The Black Cauldron

by William Heinesen

  Liva suppressed a cry; it turned into a strange hissing sound, like that from an angry goose: “Simon.”

  “It was Satan,” repeated Simon, closing his eyes. He stepped right over to the gate and said in a whisper and still with his eyes tightly closed: “You must understand, woman. I have nothing but you in my thoughts. And when the boat sank and you clung to me … then it was suddenly clear to me that it was no longer love from God, Liva … but that it was evil lust, woman. And then what was it you said to me … what did you whisper to me when you no longer knew what you were doing? No, I won’t repeat it.”

  “Yes, tell me, please.”

  Liva had regained her voice; she no longer sought to restrain it in any way and shouted: “You can’t let me down. If you do, there’s nothing else left for me, Simon.”

  “Yes, there is the Lord Jesus,” said Simon earnestly. He, too, spoke in a loud voice. “He won’t let you down. He doesn’t let us down, Liva. We must obey His command, woman. We must drive out the Devil from our hearts. We must take up our cross.”

  Simon turned away; he stooped forward, clenched his fists in the air in front of him and shouted: “This is the greatest temptation, Lord. Help me, you living Christ. Give me strength, you who are crowned with thorns. You who came to scatter fire on the Earth – how I wish that the Earth were burning already.”

  “What in the name of Heaven?” said a surprised and reproving voice behind Liva, and a firm hand grasped hers. It was Helga. “What on earth is going on here? Are you out of your mind? Standing out here only half dressed in the cold night air. You ought to have been in bed getting warm. Yes, just look how you’re shivering. Good God, if only I’d had the slightest idea …”

  She pulled and pushed Liva along to the house and up the stairs to the attic. The farmer’s wife was standing half dressed on the landing. In a pitiful voice she said: “Good God, my dear girl … what on earth do you want with that madman? Heaven preserve us. She’s completely out of her mind. You must stay here with her, Helga … you never know … Shall I waken the pastor?”

  “That won’t be necessary, my dear.” It was the voice of Pastor Fleisch. “I woke of my own accord when I heard him bellowing down there, our poor baker friend.”

  The pastor sat down on the edge of the bed and, pursing his lips, said in a gentle voice, “Look, Liva, my dear. Now we’re going to forget all this. All those upsetting things, all those dreadful things. Now little Liva’s going to sleep. I’m sure you need it. Your little eyes are going to close. God’s angels are keeping watch at your bedside. Hush, hush. Don’t cry. Tomorrow, when you’ve had a good sleep, you’ll no longer be so overwrought. There, there, that’s better. Just you weep a little, it helps. I’ve got such a lovely illustrated Bible that you shall have, you little woman of faith. You shall come and see me, and I’ll be like a father to you, little Liva…”

  The pastor’s voice sounded so infinitely kind and all-forgiving. It was beautiful and comforting to listen to. Helga and her mother were both deeply moved.

  IV

  1

  Frøja Tørnkrona had a big, almost splendid room over the Bells of Victory restaurant. Bright flowered curtains, light cane furniture and an enormous, broad ottoman littered with an abundance of coloured cretonne cushions and cute little dolls with flapping arms and legs and roguish eyes. Frøja collected these dolls and had a multitude of them; she had sewn their clothes herself; most of them were dressed in striped or flowered pyjamas, but there was an odd one in a dinner jacket and real stiff collar.

  “Can you see who that is?” she asked.

  “Yes, Opperman,” laughed Magdalena.

  “Yes, isn’t he sweet?” Frøja held the doll to her cheek.

  “Are you having it off with him?” asked Magdalena.

  “Nice little girls don’t ask things like that.” Frøja screwed up her eyes and flicked her with the doll.

  Magdalena laughed and felt unconstrained and carefree sitting here in Frøja’s perfumed room. She had often thought of going to see Frøja, with whom she had been friendly as a girl, but something had always prevented her … grief and suffering of one kind or another. Aye, good heavens: what kind of a life was it they lived up there at home in Angelica Cottage? Her sick father and his heartrending convulsions, her daft sister Alfhild and the almost equally crazy Thomea. And now Liva was going the same way. Constant hard work and constant looking after children, yes, and constant grief. Scarcely had they got over Oluf’s death when Ivar was killed, and of course Liva’s Johan died just after that. You can get sick to the teeth of mourning too, she thought, tossing her head in irritation and dismissing an incipient bad conscience. Why must one be condemned to grief? To sitting twiddling your fingers while life simply ran away from you? While Frøja …

  “Thank you, Frøja, thank you … What’s that?”

