It’s not fair, says the seaman, and Bertel thinks he will come to his aid. I made a deal in all honesty and in the presence of witnesses: the skins are as good as mine!
Yes, but now that they have been transferred, you must bargain with me, says Kragstedt, and the price is still ten rigsdalers.
A good deal, says the Overseer and laughs. Several of the other men join in. A toast to our Trader!
Bertel fetches the skins the next day and delivers them to the warehouse. The Overseer receives them, examines their quality one by one, indicates an occasional flaw and writes out a receipt. Bertel stands with his cap clenched in his hand and accepts the worthless piece of paper in return.
The Third Commandment
A Wrought-iron Gate (1788)
The Third Commandment, as it is most plainly to be taught by a father to his family:
‘Thou shalt sanctify the Sabbath day.’
What does this imply?
Answer: That we should fear and love God, so that that we may not despise the preaching of the Gospel and His word; but to keep it holy; willingly to hear and learn it.
Some two years following her arrival in the country, Haldora Kragstedt decides she will have a vegetable garden. She has made mention of it to her husband before, only for him to laugh incredulously.
A vegetable garden? Why not a wheat field or an apple orchard?
Glancing up at her, he thought better of his facetiousness. My dear, a vegetable garden? Come, let me show you something.
He took her outside, made her wait in front of the house and fetched a spade from the warehouse. He handed it to her.
What am I to do with it?
Dig a hole, said Kragstedt. For your vegetable garden. He laughed. Don’t look so glum. Let me.
He lifted the spade and thrust it down into the ground. A metallic clatter sounded out, whereupon he stepped up on to the edge of the blade and pressed it down with the full weight of his body. It sank a couple of inches. Then he angled it upward, wrenched away a small edge of peat and thrust the spade into the ground once more. The same occurred.
You see? he said, stepping back.
Stones, she said.
No, not stones. Stone. The bedrock of Greenland. How will you bring forth a vegetable garden in a land in which one can hardly bury a body?
The wilderness should be cultivated, she said. Isn’t that what we are doing here?
We?
We, the white people. Is that not the purpose of all this? She nodded her head in the direction of the warehouses.
Not even white people have solved the problem of cultivating rock.
Then we must order some good Danish soil, said the Madame.
Have you lost your senses? her husband spluttered.
Not yet. But you must remember, dear husband, that I am a woman. It is my task to make things germinate and grow. She passed a hand across her abdomen and said in that gentle and instructional tone that always made him feel so ridden with guilt: As long as I have no child to care for I must find pastimes, or else I fear I shall indeed lose my senses.
And now, but two years after this exchange, she still has no child to care for. But the soil is there, having sailed with the good ship Der Frühling, along with some bags of assorted seed. As soon as the frost leaves the ground, she has the good-hearted cooper dig up some score cubic ells of peat and fill the hole with the soil. Afterwards she stands beside him at the edge of the black rectangle. Her heart races in her breast with excitement. The cooper, too, is touched by the moment.
We have moved a piece of the homeland to this place, he says.
Indeed, she echoes. We should put up a flagpole.
I’ll ask the carpenter to make one, says the cooper. We shall raise the flag and sing songs.
And see the cabbage sprout, says Madame Kragstedt.
Pastor Falck approaches. Well, I never, he says and is clearly impressed. He fetches his Bible and holy water and blesses the vegetable patch. Madame must make sure to fence it in properly, says Falck, so that my cow does not trample her plants.
She and the pastor sow the seeds: turnip, beet, celery, carrot, garden cabbage and kohlrabi. They water the ground and remain standing and look upon it in reverence. Madame Kragstedt enjoys the sensation of sticky soil between her fingers and the natural fatigue that has settled in her muscles.
The next day she has the carpenter make an enclosure of fencing. By evening it is done. Will the Madame want it painted?
Yes, the Madame will want it painted.
The carpenter bows. He promises to begin the flagpole as soon as possible.
