marauders had made off with their tails between their legs.

They struck with might, they struck with zeal,

Like gallant knights at play,

Bright flashed the blades of shining steel

When sword met sword that day.

So sang Ivar. He put Alfhild down, swung his sack up on his shoulder and made a clumsy attempt to dance the steps of the ancient ballad as he moved on:

So tight he clasped his jewelled hilt,

The blood burst from his vein,

So quick the mortal blow he dealt,

He cleft his foe in twain.

Thomea went down to the cart to help carry their belongings. Alfhild walked along with her brother, boundlessly happy; Engilbert observed her in amazement, for the crazy girl was behaving less like Ivar’s sister than a young girl-friend madly in love with him. Her brother had difficulty in keeping her at bay.

Frederik had the monkey on his shoulder; it sat wiping its snout and looked as though it was weeping. Alfhild was afraid of it and clung on to Ivar.

“He’ll not hurt you,” Frederik assured her. “He’s so sweet-tempered, and happy as the day is long. Look, he’s smiling again now.”

Finally, the entire load was under cover. The three men settled down in the grass outside the house while Thomea prepared the meal. It was party food; eggs and tasty biscuits, meat, herring and some elegant tiny cream cheeses in silver paper, and there were no fewer than five crates of beer in little red tins. Another box contained clothing, and there was akvavit in a third. The bags contained flour, corn and concentrates for the animals. Then there was a box with brooches and finery and a curious little xylophone to play tunes on with a wooden mallet. Alfhild had a wine-coloured necklace of glass beads around her neck and was sitting in ecstasy running her lips over the shining beads.

Ivar and Frederik laced their coffee with gin and stretched out ravenously for the food. Engilbert, too, made free with the splendid repast, meanwhile eyeing Thomea as she went to and fro.

After the meal the two seamen were overcome by drowsiness and wandered outside to have a nap in the sunshine in front of the barn. The monkey clambered up on the gable end of the barn and sat there staring into space like some strange figurehead on a ship.

Engilbert could not remember where he had left the empty creel. Thomea helped him to look for it. For a moment he was alone with her behind the barn; he took her hand and said in an earnest voice: “Why do you pursue me, woman?”

She tore herself away and turned towards him with a wild look in her eyes and her mouth open ready to scream. He sought to calm her down and said in a tone at once hushed but warm: “Let’s be friends, Thomea. Come, we must talk.”

The girl disappeared without replying. Engilbert felt as though he was cocooned, enclosed in the silvery curtain of a powerful magnetic field; every pore in his body was tingling, and he sensed how he was being drawn to this mountain temptress, this massive she-calf. There was a crackling sensation in his body, as though he had been eating fibre glass, and he could long feel her eyes fixed like clamps on the back of his head as he wandered down the path.

Half way down the hill he met a young woman with three small children. She was humbly dressed, with her youngest child in her arms and a bundle of clothes on her back. Engilbert realised that this must be Elias’s second daughter, Magdalena, who had been married in Ørevík, and whose husband had been lost on the Evening Star. There was no mistaking the similarity between her and the other sisters. Only she was fairer, with a reddish cast to her black hair. Engilbert nodded to her in friendly fashion, as though he knew her; she looked surprised, but returned the greeting.

Engilbert felt heavy and drowsy from the akvavit, and had no desire to go down into the village. He longed to go back to the Angelica Bog, was drawn in that direction as though by strong electrical forces; his feet were heavy, but he could not resist, and he decided to obey this call and abandon any thought of working for Opperman for today. He quickly turned around and returned across the fields. It was one of those infrequent days when the sun was shining brilliantly. He was overcome by an irresistible drowsiness; he flung himself down into the heather and felt the irresistible hold of sleep dragging him down into its depths.

Thomea went to meet Magdalena. “It’s about time you came, too,” she said.

“I didn’t want to be a burden on you,” said Magdalena. “But now I’ve got the insurance money for Oluf … ten thousand kroner! So I’m all right now.”

