The Black Cauldron

by William Heinesen

  While the last verse was being recited a certain sign of movement had been observable in the crowd; people were putting their heads together and opening their eyes wide.

  “What’s going on?” asked Mrs. Skælling anxiously. “It’s not an aeroplane, is it?”

  “No, it’s not an aeroplane,” replied her husband looking at her with raised eyebrows. “It’s the baker! He obviously intends to say something as well. The whole thing’s turning into a piece of popular entertainment.”

  All eyes were turned towards Simon the baker, who had taken up position on a mound to the left of the Youth Association choir.

  “He’s standing on a grave,” whispered Mrs. Skælling.

  “Yes, yes, so he is,” replied her husband nervously. “It seems anything goes.”

  “Benedikt from the hospital’s there, as well,” said Mrs. Skælling. “Do you think he’s going to speak, too?”

  Benedikt had placed himself to the right of the baker. Some of Simon’s followers could be seen behind them, women of the people, a couple of curious seedy individuals, Schiaparelli the sculptor, the down-at-the-heels photographer Selimsson, the silver-bearded boat-builder Markus, whom everyone knew to be a lunatic. Selimsson had a violin case under his arm.

  Now the baker uncovered his thick mop of fair hair. He just wanted to say a few words on this occasion – not that much had not already been said and sung. But yet, too little had also been said. Too little, too little. The Word had not been heard. The Word demanded to be heard, the Word could not be suppressed; if it was not heard in one way, it would be heard in another, as was God’s will.

  Simon paused for a moment. Then he straightened up and said in a loud invocatory voice: “Behold, He cometh with clouds, and every eye shall see Him, and all kindreds of the earth shall wail because of Him. Thus spake St. John the Evangelist. Know this also, that in the last days perilous times shall come, says St. Paul the Apostle. For men shall be lovers of their own selves, covetous, boasters, proud, blasphemers, disobedient to parents, unthankful, unholy, without natural affection, trucebreakers, false accusers, incontinent, fierce, despisers of those that are good, traitors, heady, highminded, lovers of pleasures more than lovers of God, having a form of godliness, but denying the power thereof.”

  “Quite a list,” whispered Mr. Skælling. His voice was trembling a little. The baker’s words had a powerful effect on those gathered there; people were quite literally standing open-mouthed.

  “Lovers of pleasures more than lovers of God,” repeated the baker. “Having a form of godliness, but denying the power thereof. Yes, thus it is written, and how terribly true it is. But let me not force myself on you: let the Word speak, the living, true, undying Word, which is as salt and seasoning.”

  Mr. Skælling had caught a glimpse of Solomon Olsen; the outline of the tall, heavily-built man and his even bigger son Spurgeon were just visible behind a bush. It was irritating not to be able to distinguish their features clearly. The editor secretly hoped they might feel stung by the baker’s reference to the greedy who have the appearance of godliness.

  “Know, all of you gathered here today,” continued Simon. “God comes from Teman, and the Holy One from mount Paran, Selah. His glory covers the heavens, and the earth is full of his praise. And His brightness is as the light; He has horns coming out of His hand, and there is the hiding of His power. Before Him goes the pestilence, and burning coals go forth at His feet. He stands and measures the earth; He beholds and drives asunder the nations; and the everlasting mountains are scattered, the perpetual hills do bow; His ways are everlasting … The sun and moon stand still in their habitation; at the light of his arrows they go, and at the shining of His glittering spear.”

  “Selah!” shouted a powerful voice suddenly. It was not that of the baker, but of Benedikt. “Selah!” other voices joined in. “Selah!” shrilled a woman’s voice, a lowly voice, that of Black Betsy. And “Selah!” echoed the mad boat-builder in frantic ecstasy.

  Mrs. Skælling started involuntarily at the sound of the strange word. Her husband took her arm and murmured: “The cheek of it.”

  A sense of unease spread through the assembly; faces turned upwards, fingers pointed, and a piercing shriek was heard from one of the women.

