Barbara

by Jorgen-Frantz Jacobsen

  When the sloop with the French guests came rowing towards land, they were carrying flaming torches, and every house and every hovel in Havn suddenly shone red in the darkness. All minds were transformed, and no one knew either themselves or the world any more. Widow Oluva’s miserable shop down near the whipping post, something to which no one had ever paid any attention, was clearly illuminated and grinned out towards the bay. It was as though in a dream. It was as though the widow herself had thrown off her thirteen years of mourning, let herself go and drunk herself silly. Indeed even the old church tower stood out dark red against the heavens like a symbol. No one had ever seen the church tower like that before.

  But no eyes dwelt long on the heavens that evening. The Frenchmen were already shouting as they rowed through the breakers. They swung the mooring ropes with great energy and poured ashore, agile and laughing to reveal their white teeth. The women of Havn no longer knew what to do with themselves. Their cold, everyday eyes greedily drank in the fierce sunshine in the strangers’ eyes and the summer in their tanned skins. It was as though they were filled with fire. Their ears were gorged with the tramping of boots and the rattle of sabres, and they were carried away by a living rhythm of men.

  When the animal voice of the oboe began to shrill inside the stone cellar soon afterwards, madness took possession of every heart.

  Except Gabriel’s. That heart could not rejoice. His eyes never left Barbara. She was dressed in the stuff he had sold her. Alas, she no longer remembered who had provided her with her splendour, and there was not the least trace of gratitude in her thoughts. Gabriel was unknown to her, unseen by her. Her eyes opened wider and were radiant beyond recognition; she had no sense of where she was, but she simply became ever more beautiful. She should be ashamed of herself, the hussy, a harlot if ever there was one!

  One of the French officers went past. Oh, of course, that had to happen, just as inevitable as tinderbox and spark. Gabriel turned away. Ugh, he did not wish to watch.

  It was Captain Montgaillard, who asked Barbara for a gavotte, and with this the ball was opened.

  Before long, there was not a single girl, indeed not a single younger woman, who was not on the floor. But the men of Havn turned eagerly to what they had been dreaming of all afternoon. The barrels of wine were over in one corner, and there they congregated while the admiral’s men poured vast amounts of golden liquid for them. Samuel Mikkelsen, the law speaker, had seated himself by one barrel, and there he remained, quiet and Olympian, helping himself.

  But Gabriel went around thinking. He calculated and calculated, but however he calculated, he came to the same damned result. There was no doubt about it. He saw the way in which Barbara’s eyes admired Montgaillard’s eyebrows. Faugh and faugh again! His heart burned in his breast.

  There was also someone else who was not happy. That was Pastor Poul. All this had taken him completely by surprise. He had accustomed himself to the idea that he himself was a star in the black Faroese sky and in an interesting constellation with Venus; indeed a moment ago he had imagined himself dancing together with Barbara. Alas, vanity was punished as was its due. Now he saw Barbara’s golden head slowly turning among white wigs and plaited hair that were turning just as sedately while he himself stood leaning against the wall and watching like some student of theology.

  “Hello, brother! What sort of a face is this you are pulling on such an evening?”

  He received a hearty slap on the back. It was no other than Pastor Wenzel, who had turned up, flushed and in high spirits. “No, we’re going to have a good time now; and we need to, by Gad,” he went on, dragging Pastor Poul over into the corner where the drinks were.

  All the elite were there toasting each other. The bailiff was as red as a lantern on a ship’s stern, but he was not really happy. He had imagined it different from this. Honestly! Here stood the cream of society, but the guests were not the slightest bit interested in them. Just look at that lieutenant – he didn’t think himself too good to pay court to and even caress Sara, the daughter of the chap who fished stones up from the sea.

  The Royal Store manager made no comment as to how he had imagined things. He was pale grey, and the sweat sat in thousands of tiny pearls all over his face; his leaden eyes shone sombrely across the dancers. If anyone was following the direction in which he was looking, they would have seen his wife, Mathilde. She was strangely vivacious in the arms of one of the French officers.

