Barbara
Page 28
Barbara looked down at herself and saw how shamefully undressed she was and blushed for a second. But she had not the time, and she immediately forgot it again. She called to the other men and urged and persuaded them with her wet and wildly radiant face.
“I’ll go home and put some clothes on quickly. Meanwhile, you’ll get the boat in the water, won’t you?”
She did not wait for an answer. She dashed away from them and in through the entrance to the Royal Store. And thus, in the very first weak rays from the sun, she ran through the whole of Tórshavn, in a shift and skirt. No one saw her. Yes, Johan Hendrik did, just as he emerged from Reynegard. But he did not believe his own eyes; only later did he realise what kind of natural eruption he was witnessing.
A quarter of an hour after this, a boat rowed by four men skimmed out over the shiny surface of the East Bay. Barbara was in the stern, completing her dress. She did not so much as turn to her mother, who, wrapped in an array of rags and tatters and with horror in her old voice was standing over on the sand and calling her name. The town had been awakened. The early sunshine was flashing in various windows as they were opened out of curiosity; indeed several people were already out in their slippers. But Barbara sensed none of this. She was only looking at the Fortuna, which with its sails unfurled was moving out of the fjord like some golden statue.
“There’s fog to the east,” remarked Niels the Punt as they passed the Redoubt point.
“Aye, that’s what it’s like at this time of the year,” gasped Ole Atten. They put all their strength into the rowing. The boat swept forward over the shining waters.
“It’s like rowing for pilot whales,” shouted young Marcus excitedly from the prow: “If only the Lord would send us a whale!”
“Yes, but not now,” said Barbara quickly and nervously. She had a hand over each gunwale; she was almost standing up in her seat, and never for a second did her eyes leave the Fortuna. The boat was not moving anywhere near quickly enough for her. The sun shone on her left cheek; she looked like a goddess driving a chariot.
“We’re catching up,” she shouted.
Niels the Punt was still watching the east. It was a summer morning of rare beauty. But the fog lay in great, lazy banks out in the sea and to the north of the islands. It glided so gently, mingling with the blue mountains, wrapping itself around their feet and leaving the peaks clear and sharp in the bright day. It was a good weather mist, a true sign of summer. But, thought Niels, it was not good for visibility. What concerned him particularly was the great bank of cloud behind Nolsoy. Shreds of it were already pouring in over the low isthmus on which the village of Nolsoy lay. But Barbara did not see this. She was only looking forward.
“We’re catching up,” she shouted again with hope and jubilation in her multi-toned voice. “Don’t you think we’ll catch them?”
The men looked forward over their shoulders.
“Aye,” said Niels. “If it all goes as it’s going now, we’ll catch them.”
“Oh, Niels,” said Barbara. “You never make promises. I know you.”
“Promises? Bless you. I don’t want to promise too much.” Niels was gentler and more accommodating this morning than he had ever been. But promise…
It was also curious that the Fortuna was not heaving to, although those on board must have seen the boat long ago. There must be something suspicious in this undertaking, thought Niels. Aye, that was what they had all been thinking. That was not why they were making such an effort; they were not expecting much by way of thanks for this rowing trip when they returned to the shore. But they had had so many tellings off before, both from the commandant and the bailiff, and now recently also from that man Gabriel. They were quite willing to accept another one on behalf of Barbara, for she had always been nice to them.
The Fortuna changed course and sailed more to the east. It was now at the end of the fjord, close to the southern tip of Nolsoy.
The boat was now far out. Kirkjubøreyn and Nolsoy had in some way expanded before them, blue islands, fells and peaks had appeared both to the south and the north. The boat pitched and foamed forward across the great surface of water.
“Make for the tip, make for the tip,” shouted Barbara.
“The current…!” Niels the Punt objected.
“Oh, you and your current,” shouted Barbara impatiently. “Can’t you see we’ll make a short cut if we go in close to the tip?”
Niels did partly as she asked He knew it was a wrong manoeuvre if the Fortuna was to be caught up with, but he was filled with increasing doubt both as to whether it could be caught and also as to whether it should be caught. It was probably a dubious business to help someone to leave the country without a passport issued by the authorities… now that he thought about it. And he did not for a minute believe that Barbara had such a passport.
Nevertheless, he rowed with all his strength, and so did the others. They could do nothing else in the face of Barbara; she was shouting to them, her eyes were shining and she was eagerly encouraging them to go on.