I haven’t felt as happy in years, she confides to the pastor, who is now seated in her parlour.
You have found your calling, he says and smiles.
We had a vegetable garden at home in Køge. I suppose that’s why such feelings arise in me now. The muscles of her jaw tense; she is about to cry. But instead of holding back the tears, she releases them. The pastor can surely endure some snivelling. She feels her cheeks warmed by the moisture. She laughs and dries her eyes with a handkerchief.
The pastor remains seated and studies her. He waggles his foot and sips at his glass. The Madame yearns for home, he says.
What it needs now, she says, is a gate.
A gate? For the vegetable patch?
At home in the apothecary garden there was a wrought-iron gate that made an entrance to the vegetable patch. Do you think the smith will make me one, Magister?
I suppose it is his job, says Falck.
A wrought-iron gate? says Niels Hammer, the smith. What would the lady want with such a thing?
To open and close, she says. When going in and out.
Indeed, I am familiar with what a wrought-iron gate is used for, says the smith. But why not an ordinary wooden gate? Iron isn’t exactly in abundance in this place.
She has made a detailed drawing of it, together with Pastor Falck: a stylized vine wreathed around her family crest and motto.
The smith studies the drawing and snorts.
I’m aware it is a complicated pattern, says Haldora. Do you think it exceeds your abilities, Mr Hammer?
The smith snorts again. Presently, however, he begins work on the gate, all the while muttering about how meaningless it is to waste iron of prime Norwegian quality on a gate leading in and out of nothing in the middle of a wilderness.
We are civilizing the wilderness, she instructs him.
All well and good, but I fear we shall need more than soil and a gate.
She comes to the workshop every day to see how the work is progressing. She sits on a chopping block and watches the smith as he stands, bare-chested, clad only in his apron hide, pounding at the iron, making the sparks and slags fly. Curious, she asks him about the things he makes, and he explains to her, hesitantly, about barrel hoops, rivets, lugs and hinges, pots and pans to be hammered out, guns to be mended, bullets to be cast, the many iron parts of the blubber boiler to be repaired; among them, he says, fixing her with a malicious gaze, the heavy chain in which the unfortunate Magister Krogh hanged himself. And as if that were not enough, I’m now making a wrought-iron gate for the Madame, so that she may go in and out of the wilderness and close the door behind her.
Haldora laughs. The smith does not. He swings his hammer. A shiver runs down her spine as she thinks about the fact that he is also the colony’s executioner, he who punishes the mutinous with the cane or pinches them with glowing tongs, in the worst cases chopping off their limbs or even releasing their souls from their bodies. Not that she has seen him in that function yet. Her husband, the colony manager, is a patient commandant who prefers to resolve conflict amicably.
The smith endeavours to negotiate with her to simplify the pattern of the gate, but with a smile she insists it be made exactly as indicated. She sees immediatel
y whenever he tries to cut corners and is upon him with a wagging finger and admonitions issued in a tone of sarcasm that clearly annoys the smith excessively, much to her delight. She enjoys being in the workshop, taking in the foul smell of iron as it is made malleable in the furnace, to be twisted and shaped like caramel; the sizzle and hiss of the water when the iron is hardened; the fire; the flickering shadows; , the body of the smith bent over the glowing metal.
What do these letters mean in the middle? the smith would like to know.
Semper felix, she says. It’s Latin and means always happy.
I see, says the smith. And all the letters are to be in place, even though none but the lady understands them?
All of them, Mr Hammer.