  The judge was leaning against a beam, bent and amused. But Pastor Wenzel was in quite high spirits and said to the law speaker, “Well, if the store manager is cuckolded this evening, I shan’t have to be bothered about being a cuckold’s cuckold, ha ha ha.”

  The law speaker hardly commented on this. He sat there like some deity by his barrel and had enough in himself as the dance swirled around him.

  Pastor Poul was not really in the mood for drinking. The music was making a meaningless din in his head, and the wine tasted of nothing. He heard a voice close to his ear: “Just look at Barbara. She’s dancing with another now. It will be interesting to see who finally gets her this evening.”

  He turned round. The speaker was Gabriel, and his voice was full of contempt and indignation, but he suddenly switched to a gentle, solemn tone: “Aye, just you study her carefully this evening. You will learn a great deal from that.”

  He went away, almost on the point of tears. He had drunk several cups, though that was not customary for him. He usually left that to those less able to keep account. But the world was all in disarray this evening and there could be no thought of doing any business.

  Barbara danced with her head held high; she knew the steps and figures, then she made more steps and figures – a quite different kind of arithmetic. The madness of the dance suddenly caught Gabriel. His heart was bursting, but in a funny way. He heard the oboe, constantly telling the same little story, while the bassoon chuckled and made a frivolous contribution. He felt gloriously crazy; he felt dizzy and he had to chuckle.

  Faces known and unknown were whirling and turning around him. The stone walls screeched and resounded with music. His maid Angelika was over there being kissed by a count – was that not ridiculous? Over there in the doorway stood Whoops and several others of her sort, the saucy nymphs from the Royal Store – oh, God have mercy! Their eyes stood on end; they were full of gestures, but they only had each other to flirt with for they were far too down at heel. And behind them, right out in the darkness, the men were standing like wolves, the light gleaming in their eyes as they stared hungrily at the Promised Land. Beach Flea’s sorrowful features could be seen in a hatch right up under the ceiling. His sullen eyes were as though nailed to the wine. And over there sat the law speaker, immovable at his barrel. But both the law speaker and the barrel by which he sat and the cask on which he was sitting and Beach Flea in the hatch and the women in the doorway and Angelika and the count were spinning round in a huge circle. And the bows on the musicians’ violins were going slowly up and down.

  Gabriel had tears in his eyes. His heart was burning, but never mind, never mind! He suddenly understood everything, even the meaning of life itself. Beauty, too, he understood; he had never understood it before, but now there was a ringing in his brain and a sobbing in his breast.

  Things were very different with Pastor Poul. He could not drink; he heard nothing and saw nothing; he was filled with ever increasing distress.

  The hall suddenly fell silent. The music died away and the dancing stopped. Something was happening outside. One word was whispered from mouth to mouth.

  “The Admiral.”

  Within a few seconds a lane had formed; rapiers flew from their sheaths and Admiral Count de Casteljaloux entered. He greeted people and smiled all around, and all the foreign officers stood there ramrod straight.

  The townspeople watched in great solemnity. They had never imagined that such a great man could be so ugly. The light fell on his huge pockmarked face. His nose was big and twisted, hi
s eyes protruding, and his broad lips were constantly in motion as though all the time he were remembering some fine sauce he had tasted. But he strode with such merry dignity that it was a great pleasure to observe him, and afterwards everyone had to admit that they had never seen a finer gentleman.

  Some of the officers gathered around him, talking and laughing. Captain Montgaillard made some suggestion, but the admiral looked sceptical. Then the admiral began to give him assurances and became quite serious.

  Gabriel had gone across to Barbara, who suddenly found herself on her own, and said something foolish to her. She smiled and only appeared pleased to hear it. At that moment, Montgaillard came and led her to the admiral, and Barbara curtseyed as elegantly as she was able.

  Orders were given to the orchestra. The musicians bent over their music and turned the pages. Wax candles burnt on all the music stands, the yellow glow from them shining on white wigs, blue velvet coats and huge lace cuffs.

