The Tower at the Edge of the World

by William Heinesen

  ***

  Otherwise there was no lack of fine entertainment that one still remembers with gratitude: music and reading, the overture to La muette de Portici arranged for piano duet and played by Mother and Grandmother downstairs in the living room and delightfully interwoven with Uncle Prosper reading aloud from Struwwelpeter and Aunt Nanna reading from Captain Grant’s Children. And one afternoon, Little Brother crept in with a bowl full of live baby trout that he had caught up in the river, and he lit a match in secret so that, as though in a vision, you caught sight of the tiny red-spotted fish with their transparent crystalline eyes waggling their dark fins in the clear water.

  Light

  Spring brought the light back. Bit by bit. The first eager sight of living reality was something you saw on the quiet by pulling the curtain aside, just a little, and only for a moment or two… but then, in a breathtaking flash, your eye has glimpsed the immense blue of the heavens, and a white cloud, and even a bird.

  Then comes the blissful time when the curtain is quite legitimately drawn back, a bit extra each day, until, first wearing dark glasses and then with your naked eye, you can go out into the resurrected world, the world of daytime, of wind, of rain and sunshine, the world of the future and of eternity.

  Heavy Snowfall and Compact Darkness, Indeed so Intense that from the Window in my Tower I

  (Amaldus the Scribe)

  can’t make out a single light down in the town which I know is illuminated by a host of lamps and lights this March evening.

  I have now as good as finished writing down what I had in mind on this occasion, but here I sit examining what I have written in order to see whether anything important might have been left out, and with this in mind I have brought Grandmother’s old family album up here – a really impressive book, filled with a host of pictures, some fixed and some loose, most of them stuck on hard cardboard with gilt edges, as was required by the taste of that time. The binding, about which there is a scent of lavender and fulfilled destiny, is made of plush, decorated with a tarnished metal rosette and furnished with a worn and long-since slackened fastener. The many portraits accumulated here (a large number of them bearing the signature of Keil, the photographer) include almost all those who figure in this little memorial piece, but curiously enough, most of their faces look quite different in the photographs from the way in which I remember them.

  For instance Father’s face.

  The four pictures of him all present him as a gentle, indeed almost humble man. In one of them he even has such a peaceful and indulgent expression that it actually borders on the simple. But he was tough, in many ways a ruthless loner, not only respected, but also feared by colleagues and those under his authority as well as those nearest to him, even by Mother.

  Nevertheless, he was paradoxically well liked, indeed to some extent even loved by those working for him, whom he otherwise kept a tight rein on.

  Father had made it the purpose of his life to re-establish the Rømer Concern, and he pursued this objective with determination and energy; in time he came to enjoy some success, although it was only partial, for the company never became the same as it had been in Great-Grandfather’s day. But it was an act that gave him and others a great deal of happiness and peace of mind.

  As in the case of so many other idealistic despots, Father did not primarily have his own advantage in mind. He was no self-seeking, avaricious profiteer. He was very simple and undemanding in his way of life; he rose early and usually went around dressed in an old-fashioned indestructible reefer jacket over a pale sweater, and his favourite food was boiled salted fish with potatoes and plenty of mustard. The only luxury he allowed himself were the modest rum toddies he indulged in while playing cards on a Saturday evening with loyal friends and advisers, the Numerator, the Denominator, Michelsen the bookkeeper and occasionally Debes the Lighthouse Keeper. He disliked and distrusted outer show and honours, and on two occasions he is known to have politely refused honorary consulships.

  The driving force behind his firm was, however, naturally not the irresistible urge to undertake self-denying good works that naive souls often attribute to capitalists of Father’s kind, but a certain determined enterprising spirit and a related indomitable imperiousness. Father was no judge of character, and his urge to dominate his surroundings could at times take on the most perverse form, as for instance in the case of Aunt Nanna, when he obstinately tried to insist on tying her to Debes, the ageing Lighthouse Keeper. He didn’t succeed: the Lighthouse Keeper remained a widower, and Aunt Nanna never married. But Father’s craving for power was to have fateful consequences for poor Uncle Hans, whom he imagined that stringent control could change into a good, hard-working representative of the middle-class like himself. It didn’t strike him that Hans was by nature his opposite in every way: a romantic, musical young man and something of a bel esprit, whereas Father kept well away from both books and music. When on one occasion Uncle Hans said something about fancying going to Copenhagen to see if he could “get into acting” (an area in which he would undoubtedly have had the ability to do well!) Father’s sole reaction was a great scornful guffaw and a hurtful remark to the effect that in that case he (Hans) might as well take lessons from Uncle Prosper.

  The poor relationship between Father and his young brother-in-law gradually grew so bad that they were no longer on speaking terms. But one day, Uncle Hans changed tack and “gave in”, as they said, and it became clear to all that the Captain had got what he wanted here, too, and stood as the victor.