  “It’s a cocktail. Cheers.”

  “It’s ever so nice and comfortable here, Frøja. Fancy being your own boss and doing as you like.”

  “I don’t know, damn it,” said Frøja, offering Magdalena a cigarette from a transparent packet. “What makes you think that, really? I’ve got plenty to do; it’s hard work here, let me tell you, so don’t think it’s a bed of roses. You can get pretty fed up with it all. Opperman. Daddy. Putting it bluntly …”

  She inhaled deeply, flopped down on the ottoman and started to blow smoke rings. “Opperman’s basically rotten to the core. He’s rolling in money, and he could afford to keep me if he wanted instead of putting all the restaurant on my shoulders. But he’s too mean for that. Business before pleasure. Good heavens, I get a good wage. But even so, he’s horribly mean and petty. The whole lot of them are rotten. Opperman’s not the only one. Inspector Hansen, for instance. You should see how he was going on making up to my little sister Frigga when she wasn’t even fifteen years old. Ugh!”

  Frøja got hold of the Opperman doll and flung it the length of the floor. “No, Magdalena, life’s not as easy for me as you think. And then I’ve got Daddy pestering me with his sins and conversions and all that. And what joy do I get out of that?”

  Frøja turned over on her side and flicked the ash off the cigarette. She went on spitting flakes of tobacco out: tp, tp. “I make love, you know? And drink cocktails with Lieutenant Carrigan or Major Lewis. And that fool Pjølle Schibbye! And then they trot out all their usual rubbish: Oh, you’re so nice, Frøja. You’re a real little lady. And then, when things get really hot: I love you. Yes, I really am enchanted, really, really … enchanted, enchanted, dear love! Yes, thank you very much. At first I almost believed them.”

  She lowered her voice and stubbed the cigarette out on the bottom of the ash tray. “No, Magdalena … there’s something far better, and that’s to go out and play the young innocent. There’s nothing like it, by God there isn’t. Some shy young chap’s bound to come along and have a go … you know, a nice, nervous lad who wants to experience the great rush to the head.”

  Frøja smacked her lips and shut her eyes dreamily. To her amazement she heard Magdalena expressing hearty agreement and gave her a surprised, quizzical look.

  Magdalena blushed and relaxed, and they both set about confiding in each other.

  “Yes, that’s what life’s about,” said Frøja. “Then you feel young again. And nobody knows you. It’s like starting all over again, you know … But I actually thought you’d turned over a new leaf, Magdalena. Now you’re a widow with children. And besides, someone told me you were engaged to Frederik. Or was it somebody else?”

  “Not really engaged,” said Magdalena, blushing again. “I … I’ve just sort of been playing a bit with him.”

  Frøja got right up. With a laugh she took hold of Magdalena’s hand. “Are you really still like that? Good Lord, I thought that once you were a widow and all that … ! But really it’s wonderful to see how good you still look. You certainly don’t look as though you wash your face in soft soap. Or have you got naturally beautiful skin? Yes, you sisters are real
ly rather good-looking, Liva, certainly, but not Thomea, I must admit, but then Alfhild, she’s going to be a lovely girl. It’s such a dreadful shame that … ! Well, cheers. Let’s have this glass and then another, and then we’ll be suitably tipsy. And then we’ll doll ourselves up like innocent lambs … you’ll see, I know the tricks. And then we’ll go for an evening stroll.”

  Frøja yawned and stretched, she danced a couple of steps across the carpeted floor and hummed elatedly:

  It’s terrible sad when a cone

  Is frustrated and stands all alone…

  It was a clear, frosty night, and the sky was full of stars. Frøja shivered with cold and held on to Magdalena’s arm: “Ugh, winter’s come. Shall we get hold of Pjølle or Opperman or some real grown-up instead?’ She suddenly stopped: “I say, shall we go over to the Officers’ Mess and ask for Carrigan and Lewis? They’re a couple of smart lads, let me tell you. Lewis is rolling in it, he owns a whole railway company. It’s him who’s been going with Pjølle’s wife for a time, but now he can’t be bothered any more, because she’s gone and got all sentimental with him and wants to get divorced and married and all that.”

