Barbara

by Jorgen-Frantz Jacobsen

  There had not been such a merry St Olaf’s festival for many years. The people of Tórshavn had enjoyed themselves during the winter, when the French ships were in port. Now it was the villagers’ turn. They had nothing to drink but brandy and the only dance they knew was the traditional one of the Faroes. But that, too, had its advantages; it had great advantages and was well suited to the occasion.

  It was Niels Peter who started the dance. His great success out in the shop had made him the man of the day, and he was not one to hide his light under a bushel. With a strident voice he started off with:

  The king he asked his daughter dear –

  Matrori, matrori

  Who’s your eldest son so fair?

  Turalulu quack, quack, quack,

  Turalulu quack, quack, quack,

  Turalulu quack.

  There was nothing wrong with that. But it was disrespectful and out of the ordinary that they should be dancing outside in Havn, just in front of the Royal Store. More and more joined the ring, and the high spirits and exuberance increased by the minute. A few more restrained men thought it was dangerous to taunt Gabriel in this way. They could see that he was a man who would advance in power and glory and who would be able to avenge himself when his hour came. But the younger ones refused to be told. They were drunk now and only thought of making mischief. When a pale and angry Gabriel came out on the steps and asked them to bloody well shut up, Niels Peter looked him in the eye and sang:

  The bailiff said to his daughter dear –

  Matrori, matrori

  What’s become of your honour clear?

  Turalulu quack, quack, quack,

  Turalulu quack, quack, quack,

  Turalulu quack.

  And then Gabriel went back inside. But Niels Peter started changing the verses now to be more and more audacious and personal. He sang out at the top of his voice:

  The bailiff he said to his daughter dear:

  Who will be your husband here?

  This was too much for Gabriel. He rushed down the steps and swore that he would put a bloody end to this insubordination. He was off now. He would send for the authorities, the commandant and soldiers. But he did not get that far. Two of the strongest village men took him between them, grasped his wrists and forced him to join the chain and dance along with them:

  To his son-in-law the bailiff quoth

  Matrori, matrori

  Your kids they’ll be of noble birth

  Turululu quack, quack, quack

  Turululu quack, quack, quack,

  Turululu quack.

  The men danced around and flung Gabriel’s arms around, looked deep into his eyes and sang like mad. But suddenly they all stopped; the words died on their lips, and no sound was to be heard but the gull’s cries in the mist. The law speaker had appeared among them. He was walking so modestly, and if he had not been so big they would not have noticed him. Behind him, in the mist in front of the gate to the store, came Barbara, walking up the ramp together with Pastor Poul and the bailiff from Vágar. They had just come ashore at the Hoist.

  “Mercy me,” said the law speaker in his gentle ox-like voice, looking around in amazement: “What’s going on here?”

  They all looked rather sheepish. Gabriel had hurried back into the shop. Hans Lavus, too, had slunk away. He was the only person in the whole country who could not stand the sight of the law speaker; it always upset him. But otherwise there was usually only a sense of security wherever Samuel Mikkelsen appeared. The immense calm he exuded was a pleasing inspiration for every heart. Nor was it long before Niels Peter pulled himself together sufficiently for him to be able to give a sort of explanation.

  “I suppose we can all take pleasure in this,” he said boldly. “It’s not every year there is such a splendid wedding in Havn.”

  There was the brief shadow of a smile in the law speaker’s eyes. It was clear that he had understood the implications, but he betrayed not the slightest change of expression.

  “It would be better if you went up into the assembly room and danced a decent dance suited to St Olaf’s Day,” he said. “This is a most peculiar place to be dancing.”

  A moment later, the shop was full of good-natured, agreeable talking. It was a relief to Gabriel once more to be among well-mannered people who knew how to congratulate him in the right way. The law speaker had learned of the coming wedding through a letter from the judge, and on the way to Havn he had given the news to Pastor Poul and Barbara.

