Barbara

by Jorgen-Frantz Jacobsen

  Dedalus would like to thank The Danish Arts Council’s Committee for Literature and Arts Council England, London for their assistance in producing this book.

  Contents

  Title

  Dedication

  The Author

  The Translator

  Introduction

  Fortuna

  The Widow in the Benefice

  Happiness on Account

  Farewell, Oh World, Farewell

  The World

  Rain

  Coloured Stones

  Brandy

  A Clerical Convention

  In a Garden

  Tides

  Fortuna

  Christmas Festivities

  Weatherbound

  Tempo di Minuetto

  China

  Nul ne mérite

  Copyright

  The Author

  Jørgen-Frantz Jacobsen (1900–1938) spent his early childhood in his native Faroe Islands, then proceeded to high school and university in Denmark. He worked as a journalist for the newspaper Politiken, but in 1922 fell prey to the tuberculosis that led to his early death.

  He worked to the very end, and while Barbara was his only novel, it was preceded by a work entitled The Faroes, Nature and People, which has the dual quality of being informative and a work of considerable beauty. Although written in Danish, his work is intensely Faroese.

  The Translator

  W. Glyn Jones read Modern Languages at Pembroke College Cambridge, with Danish as his principal language, before doing his doctoral thesis at Cambridge. 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 the author of Denmark: A Modern History and coauthor 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 and Mother Pleiades by William Heinesen, Ida Brandt by Herman Bang and My Fairy-Tale Life by Hans Christian Andersen.

  He is currently translating William Heinesen’s last novel The Tower at the Edge of the World.

  Introduction

  When Jørgen-Frantz Jacobsen died in March 1938 at the early age of 37, he left behind the manuscript for this book. Jacobsen had previously been known to the Danish public as the author of two books on the Faroe Islands in addition to a large number of articles in the newspaper Politiken on Faroese, Icelandic, Norwegian and other Scandinavian subjects, and through these articles he achieved a reputation as a gifted and original journalist with a distinctive style, a man who tackled his material with authority and complete honesty, but writing in an artistically fascinating, amusing manner.

  Jørgen-Frantz Jacobsen was born in 1900, the son of a grocer in Tórshavn in the Faroe Islands. He was of an outgoing and positive nature and was gifted in many fields, and people rightly had great expectations of him. He would undoubtedly have been able to make an important contribution both as a scholar (historian) and as a politician if stubborn ill health had not prevented him from developing to the full extent of his ability. This illness, tuberculosis, already made its appearance when he was only twenty-one years old, living as a student in Regensen, the hall of residence in Copenhagen, and it made its mark on the rest of his later life. For long periods he was condemned to being bedridden and passive, into the active life that suited his temperament. He took part in politics, became acquainted with a great number of people and conditions, undertook studies and journeys, fell in love – and all the time devoting himself to the writing that had been a compulsion for him ever since childhood. He undertook demanding tasks and exposed himself time after time to overexertion, which again led to relapses and once more tied him to his bed. “The organ is strong enough,” he would say, “but the church can’t stand it.” And as he approached maturity the church became ever weaker, though the organ remained just as indomitable.

  Jacobsen also occupied himself with literary activities from his earliest youth. He wrote some poems, some short stories and plays, and he left hundreds of poetical letters and reports often in the form of elegant descriptions of nature and travel accounts or in the form of memoirs.

  He started on the novel Barbara in 1934. His illness had by then taken a complicated and dangerous course. Most of the book was written while he lay ill in bed, often under conditions that least of all could be expected to predispose a man to productive work. But it was not in Jacobsen’s nature to break down. He was absolutely invincible, and he met every adversity in a manner that could only be described with one word: heroic. No one ever heard Jørgen-Frantz Jacobsen complain at the really quite unusually harsh fate that was his. On the other hand, he often expressed his gratitude to life, with which, as he put it, he had always been on good terms and the gifts of which he did not intend to subject to suspicion. “Simply all these Faroese mountains and valleys: Kirkjubøreyn, Reyðafallstind, Sjeyndir – and all that music: Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Ravel or Carl Nielsen! Yes, and then Kingo, Bellman and La Rochefoucauld!” as he exclaims but his courage and his spirit were never subdued. As soon as a temporary relief gave him back his freedom, he threw himself in one of his letters.

  Four months before his death he wrote to a friend: “Don’t you be bothered about my Mozartian view of life… my strength lies in my not striving for happiness and well-being but for better or for worse being in love with my own fate.” During a catastrophic bout of his illness which, as he well knew, would necessitate a difficult and dangerous operation, he wrote these stoic and ironic words: “This is a trial, but if you want the good, you must accept the bad as well. If I die, you will be able to write on my grave: Here lies one who had many human experiences and was always harmoniously happy. He finally even managed to experience a touch of the molestations of old age.”

  As will be clear, Jørgen-Frantz Jacobsen was not prone to either the pretentious or the mystical. On the other hand, his view of life was characterised by humour, a humour of a certain honest and pithy kind, often containing a touch of wormwood in the manner of harsh criticism and self-irony and always linked to the respect for life and its immediate realities, which he rated more highly than any sort of unconstrained and dishonest metaphysical ramblings.