  Frøja chuckled. “He’d much rather have me, you know. I’m so nice and easy, he says. He’s fun. He calls me his chocolate liqueur. Funny way of putting it, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but can’t that wait until another evening when we’ve dolled ourselves up a bit better?” suggested Magdalena.

  She could not help thinking of Frederik. She didn’t want to be seriously unfaithful to him. She just wanted to have a look at life and secretly let herself go one single evening, now there at long last was a little opportunity. Thomea had begun to be more like herself again and had promised to look after the children and her old dad. No, Magdalena was not going to let Frederik down completely.

  They drifted down towards the jetty. On the square in front of Schibbye’s shop a group of sailors had gathered. “Hallo!” they shouted. And suddenly they were standing in the midst of the group. A pale young man with horn-rimmed spectacles revealed a row of front teeth beneath a little black moustache and turned imploringly to Magdalena. The whole bunch burst out laughing, and Frøja explained to her with a laugh that the man had been asking whether she had a tea cosy.

  “Yes, a little tea cosy,” repeated the sailor. “I’ve got a lovely pot of tea here, and it’ll get cold in this bloody frost.”

  Frøja said something in English that caused great amusement.

  “I asked him if he was missing his old grandmother,” she explained. She tugged at Magdalena’s arm and made to go on. “You can’t get anywhere with those lads in this cold,” she said. “No, we must go somewhere where you don’t need to stand with your teeth chattering.”

  A ship was tying up on the quayside. It was a schooner.

  “Come on, let’s go and have a look at these chaps,” said Frøja.

  They could hear shouts from the blacked-out ship and replies from the quay. A firm, deep voice on board was issuing orders. Magdalena suddenly came to a standstill and listened with her lips slightly open. Was that Frederik’s voice? She let go Frøja’s arm and quickly stepped over to the edge of the quayside. Her heart was thumping in her breast.

  “What’s come over you?” asked Frøja in amazement.

  Yes, indeed, it was the Admiral. And as in a fever she heard someone shouting something about a sick man and hospital. Good God … Could it be Frederik who was ill?

  No, now she caught sight of him. He was dressed in a light grey coat, fur hat and big gloves.

  “It’s him,” said Magdalena breathlessly.

  “Who? Your fiancé .. or what? Oh! Now you’re spoiling it all for us,” Frøja grumbled. “Good Lord, her lover boy’s suddenly come back.”

  There was nevertheless a trace of feeling in Frøja’s voice. “What now?” she asked.

  Frederik had discovered Magdalena; he jumped ashore and came over to her. He could scarcely speak for emotion, she felt how his big hand trembled in hers. Still without uttering a word, he pulled her across to the ship, helped her up over the gunwhale and took her down to his cabin. It was light and warm down there. Frederik locked the door. In a tremulous voice he asked: “Magdalena … you … kept your word?”

  They sat down on the edge of his bunk. But now there was a violent hammering on the locked door … it was Pontus the watchmaker, shouting plaintively: “Have you ever seen the like? Locking the door on his own boss!”

  With an oath Frederik got up and let Pontus in. The watchmaker was very excited, his whiskers were vibrating beneath his distended nostrils, he looked like Hitler. “I demand an explanation,” he shouted. “Aren’t you supposed to be on your way straight from Aberdeen to the Westman Islands? So what are you doing here? Are you going to delay going and ruin our chances just so that you … so that you can sit and cuddle her, or what?”

  Frederik was very calm. “Sit down, Pontus, and stop standing there crowing like a bantam cock with its tail trapped. I had to put in here on the way because one of the men’s got appendicitis. This was the nearest port.”

  “All right, but then get off again,” said Pontus stamping angrily on the floor. “We’ve no time to waste. Every day costs me a minor fortune.”

  Frederik took out a bottle of rum from a drawer and filled three small glasses. “We leave at dawn,” he said. “I’ve already got a replacement for the sick man. Cheers.”