  Then the conductor struck up. A complete silence fell over the cellar. Outside, the waves broke heavily.

  The tone of a flute began to tremble in the room and another replied; it was like two lonely birds talking to each other; then, suddenly, the beautiful voices of the violins joined in with a flowering melody. This was the admiral’s minuet, and he danced it with Barbara.

  A moment later, it was all over, and it was not repeated. But the elegant sun of Versailles had shone on the salt cellar out on Tinganes, where breakers were wont to lash the windows of a winter’s night.

  Pastor Poul went outside; he was completely superfluous. Fancy that he had ever been able to flatter his heart with the idea that there should be any link between him and this woman. He now saw the chasm that existed between them. God had taken the veil from his face and shown him his own foolishness.

  But he felt no gratitude to God. His body was on fire.

  He walked and walked. The night was not completely dark. But everything he saw, houses and gables and windows, only reminded him of the joy that had been his when he last came this way.

  Finally, he had returned to the festivities. Most people had gone down to the point to see the admiral go on board again.

  At that moment, Barbara came across to him, warm and radiant, and whispered in his ear: “Should we two not take a little walk together?”

  Her voice was close and childlike.

  They went. But Gabriel was left behind. He turned pale and completely sober. This was more than anything he could work out. The bitch!

  The houses, the gables and the windows in town reminded Pastor Poul of a joy that had been lost, but which was now found again. They spoke but little.

  Suddenly, Barbara said: “You are not enjoying yourself at all this evening.”

  She almost sounded a little humble.

  Pastor Poul felt her hand. He grasped it passionately, but she merely played with his fingers. She looked at him, briefly, with uncertain eyes, and then she slowly lowered her gaze.

  “No, but the Frenchmen are having a wonderful time,” he replied at last. He was not in control of his voice.

  A little smile spread over Barbara’s lips. She still stood looking down: “Yes… but…”

  Suddenly, her voice rang out: “They’ll be gone tomorrow, won’t they.”

  She looked at him. There was again an almost comical uncertainty in her eyes. She pressed his hand quite gently and said it again: “Won’t they?”

  Pastor Poul was quite dizzy. When Barbara said that she wanted to go home, he went with her. Then he, too, went home. Instinctively he kept away from the festivities. He had to take care of his happiness; he felt it was made of extremely brittle glass.

  But Barbara went straight back to the ball.

  The entire cellar was a dark confusion of drunken folk. The oboes were still speaking their strange seductive language, but no further seductiveness was needed: it was all breaking up; the law speaker alone was sitting immovable in the place he had made his own. He once put his hand to his forehead as though to wipe something away. That shawm! His head reverberated with the unpleasant sound it was making.

  Johan Hendrik, the judge, came staggering towards Barbara. Never before had she seen him so humiliated. She avoided him and made for Montgaillard, who was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. His powerful lips broke into a smile; he took her arm and spoke. Barbara did not understand the words, but she understood the melody. She looked at his face, quite close to hers; his smiling eyes were golden and as it were full of light; she felt his lips, he kissed her powerfully and passionately.

  Gabriel saw it. He went outside and without beating about the bush told Beach Flea that he had now, once and for all, abandoned all hope of making a decent person out of Barbara, for she was simply not worth it.

  Then he went in again. He saw Barbara in Montgaillard’s arms. They sat down together by a barrel and started to drink.

  It was all a cauldron of shouting and tramping. Some fresh air came in through the door. The lanterns swung slowly in the air, the shadows from their frames crossing each other and dancing on the walls. Gabriel went down into the storage cellar nearby. It was almost dark, but the entire cellar was alive. All around, between hides, barrels of tallow and casks of butter the couples all sat. He felt his official dignity rise – he was responsible for this cellar – he staggered around on a tour of inspection. But who cared about Gabriel this evening? All around, he heard gasps and sniggers, murmuring in French and howls in Faroese. He saw his girl, Angelika, blind drunk and sinfully naked among a chorus of Frenchmen. He recognised a skirt. He had himself sold it to Suzanne Harme. It was incredible what that proud Suzanne was allowing a young French officer to do to her. But what did he care about Suzanne? She was only Suzanne after all. He was drunk; he was tired; he was in despair; his eyes were extinguished, his hands were numb.