  “How nice,” said Barbara to Gabriel. Her voice was perfectly honest. “Fancy your marrying Suzanne. Well, you will almost be a brother-in-law to me.”

  “I hear you are going to be married as well,” said Gabriel lamely. There was no possibility for him at this moment to make a malicious remark. No, in every respect Barbara could have plenty of reason to smile. He had measured her up quickly. There was no question of her expecting.

  “Yes, isn’t it fun,” said Barbara. “We are both going to marry.”

  She was happy, and there was no malice in her words.

  The law speaker spent that evening with Bailiff Harme. The bailiff had visibly aged. During the winter, he had been seriously ill and had lain sick in bed for a long time. He had been told of his daughter’s condition far too late. She had been so caring as not to wish to cause her father this emotional shock before he had gained his strength again. But it was difficult to know how to act. It was summertime, and he might perhaps have been able to get his daughter out of the country on one of the merchantmen. But unfortunately, he had no relatives he believed he could confide in. In addition, there was of course the child. It would be the best thing for everyone that it should have a father. He had actually thought of the judge, but to have suggested it to him would have been an insult. Then there was Gabriel… No, it was in truth not because the bailiff had a great opinion of this Gabriel. And he thought even less of him after recently having got to know him better. But something had to be done.

  “Aye,” said Samuel Mikkelsen. “I can’t say but that I would have liked to see your daughter with a husband other than Gabriel. To tell you the truth, I have never had much confidence in him. But what does Suzanne herself say?”

  The bailiff smiled a rather unhappy smile. He sat there for a time lost in thought.

  “Perhaps,” he said, “perhaps you ought to have had a talk to Johan Hendrik after all. I don’t really know, but when all is said and done, he is a sensible man and not one to have refused in any unseemly manner. And if he had agreed, it would have been so much better for all concerned. Nor do I think that he would have been less esteemed for that reason. People are so different and they are respected in different ways.

  At that moment, Gabriel entered. He was very agitated and took little heed of the law speaker’s presence in the room.

  “The lower orders are in an unruly mood today,” he said. “It’s as though the Devil’s got hold of them. I think it’s bad enough that I have to go around taking on myself the results of Suzanne’s confounded wanton behaviour.”

  The bailiff looked up and almost forgot to hide his amazement. What kind of a tone was this? Had this lad already started talking about “the lower orders”? He had to smile a little. No, no, he thought, when the poor gain control, there’s no knowing what they will get up to.

  “I want Niels Peter in the Black Hole,” Gabriel went on. “He’s insulted and scorned all authority today. It’s all right sitting in here and taking it easy. Why do I have to suffer for it when I’ve done nothing but good? I’ve had to stand there today and listen to a scurrilous song all about the bailiff and Suzanne.”

  “If the song was not about you, Gabriel,” said the law speaker gently, “surely you should not have been so upset by it?”

  Gabriel stared furiously at Samuel Mikkelsen’s imperturbably placid face: “About me? About me? Of course it was about me as well… what the hell…?”

  “Was it?” said the bailiff. His eyes were so kind and so beautiful.
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  “And now I want an arrest order for Niels Peter,” said Gabriel angrily to the bailiff. “Then I can go over to the commandant or to Gunner Hans and have it put into effect.”

  Bailiff Harme shuffled a little. He was uneasy and in doubt. He was breathing heavily and fiddling with a pen. Then he started to walk up and down the floor and was very flushed.

  The law speaker had all the time sat in exactly the same position. Now he slowly rose, thereby actually darkening the small room. He stood for a moment looking out of the window. Then he said:

  “Well, this matter doesn’t concern me, at least not for the moment. But if you will take my advice, Gabriel, you will not make anything of it. You can’t put all the St Olaf visitors in the Black Hole after all.”

  Samuel Mikkelsen left. He was not happy. “Good heavens,” he thought, “there are going to be a lot of people in the Black Hole in times to come.”