  In the constant battle between Father and Uncle Hans, Mother was mainly on her brother’s side, especially with regard to one of the points of conflict, that is to say the relationship with Dolly Rose. But on this, I think I would rather quote Mother’s own words in a letter to her sister in Copenhagen.

  “Dear Sister,

  I am writing to you with a heavy heart, the reason for which is the intolerably strained relationship between my husband and your brother. I wish you could give me some advice in my time of need. I have of course told you about the girl known as Dolly Rose, Fina the Hut’s seventeen-year-old daughter who has been Hans’ sweetheart and has now got into trouble. Johan absolutely insists that Hans must marry her, for ‘a man is duty bound to take the consequences of his actions, however unpleasant they might be’, and I suppose that is right enough in its way. But is it in this case? For – well, it is hard to be forced to say this, and perhaps it sounds terribly arrogant and pharisaic – but this pale little redheaded girl with the stiff doll’s eyes is a poor retarded creature who not only cannot read and write, but who also has difficulty in expressing herself orally; indeed, she actually often reacts like a five-or-six-year-old child. She really is terribly retarded. And even if one can be furious with Hans on account of his weakness and his unforgivable aberrations, it must be obvious that it would mean nothing less than a lifelong tragedy for this still young man if for the rest of his days he was to be tied to this poor, stupid creature. Something quite different, of course, is that he can’t just leave her to fend for herself, but has a duty to look after her and provide for the child. But this Johan can’t see, or rather: he refuses to see it. He calls us (Hans and me) soft and cowardly and is of the opinion that Hans, ‘who has drained so many pleasant cups must also drain this unpleasant one’ so that he can learn some self-respect and ‘grow up’.

  But the worst thing is that, as things stand, he could in this way drive Hans to despair and to do himself a harm. I am sure you know what I mean, and you will hardly be surprised that I am both afraid and unhappy and pray to God that Johan will see sense after all – indeed, both Johan and Hans. But unfortunately, it does not look as though they will. Do write a few lines to me, dear Sister, and give me advice if you have any to give.”

  ***

  Dolly Rose – there is a photograph of her, too, in the old album; with her oval face and remote, faraway expression, she almost looks like some saint, and she could be called beautiful if it w
ere not for her big, expressionless mouth with its simple, pouting lips.

  After Uncle Hans had capitulated to his brother-in-law’s will and married Fina the Hut’s daughter, it looked as though the relationship between the two men had improved, indeed as though it was on the way to being unproblematic. Uncle Hans returned to his work in the Rømer Concern office (a job which he carried out with great talent and ease; it consisted mainly of taking care of the company’s extensive correspondence with Mediterranean countries, which took almost all the fish that was exported, and with Denmark and England, whence all ordinary goods were imported.)

  After the wedding, which was a quiet one, the newly-weds moved into the “Mill House”, an old, impractical but reasonable house, once built by Ryberg the marketing manager and situated at the mouth of the Mill Stream in the left bay, surrounded by the old Rømer warehouses and a garden of big sycamore trees.

  Virtually nothing is known of what life was like between Uncle Hans and “Aunt Rosa”, except that they each had their own bedroom. Mother looked kindly after her little sister-in-law, and did her best – though seemingly in vain – to get on to some sort of terms with her. Rosa was not very good at preparing food or looking after the house, but she was both eager and capable when it came to any work in the garden. Mother got a couple of strong men to help her to get the old garden into shape after it had been a wilderness for a long time. Fina the Hut helped here, too, and rhubarb, cabbage and carrots did well in the vegetable patch, and roses, poppies and crown imperials flourished in the more decorative part of the garden, so that Aunt Rosa could set about the weeding, which after wreath-making was her favourite occupation.

  Nothing ever came of the child Aunt Rosa had been expecting; the fruit of her womb left her shortly after the wedding – if there had ever been such a fruit, for evil tongues (and, incidentally, not only the evil ones) maintained that Dolly Rose had never been in the family way, and that it had all been scheming on the part of Fina the Hut. The slight bump that could be seen on Rosa was said to have been due to an extra heavy woollen petticoat with which her mother had equipped her. It was also thought to be quite significant that neither midwife nor doctor had been present during what was said to be Rosa’s miscarriage, only Fina and one of her good friends (Spanish Rikke).

  ***

  Uncle Hans’ marriage to Rosa only lasted for just over six months. A photograph of him from this time shows a young man with a beard, expressive of resignation and self-irony, but still without any trace of the desperation to which he was soon to surrender himself, and which was to bring about a sudden end to his career.

  It remains unclear whether it was a question of suicide or of some kind of desperate attempt to escape. Perhaps it was a mixture of the two. It could be established that on this unhappy boat trip, which was to be his last, Uncle Hans had taken with him a good stock of food and that he had at least a couple of thousand kroner in English banknotes with him when he sailed out of the bay in his big white sailing boat, the Nitouche, followed by a light northerly wind one beautiful midsummer morning.