  “Heavens, what on earth is this?” shouted Mr. Skælling. His wife shook his arm: “There’s an aeroplane, Nikodemus. Come on, come on, we’d better get out …”

  Now Mr. Skælling, too, could hear the drone of the motor, increasing in volume; he grabbed his wife’s hand, and they rushed headlong across the graves. Everywhere around them people were on the move; from the most crowded part of the assemblage there was another hysterical shriek, and now the wail of the air raid sirens filled the air. There was a great crush down by the gate; several women had totally lost control of themselves and were weeping and wailing; one of them had fainted in the arms of Doctor Tønnesen.

  “There, there,” shouted Mr. Skælling in an effort to calm them. “There is no reason for panic, none at all.”

  His teeth were chattering as he looked round for his wife, who had disappeared in the throng; he had not been able to hold her back, and now she might get herself hurt, perhaps even crushed to death or trampled underfoot; it was not at all nice, all this. A shot was heard, echoing ferociously in the mountains; then more shots made the ground tremble beneath them. The anti-aircraft guns thundered like huge baying hounds of heaven. From up by the graveside fragments of the baker’s apocalyptic speech occasionally penetrated the din. And then this idiotic Selah!

  Within very few minutes the cemetery was almost emptied of people; the only ones remaining were a little group made up of Ivar’s closest relatives, the pastor, Frederik and the seven other seamen who had been pall bearers. Then there was Simon, who was still speaking, and his pale disciple Benedikt together with Schiaparelli the sculptor, Selimsson the photographer and finally Thygesen and Myklebust and the Swedish tailor Tørnkrona, who was looking for his hat. The noise from the aeroplane was dying away; the anti-aircraft defences fired another few shots, and then they, too, fell silent. And finally even the baker’s speech came to an end; he took out a handkerchief and wiped his perspiring brow beneath the bushy hair. He was still in a state of deep excitement; he could plainly be heard breathing through his nostrils, and his eyes were flashing like lightning.

  “They fled!” he said. “And that was just from things of this world, powers that only kill the body. How much greater will be their terror when God’s own trumpets resound. When the kings of the earth, and the great men, and the rich men, and the chief captains, and the mighty men, and every bondman, and every free man, hide themselves in the dens and in the rocks of the mountains. And they said to the mountains and rocks, Fall on us, and hide us from the face of Him that sitteth on the throne, and from the wrath of the Lamb. For the great day of His wrath is come, and who shall be able to stand?”

  This last question was directed straight at Pastor Fleisch. The parson shook his head and passed it by: “No, who can withstand? But … but … we’ve still one more hymn left, for we’d agreed to sing ’Now take we all our leave’. It was you, Frederik Poulsen, who was keen to have that hymn sung as a farewell, wasn’t it?”

  Frederik blushed and picked at his sleeve. “Yes, it was. But now …”

  “Yes, no, we’ll sing it,” said the pastor and launched into it.

  Pastor Fleisch’s singing voice was not impressive, but Thygesen joined in and came to his aid, and Selimsson quickly tuned his violin and joined in with the melody. Myklebust again burst into tears, and Mr. Tørnkrona the tailor, who had finally discovered his hat and returned to the graveside, also wept like a child.

  And then the funeral was over. Pastor Fleisch said goodbye to the mourners, and Simon and Benedikt shook hands as they left.

  Johannes Ellingsgaard, the skipper of the Griseldis, had been up in the far corner of the cemetery, from where there was a view of the harbour and the bay; he wanted to see whether
any damage had been done to the ships. “No, I think it’s all right,” he said, as he came back.

  “Oh, it was really much disturbance,” commented Opperman, who had turned up again. “First the baker, then air raid.”

  Vigorously shaking the hand of Ivar’s father, he added: “But attendance was very big, oh, all sorrow much over Ivar. All remember this funeral for long time.”

  Opperman was pale and emotional. There was a strong, spicy aroma about him. Turning to Liva, he went on: “See, all those visiting cards on the wreaths; we pick them off later in memory; there are so many, so many.”

  The family from Angelica Cottage remained for a little while by the graveside together with Frederik and the other pall bearers. Then they slowly began to move off. Magdalena and Frederik took Elias between them, each holding him by the arm; the old man was trembling violently and could scarcely support himself.