  Here and there in the town, he could occasionally hear the refrain:

  Turululu quack, quack, quack.

  He wished they would stop.

  People greeted the law speaker with happy faces. His figure was the huge sign that the St Olaf Festival had really begun. But the law speaker went straight to his lodgings and lay down. Of all the strange things that happened during these St Olaf’s Day festivities, this was perhaps the most unusual.

  A Clerical Convention

  St Olaf’s Day came with sunshine and bells ringing.

  As the newest cleric in the country, Pastor Poul led the service in the church, and everyone was there to hear what admonitory words he had to say to the members of the Assembly. Later, the law speaker went to the Assembly with the book of laws under his arm, and the church bells rang out anew. The law speaker was followed by the bailiff, the judge, all seven of the country’s clergymen and the six sheriffs and finally the forty-eight assembly members, their necks adorned with their white ruffs. The farmers were solemn and no longer sang Turululu quack. Gabriel had recovered his composure and was no longer demanding that Niels Peter should be thrown into the Black Hole. The town’s womenfolk looked inquisitively out of the windows and no longer shouted insults at the passers-by. All that was to be heard was the ringing of bells and the tramping of solemn buckled shoes.

  The law speaker entered the Assembly Chamber followed by all the dignitaries and assembly members. The ordinary populace remained outside in Gongin. Through the open windows they could just make out the dark paintings of King Frederik and Queen Juliane Marie.

  The law speaker rose and cleared his voice.

  “May the peace and blessing of our Lord Jesus Christ,” he started in his deep, gentle voice, “be with us and all who are present at this good Assembly now and evermore. Amen.”

  From a book he read the lengthy passage with which the Assembly was opened. The words were difficult to distinguish, and his voice sometimes sounded weak and indistinct. But finally, he put the book down and concluded:

  “Upon these words, be seated in the peace of Our Lord.”

  The Assembly was now in session, and the discussions began. Bailiff Harme was the first to speak. He supported himself a little on the table, and his head shook a little. It was clear that he had gone considerably downhill since last year. His voice, too, was weaker. It was almost pitiful to hear him clearing his throat and saying “erhh – ehmm” in this way, for there was no power or dignity there any longer.

  As was customary, the bailiff asked whether anyone in the Assembly or among the people had complaints to make regarding the country’s provisions or against the staff of the Royal Store for their behaviour, measurements or weights. There was a general murmuring. Over the year, various people had sworn that come the St Olaf’s Day Assembly they would complain about the good stockings the Royal Store had rejected and refused to take as payment, or about the Royal Store having run out of brandy. The chewing tobacco had also been poor and mouldy for a time. Not to mention Gabriel’s frequent malicious behaviour. But now, on being asked and with the bailiff surveying them, they were all silent. It was not easy to rise in this Assembly; it was difficult to put things in the right way, and if you made a foolish error you were sure to be a laughing stock throughout the country. No, it was in all respects best to stay quiet. As the old saying had it: If you are silent, you suffer only one injury, but if you speak out you suffer two.

  This first day of the Assembly was usually only quite a brief event, really no more than a formality.

  There was to be a clerical convention after the Assembly. Pastor Poul was extremely unhappy as he went out to Reynegaard along with all his colleagues – Pastor Severin from Suduroy, Pastor Marcus from Sandoy, Pastor Wenzel from South Streymoy, Pastor Gregers from North Streymoy, Pastor Anders from Eysteroy and Pastor Christian from the Northern Islands. As for Barbara, he had only caught a glimpse of her today. Heaven only knew where she might be. Pastor Poul was always on edge when he did not have her with him, and here in Havn, her lively goings on were sheer torment to him. The dean, Anders Morsing, congratulated him on his sermon, but Pastor Poul scarcely heard what he said. He went around looking left and right to see if he could not see a trace of her in the crowd. But he only saw unfamiliar farmers.