  The material for the novel Barbara is taken from a Faroese legend, “Beinta and Peder Arrheboe”, which builds on a foundation of historical events. The beautiful, but evil parson’s wife, Beinta, who has been married several times and is the cause of her husbands’ misfortune and death, is traditionally seen as a virtually demonic female figure, a vampire who is evil for the sake of being evil. The Barbara who is the subject of Jørgen-Frantz Jacobsen’s novel is also in her way a jinx and a vampire, but she is portrayed in such a way that we understand her, come to be fond of her and finally to feel sorry for her. She is neither demonic nor mystical, but in all her paradoxical womanliness, all too human. The same applies to the book as a whole. It takes place at the time of Frederik the Fifth (1723–66), though this is no archaic portrayal, but, one might say, a modern one, and Jacobsen builds throughout on his own experiences, not on reading and literary studies. It is a book about life and youth, a portrait characterised by archness and charm, by humour and poetry, but also containing a touch of irony and an undercurrent of melancholy. It was written by a man who was still young
and resilient in spirit, but whose body was already broken and aged – a man who in spite of all his troubles and painful experiences never grew bitter because, “for better or for worse” he was genuinely in love with life in the form in which he had found it.

  William Heinesen

  Fortuna

  The lights in the Royal Store buildings in Havn were almost blown out by the wind each time there came a gust. Occasionally, it could be as quiet as the grave. Then the heavy timberwork would start to groan, and the gale again caught the brown tarred wooden houses in its stranglehold. There was a pitiful wailing in every corner; the warehouse shutters tore and struggled in their iron cramps; the turf roofs danced in turmoil like wild flames, and the surf cast itself heavily on the stony promontory of Tinganes and enveloped all Tórshavn in a shower of salt and rain.

  In the storehouse, Ole the stocking buyer and Rebekka’s Poul were busy sorting jerseys. They sat in the small circle of light provided by a lamp. Otherwise, the warehouses lay in darkness. But several folk were assembled in the shop.

  They had received news. A boat that had been out fishing to the east of Nolsoy had seen a ship. They thought it was the Fortuna, which was expected from Copenhagen with goods for the Store. But she could not get into the harbour in this weather. The fishing boat had made the shore at the last moment before the storm broke.

  The men stood around, idly discussing this ship. They were Tórshavn men – Havn men, as they were known – at one and the same time soldiers at the Redoubt, porters in the Royal Store and fishermen far out at sea when the weather was suitable and the commander would allow them to go. They were leaning over the counter. The tallow candle shone in their flaccid faces and their sullen, red-ringed eyes. They were spitting and yawning in a generally miserable manner. The news was turned over like a plug of chewing tobacco. Gabriel, the storekeeper, was standing at his desk behind the counter. He occasionally looked up from his accounts and made a small contribution to the conversation.

  Were there two or three masts on this ship? Oh, two masts. Yes, it would probably be the Fortuna.

  Katrine the Cellar fought her way into the Store. The gale was right on her heels like some evil spirit. Then the door slammed to. She timidly wished everyone a good evening, cowed by all the commotion she had caused. The men spat at a slightly greater distance and acknowledged in this way that they had noticed her. They were not particularly grand – neither Springus, Niels the Punt, Samuel the Hoist nor the Beach Flea. But they did not approve of female interference in a strictly factual discussion on seafaring. Katrine also fully understood this. For a long time she stood there meekly and was only Katrine the Cellar. Or rather: for the time being she hardly existed. But her eyes were watchful and determined. She had her little war to wage. So when Gabriel at some stage, almost by chance, caught sight of her, she was there straight away: “God bless you, Gabriel, will you let me have a jug of syrup this evening.”

  She cautiously pushed the jug forward on the counter.

  “What the hell are you doing out here again now? Haven’t you been out here once before today buying both flour and oats?

  “God bless you! Just so the children can have something to drink this evening.”

  “Oh, go to blazes,” shouted Gabriel furiously. “Why the devil can’t you buy everything at the same time?”

  “We couldn’t take more on account this morning, you know. But now Marcus has had such a good day’s fishing.”

  “Do you think I haven’t anything else to do but stir the syrup barrel every time Marcus catches a tiddler?”

  Clearly showing his irritation, he went over to the barrel, bent his fat back and filled the mug with the thick syrup. Katrine watched him excitedly. It was taking such a long time. If only he didn’t change his mind half way! Gabriel groaned and swore gently. Finally, he straightened his back and flung the mug across the counter: “There!”

  He took her shopping book and made a note in it. Katrine left. The men spat.

  Gabriel was easy-going by nature, but somewhat selfimportant on account of his position. He had a big, full mouth that actually bubbled with kindly impudence. Idleness had made him fat, and during the hours he spent every day behind the counter in the store, he had grown accustomed to gossip. He was a king to his customers and he supplied corn and sugar, snuff and sarcasms to the small fry on the other side of the counter.

