by A. L. Knorr
Sybellen surprised us further by requesting that we name the boys. I asked her whether she had any preferences and she said she had none herself, but that Mattis had been scribbling down his favourites. She directed me to the list that Mattis had tucked into his desk and I was able to see a dozen or so names that he had selected for either sex. Assuming that the names at the top were his most favoured, Emun and I christened the eldest Emun Jan Novak. Emun went misty eyed to see his son's first choice and I will admit I felt my throat constrict myself at the gesture. Next, we selected the second name on the list for the younger brother, who will hereafter be known as Michal Ludwik Novak.
Of course, Emun and I are overjoyed and can hardly wait for Mattis to meet his sons. I am a grandmother and praise be to God for two healthy grandbabies.
Oct 12, 1862
I am pleased to report that Mattis arrived home last night, when his sons were 8 days old. His arrival did not come a moment too soon, for Sybellen was growing ever more melancholic. She has been an ever-increasing cause of worry for both Emun and me, so it is with great relief that I can write that Sybellen is the happiest I have seen her since she first found out she was with child.
To see my son with his two infant boys cradled in his arms at the same time has brought my heart close to bursting with love. I am resolved to forgive Sybellen her oddities for the happiness that she has given to my family. A woman who could birth such beautiful creatures should be thoroughly cherished.
Oct 4, 1863
It has been a year since I last wrote and indeed it was only the passing of my grandsons’ first birthday that reminded me of my duty to report back to you from time to time. What a year it has been.
One child means constant doings and it seems two means three times that. Don't ask me to explain my calculations, for I know they are faulty but never have I been so in demand or kept so busy from morning until night. It seems that babies bring the gift of memory lapse with them as well, because I barely remember my life before Emun Junior (the elder) and Michal (the younger).
My grandsons are surely the most precocious ever born. And twins though they are, could any two boys be more unlike? Emun Jr. is like his mother in every way. His shock of black hair has only thickened since his birth. His skin is of the most porcelain colour, while his eyes are the colour of the sea on a bright sunny day. He is quiet and thoughtful, taking everything in around him with such a serious expression. Not all children are carefree for it seems Emun Jr has taken the weight of the world (or at least the weight of his own mother's meloncholy) upon himself even at the tender age of 1. While I feel such a deep love for him, I do not understand his contemplative heaviness. It is very difficult to make him laugh, although when it is accomplished it surely is the most gladding sound in the whole world. He is very attached to his mother, not wanting to be away from her side for a moment.
Michal is in every way like his father. His skin is darker, his hair a chestnut brown and his ruddy cheeks project good health and appetite. His big brown eyes pierce my heart the way his father’s did when he was a lad. Michal is full of life and curiosity, he laughs at everything and chatters constantly, loving the sound of his own voice. Sometimes I feel that I have been given the opportunity to go back in time and experience my own son as a babe again, so much the same they appear.
He is not afraid to go far from Sybellen even though he's only just learned to walk. He's explored every corner of the house and the yard already and I can see that there will be a time to come when he is running us all around and straight into our grey hairs (not that I've any left of colour, mind you).
Our home is full (Mattis says too full) once more of the sounds of little children and every day they do something new to fill me with wonder. It is only now that I've had a moment to write when they are both asleep and I am nearly asleep myself that I remember what this house sounds like when all is silent.
Feb 8, 1864
I am willing to admit it now. Mattis has been saying it for nearly a year and I've been fighting him on it at every turn, but he is right. Our house is far too small for our family. It seems we are constantly under one another. There is never a moment of privacy or peace with the goings on of the boys and the comings and goings of men inquiring after Mattis for this and that, even though he has an office near the harbour. I found a full house a pleasure while the boys could only crawl. But they have now long been running (not just walking), and my house feels like a circus.
While Mattis is on commission, it makes sense for Sybellen and the boys to stay with us and we've managed thus far. But for the times when Mattis is home, I swear I can hear the very boards of our home creaking with the strain.
So when Mattis said again just last week that he'd be looking at buying a new house, I finally let the comment pass without protest. I know when I am beaten. Emun suggested tearing down our house and rebuilding and I nearly threw a frying pan at him. This house is not to be torn down, not ever. And with my feelings made clear, Emun and Mattis went to market for a house.
I do not know the details around my son's fortune, I only know it has been growing steadily. I realized it fully when we went down to the harbour to christen the latest ship for his fleet. Mattis had told me he had commissioned another ship over a year ago, but I'd forgotten all about it and certainly did not realize he had such a grand ship in mind. When I saw it I came to understand just how successful my son has become.
We attended the christening of the ship, which was of course named after Sybellen. Mattis proudly showed us above and below decks as the ship sat in the harbour with the crowd around her and music playing on the wharf. I have never been aboard such a beautiful vessel--indeed I've hardly been aboard so much as a rowboat--, but I do know a fine ship when I see one. For the sake of posterity, I must tell you that I have never seen the like. She (for it seems that the men always refer to their vessels as female) was built at the shipping yard outside of Gdansk and was sitting in the water when I first saw her. I must say, she was simply glorious, all curves and crisp white sails that had yet to see a day’s wind set into them. Even the ships wheel was remarkable and unique having been crafted after the ornate likeness of celtic knots. I assume Mattis may have seen such a design on his journey to Ireland.