  “Well, if you will be content with my modest dwelling,” said Pastor Wenzel as they entered Reynegaard. He was small, red-haired and unctuous as always.

  “Modest dwelling? Indeed.” These words were spoken by Pastor Severin. He uttered a long, asthmatic sigh and burst out in a hoarse laugh: “Verily, verily, I say unto you… well, God forgive me. No, what was I going to say… modest dwelling! My dear colleague, which of us has a house like this? I must say!”

  He rubbed his hands and walked quickly up and down the floor. He was a very small, fat man with a gentle, happy face.

  Reynegaard was no modest dwelling, and the hall they entered was a large room with four windows. The sun threw brilliant squares of light on the white scrubbed floor. Outside there was the church, the churchyard, the Corps de Garde and the Black Hole.

  “No,” Pastor Severin continued, “suppose you and I had houses like this, eh, Pastor Gregers?”

  He went across and made to slap Pastor Gregers on the shoulder, but he could only reach part way up his back. “What would you say to that? Eh? Eh?”

  With each word, he slapped Pastor Gregers on the back, and each blow sent up a cloud of dust like the smoke rising from a canon being fired; it rose in thick swirls from Pastor Gregers cassock and performed a dance in the sunlight. Pastor Gregers lost the drop hanging from his nose and started in alarm. He was a thin, rheumatic man with a lined face and a threadbare wig. He tried to speak, but only when Pastor Severin stopped slapping him and had burst out laughing violently did he manage to say anything.

  “We have the dwellings to which the Lord has called us,” he said in a plaintive, hollow voice.

  “Oh well, I suppose so,” said Pastor Severin. “But I just wish the Lord!” he was overcome by violent coughing, “What was I going to say… oh no. Have the moths got into your wig as well?”

  “No, in my case it’s the mice.”

  “Really? I must say…”

  They had both taken off their wigs and now embarked on a serious discussion of domestic trials. A new clear drop was gathering beneath the tip of Pastor Greger’s nose. Many things had been sent to try him.

  And that was the case with all of them. The tall, bony Pastor Marcus from Sandoy complained to Pastor Christian from the Northern Isles at the large number of children God had given him. They were a true blessing, but they were a large number to cope with.”

  Thank God, one of his sons had married a girl from a good farm in Skálavík, another, with the help of the bailiff, had managed to lease a good farm on Suduroy, and three daughters were also well married. But there were nine children left. Life was not easy. No indeed it was not easy.

  Pastor Christian had no children and was not married. He would far rather talk about the Moravian Brethren. He said he understo
od the Moravian Brethren, and he had to say that he sympathised with men like Zinzendorf and Spangenberg.

  “Well,” said Pastor Marcus, his daughter Elsebeth was nineteen now. He had brought her with him to Havn, as she was getting nowhere just sitting out there in Todnes Parsonage, so if Pastor Christian would talk to her a little about spiritual matters…

  “Yes, Spangenberg,” said Pastor Christian, stroking his chin with long sensitive finger movements. He pronounced the name in a quiet, solemn voice as though he were whispering some sacred word. His face was pale and passionate, but otherwise he was a tall, handsome man with a mass of curly hair that was powdered and flattened at the back to form a modest pigtail that projected across his ruff.

  Pastor Wenzel had left his guests for a moment. He went into the parlour and was aware of the sound of many voices and the scent of chocolate.

  Madam Anna Sophie showed up in the doorway, flushed and pale, with her mouth full of cake.

  “Well, I must say,” said Pastor Wenzel, looking very aggrieved. “There is plenty for everyone, I see.”

  “Yes, why not,” said his wife. “It is only once a year that all the clergy’s wives are here, so… I actually wondered whether I ought to have invited Barbara as well, but they are not married yet, of course.”

  “Oh, that too. That too.” Pastor Wenzel had developed a little red patch on each cheek and went away hurt. His wife stood for a moment, chewing her cake and watching him. Then she went back to all the parsons’ wives.