  “Oh, poor,” said Opperman. “He undergo great suffering.”

  A little man with his hat in his hand was standing outside the entrance to the cemetery; it was Pontus Andreasen, the watchmaker. He greeted the company deferentially, and beckoned Frederik aside. Liva took her father’s arm meanwhile.

  “I’m sorry, Frederik,” said Pontus. “But I simply had to talk to you; it’s about a very important matter … You don’t bear me a grudge for what happened last time, not if I know you? No, I thought not. But you’d better come home with me so we can talk in peace and quiet, Frederik. Or if it’s not convenient now, then come later, but you must come today, for we mustn’t wait too long.”

  Frederik promised to go later.

  Pontus was dressed in a peculiar style; he was wearing an old-fashioned tight-waisted coat and black gloves, and carrying a silver-topped ebony walking stick.

  “I must say your friend was given a magnificent funeral,” he said. “But he’d deserved it. Aye, we must respect his memory. And I’ll see you later, my dear Frederik.”

  The watchmaker took off one glove and shook hands heartily with Frederik. “We’ll come to some arrangement, all right, Frederik; this time nothing shall come between us.”

  5

  Throughout the funeral proceedings Frederik had remained close to Magdalena; he had stood beside her at the grave-side, and they had held hands tight during the air raid. His feelings were aroused, and he felt restless at the thought of her; he had no greater desire than to hold on to this young widow and be with her, marry her – but he could understand from her that she did not feel the same about him. He was tormented by the fear that one day she might impetuously and thoughtlessly give herself to someone else as she had to him. It distressed him, too, that here on the very day of Ivar’s funeral he was unable to rid himself of the desire for this woman. But that was how it was: everything else seemed irrelevant, and he had been incapable of thinking of anything but Magdalena.

  According to old rural custom a table had been laid for a funeral meal up in Angelica Cottage; it looked festive and beautiful, with a white tablecloth and lighted candles, and the family had made sure that the food was the best available. The seamen were silent, helping themselves only modestly to the food and to the snaps which had been poured out for them. Nor did Opperman say much, either, but he smiled amiably and sadly to everyone and stroked the heads of Magdalena’s daughters. After the meal he fetched a big packet of caramels and sweets from his overcoat pocket. The children flocked around him in delight; Alfhild, who had otherwise stayed in a corner on her own, busy dressing a doll, also came across to Opperman and stood quivering in anticipation.

  “Oh, big child, she too,” smiled Opperman, giving her a block of nut chocolate. “You like sweets?”

  Alfhild looked up in delight as she bit into the delicious chocolate. One, two, three – and it was all gone, and she was kneeling before Opperman’s chair with plaintive eyes.

  “Oh, nothing left now,” said Opperman. “But you have more later. I have lot more at home.”

  “Alfhild,” scolded Magdalena. “Do leave Opperman alone.”

  Her sister gave her an indignant look and laid her head amorously against Opperman’s cheek. He stroked her arm, and she made to sit on his knee, but now Magdalena took hold of her and drew her aside.

  “Oh, poor,” said Opperman piteously. “She very like sweets and cuddling, eh? She is only a child.”

  Johannes Ellingsgaard looked at his watch. “I think I’ll just say thank you for your hospitality, and then I’d better get off. We’re sailing tonight, and there’s still a lot to be done.”

  The other seamen, too, broke up and took their leave. Frederik also got up, saying he would go down with the others. He pulled Magdalena aside a little, pressed her hand tight and whispered: “I’ll be back later. Can we meet?”

  She nodded.

  “I go, too,” said Opperman. “But first I say my best thank you for hospitality and friendship.”

  “We’re the ones to say thank you,” said Elias, gripping his hand. “Thank you, Opperman, for your great help and consolation. Thank you all for your support and kindness. May God repay you for your trouble and kindness.”

  Shaking his head, he added: “But it’s been too much; it was such a great honour, aye, it was more than we could have dreamt of; if poor Ivar had only known … that his funeral would be such a grand affair.”