Mattis proudly walked us through the Captain’s quarters, which is large enough to accommodate 4 and which he had elegantly equipped with its own water closet and bathtub. The kitchen galley makes my own kitchen look like a closet, but I suppose this ship needs it to keep as many as 70 men fed and watered. He showed us the men's sleeping quarters, the belly of the ship where the goods and fresh water are stored, and the gun decks equipped with 8 cannons (it made me very nervous to think of their purpose). I cannot repeat all of the parts of the ship I was shown, for it seems that sailors like to give a name to every slab of wood, but I was comforted to see 6 large rowboats lashed in place should the men need to vacate the ship.
The item that was the most breathtaking and artful was the wooden sculpture that was fastened to the front of the ship under the bowsprit. Mattis says it is called the masthead. It is a creature of folklore, a woman who is human above the waist and fish below. It is clear as day that the mermaid's image was carved in likeness of Sybellen, and what a likeness it is. There is no mistaking whose face graces the front of the vessel.
I have never seen Sybellen angry before, with Mattis or anyone else. She can be dour, but never have I seen a display of temper towards anyone or anything - until today. The masthead was a surprise for her you see, and one that no one should be too shocked to learn of for the ship itself is named for her. Far from being honoured, she was furious and no one was more surprised and disappointed at this than Mattis.
I am grateful, at least, that in her rage she did not choose to have it out with Mattis in front of everyone on the docks, but withheld until she pulled him into the Captain’s quarters for privacy. This happened during our tour and the rest of us went onto the deck to pretend that nothing was
amiss. I heard the sounds of raised voices but couldn't make out what was being said. It was then that I noticed the strange timbre of my daughter-in-law's voice.
I do not begrudge Mattis the deep love he has for his wife--that is as it should be. I know I long ago stepped down as the first lady of my son's heart. I am simply uncertain of the appropriateness of the mythical creature on top of which Sybellen's face has been set. I'm well aware of men's tastes for a bonny bare-breasted lass to grace the front of their ship. I have even heard of other more fearsome creatures being used for ships of war, which is all in keeping. I only hope that there is not some hidden blasphemy in the sculpture that might offend God and bring bad luck down upon our heads.
They must have resolved their difference somehow since neither of them has mentioned the argument and the masthead has stayed in place. When they emerged from the Captain's quarters both of them were flushed but seemed relatively at peace.
But I digress, I meant for this entry to inform you that we are now on the market for a new house and it ended up being entirely about the addition to the growing collection of Novak sailing vessels.
And now I have exhausted my hand and shall lay my quill to rest for another day when I have more news to report on our new home or otherwise.
July 14, 1864
Who am I to think that a grandmother should have some say in what is or is not safe for her grandsons? Mattis has gotten it into his head that the boys who are not yet even two, will be needing horses to ride. Simply because the house (nay, manor, for it so large a home I should be too embarrassed to describe it) that he has purchased for us has stables. Must they be filled? We've never been a horsing family and I see no reason to start now.
But at the fair today, Michal was simply taken by a white gelding and Mattis nearly bought it on the spot. If it weren't for our protests (mine and Sybellen's), I do believe he would have had the boy up in saddle and gallivanting down the road like a highwayman. For once, it seems my daughter-in-law and I reside on the same side of good sense, although I suspect her preferences had less to do with the belief that the boys are simply too young and more to do with her own taste. She's never seen the appeal of horses nor displayed an interest in any animals, save birds and fishes. Either way, I'll take her as my ally in this fight against insanity.
It is interesting to note that once again, Emun Jr mirrors his mother in his disinterest for horses. He saw the white beast at the same time as his brother but while Michal was all squeals of delight, Emun Jr gave an expression of disdain as he sat cuddled in his mother’s arms. You could have painted the two of them into a fine fresco, a madonna and child, and used precisely the same expression of sleepy calm.
Whatever their preferences, we have managed to dodge the danger of a raving stallion crashing round in our stables and threatening to kick off the heads of my grandsons, at least for the time being. I suspect I've won the battle but not the war. At least I have time to pray that the boys will have mastered the skill of feeding themselves and tying their own shoelaces before their hard-headed father sticks them on the back of a war horse.
Aug 12, 1864
The renovations on our house (I beg your pardon - castle) are well underway and I've rarely seen Emun and Mattis in such high spirits. I have little interest in the details other than to ensure that every day they're fed and watered properly for their labours. Its a big job they've undertaken to get the manor ready for living in. Mattis spends part of his days working with Emun and overseeing the carpenters they have hired and the other part at the shipping office. Between these activities I have hardly seen my son all summer.
