The fire stops when it reaches the almshouse opposite the Helligånds kirke, popularly called the Cloister. The female residents, women of the nobility who have come down in the world, sink to their knees on the cobbles and pray. Falck watches incredulously as the blaze yields, sparing the Cloister, while the houses around it go up in flame and are laid to ruin. Dear Lord, Falck says to himself, forgive my miserable sins. I have doubted! Later, the fire seizes the building’s basement and the place burns down like all the others in the row.
Shop signs ignite, gilded or painted script advertising Gentlemen’s Clothing, Watch-maker, Portrait-painter and Apothecary bubbles and sizzles away. The copper plates of the book printers’ shops, their edifying monographs, travel descriptions with coloured illustrations of bushmen, unicorns and Cyclops, romantic tales, broadsheet verse and royal decrees melt in the storerooms and curl into small blobs of metal; oil paintings flare and are gone; cabinets of curiosities collected over a hundred and fifty years combust in seconds or else are dispatched through windows and smashed to pieces on the cobblestones; wardrobes of gilded gowns, embroidered, saffron-tainted blouses, brocade slippers perfumed by the feet of fine ladies, cotton undergarments with foul-smelling stains of perspiration, menstruation towels hung out to dry, horsehair wigs, leather coats, ladies’ bustles, all succumb to the flames; libraries of magnificent hand-written, pre-Gutenberg editions feed the blaze still further; anatomical preparations and prepared corpses go up in smoke; brooches of gold, silver buckles and thousands of items of jewellery melt and are reduced to droplets of precious metal under collapsed timber; boiling tar drips from the roofs; documents whirl to the skies in flame and descend to earth as flakes of soot; window panes are transformed into a caramel mass that seeps from the frames; stairways collapse with a rhythmically syncopated groan; bottles of distilled alcohol burst like small bubbles of fire on the shelves of the apothecaries; barrels of ethyl spirit spontaneously combust, sending cold, blue balls of flame out through the windows of the basements. The building that houses the synagogue on Læderstræde crumbles to the ground; outside the street is impassable. The fire jumps across Hyskenstræde. It sweeps across the city and continues west.
Back on Nytorv, Falck encounters inmates of the debtors’ prison bound together at the wrists in a long chain, on their way to the gaol at Christianshavn. They look pale and starved; they blink their eyes and stare, horrified and incredulous, at the burning buildings.
The Rådhus is not aflame, but now as he stands by the fountain in the middle of the square he can see that its fate is sealed. The blaze roars from the windows of Rådhusstræde, and the easterly wind, which seems almost to have increased, sends showers of sparks, near-invisible in the sunlight, across the square to the buildings on the other side. Those who live in the direction of the wind gradually realize that the flames will not stop until they reach the ramparts. The streets are cluttered with stacks of furniture, some alight, some destroyed by water from the fire pumps or because they have been roughly evacuated through windows. But there are all manner of horse-drawn vehicles; it seems the drivers of the hackney carriages have finally mustered some public spirit; even peasants from distant villages, Dragør, Sundbyerne, Kastrup, have come to help and transport goods and belongings without payment. Most probably it has dawned on them that they are quite as dependent upon the city as those who live in it. Long columns of vehicles laden with furniture and other items are on their way out to the ramparts or else to Amager.
In front of the Missionskollegium he finds the Duke where he left him. The same mood of exodus as everywhere else. He sees desks and chairs from the schoolroom have been carried out, furniture from the teachers’ residences and offices. He recognizes several items. The doors of the main entrance have been removed and leaned up against the wall. Documents are scattered over the steps and in the street, papers dancing in the air, some of them stuck in gutters and cornices. Falck stares at them. Somewhere among them is his name, letters he has sent, letters he is ashamed to have written, ashamed that others have read, letters written to him, his despicable diary. He wonders if Friedrich had the chance to read it all. Perhaps he put it aside to read on Saturday or Sunday, perhaps it has been brought to safety elsewhere in the city. Bundled leather files are put on to a cart. They are marked with journal numbers. He helps hand them up to the man on the cart, who piles them high and secures them with straps before driving off with them. People shake their heads. Such labour, and all for the sake of papers! Can it be true that the scribblings of priests are more important than so much else? Falck watches the cart as it disappears from sight along Frederiksberggade. Friedrich is nowhere to be seen.
