The Black Cauldron

by William Heinesen

  “Liva,” he said at last. “You have good conscience. People with nothing to fear have good conscience. The truth will out. Frøja run restaurant The Bells of Victory; Frøja often come here in evening when she has better time, for she always very busy. I often talk to Frøja about important things; she always like to talk. She not my girl-friend, Liva. I not have girl-friend. I know Amanda watch, oh, very suspicious, tells tales also to my wife. And my wife become so over-nervous, poor thing, she always lie hopelessly sick, she think I always unfaithful to her. First with one, then with another, oh, many before you. I am so used to her talk, I now am almost immune. She quickly forget it again. And Amanda very stupid. Oh, I just say her: Amanda, I tell military you lie and you will be shot with gun, then she very afraid and say: oh, I not mean it…”

  He put the paper knife down and sighed a little. “Oh, that nasty make-believe, Liva. You take no notice. Rely on me, I see to it.”

  Liva felt calmer. Opperman looked at her impassively. “Pity you bothered by that foolish chatter,” he said. “You have worse things to think of. But I will see to all, Liva. Just go home, do not think. Good conscience the best pillow. You must not be angry, dear child, not worry. I take all on myself. Oh, I very sorry about it for you.”

  “I’m giving in my notice,” said Liva. “I can’t work here any more.”

  Opperman got up and started wringing his hands. “Oh no, Liva. Not too hasty. No, no. Think about it till day after tomorrow … you see everything be OK. Dear Liva, not go. You come here day after tomorrow, then you have changed mind.”

  Liva felt relieved when she was once more out in the rain and on her way home. She thought of Mrs. Opperman’s words: he is dreadful, but he may not be an evil man, but rather like a spoiled child. And fundamentally, she was right, too, in saying that Opperman could be so good and kind, so friendly and helpful.

  How on earth could she understand him. Or her. Though perhaps she was a little easier to understand. How could she really be any different, lying there, unoccupied and helpless, and with that strange, unfathomable husband. Liva decided she would pay the poor woman another visit after the funeral and get her to renounce her suspicions. Both for her own sake and for Liva’s. And then she would keep the job with Opperman. She could not afford to give up such a well-paid job now that Ivar was no more.

  4

  The sun was shining, and there was a slight frost on the day of the funeral. Opperman and his staff had been at work decorating the church since early in the morning. The altar and pulpit were draped in black, and black bows and festoons were fixed all round the walls and on the doors to the pews. Stands and flower holders decked with palms and luxuriant foliage plants had been placed in the chancel, and garlands of evergreens and rust-coloured dead leaves had been draped round the altar rail. No expense had been spared; the chancel had the appearance of a lush garden.

  All the kind souls in the town had assisted Opperman, first and foremost children and young people from the Christian Youth Association, under the expert guidance of Sigrun, Liva’s future sister-in-law. The coffin, standing on its catafalque at the entrance to the chancel, was hidden beneath a wealth of flowers and wreaths, and a row of other wreaths lined the aisle.

  The church was filled to overflowing; some wore uniform, the rest were in mourning, and even the porch was crowded. The organ sounded different from usual; it was being played by a young English soldier – Consul Tarnowius’s son-in-law, actually – and he could at times make it sound like a veritable storm. Mr. Verlandsen, the teacher, had gathered a choir of schoolchildren and former pupils, with whom he had practised the hymns. The male voice choir from the garrison was there, too; they did not join in the Faroese hymns but remained ready for the later part of the ceremony.

  Mr. Nikodemus Skælling, the editor, had found himself a good place up in the organ loft, where he had a good view of everything going on.

  “Good Lord, isn’t it splendid,” whispered Mrs. Skælling. “It’s almost too much of a good thing, don’t you think so, Nikodemus?”

  Mr. Skælling made no reply, though he was quietly thinking that when old Consul Tarnowius had been laid to rest ten or twelve years ago the ceremony had also been marked by a certain splendour, but it could in no way be compared with this. And yet the old Consul had been an influential man, the director of a firm with a great number of branches; moreover, he owned a whole fleet of fishing vessels and employed large numbers of men, women and children. Indeed, the entire fjord community lived off his firm.