  It was not an unusual sight – Uncle Hans spent almost all his free time in this boat when it was sailing weather, indeed often when the sea was pretty choppy, for he had in time become a skilled shellback, whose knowledge of winds and currents even old fishermen and sea dogs acknowledged.

  The Nitouche was an open boat, but there were some rings and staves in the stern that could hold a canvas hood to provide some shelter from rain and rough seas. Anton, the storehouse manager, who was up early and had chanced to see Uncle Hans set out, had been a little surprised that this hood was raised in spite of the good weather. He also noticed that the yachtsman set out in a southerly direction towards the open sea.

  Uncle Hans never returned from this trip. A search was carried out for the missing boat for days, but in vain, and nothing is known of Uncle Hans’ fate apart from the fact that one of the Rømer fishing sloops, the Only Sister found the Nitouche three weeks later drifting with its keel in the air somewhere midway between Suduroy and Shetland. There had been quite rough weather in that area during that time, a summer storm with a wind strength of ten or eleven and with heavy seas.

  ***

  After Uncle Hans’ unhappy death, Aunt Rosa stayed in the Mill House for a time together with her mother. Father later ensured that she became part of the household. In general, he took care of his brother-in-law’s widow. At table, she was given a seat at his left side. He treated her with respect and attention, and she showed a child-like devotion to him to the end of his days.

  ***

  Alas – all these faces that stare at me from the album’s faded and mildewed columbarium. They are so reluctant to be forgotten and to vanish, and they each and every one deserved their memorial runes. But a limit must be drawn, and this is where it must be.

  Finally, however – as a kind of envoi – a couple of words on Uncle Prosper’s face!

  It was fundamentally the face of a handsome man, and if you didn’t know better you might well think that it was the face of a man occupied with profound philosophical thoughts on life’s contrast-filled opera semiseria, in which we all involuntarily perform.

  Uncle Prosper lived to a great age, almost ninety. He was happy to be photographed and appears sometimes in group photographs (where he is always sure to be in the foreground), and sometimes alone in “cabinet photographs”, in which he looks extremely serious and confidence-inspiring, perhaps even authoritative, for Uncle Prosper had a strange ability to give the illusion of a man to whom much is entrusted and who bears a heavy responsibility.

  In some of these pictures, he is wearing a silver cross on his chest; this is the decoration for meritorious services which he was awarded during a royal visit in 1907 after he had given King Frederik VIII eight very richly decorated duck eggs.

  Epilogue

  And now I will close the old picture book and put out the light.

  The same snowfall and intense darkness.

  It gives a certain feeling of light-headedness, as though you had slipped out of the context of time.

  The calendar tells me that today is 29 March 1974. And yet it is something of a coincidence that this is the date and not, for instance 1874 or 1174 or merely 74 – and why not 7474 or any other date into which it might have amused the capricious forces of fate to launch a fleeting and helpless human snowflake.

  There you sit, pondering in your dark tower at the end of the world and the end of life while, filled with idle speculations, you sit staring out into the silent, swarming abundance of falling snow.

  ***

  Was there more?

  There was indeed – for then you fell asleep. Aye, that was what happened to you: you slipped helplessly into a blissful sleep and the mysterious and playful dimension of dream.

  What did you dream? Of course, that you were a child again. But alas – a strangely deformed and old-fashioned changeling with running eyes and melancholy wrinkles in your brows, and the bright-eyed, undaunted children you wanted to play with (so as for one last time to feel the happy young vibrancy in their life rhythm) laughed at you, not maliciously or disparagingly, just patiently. Then you, too, laughed, resigned, perhaps with just a slight touch of bitterness, while withdrawing to the dark place where you now belong, in darkness and decline beneath the merciful snowfall…

  ***

  Was there no more then?

  Indeed there was, of course. For when I awoke again after my brief snooze it had stopped snowing, and among slowly moving banks of cloud the stars were shining over the wide expanse of the sea – the beautiful crystal white of Capella, the red topaz of Aldebaran, the ecstatic group of maidens in the misty Pleiades, the flaming belt of the ever young and mirthful Orion, the whole of this enchanting heavenly springtime array. And out on the horizon there is the flashing light of the ordinary lighthouse, a mortal light among all the immortals, but in the deep, joy-intoxicated spring night nevertheless a star among other stars.
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  Copyright

  Dedalus would like to thank the Danish Arts Foundation and Arts Council, England for their assistance in producing this book.

  Published in the UK by Dedalus Limited

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  Publishing History

  First published in Denmark as Tarnet ved verdens ende in 1976

  First Published by Dedalus in 2018

  Tarnet ved verdens ende copyright © William Heinesen & Gyldendal, Copenhagen 1976

  Published by agreement with Gyldendal Group Agency

  Translation copyright © the estate of W. Glyn Jones 2018

  The right of William Heinesen’s estate to be identified as the proprietor and W. Glyn Jones’ estate to be identified as the translator of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  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.