  Magdalena sat staring fixedly at Frederik. She had tears in her eyes. How changed he was, it was as though he had become broader and firmer, all the indecisiveness was as though blown away, all those things that had reminded her of Oluf. She was proud of Frederik. Indeed, he had really become his own man, he was no longer Ivar’s willing and obedient subordinate.

  Pontus pulled himself together after suppressing an attack of sneezing and wiped his eyes. “I’ve had a dreadful time,” he said.

  “Yes … the tension,” said Frederik, raising his head a little impatiently.

  “Yes, no, yes, that, too,” said Pontus sadly. “No, it was actually something else I meant. Aye, I might just as well tell you both, for who the Devil shall I tell it to otherwise? There’s no one who takes the least damned bit of interest in my affairs except out of envy and professional jealousy.”

  He slumped down and suddenly appeared to be on the point of tears. “I’ve been let down. Let down by an awful harpy that I’d been so unforgiveably stupid as to get engaged to. Yes, it was Rebecca, the woman working for me in the shop. Perhaps you don’t know her, the devil. Aye, she was a smart lass, I’ll give her that, and at least I’ve had her, ha, ha …! But … the intention was that we should get married, and … well, you know, there was no lack of money for setting up and all that. I heaped jewellery and things on her so she nearly sank under the burden. But then one day she comes along and tells me she’s got engaged to an adjutant.”

  Pontus exploded with laughter and scratched various parts of his body. “Engaged,” he repeated. “To an adjutant! Impressive, eh? Oh, what the hell … the woman wasn’t worth an alarm clock. And then she was a thieving so-and-so as well… Not big things, but even so … !”

  “Well, it was a bit of luck for you that you got rid of her, then,” said Frederik, surreptitiously nudging Magdalena.

  “Luck,” said Pontus emotionally, holding out his glass for more rum. “Luck? That’s not the word for it, Frederik. I feel like a man who’s been put up against a wall to be shot and reprieved at the last moment. Aye, by God I do.”

  Revealing his long teeth he added: “And all those things I’d given her, you two. She had to bring them back on bended knee. There was no way she was going to keep them.”

  Pontus stayed on in the cabin. He drank heavily and soon fell asleep. Frederik laid him down on his bunk and drew the curtain.

  “And now there are just the two of us, Magdalena,” he said and made to lift her on his knee. But she gently pushed his hands aside, caught his eye and said: “No, Frederik. We’ve got
to talk things over first.”

  An angry look came into Frederik’s eye. She gave an involuntary start on seeing it.

  “Aren’t you … ? Aren’t you mine?” he asked threateningly. The corner of his mouth was twitching slightly.

  “I’m not what you think,” said Magdalena, steeling herself.

  “Have you let me down?” asked Frederik in a low voice.

  “No, I haven’t,” replied Magdalena anxiously.

  Frederik suddenly got up and clutched both her hands violently, forced her against the wall, stared straight in her eyes and said between clenched teeth: “It’s a good job you didn’t even try.”

  “Get off me,” said Magdalena horrified.

  “You haven’t,” snarled Frederik. “But perhaps you’re intending to.”

  He suddenly let go her hands and flung them down. His face was pale, and there was a minatory look in his eyes.

  “Frederik,” she shouted. “Frederik. I hardly know you any more. You’re so changed. Do you hear? I … I simply didn’t want to be dishonest with you. I would have let you down if you hadn’t come now. And now you can call me what you want. I … I imagined you to be quite different… ! Frederik!”

  “You seem to me to be talking a lot of nonsense,” said Frederik and sat down on the bench. He wiped his sweating brow. But suddenly he planted a great horny hand on the table. “Shall I tell you what I think of you? Well, I don’t think you know what you want. Sometimes I’m not good enough for you, sometimes it’s you who are not good enough for me. But all that’s got to end. Understand? Here sits a man for whom you are everything. He thinks of nothing but you and wants no one but you, he’s gathering money together to have something to offer you and your little children, he wants to marry you and have you for the rest of his life. And if you can’t say anything but perhaps to him, then he’ll … ! He’ll not forget you, no he’ll swill you out of his mind!”