Magdalena tossed her head. She put down the bundle of clothes on the ground. “Aye, Thomea,” she said, “these are strange times, a time of life and a time of death – what are we to make of it? There is suffering and sorrow everywhere you look, and danger and misfortune – but then vast amounts of money are pouring into the country, and there are plenty of hungry mouths being fed when all’s said and done.”

Thomea turned to the children and touched their clothes. “Now we’ll see about something to eat for you,” she said in a kindly voice.

Before long Magdalena and her children were seated on benches around the kitchen table. Magdalena’s eyes took on a warm glow at the sight of all that unaccustomed food. She took a bottle of gin, stroked it lovingly and poured herself a drink. “Heavens, what a wonderful sight,” she whispered. The children ate with a ferocious appetite, at the same time looking in amazement first at Thomea and then at Alfhild, who was sitting in a corner by herself, knocking out tunes on the xylophone.

After the meal Magdalena lit a cigarette and helped Thomea to clear the table. She hummed happily as she dried the plates. But suddenly she sat down on the bench and hid her face in her wet hands. It was over in a moment, then she got up again, tossed her head and exclaimed: “No, Thomea, it’s not that I’m going around hanging my head, don’t think that. But sometimes I can’t help thinking that it was me who got Oluf to sail on the Evening Star. He really didn’t want to. He was really rather a timid soul, you know. He never wanted to go to sea, least of all just now, of course. But what was there for him to do at home? He simply hung around, and we just had to make a serious effort to make a living, seeing as how expensive everything is…”

Magdalena stared out into space and sighed.

“And to be honest, Oluf could often irritate me. I could always get a little work on the farm, but it didn’t bring in much. Then, when I came home tired out there he’d be, just reading the newspaper and had hardly done anything all day – and hadn’t tried to get any work either. ’Cause it was his nature just to sit and dream, lost in his own thoughts.”

Again Magdalena tossed her head: “So you can understand that in a way it was my fault that he finally pulled himself together. And then it had to end with him being killed on his first trip.”

“Aye, it had to end like that, Lena,” Thomea sounded dispirited as she repeated Magdalena’s words. Then she sat and pondered.

Magdalena set about the washing-up again. But suddenly she turned fiercely towards her sister and said: “You should see about getting rid of all those hairs on your face, Thomea! Honestly, you’d be a different person without them.”

Thomea looked at her in hurt and dismay. Magdalena went over to her and took her sister’s arm to comfort her. “You must do it,” she said. “I’ll help you. There’s a good hairdresser here, and she can manage that sort of thing in a jiffy. We can afford it, lass. We’re not going to be done out of things any longer, are we?”

“I don’t know,” said Thomea uncertainly, with a sad smile. She sighed and looked affectionately at her sister.

Alfhild had gathered a host of dandelion flowers and was forming them into a wreath. It was for Ivar. When it was finished she went across to where her brother and Frederik lay asleep. She took a piece of straw and tickled Ivar’s ear, but he did not wake up. Then she tried to open his eyes, but the lids closed again. She smoothed his thick hair and fixed the wreath firmly to it.

About midday Ivar awoke and got up shivering. The shadow from the barn had just reached the spot where he had been lying in the grass. Frederik still lay in sunshine, snoring. The monkey was at his feet.

Ivar went over to the little brook to the north of the house to quench his thirst. Everlastingly unconcerned, the limpid water was running between the clean-scoured boulders and tiny untouched islands of sand, and had the secure taste of the land. The day was wonderfully mild and peaceful. Down by the quayside in the harbour several ships, one of them his own Manuela, lay side by side. Over on the other side of the pool stood Solomon Olsen’s pink warehouses, standing out against the grey mountain side. A proper little village had grown up there recently, with quays and ships, slipways and camouflaged oil tanks. Solomon always had luck on his side, his ships received top prices for their cargoes, and not a single one had so far been damaged. And it was the same with Opperman, Mrs. Schibbye, Tarnowius and all the others. They were all in full flower, earning vast sums on their transit trade in Icelandic fish. Aye, life was good and secure here.

Frederik had awoken and was standing stretching. When he saw Ivar approaching he burst out laughing and shouted: “What the hell have you been dressing yourself up in?”