  And Mr. Skælling could not but think of his own father’s funeral … quite respectable, quite respectable, though the mourners were not numerous, and there was no pomp and circumstance, no wealth of flowers, no choir. But on the other hand there was the quiet sadness of loyal hearts – while this was a showpiece organised by Opperman. Why, in one sense it was ridiculous, profoundly ridiculous. Mr. Skælling wondered what form his own funeral would take when the time came. Or his wife’s.

  He took his wife’s hand, and she leaned against him, overcome by the solemnity of the occasion.

  “Look, even the ships hanging from the roof are draped in black,” she whispered.

  “Yes, and that’s quite a good bit of symbolism, really. It’s as if it were in memory of the ships lost in the war.”

  Mr. Skælling felt moved by his own words, and he held his breath for a moment. In his newspaper report of the ceremony he would bring this up.

  “Solomon Olsen and his wife and son are here, too,” whispered Mrs. Skælling. “And the Schibbyes and the Tarnowius’s. And Doctor Tønnesen and his son. And the pharmacist and his wife, and the Villefranches and the postmaster and family, and Stefan Sveinsson and his wife … heavens, just look how she’s made up, Nikodemus; what do you think of that? And all the officers. Captain Gilgud in dress uniform.”

  “Of course,” said the editor. “Of course. This is no ordinary funeral, this is a memorial ceremony, Maja. It is the funeral of the unknown soldier.”

  He again felt moved by his own words, and swallowed slightly. That idea of the unknown soldier was another he would work into his newspaper report. That was how the whole thing should be seen, of course. The ceremony was more for a cause than for a single individual. The person was a secondary matter.

  “What do you think the people from Angelica Cottage will say to all the honour we’re showing them?” whispered Mrs. Skælling.

  Her husband shrugged his shoulders. “It’ll be worse for them if it goes to their heads. But I wouldn’t be all that surprised if it did.”

  “No, nor me. But heavens above … Nikodemus!”

  She grabbed her husband’s arm and shook it violently.

  “What on earth is it, woman?” he asked and in his fright he forgot to keep his voice low.

  A couple of discordant cries could be heard coming from the chancel … it sounded for all the world as though someone was shouting “robbers and murderers”… and down by the entrance to the chancel, just in front of the coffin, something or other was going on. It was difficult to see what, but it looked a little as though someone had fainted.

  “It’s probably only someone with heart trouble,” Mr. Skælling reassured her.

  “No, it isn’t, Nikodemus,” his wife declared breathlessly. “For it’s Hermansen, the typographer. I saw it myself. He stepped out in front of the coffin and wanted to make a speech … but then they overpowered him. Look, they’re taking him out now. He’s drunk, Nikodemus. Oh, how dreadful!”

  Mr. Skælling was speechless. He quietly shook his head and involuntarily folded his hands. A wave of murmurs ran through the church as the drunken typographer was led out into the sacristy by the sacristan and sexton. He offered only slight resistance, but in the doorway he turned round with a brief, penetrating cry. Then the sacristan pushed him hard in the side, and he could be heard falling down the short flight of steps.

  “Serves him right,” someone said inadvertently in a loud voice, and a few sounds of amuseme
nt interspersed the murmuring to be heard on all sides.

  “What was that he shouted?” Mr. Skælling asked in a whisper.

  “Serves him right,” his wife whispered back to him. She was very upset and had tears in her eyes.

  “No, Hermansen, I mean,” her husband corrected her in an irritated tone. “What was it he shouted before he fell down the stairs? Was it Heil?”

  “False piety,” his wife whispered in his ear.

  The editor recoiled a little, and then he whispered back: “I’m afraid there’s something in that, Maja.”

  “Yes, but the other things he said, they were so dreadful,” she whispered. “Robbers and murderers. Here, in the church. I can’t understand how they allowed him to come in that condition.”

  “Yes, it was unfortunate, very unfortunate,” nodded her editor husband.