  He went back, again passing Montgaillard and Barbara. He pulled himself together. He could say something to her, of course. Of course – what was more natural? But he could simply not find his own voice, and when he finally did manage to control it, he did not recognise it. Nothing at all came of it. But then the judge arrived and he was better able to express himself.

  “Well, Barbara,” he said, “are you sitting by a barrel? I thought you had had enough of barrels.”

  “It depends what’s in them,” blethered Gabriel coarsely.

  Barbara stared at them, tipsy and scornful. Montgaillard did not understand what the drunks were saying.

  Gabriel and Johan Hendrik walked out to the point. They suddenly discovered they were the best of friends. They had otherwise not been able to stand each other.

  No. Who the hell should be bothered about Barbara? They were both agreed on that. They confirmed this with numerous embraces, and they looked deep into each other’s eyes. And the new Vágar minister. If he had any ideas, ha, ha, ha. Gabriel had to laugh. He was in the middle of Tinganes, laughing at the top of his voice at the new Vágar parson. The bloody fool.

  And thank God that neither of them – Johan Hendrik or Gabriel – was married. Thank God for that. They were just about the only ones here in Havn this evening who were not being cuckolded. So thank God for that.

  But then Johan Hendrik said that that was all right, but that in the eyes of God he was nevertheless a miserable cuckold. And Gabriel admitted that if he was to be honest, so was he, in his heart of hearts, into which God could see, a miserable, pitiful cuckold. Even if he was Gabriel on the outside.

  They were both very down, and the night was long.

  When they returned to the cellar, the festivities were over. The candles had burnt down and one of the lanterns in the ceiling had started to flicker. There were no musicians and no dancing. Only a few people were wandering around like shadows on the deserted floor. Someone came up from the cellar store. It was Captain Montgaillard and Barbara. She was staggering as she held on to his arm, unbuttoned and in shameful disorder. The red silk ribbons on her dress hung there, crumpled an
d dead like crushed roses. There was the sound of wine squelching in her shoes.

  Suddenly, she stopped, threw back her head and laughed. She took off one shoe and poured its red contents over the floor. And at that moment she caught sight of Johan Hendrik. She quickly hid her hot face on Montgaillard’s shoulder and uttered a prolonged sound half way between a laugh and a sigh. Her wet, shiny stocking foot sought the shoe that had fallen on the floor.

  Gabriel and Johan Hendrik stood watching this. But then Montgaillard lost patience. He wrapped his cloak around Barbara and carried her out. One of her stockings had slipped down to her ankle and her bare leg hung there swinging to and fro. Wine dripped from her feet.

  Johan Hendrik had collapsed on a wine barrel with his face hidden in his hands. He suddenly looked up. In a dreadful falsetto he suddenly sang out:

  And what is this frame

  Adorned by the world with so wondrous a name

  Gabriel leant against the wall in a violent fit of drunken tears. He joined in at times. In his hand he held a garter. He had found it on the floor. It was one of the pair he had once sold to Barbara.

  The singing continued its uneven progress. At times they were on the point of coming to a standstill, and at times it unexpectedly progressed well. It was like sailing a ship in heavy seas. But they helped each other out, the two of them, often looking deep into each other’s eyes – they understood each other so well, and their souls wept together as they sang and confessed:

  Black envy is ever now ready to chafe,

  In secret you hurt and so seldom feel safe

  And often you wonder at others’ profanity –

  Aye, vanity

  Aye, vanity.

  But Gabriel held on to the garter. It was that to which he often addressed his singing. He grumbled at it and punished it:

  Your matches, your kindling, your fast flying spark

  So many have sent into ne’er-ending dark…