“Me?”, said Ivar. He put his hand to his head and discovered the wreath, but he put it back on his head with a smile. “Alfhild’s been up to her tricks, of course.”

“Sshh,” said Frederik suddenly, looking up at the sky. “I’m sure I can hear a plane.”

They both listened. The distant drone of an aeroplane could now be clearly heard, and the sirens began to wail ominously out on the point.

“There it is,” Frederik pointed up at the sky. “Up over Urefjeld.”

“Yes.” Now Ivar, too, could see the tiny dark spot in the sky above the mountain. It grew, took on the shape of a cross, and the drone increased. The anti-aircraft guns bayed in deafening cacophony, and white smoke buds blossomed against the blue of the sky.

“It’s flying over,” said Frederik.

The machine moved northwards and disappeared. But shortly afterwards it returned, flying very high, and scarcely visible any more. Again the guns started thundering for all they were worth, and the echoes thrown back by the mountains sounded like raucous laughter mingled with moans and high-pitched shrieks.

“Look over there,” shouted Ivar. A column of water was rising from the calm surface of the bay, only a few feet from one of the trawlers lying at anchor there, followed by another, just off the jetty. And suddenly a column of smoke rose from the quayside. One of the ships had been hit by a bomb.

The two seamen exchanged glances and set off running down the hillside.

Ivar was quicker off the mark and led the way. He could hear Frederik calling, but was too impatient to stop.

“Ivar!” Frederik shouted again.

Ivar stopped and turned round, irritated: “Well, what the hell is it … what do you want?”

“The wreath!” Frederik shouted.

Ivar could not contain a short laugh. He snatched Alfhild’s wreath from his head, laid it carefully on the grass, and ran on down the hill.

5

It was not the Manuela that had been hit, but Schibbye’s Fulda. Flames and smoke were swirling all over the big, grey-painted ship. It had been hit in the prow, and seamen and dockers were busy moving the other ships from the jetty to prevent the fire from spreading; others were trying to put out the flames; a group of men and boys came rushing along dragging a fire hose. A few figures, enveloped in wet sacking, were running to and fro on the burning ship in an effort to salvage valuable equipment and get it ashore.

The Fulda was not the only ship to be damaged. Those anchored closest to it had caught it, too, and the buildings near the jetty had had all their windows blown in. Old Mrs. Schibbye was standing in her smoke-filled office staring out through a shattered window. Blood was flowing from one of her cheeks. On the floor behind her lay a jagged lump of blackened metal that had been hurled in through the window. Mrs. Schibbye was in high spirits; her big, nubbly face was twisted in a smile, and she seemed almost to be thoroughly enjoying herself. Now and then she directed a stream of fierce utterances mixed with embittered cries from the window: “Ah, the swine! Swine, I say. Keep at it, my lads. It’s too good a ship to lose for so little. Remember, it’s bread and butter to all of us. What’ll we do if we’ve no ship? But it’s too late. We can’t get on top of that fire, and in any case the ship’s sinking, any fool can see that. We’ll get the insurance, but what the hell’s the good of that? No one ever grew fat on insurance money. And where am I going to find a new ship at a bloody time like this? Keep at it, lads. No, we’re too late. The battle’s lost. The battle’s lost.”

Mrs. Schibbye burst into a flood of tears. She turned towards Lydersen, her head clerk, who was occupying his usual place, as white as a sheet and trembling uncontrollably like a dog after a cold shower: “Lydersen! Have you seen that piece of shrapnel? The thunderbolt! Just look at it, there it is. It came flying in through the window … so close it grazed my face. I was supposed to be murdered. Do you understand?”

Overcome by her emotions she caught hold of the little clerk by both his shoulders and shook him vehemently. “Murdered, you understand … murdered! I was supposed to be stone dead on the floor here! That’s what those swine were after. But there was someone stronger than them…”

Mrs. Schibbye turned round and opened a wall cabinet. She took out half a bottle of cognac and poured it out into two tumblers. “Look, Lydersen! Medicine!”

The head clerk clutched his glass convulsively and emptied it at one go. Mrs. Schibbye turned back to the window. “The ship’s lost,” she said, and her flushed face contracted in pain; for a second she looked almost beautiful. But then she became hard again, like burnished copper, and shouted triumphantly: “Death had to take its teeth out of my throat, though, Lydersen, Death had to let go.”