  It was as though the inappropriate murmurings refused to subside. But now Pastor Fleisch stepped forward at the entrance to the chancel, and suddenly there was such a silence that the clock mechanism could be heard up in the tower. The editor raised his eyebrows and settled down with an expression of suffering on his face. It was best to arm yourself against the irritations you knew were to come.

  Yes, of course. The usual trite comments. “The evil times in which we live.” “The difficult conditions at sea.” Of course! “Our daily bread.” Hm. And then, suddenly: “Daniel in the lions’ den.” Yes, why not. A typical stunt. “The lions did not touch him”. Oh, didn’t they, though? “And the men who plough the salt waves in this age in which we live, they, too, are sent like Daniel into the lions’ den. But they are only weak human beings; they have no prophetic powers; they cannot calm the lions, but they fall victim to the raging of the wild beasts.” Oh! “But not a sparrow shall fall to the earth without …”

  God help us, what a muddle!

  “And this young man was perhaps spared far worse things …”

  To sum up: God sends His helpless and unprophetical creatures into the lions’ den to spare them worse fates. Thank you, Pastor Fleisch, thank you!

  And then the embarrassing, melancholy words to the bereaved family. All their sorrows and trials. The father’s ill health. And then a hopelessly rambling digression to the effect that Christ healed an epileptic. The mother’s death from cancer. And the youngest daughter to whom God had denied understanding, but who nevertheless was perhaps happier than many of us others. What magnificent taste! I wonder if he’ll get on to the eldest daughter’s hairy face now? Oh, apparently not, after all.

  And then, finally, a ramshackle, disjointed finish, full of repetitions and without a trace of inventiveness. And when you think what could have been said on such an occasion. The tomb of the unknown soldier! The miniature ships adorned with crape, mourning the loss of their bigger brethren out there on the merciless ocean. Thank you very much, Pastor Fleisch; I’ll give you Beta minus minus for that.

  “What a beautiful address,” whispered Mrs. Skælling.

  Her husband moved a little away from her. He sighed. Now the English choir began to sing a hymn. “Abide with me”. Then the schoolchildren followed with “Praise to God for His good works”.

  Then the coffin was slowly borne out by seamen wearing blue braided serge and carrying their shiny-brimmed caps in their free hands. Johannes Ellingsgaard, the skipper of Opperman’s other ship, the Griseldis, was one of the bearers, walking in front together with Frederik. Sylverius and the other survivors from the Manuela also helped carry the coffin. Slowly the church was emptied. The Englishman at the organ raged away with yet another tempestuous piece. Johan Sebastian Bach. Gregersen, the local organist, was standing behind him staring in polite astonishment at the intricate music.

  Never had Kingsport seen a bigger funeral cortège. It stretched virtually from the church at the head of the bay right out to the cemetery on the other side of the river. It would be no exaggeration to say that the whole of Serpent Fjord, everyone with legs to walk on, was taking part in the procession. Here were all the schoolchildren and all the young people from the Christian Youth Association as well as the national association, Forward. Here were farmers in their silver-buttoned national dress and helmet-like bonnets; and farmers’ wives and women of the people in their black dresses and scarfs, seamen in shiny-peaked caps, ship owners and merchants in heavy overcoats and with gloved hands, officers and other ranks in their finest uniforms. There were even several top hats to be seen: the bank manager, the pharmacist, Stefan Sveinsson. But not Doctor Tønnesen, the old stick-in-the-mud – he was wearing an ordinary grey hat. Opperman, of course, was wearing a shining top hat. He led the cortège as though he were one of the bereaved. The sisters from Angelica Cottage wore old-fashioned black headscarfs which almost hid their faces. Their father looked miserable, walking along like a sleepwalker; his eyes were lifeless, his arms and age-blackened hands hung limply at his side.

  Mr. Nikodemus Skælling and his wife found themselves in a bad position in the thick of the crowd; they could move neither forwards nor backwards, and they could see nothing but the black backs of those standing immediately in front of them. They were actually even being pushed from behind by members of the Forward Youth Association, who simply had to get to the graveside. Mr. Skælling chided the eager young people, but there was no stopping them; they were polite but determined ; they had to gather at the graveside to sing Bergthor Ørnberg’s song. Soon an avenue was opened through the crowd, and the editor and his wife took advantage of the opportunity to find themselves a better position. In the end they managed to get right up to the graveside. Here, the youth club members were congregated, their white sheets of paper standing out amidst the surrounding black; all the young people were watching Bergthor’s elated face. The bard was wearing national costume.