The man and the hammer, the iron and the fire. The rush of heat whenever the door of the furnace is opened is almost unbearable, yet she does not turn her face away from it. Her eyes seem almost to draw in the fire and something inside her that needs to be scorched is set alight. She is aware of the impropriety of her being here so often. And yet it is hard to distract oneself from it and she must keep an eye on the work of the unwilling smith. Mr Kragstedt, her husband, is away most of the time in the summer months. As far as she knows, he is presently at Holsteinsborg, the wealthy neighbour colony to the north. He harbours dreams of founding a similar guild of whale hunters in the Sukkertop district, for then they would soon be prosperous indeed, he says. It is a matter to which he is highly devoted. She wonders what he will say when he returns home and sees her vegetable garden. She looks forward to showing it to him and hopes the gate will be finished and that some of the seeds will have begun to sprout when such time comes. It would seem to be feasible. It is well known that the ancient Nordics, besides keeping animals, cultivated cereals and vegetables further south in the country, albeit well inside the sheltered fords, though they were never in possession of genuine Danish soil.
Morten Falck is also gone away. The only person with whom she feels able to converse, and then only barely meaningfully, is the cooper, Carl Dorph. But he is of strong faith and wont to spout nauseating pieties and complaints that he has not yet received licence to marry the native woman with whom he shares his bed and who is mother to his child. She tells him she will put his case when her husband returns home; perhaps there is something he can do. Then she goes down to the workshop and seats herself. The smith stands, working the bellows. He scowls. The muscles in his back tense beneath the sheen of sweat that glistens like oil upon his skin.
She withdraws. She goes up to the vegetable garden that has yet to show sign of life. Then she walks back to the colony house and sits at the window, reading one of the novels Falck has lent her from his book collection. She finds her writing implements and notes down some matters to remind herself that she is to discuss them with the pastor on his return. He has become a good friend and she considers that he must be somewhat in love with her. She can tell from his eyes when she opens the door for him and he enters her parlour. Sooner or later, most likely this coming winter, they will end up kissing each other and inflicting upon each other a slight harm. She often finds amusement in imagining how it will happen and what will be said. She will pour him aquavit and it will loosen his inhibitions. Swiftly, rather desperately, he will draw her towards him and kiss her. Thus! She will push him away, admonish him. He will be ridden with guilt. They will act out their roles. And then she will lend him her lips again. His hand will brush against her breast and she will take it and press it to her bosom. The hand will cup, it will clench and squeeze, and tingling pleasure will radiate from within, downwards, upwards, inwards into the very core of the obscure seat of woman’s desire. But the pastor understands and relieves her of her shame.
No more fantasies now! She returns to her novel. After a time, her new maid arrives. She is at some loss as to what use to make of the girl in the middle of the day, apart from the fact that she usually reads a little of the catechism for her. It was Kragstedt’s decision to take her on as a sort of chambermaid alongside Sofie, who is their regular help, or perhaps rather as a kind of pet whose purpose it is to keep her company while he is away. She has not yet become entirely used to her. Today she amuses herself by reading aloud to her from her novel. The girl sits, nonplussed, wearing an inward-looking expression, and clearly does not understand a word. Afterwards, she asks her to help her loosen her corset and undress, whereafter she retires to bed and sends the girl away. She reminds herself that tomorrow she must remember to ask her name and whether she has any family. Falck recommended her. She launders for him and cleans in the Mission house, a job that is quickly done, and the rest of the time she is at the Madame’s disposal in the colony house, though she must not clean or launder and thereby encroach upon Sofie’s domain, and Sofie plainly dislikes her. Servants, she thinks to herself. They are no easier to manage here than they were back home in the apothecary’s residence in Køge.
The next day is Sunday and the smith has rested his hammer in observance of the holy day, or rather to avoid being fined, so that particular pleasure is denied her today. The chambermaid comes and helps her dress. As the hours pass, she sits and reads, goes for short walks, considers the peat dwellings of the natives that are left empty for the summer. She hears the screaming of gulls and watches as they fly against the wind, suspend themselves in the air, then release to dip down and sweep over the waves in full control, before ascending in a single extended arc to hang suspended once more. If one were a seagull, she thinks, one would be free.
When she returns to the colony, she sees the smith standing talking to the pastor’s cow, which is called Roselil.