“Yes,” the head clerk confirmed, with a wan smile.

“Hey, where the bloody hell’s my son got to?” Mrs. Schibbye suddenly shouted. “Is Pjølle still down in the cellar shivering like a puppy? You stayed at your post, Lydersen. I’ll remember that.”

Mrs. Schibbye suddenly scowled and nudged her head clerk hard on the shoulder, adding quickly: “Has anyone else been hurt, I wonder, Lydersen? Has anyone been killed? Let’s go down and find out.”

Lydersen turned scarlet; his eyes were brimming over.

“Your cheek’s bleeding, ma’am,” he said. “Hadn’t you better let the doctor have a look?”

“To Hell with him,” said Mrs. Schibbye. “Where’s my cap? Oh well, I can do without that, too.”

Lydersen suddenly showed his prominent teeth in a sickly, foolish smile which he tried to conceal behind his drooping moustache. Mrs. Schibbye burst into a loud laugh; she went on for a long time, but then it developed into a kind of sombre, menacing, threatening howl: “Oh, oh, the Fulda was a good ship. She brought a lot of money back. She brought blessings and happiness every time she came … to great and small. She fed a lot of mouths. Oh, oh… !”

Liva had been standing for a long time down on the quayside, lost in the sight of the burning, sinking ship. But she could hardly neglect her work in this way any longer. She tore herself away and pushed through the crowd of people.

There was not a soul to be seen in Opperman’s warehouse. The door to the office was ajar; Liva glanced in and saw Opperman at his desk, busy filing some papers. He had obviously not been concerned at what had happened. Heavens above, how calmly he was taking everything … already hard at work, why, he was even humming a tune to himself and appeared to be well pleased! As for Liva, she was still trembling and felt weak in all her joints.

As she drew back from the door she chanced to brush against a tall pile of shoe boxes, so that it tipped over and collapsed on to the floor with a great clatter. She made a feverish effort to collect the boxes and stack them as before. Opperman didn’t come out of his office, strangely enough, though he must have heard the din. Only when everything was more or less in place again did he appear in the door; his face was red; he smiled and beckoned to Liva. “Aha, so it’s you? Come in here a moment.”

Liva got up, somewhat surprised, and went into the office. Opperman took her by the hand, bowed slightly and invited her to sit on the sofa. Only now did she realise that he was drunk, or at least very tipsy. His tie was askew, as was his mouth, and there was a weary, mawkish look in his eyes. He put a long-stemmed green glass on the table in front of the sofa and filled it from a conical bottle with a cross on the label. Liva made to get up and go, but he held her back; giving her a searching look, he said plaintively: “Oh, Liva. Confused day, very confused! You also need pick-me-up, Liva!”

“No, thank you, I don’t want anything,” said Liva uneasily.

“Just little drop?”

“No, thank you.”

“Oh, then I’ll have one alone.”

He poured himself a glass and emptied it, smiled vaguely and shook his head a little. Suddenly a cunning look came into his eyes; he went across and took hold of both her hands. She got up in confusion, and found herself standing close up against him.

“Oh, Liva, you give me little kiss today?” he pleaded.

Liva resisted, but she could hardly refrain from laughing at Opperman. She felt neither anger nor fear … a drunken man was a drunken man. Only it was pretty humiliating for Opperman that he had had too much to drink simply from fear…

“No, no, Liva,” he said. “I not ask for kiss, for you a nice, good girl, you engaged and religious girl. No, it just I feel so lonely.”

He sighed, made a weary gesture, and went on plaintively: “Everyone want Opperman’s money, no one want him himself; all want wages, want tax, want gifts to public works. Some simply take money … and no one say anything, for Opperman never protest, never make example of people, never. But I value you high, Liva, you are so beautiful. I value, too, your brother, he do me great service, he also get good rate. No, you misunderstand me, Liva, you not fond of me, I not trouble you … I give you beautiful coat, lovely reefer. You like? Not shoes, either? Not underclothes, Liva, fine silk?”