  “The puppy,” whispered Mr. Skælling to his wife.

  He turned around and looked in a different direction. The leafless bushes and trees in the cemetery displayed their shiny silver branches in the pale frosty sunshine. A group of intrepid marguerites stood to attention with their fresh, springy flowers. He could see the breath rising from the singing schoolchildren’s mouths; the air was filled with human breath and the smell of their clothes, occasionally with a touch of perfume or naphthalene or hymnbook leather. Suddenly there came a strong smell of alcohol. Mr. Skælling discovered that it was emanating from Thygesen, the Danish butler, who was standing singing behind him. It had to be admitted that, drunkard as he was, he had a beautiful, clear singing voice; indeed there was a strangely moving tone of anguish in his singing. Myklebust, the Norwegian shipowner, was standing beside him; he was not singing, but his big, wrinkled face was contorted. Good Lord, he was actually weeping.

  Finally the strains of the long hymn died away. Then all heads were bared as the three spadefuls of earth fell on the lid of the coffin and produced the familiar hollow sound of irrevocability. Myklebust was sniffing uncontrollably; the big-boned foreigner was clearly the only person who could not keep his feelings under control. Actually, it was catching, and Mr. Skælling himself felt a tear in his eye … it came from the prayer’s words about the daily bread. Give us this day our daily bread! Aye, there was plenty of that these days, but it was at the cost of human lives and human happiness. He would write that in his little article on this great and remarkable funeral. Though perhaps it would sound a little provocative, almost socialistic. It would be grist to the mill of that nasty little typographer Jens Ferdinand. And perhaps to Doctor Tønnesen’s as well, for it was said that he had some, let us say: piquant, almost bolshevik views on society. And that despite his being the son of a professor. No when all was said and done, the sailors were not the only ones to be securing the daily bread for the community; the shipowners who risked their ships and their money very definitely played an important role, and ultimately it was, paradoxically, the war that could be thanked for the plentiful supply of daily bread with which the community had been blessed in recent years. One man’s meat, another man’s
poison, as the old proverb had it, and this was indeed the case, the implacable, fundamental law of life …

  Now Bergthor Ørnberg stepped forward. Was that slob really going to speak at the graveside as well? That really was a bit thick. The newspaper would definitely have to protest at it.

  A greeting and an expression of gratitude from the young people. Oh well, that wasn’t entirely unreasonable. “The man whom we today have laid to rest in the soil of his native land was in the peak of his youth.” True, true. “War is war and it seeks its victims among the young and the strong; all around us on battlefields all over the world – on land, at sea and in the air – countless young men are at this moment falling for the cause to which they have dedicated their lives: the struggle for their native lands! So, too, it was with him. He fell for his country. The young people will always remember him as the hero he was. We do homage to his memory.”

  It could be worse, thought Mr. Skælling. At least it was brief. Ørnberg was after all better as a speaker than as a poet. For the song which followed was pretty awful, far too bombastic to be acceptable; not a single opportunity or reference was left out … Viking blood, the Nordic spirit, Sigurd who slew the Dragon and freed the Gold … the whole lot was amateurish and devoid of style, and then, at the end, it gave way to tear-dripping sentimentality and was in any case totally unauthentic in content: “He found a watery grave in the foaming sea!” Good heavens above, man, he didn’t drown, he was shot, but that simplest of all facts had been carelessly sacrificed on the altar of rhyme. And then, finally, as the icing on the cake, came the words:

  For we all take part in that wild play,

  Today it was he, but tomorrow maybe me.

  As though there were any danger that Ørnberg himself, a book-keeper … !

  And yet … why not, in fact? This unfortunate war profoundly affected the civilian population as well, so for that matter … ! Mr. Skælling shuddered as though ill at ease and breathed deeply.