He leaves the Duke once more and goes back to Gammel Torv. He wants to see the magical moment when the fire will jump. He ought to hurry out of the city and ensure the safety of the portrait. But he cannot tear himself away. The clock in the tower of the Rådhus issues a few hesitant chimes. The striking train is in need of winding, but the whole building has been evacuated and this is perhaps its final hour. Three o’clock. It occurs to him that it is mid-afternoon. But what day? Saturday? He has no idea what to do. What is his duty as a citizen? To bring the Duke to safety or to attend to the living? He is indebted to the engraver and moreover is fond of him and would like to do him a service. If he leaves the city with the portrait, he will have done something good and another person will be grateful to him. If he remains to join in the work of saving the city, his efforts will probably make little difference. But the civic spirit is important, too. This is my city, he thinks to himself.
He sits at the railing of the fountain. It is still working, splashing away without regard. People scurry about: a platoon of soldiers marches purposefully in one direction, then a command is barked and they turn and march in another. A fine gentleman stands and stares forlornly at a burning carriage; a girl attempts to jump over the iron railing, her dress gets stuck and he is afforded a glimpse of becoming ankle; a wife fries pancakes over an open fire. He buys one and sits munching it. The easiest thing is to do nothing, he muses.
Musical instruments are being thrown from a high window on the corner of Vestergade. He sees them hit the cobbles and hears them shatter into pieces, a stifled acoustic disintegration that identifies each instrument by turn. Drums, French horn, violins, timpani, even a small and delicate spinet goes the same way. The madness ceases. People gather at the debris, pick up some of the items in their hands, pluck a string, blow into a horn. Then someone shouts: a thin male at the window above. Falck sees his glaring eyes, the twist of his face. He holds a bottle in one hand and steadies himself against the window sill with the other. His upper body leans perilously towards the pavement below. People in the street cry out to him: In the name of Jesus, man! They reach up their arms towards him. Don’t jump, dear friend, come down from there! The man grimaces; he utters something that is drowned out by the noise, then throws his bottle into the sky; it descends in an arc and explodes against the cobbles. He is gone from the window. The gutters of the house have begun to burn. Shortly afterwards he appears in the doorway, playing a violin. It sounds unlike proper music, more a kind of melodious twitch.
He approaches the fountain where Falck is seated. Falck notices something familiar about him and is himself recognized immediately. The young man’s face lights up.
Your Reverence. Long time no see.
You? Falck exclaims, recoiling.
Your humble servant, he says, with a courteous bow.
Parallel worlds collide and entangle inside Falck’s head, mingling improperly and disagreeably.
The hermaphrodite sticks the violin under his chin and plays a trill. Then he puts it down and looks at Falck with mournful eyes. Every thing’s gone, he says. The music has stopped.
I know you, Falck says after a while.
Of course you do! We made each other’s acquaintance one night many years ago. I owe you five marks, Priest. Yo
u rendered me the service you’d paid me to perform. He puts his hand in his pocket and produces a leather pouch. He tosses it to Falck, who catches it in the air.
You are a musician now?
Yes, I’m a musician. He picks on the strings of his violin. I was put in charge of the orchestra’s instruments. But now it’s all too late. Too late, too late. He places the violin under his chin again and walks off in the direction of Vestergade as he plays. Goodbye, Priest! he calls out. Falck watches the young man until he is gone. Or the young woman, he thinks to himself, calling to mind her grotesque and inadmissibly muddled gender lying naked in the shed at the ramparts. He realizes he still holds the leather pouch in his hand. He looks inside. It is heavy with coins, a small fortune. He recalls his last encounter with the boy at the Dyrehavsbakken, when he stood and watched him emptying people’s pockets and refrained from giving him away. He stuffs the purse into his pocket. He will give the money to someone in need, he resolves, someone suffering on account of this catastrophe.