  “Oh, rubbish,” said Opperman, shaking the old man’s icy hand. “But by the way, Liva. I think of visiting cards. Perhaps you go with me, and then we pick them now and you take them home with you?”

  “All right,” replied Liva. She felt she had been taken unawares, and a sense of weariness and resentment welled up in her. How tiresome it was; she couldn’t stand any more of this nonsense with Opperman, that importunate, indeterminable, silly and yet curiously artful man. She could not see why she could not go down to fetch those cards from the cemetery alone or together with her sisters, without Opperman having to get mixed up in that, too. But on the other hand, he was her boss, of course, and she was accustomed to doing as he wanted.

  “I talk with my wife,” said Opperman in a confidential tone as they walked together down along the path. “She understand nothing, oh, she is so completely obdurate. She just imagine that, you know …”

  Liva felt herself blushing deeply. She looked away without replying.

  “Yes, so meaningless, so ridiculous,” Opperman went on. “Amanda say it your voice, not Frøja’s. I say I swear, but they just laugh: you swear? You swear lie. Oh, it was so obdurate…”

  “Yes, but I won’t put up with it,” Liva suddenly blurted out. She felt nothing but icy antagonism towards Opperman.

  He sighed: “No, I understand so good, you poor thing. But I say to Frøja: you say it was you. But Frøja would say nothing, she not get mixed up, she say.”

  “I don’t care a hang about your Frøja or any of it,” shouted Liva, turning fuming towards Opperman. “I’m giving you my notice. There, it’s all over. I won’t have any more to do with any of you. You’re all crazy, the whole lot of you.”

  “No, Liva,” protested Opperman despondently. “Not take it like that, I so upset at it. You think this funny for me?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I do think,” said Liva. “I just think it’s something you enjoy …”

  She bit her lip. She was on the verge of tears.

  “Liva,” said Opperman, touching her arm. “Liva, I do everything for you, do you hear? You demand what you want. Oh, it make me so much sadness. Liva, it perhaps better you leave me, but what then? Then they think it was true, for why should she go otherwise? Why?”

  Liva suddenly stopped. With a penetrating look at Opperman she said quite calmly: “Will you please keep away from me, Opperman. I can cope with that problem on my own. And we are finished with each other in every respect now. Understand?”

  For a moment Opperman seemed completely flabber-gasted. Then he shook his head and said: “Yes, I understand, Liva, I understand.”

  “Good,” said Liva. She turned
round and set off at a run across the field.

  The old gravedigger and his son had almost finished filling in the grave. Liva was not in the mood for meeting anyone just now; she left the wreaths to their own devices and went up to the top corner of the cemetery, where she sat down on a bench. She felt relieved now that she was getting rid of Opperman. But when she thought of the magnificent funeral and all the trouble Opperman had gone to, she could not help feeling uncomfortable about her behaviour.

  She rubbed her hands and shuddered. “That silly monkey Opperman’s in love with you,” she said half aloud to herself. “It’s horrible.”

  Once more she had to think of Mrs. Opperman’s words: “If you become his wife, you will become a wealthy woman.” An incredibly crude thought. Mrs. Opperman knew perfectly well that she was engaged to be married. Perhaps they were simply assuming that Johan had not much longer to live, and that she had already begun to look around for another catch. The most advantageous one, of course. Opperman himself … and he could expect to be a widower before long.

  It was ridiculous, but it was outrageous and vile, too. And then to say it like that, without wrapping it up, and on the very day Ivar was brought home dead. Yes, that woman must be very wicked. But perhaps it was that incurable illness that had made her like that. “Good heavens,” thought Liva … “Lying like that, helpless, and knowing that you’re going to die, and then being married to a man like Opperman. How can you be anything but wicked in those circumstances?”

  Oh well, Opperman, for his part, must also have his troubles with this sick and suspicious wife. But the silly man hadn’t deserved anything else. Liva felt contempt and repugnance for both of them. It was all so nasty and hopeless.

  Liva shuddered violently with cold. She would sit down this afternoon and write a long letter to Johan. She would tell him everything that had happened, including all this about Opperman. She had nothing to hide.

  Or, she could go and visit Johan. Now she had given up her job there was plenty of time for that.