The Fortuna was now a good way behind the tip, and they themselves were approaching this long, sharp point. From Tórshavn it looked low and flat, but now it started to rise before them like a wall, wild and black. Through the furthermost stretch there was a hole through which you could see the light of day. Otherwise, the water was black and green here, close to the land. By now they were so close that they could clearly see the sheep grazing in the sunlight up on the cliff, while they themselves were in the shade.
The men put their feet hard against the boat’s timbers and almost pulled themselves to their feet with every stroke of the oars.
“Now – now – now,” groaned Niels the Punt rhythmically through gritted teeth. Ole Atten had lost his bonnet; his white hair and beard were blowing all over the place, and he was puffing like a pair of bellows; he was laughing and looked like both a giant and an old monkey. Young Marcus was hooting from the foremost thwart, and Beach Flea’s face was so bloodshot that it looked as though his eyes would pop out sideways. Oh Lord… this was how the men of Tórshavn rowed for Barbara; they were fine fellows, splendid men. And the sea washed past them on both sides, and Barbara shouted and exulted and praised them.
But when she looked towards the land, she saw that the boat was hardly moving. They had got into a current and lay there as though in a quickly flowing river. Tears came into her throat, and she gave a cry of disappointment and fear.
“Bless you, bless you, don’t lose heart,” groaned Ole Atten. “We’re gaining; we’re gaining round the point. That’s such a short way. You’ve got to have patience to win.”
But patience was about the last thing that Barbara possessed. She rose, she sat down, she wrung her hands, she shouted at the men and was quite beside herself. It took them a good quarter of an hour to make the few metres around the point and gain the view east…
And that was when everything collapsed. Barbara’s expression was suddenly completely empty; the men glanced over their shoulders and then took on the same expression.
The Fortuna was not to be seen. There was nothing at all to be seen. Neither sea nor sky. There was nothing but white mist, a void and the cries of gulls. The men rowed as though possessed for a little while, but suddenly they stopped and rested their oars. Helplessly. The boat fell quite silent.
At that moment Barbara burst out in great, heartrending weeping. The men sat there helplessly and heard her terrible sobbing. But the current silently and quickly took the boat back around the point and into the Nolsoy Fjord, where there was no mist. And when, finally, the oars were dipped in the water, the prow was turned towards Tórshavn.
It was a downcast, sad sight an hour or so later as they rowed into the East Bay again. People were standing watching on Tinganes, on the Redoubt and on every tongue of land. Many had seen Barbara leave; everyone saw her return. She was in the stern, stiff and as white as chalk.
Johan Henrik, who had been standing at his window,
turned into the room. He could not face this scene. But otherwise, the people of Tórshavn simply had to express their views on the gauntlet that was being run. The boat was followed by murmurs as it came along the banks of the bay.
“Aye, there’s plenty as have burned their fingers on her. Now she’s burnt her own fingers. And thoroughly, too.”
When the boat hove to at the Hoist, Gabriel was standing on shore waiting, and a whole group, mostly young people, immediately formed around him. Nor was there a single window free around there. But Gabriel was almost lost for words when he saw the state Barbara was in. White and speechless like a sleepwalker, she came ashore and went straight past him to Nýggjastova. Only when she was out of sight did he collect himself together sufficiently to give the men a dressing down. Silent and embarrassed, they put Barbara’s badly packed and as it were randomly assembled luggage ashore. Gabriel kicked the pile contemptuously.
“And she was off to Copenhagen with all that junk! Take all this rubbish up to Nýggjastova,” he ordered some children. “But you,” he continued to the men, “you just don’t know what you’ve let yourselves in for. If you’d got Barbara out of the country today, you’d soon have been following her into the Bremerholm prison. Understand?”
And with that, he left. Old Ole Atten, the most loyal of all the soldiers, felt his hands trembling. But Gabriel was sniggering as he entered the bailiff’s house.
“Hi, hi, I bloody well truly believe now that the gilt is really off the gingerbread. The damned bitch is really finished now.”
Suzanne did not deign him a word. She merely finished the bow she was tying and went straight up to Nýggjastova. On the way there, she met the boys coming along with the wretched remains of Barbara’s finery.
Copyright
Published in the UK by Dedalus Limited,
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ISBN printed book: 978 1 909232 30 3
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Publishing History
First published in Denmark in 1939
First published by Dedalus in 2013
Translation copyright © W. Glyn Jones 2013
Introduction copyright © William Heinesen 1939
The right of W. Glyn Jones to be identified as the translator of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
Printed in Finland by Bookwell
Typeset by Marie Lane
This book has been printed on Ensolux Cream wood-free paper.
This book has been printed on Ensolux Cream wood-free paper. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.