The fire jumps. A flight of stairs collapses on Rådhusstræde; windows and doors spew dust and smoke; and a horse panics, wrenches itself free and gallops away in the direction of Nørregade. The roof of the Rådhus is ablaze, the fire is at the clock tower, beams and rafters and gutters in its grip. The square is teeming with people. They stop what they are doing and stare up at the building.
About bloody time, they say.
The Rådhus clock strikes the half-hour agonizingly slowly. The onlookers jeer, clap and whistle. Falck loosens his collar, the heat is stifling. He remembers the Duke and runs back to the Missionskollegium. The portrait is where he left it, the building shuttered and abandoned. The fire reaches out from the Rådhus and will ignite the college’s gutters. He picks up the painting and makes his way towards the perimeter.
A wide corridor of the city is alight now. Falck stands on the rampart with a good view of the blaze. On each side of the corridor the fire brigade battles to save the adjoining houses by putting wet canvas around them and keeping them doused with the fire pumps. Accidents are many. He watches them happen or hears of them, and he sees the results. Men who fall from rooftops, women trampled by horses or crowds, children trapped inside labyrinthine buildings; cowering in a loft when the roof collapses, many are struck by falling tiles and timber; some exploit the situation to stick a dagger into an old enemy; the militia opens fire at the slightest provocation, shooting at thieves or suspected thieves, and if they escape the rain of bullets they are beaten to death by the rabble or chased into the canal, where people in heavily laden boats seek to drown them with their oars to stop them from clinging to the gunwale and capsizing them. Hordes of drunks risk summary justice to steal kegs of aquavit, breaking them open to drink themselves senseless. When the fire comes, the kegs explode, blue beacons scattered about the streets.
It seems half the city has gathered on the ramparts. They have dragged furniture and mattresses with them, armchairs, chaises longues, tables and benches. Peasants and citizens, women in tight crinoline and servant girls in airy shifts, officers and enlisted men; the fire is democratic: all are homeless and sit now in splintered, water-damaged furniture, or else they break it into pieces to throw on the campfires. There is music and singing; alehouse keepers have rolled along their barrels and set up serving places in tents or under treetops; goats, pigs and hens are slaughtered and roasted on the spit, sizzling and crackling above the flames. Beneath the ramparts some men butcher a horse with axes and lug a hindquarter to one of the fires. Falck sees that the leather bit is still between its teeth. The air is thick with the smells of cooking and excrement. From the trees children stare down at him. All the time he hears the blaze as it tears down buildings and causes panes to explode. He listens to the music and the singing on the rampart. He sits by a campfire where a great hunk of meat turns above the flame. A kind soul offers him a slice. He takes it, along with some bread, and eats. He drinks fresh fruit wine and feels his strength draining away. The last thing he sees before he falls asleep is the Duke of Augustenborg leaning against a tree, looking down at him disapprovingly. The widow is there. She has snuggled up and lies spooned against his back. He is glad of her company.
It must be Sunday. Carrying the Duke, he proceeds down Vimmelskaftet in the direction of Amager Torv. A pack of dogs comes hurtling towards him in tight formation. He jumps aside, holding the Duke in front of him. They pass without taking any notice, like a sled team. It is becoming light.
He turns around. He has no idea where to go. All is quiet. He walks back to Gammel Torv and sees that the Rådhus lies in ruins. The Vajsenhus and the Missionskollegium have also burnt down, as have the majority of houses surrounding Nytorv. As he makes his way towards Lille Kannikestræde the bells begin to peal from the churches that have survived, calling the faithful to Sunday service. It looks like it will be a fine day.
He stops outside number twelve, puts down the Duke and raps on the door with the knocker. A maid opens it a slight crack. He says his name. He is not immediately admitted, but must stand and wait in the street while she announces him to the lady of the house. He has not encountered a single watchman on his way and he has heard tell that the city swarms with prisoners who have absconded while taking part in the work of extinguishing the blaze. The residents are wary.