Liva shook her head and could not suppress a smile. But now the door to the outer office opened, and Amanda, Mrs. Opperman’s old maid, put her head inside. Opperman looked irritated as he turned round. “What now, Amanda? You not see I busy? I tell this girl what to do.”

He turned to Liva and appeared to scold her: “I hear all right you upset shoe boxes; you behave like little child. You upset everything, knock over, no use.”

Liva blushed scarlet and hurried out of the office. Opperman sent her a warm, melancholy glance.

The bombed ship was doomed. By late morning the fire had successfully been brought under control, but the ship was letting in vast quantities of water, and the pumping equipment had been destroyed. There was nothing for it but to tow the hulk in to the head of the bay and beach it.

At dusk the quays were still full of people talking in groups and discussing the day’s sombre events. Another ship lost, and this time it had happened right in front of their noses, without anyone being able to do anything to stop it. But as though by a miracle, the misfortune had cost no lives. They would hardly be as lucky next time.

There was a great deal of coming and going in Mrs. Schibbye’s home; friends and relatives came to ask how she was and to cheer her up after the catastrophe. She was flushed the colour of roast beef, with two strips of plaster across her cheek. The blackened piece of shrapnel lay on a piece of wrapping paper on the middle of the dining room table; she seemed unable to tear herself away from it, and kept glancing at it triumphantly, as though it was a dangerous wild animal that she had managed to bring down.

“If it had been even half an inch closer, you’d have been coming to my funeral,” she laughed, the gold chain with the great medallion chinking as her breast heaved.

“Aye, aye, what times these are,” sighed Nikodemus Skælling, who had come to glean some information for his newspaper. “We who had our best years before 1914, we can scarcely conceive that civilised life can be so brutally crushed in this way.”

He added emotionally: “Don’t you agree, Mrs. Schibbye – those good old antediluvian days when Kaiser Wilhelm tended his moustache and the whole world hummed the Luxembourg Waltz … ?”

Mrs. Schibbye laughed silently. “Days and days,” she said. “Have you ever known anyone sing the praises of the present, Mr. Skælling? No, for everyone always goes on about the present. No, ’Those were the days’, you know. But even so, I would say that the roughest days I have known were just before this war. Good God. We were all on our arses. It was a dreadful time, wasn’t it Pjølle?”

She nudged her son and went on in the same mocking tone: “It was a terrible job negotiating terms with creditors, eh, running from pillar to post and asking for mercy and time to pay – wasn’t it, Pjølle? Cross your heart, wasn’t it almost worse than the war? Aren’t I right? The war came almost as a relief, that’s the truth of the matter. It was like a shower of rain over the desert. Not only for us, but for the whole country.”

Pjølle shrugged his shoulders, glanced at Mr. Skælling and said with a rueful smile: “Damned if I know what’s worst.”

Mrs. Schibbye rubbed her nose in recollection while she excitedly rocked to and fro in her chair: “I’ll never forget the first time the Fulda had sold its catch in Aberdeen and I got a telegram telling me the stupendous price. I thought of those words, whoever it was who said them: ’You woke up one morning and were famous!’ 60,000 kroner net profit. It was incredible … after having been as hard up as we really were after the Spanish Civil War had ruined the market for dried cod. Yes, I must admit the Fulda was a good investment – what do you think we’ve earned on it, Pjølle?”

Pjølle had a crafty look in his eyes. He shook his head as he took a sip from his glass. “How the hell should I know? Five hundred per cent?”

“What on earth are you talking about, you fool? That’s nowhere near. Your health, Mr. Skælling.”

Mrs. Schibbye gave a short laugh and shuffled elatedly, but she immediately composed herself and looked serious again, adding as she thoughtfully refilled Mr. Skælling’s glass: “But of course, touch wood. How long is all this splendour going to last? It seems the ships are all disappearing, one after another. Sometimes two at a time. There’ll be none left in the end, and then we shall be in a pretty mess.”

Mr. Skælling was noticeably flushed when he arrived home for supper shortly afterwards.

“Good Lord! It’s obvious where you’ve been,” his wife laughed. “How has she taken it?”