I see you have found a sweetheart, she says teasingly.
The smith turns slowly to face her, but says nothing in reply. She notices the empty bottle in his hand and feels a stab of unease.
Later, when she is down by the vegetable garden, studying the black earth that still is devoid of shoots, the smith appears again. In the corner of her eye she sees him walk up and knock on the door of the Overseer’s house. He holds the same empty bottle in his hand. Overseer Dahl comes to the door. The smith has pulled his hat from his head and stands with it clasped in his hands.
What does he want? Haldora hears the Overseer enquire.
The smith holds up the bottle.
No, I cannot and will not give him aquavit today, Hammer. How many times do I have to tell him?
The Overseer did not give the full half-pint yesterday, says the smith, his voice meagre and pathetic.
Then why did he not come and complain straight away? It would be most unlike him to let such injustice pass without comment.
Because of my many burdens, says the smith. Now that the carpenter and the cooper are both ill, I must do their work, besides my own. And yet I receive only wages and provisions for one.
Today is Sunday, says the Overseer. Instead of seeking pleasure he ought to observe the holy day and read in his postil. It would become him better than filling himself with aquavit.
Haldora finds herself thinking the Overseer is correct in what he says. And yet she feels for the smith and considers Dahl to be self-righteous and insensitive.
Now she sees the smith clutch at his throat and cough, as though on a theatre stage. I’ve such a tightness here, he whimpers. I think there is a cold coming on, perhaps a boil in the throat. Who knows how long a man may have left in this vale of tears? It is only wherefore I come to ask the Overseer for a small and insignificant half-pint of the aquavit, to chase the cold away, so I don’t end up in bed like the carpenter or under the peat like the old pastor.
Indeed, we can’t have that, can we? Dahl quips back with a sarcasm that is lost on the smith, though not on Haldora, who prods gently here and there in her dubious vegetable garden while she eavesdrops.
Dahl sighs. All right, Hammer. A half pint and not a drop more, does he hear me?
Thank you, your Excellency,
says the smith, and Haldora hears how he has already discarded his subservience and adopted a more brazen, sneering manner. She looks forward to tomorrow, Monday, when she might take him to task and order him about.
She straightens her back and watches the two men as they walk towards the warehouse where the colony holds its stock of ale and aquavit.
I’m docking this from next week’s provision, she hears the Overseer say. Just so he knows.
They disappear from view and she walks back up to the colony house, rather excited by this minor dispute. Through the walls a short while later she hears the carpenter and the smith talking in their room in the other part of the house. Their voices are woollen, she cannot make out what they are saying, but from the tone of the smith’s voice she can tell that he is not in the best of humour. A lengthy exchange follows. She feels, perhaps, that they are speaking of her. She hopes the carpenter, decent as he is, will defend her. Then a door slams and all is quiet.
She settles down to write a letter to her sister, only to lapse into daydreams. The chambermaid comes in and looks at her enquiringly. Not now, she says, and sends her away with a wave of her hand. When she is gone, she wishes she had not, but is loath to go out and call her back. Sunday. Once it was the best day of the week, a day of outings and trysts with young men, whose desires she found mysterious and inciting. But that was at home. That was when she was still young and unknowledgeable and thought that life would be just as her father, the apothecary, encouraged her to believe. It is a long time ago. Now she has travelled from youth at home to adulthood abroad.
Her husband Jørgen loves this wilderness. He came to Godthåb as a ship’s boy aboard the schooner Aurora, allowed her to sail again without him and was taken on by the Trade. He told her the story during the time when they were engaged, and she has heard it told many times since. It is more than twenty years ago now. He worked his way up; for, as he is wont to say, the only qualification needed to advance a man’s station in the colonies is not to be dead. If only he makes certain to remain alive, then sooner or later he will be king. Or Trader, as Haldora tends to add. Indeed, but that is but a station. You mark my words, my dear.
The Prophets of Eternal Fjord Page 23