The door opens. Cathrine stands in front of him. She stares at him without recognition, then suddenly her face lights up.
What on earth happened to you, Morten Falck?
I have been to war with the Swede.
She lets him in.
My lodgings were in one of the houses that are no more, he explains apologetically. I have lost everything.
But not your life! she says. We were so worried about you. There were all sorts of rumours. I didn’t dare go out.
I am quite unharmed. He realizes that she is standing with her hand against his chest. He takes it and kisses it, presses it to his cheek. She strokes his hair. He succumbs to tears.
She instructs the servants to make up a bed for him in one of the rooms and to prepare a bath. His ruined clothes cannot be used again; he must borrow from the professor.
He cannot let go of her hand, but clutches it in his own. There is something I must say, he says.
There is plenty of time for that. Now you must take a bath and get some rest.
I must ask your forgiveness, he says. Can you forgive me? On behalf of your sister?
Oh, Morten. It has all been forgotten, such a long time ago. My sister is beyond such thoughts now. She suffers not.
No, but perhaps I do. He who fails another fails first and foremost himself. Especially if, as I, he has entered into covenant with the Lord. This fire. So much has happened these last days. It feels like a dream. I have discovered there must have been something wrong with me all these years. I have not been a good person, Cathrine. I have committed many wicked deeds. Now I must ask forgiveness.
She stands quite motionless and stares at him. Her eyes are blue, her mouth hints at thoughts and emotions he is unable to determine. You are not a bad person, Morten Falck, and it is very arrogant of you to think that you should be so much more exceptional and abominable than the rest of us.
No, indeed. Yes. I suppose. Now you have made me confused. But you must forgive me, do you hear?
Some days pass. He resides with the professor, consumes three meals a day, strolls in Rosenborg Have with Cathrine on his arm. One day they take a carriage into the country, to the house where Buntzen has taken up residence, and deliver the undamaged portrait of the Duke. Abelone is with them. The sun shines on her face; she seems to savour the warmth and light. The engraver invites them to stay for lunch. He instructs the staff to set a table in the garden. They eat a roast marinated in honey. For dessert they pluck strawberries in the vegetable garden and eat them with cream and syrup. They spend a whole day in the engraver’s garden. In the evening they drive b
ack into the city. Falck senses he has begun to have feelings for Cathrine, feelings he perhaps ought not to harbour, or which were better directed towards Abelone. He tells her this and she is kind and understanding, but afterwards there is a distance between them, which he knows he must accept. The widow waits for him. He knows it.
Much of what happened during the two days and nights the fire raged feels unreal to him, not least his encounter with the hermaphrodite. But the heavy leather purse reminds him that it was real enough. He spends some of the money on a new cassock and ruff collar, some books and other items to replace what he had in his sack. He does not purchase a wig. The day of the wig is over, a new century is just around the corner. He still has a great deal of money left. Some of it he keeps, the rest he puts in the collection box of Vor Frue Kirke.
At the Missionskollegium he meets with Mr Friedrich, who recalls their encounter during the blaze, a chance occurrence that turns out to Falck’s advantage. Shortly after they parted, a carriage came and Friedrich seems to believe it was at Falck’s behest. Much of the furnishings and the archive were saved, Friedrich tells him. But alas, everything is in chaos. We should like to have had the opportunity to ponder the Magister’s references and credentials, but it will take months to restore order to the archive. And, of course, some considerable part of it has been lost.
Quite, says Falck. Does this mean the Mission will not employ me?
We have a vacant calling at Holsteinsborg, Friedrich says. Our Magister Landstad there has regrettably come to grief. If Magister Falck is willing to accept the position, then it is his.
He accepts and yet remains anxious that his papers might suddenly turn up. But nothing is forthcoming. He continues to put off approaching the Trade as regards his debt. When finally he does, he is told the office has no record of any sum of debt to the trading station at Sukkertoppen and that a large number of documents were lost in the fire. And with that the matter is closed.
The Prophets of Eternal Fjord Page 57