  And now all this talk about the ship started to weary him.

  “Oh,” he said suddenly, addressing Beach Flea: “I suppose you didn’t see any pilot whales today?”

  Beach Flea spat. He had got the message. Now it was his turn to be teased. He turned his head left and right, quickly and spasmodically, and his eyes wandered cautiously over the scene. Were they laughing at him?

  “Pilot whales? Who sees pilot whales in November, if I may ask?”

  “I thought perhaps you did. You see pilot whales when no one else does.”

  That story was never going to be forgotten. Beach Flea had once mistaken a flock of eider ducks out on the water for pilot whales. In his excitement he had sounded the alarm and caused a good deal of bother. Others had been guilty of similar mistakes. Was it worth bringing up so many years later? He was furious every time anyone referred to it.

  The men laughed. Beach Flea stared them out, giving each of them a bad-tempered, hurt look as he tried to think of what to say. He stopped at Samuel the Hoist: “Well, you are not the one to talk, Samuel. At least I’ve not been found asleep on my job in the Redoubt while a pod of pilot whales was swimming right in front of my nose! That was you!”

  “Me?”

  Samuel’s mouth was quite rigid with hurt and amazement.

  “Me?”

  The entire gathering chuckled. That story was just as well known. Samuel was the only one who refused to accept it. There were hints of fury in his eyes and he was ready to erupt. He studied the miserable Beach Flea. What was this he was daring to accuse him of?

  They gently banged on the counter. Gabriel was in his element. He had set things going now. He made the odd serious, extremely factual remark that greatly stimulated the fighting spirit. A turning point in the struggle came when Beach Flea suddenly – as though on some sudden inspiration – got hold of the expression bamboozler and flung it out. He didn’t know what it really meant. The result was silence. Samuel the Hoist straightened his back and stared at Beach Flea:

  “Me, a bamboozler?”

  Nor did he know what a bamboozler was. But that did not make the accusation any less offensive. Something had to be done.

  “No!” he exclaimed with composure and much dignity. And then he set off. Everyone watched in amazement. He went behind the counter! In between barrels and sacks, right over to Gabriel’s desk. And there he stood.

  “No, you are a bamboozler,” he roared banging his fist down on the account books with a resounding thump. He gave Beach Flea a look that was enough to unnerve him. Then he returned to his place, all that long way, like a man who has done his job well.

  Beach Flea’s eyes fluttered wildly. He had been hurt.

  “I? I? Am I a bamboozler?”

  Could that possibly be true? He stood open-mouthed.

  “No,” he said decisively at last, full of regained conviction: “It’s you, you, yes you!”

  He threw off his clogs and went behind the counter, went right over to the desk and banged on it, saying in a tearful voice: “You are a bamboozler.”

  Then he went carefully back to his place again and put on his clogs.

  If Samuel the Hoist had been amazed the first time the accusation was flung out, he was no less surprised when it was repeated. He had in general a rare ability to feel amazed at the evil in the world – and to encounter it with fortitude. But in this case a protest must be made.

  Then he went calmly to the desk again, took up a position there, aimed and fired like the soldier he was. The desk groaned: – “No! You are a bamboozler!”

  Beach Flea ducked a litt
le. Again this worrying flank attack. His head jerked warily, to the right and to the left, and he squinted watchfully through irate eyes. No, this was more than he could countenance. Clogs off. Off to the desk. He, too, was a soldier and knew how to make a direct hit. He would show them. He put all his tousled and hectored spiritual force in his wounded glance and all his physical strength into his angry fist: – “No! You – are – a – bamboozler.”

  He screamed this last word and accompanied it with three small extra shots, a salvo on the desk. Then he went back again. Victorious, he put on his clogs. Now, Samuel had got what he deserved.

  Samuel was upset by this brutal attack. But he gradually more or less regained his composure. He got going again, still a little bowed, but with a new tragic grandeur. And so they went on. The other men shrugged their shoulders in enjoyable neutrality. They kept their hands in front of their mouths, but their eyes were alive, attentive and amused. Thank heaven it was not they who were in the firing line.

  At first Gabriel did not like the natural forces that had been unleashed on his desk at all. But he gradually came to sacrifice his dignity on the altar of amusement. At least he had got them going pretty damned well now. He was itching to see the outcome, and his stomach quietly moved out and in. And the men of Havn dutifully went on with the comedy to the satisfaction of his lordship. Finally, he took up a position at the counter and organised them a little by virtue of his official capacity. No one was allowed to go in and bang on it until the other had come out.

  Gabriel was that sort of a man. A virtuoso at playing on people’s weaknesses, working them up against each other and getting them to reveal the most secret and most foolish aspirations of their hearts. What did these poor folk want out there in his store? No, life at home with the womenfolk in the smoke from the peat fires and the wailing of infants was probably no more fun. Out here there was at least a scent of cardamom and other spices, indeed there was also the view of a barrel of brandy. And then there was the news. Reflections of the world.