He reluctantly contracted a captain for this past spring’s commission, for which I am overjoyed. I hope that he chooses to do so more often in future, although he says that it costs the company much more to have someone else captain The Sybellen and has warned Sybellen and me to not get used to the idea. He also has some anxiety about trusting the prized ship to someone else, but I think he realizes that sooner or later, he will have to share the workload. I think in several years he will find himself in the office full-time rather than captaining and I can hardly wait for those days.
The manor is outside the village and perhaps a half hour’s walk from our house, which in comparison looks more and more like a shack with a broken back. On one hand, I am excited to be moving into such a glorious residence and on the other I have anxiety on all fronts. What will the village think? That we've gotten above ourselves with all this wealth? After all, Emun was a carpenter and he came from a family of carpenters, generations of them. It is only Mattis whose changed the fortunes of the Novak family and has done so against all odds. I am unsure how I will feel with the seemingly endless rooms. How does one choose where to spend one's time?
Mattis has informed me that he intends to fill the manor with staff and to live like a proper noble family (even though we are not noble). He has set aside large rooms for each of us, which is how he reports nobility lives. It seems excessive to me that we should each have our own enormous space and massive bed, not to mention assistance in dressing every morning. I have secretly asked my husband if we can continue to share a room since I've no wish to offend my son, and my darling seemed relieved that I feel the same way he does.
Mattis says that I'll no longer have to do the cooking and the washing up and I can pursue other things. But what? I have no idea, for I have no hobbies to speak of aside from this diary and helping to raise my grandsons. Perhaps gardening? I could hardly tell you a rose from a daisy, but the gardens at the manor are extensive and I can only imagine all the work required to be kept beautiful. Mattis says he'll hire a gardener, too, but I have asked him for the charge of it to start with. I know something about growing herbs and vegetables at least, it is merely the ornamental gardening about which I am daft.
Sybellen seems disinterested in the manor and all the goings on there. I have asked her if she is looking forward to moving into the home, but she shrugs and says it just means more rooms to chase the boys through. Once again Sybellen and I find something upon which to agree.
She knows that Mattis has another commission coming up in the fall and this one he'll be captaining. Autumn is never the ideal time to be sailing, but it must be done as this one is for the government. There is a marked drop in the lightness of her demeanour whenever his disembarking date draws nigh; you can see it surely as a set of perfectly weighted scales.
March 4, 1866
It's been years since my last entry and were I not so busy and full with things to do I should feel ashamed of being neglectful. Mattis is gone on commission and I write because weather of the kind we've been having makes me restless when I know Mattis is out in it. I can only hope he is far from the effects of it, for tonight there is a most wretched of storm moving in from across the Baltic. On nights like this I wish we were not a sea-faring family but had elected for a life much further inland, perhaps farming.
We are safely tucked into our new home and nearly every room has a crackling fire or hot ceramic furnace and yet the place seems hollow when Mattis is away. Sybellen is nearly unbearable in her sadness and the boys (especially Emun Jr.) can feel their mother’s discontent, which in turn makes them grumpy.
This is the most dangerous time of year for Mattis to be at sea. His hiring of a captain while the house renovations were underway seems a cruel tease now that he is gone again. I would happily trade this fine house filled with foreign furniture and artwork to have my son home during these days.
As I write this, there are branches tapping against the walls of the house and there is nothing to be seen out the window save blackness and driving rain. Sybellen sits in her room with the fire crackling in the fireplace and the boys playing on the carpet at her feet. She most often elects to sit on the window seat and look out at the sea, although what she can possibly see on a night like this is beyond me.
I write this evening from our own quarters. Emun sits snoring in front of the fireplace with a book
upside down on his chest and his spectacles perched on the end of his nose. I cannot decide whether to wake him and tell him of the peculiar conversation I had with Sybellen just hours ago.
I had gone in to check on her since I had not seen her or the boys for several hours and the storm was getting worse. I knew she would be in a state of worry for Mattis and I was not wrong. I found her sitting with her feet pulled up under her (she has the strangest way of resting sometimes, certainly not how proper ladies were trained to sit, even poor ones like me) on the seat in her bay window.
My grandsons, who are now three and a half years old, were playing with a set of wooden blocks in front of the fire with our nanny, Karolina (a recent addition that I am unsure is worth the expense).
I sat with Sybellen a while before I had gotten up the nerve to ask her why she was so down at the mouth: Mattis is an expert seaman and would surely be managing the weather as well as anybody could. She said that was not it, exactly. Yes, of course she worries about Mattis when he sails long journeys especially in winter, but it was more the direction her life had taken that was weighing on her.
I was shocked to hear this and fought the urge to slap her ungrateful mouth in that moment until I realized that she was philosophizing, not complaining about her material goods and way of life. I asked her to explain what she meant, as it was hard to understand how a beautiful woman with two lovely sons and a loving and wealthy husband could give her cause for such unhappiness.
It was then that she looked me full in the face with such an expression of yearning that my breath caught in my throat. You must understand, dear reader, that Sybellen rarely looks anyone in the eye. Most often she avoids conversation entirely, but when she deigns to engage, she keeps her eyes averted.