The Black Cauldron

by William Heinesen

  The whole area up by the golden cross was black with people. Heimdal the bookseller was there as well, by Jove. He touched Mr. Skælling’s sleeve and said: “Do you know what it reminds me of? Yes, Signorelli’s fresco The Resurrection of the Dead. Only they ought all to be naked … physically, you know, as well as spiritually!”

  Mr. Skælling had found his wife again, she was hanging on to old Verlandsen’s arm. The school teacher’s thick spectacles exuded horror. “Look,” he said. “Look what it says at the top of the cross. What are we to make of that?”

  “Religious mascarade,” said Mr. Skælling. It annoyed him that he could not keep his voice calm. He took his wife’s arm and gave her a stern look of reprimand.

  “Death, where is thy sting?” intoned a deep, ecstatic female voice.

  It was the much-discussed Liva Berghammer, the girl from Angelica Cottage. A beautiful girl. She had stationed herself at the foot of the cross and was addressing the gathering, in wild ecstasy … it was really moving to listen to her, and her words went right through you: … “For if anyone can bear witness to Him who conquered death, it is I, who in the space of no more than a month have lost a brother, a fiancé and a brother-in-law … and have myself narrowly escaped being drowned at sea. But for those who are saved there is no death. And this I bear witness of to you, that in a short while no one will speak any longer of life and death, but only of eternity. Of eternal damnation or eternal salvation.”

  “Selah!” shouted a chorus around her. It was like the rush of the wind in the air.

  “Selah!” came the whispered word in Mr. Skælling’s ear. He turned and saw his wife’s contorted face. “Sela!” she whispered again and stared at him, her eyes round and her upper lip drawn back.

  “Maja! No, no … you mustn’t, do you hear? You must come home. I can’t take this. Do you hear, woman!”

  He grasped her hand and dragged her forcibly down the hill, down to the road, and into a waiting car. “For God’s sake,” he said to the astonished driver. “For God’s sake, take us home. My wife’s had a nervous shock.”

  “Not to the doctor’s,” implored Mrs. Skælling. “I won’t go to the doctor’s. He doesn’t understand a thing of what it’s all about.”

  “No, no,” her husband sought to soothe her. “Not to the doctor’s, just straight home.” “And now straight to bed,” ordered Mr. Skælling as soon as he had got his wife safely under their own roof. “No, I shan’t ring for the doctor, you needn’t worry. I’ll be your doctor. Now we’ll have a little pick-me-up. Both of us. And then you’ll go to bed. All right? You’re feeling a bit better already, aren’t you, Maja?”

  “Yes, of course, Nikodemus.”

  Maja managed a smile. “Good Lord, Nikodemus … we almost created a scandal, didn’t we?”

  “Rubbish, no one had time to notice. But Maja, can we agree that in future we keep right away from all scenes of that kind. You’ll see, you’ll be all right then. You just read some relaxing book. Cheers, my dear. The Thousand and One Nights, for instance. I say, I’ve got an idea … You go to bed now, and I’ll come and read the story of Sinbad the Sailor to you.”

  She took his head between her hands and said gratefully: “You are so sweet, Nikodemus. But if you really want to read something for me, won’t you take one of Olfert Ricard’s sermons … since it’s Sunday.”

  “Brilliant idea! Of course! By God, that’s something to calm you down if anything will.”

  His wife had fallen into a gentle sleep well before Mr. Skælling had reached the end of the sermon.

  He put the book down with a little yawn and went into the sitting room. It was quiet and warm in there. He felt deeply grateful. Good Lord, he had really been in danger of being drawn out into the maelstrom there. So that was how easily it could happen.

  He mixed himself a toddy.

  Yes, it had to be admitted. He had himself been very close to feeling moved, bewitched by that strange madness. Like a spinning top, yes … one of those that sing when they are set going. The sound of the girl’s voice still rang in his ears. Of course, a certain sex appeal played its part, too. Oh well, never mind. It was happily in the past now.

  Now it was only a question of keeping away and not looking in that direction, letting the epidemic rage and then spend itself. One day it would die down, like all epidemics. And all wars. And, in short, all evil times. And then things would brighten up again.

  “In many ways you can already see light ahead of you,” he said to himself while sipping from his glass. “Certain signs in the sun and moon. The Russians are now approaching the German borders at speed. The lack of an invasion on the part of the West has been suitably explained … The tactic is infinitely clever and far-sighted: leave Russia and Germany to bleed to death in each other’s arms. Only then will the time have come to commit vast, superior forces in peak condition, the most crushing war potential the world has yet seen. Disloyal to the Russian ally? Yes, but there’s no point in being too soft with those Asiatic hordes. They spare no one, by Jove.”

  Yes, Mr. Skælling felt clearly that a long-needed sense of optimism had been gathering inside him for a few days already.

  Nor were things at home as bad as he had believed at one time. The domestic political rebels were losing out to the Danish Governor, that strong, ingenious man who of course could also be said to have the occupation forces on his side.

  And as for communism, what he had feared most of all, he had to admit to himself that there had probably been some kind of panic on his part – though by no means an unreasonable panic. The social democrats were behaving themselves well, even the young ones. And there were practically speaking no serious signs of an underground revolutionary movement. The alarm clock works were to have been used to drive a roundabout for a Christmas decoration. He had noted that significant fact the previous evening when down at Masa Hansen’s, where he was going to buy a little tobacco, he had heard of the tragic death of that poor typographer Jens Ferdinand Hermansen. Masa Hansen had mentioned the roundabout as an example of how she, too, had suffered a personal loss with the death of the gifted young man, and she had even hinted en passant that she had given him 100 kroner in advance for the aforementioned work.

  Mr. Skælling had to smile at himself when he thought back on the emotions he had gone through on account of those alarm clock works. Luckily, he had kept it all to himself. Not even Maja knew anything about it. Alongside his intelligence, he was obviously possessed of a certain valuable instinct.

  Otherwise, the news of the typographer’s death had not only been an enormous relief to him, but – there was no denying it – it had caused him pain, too. The quick-tempered and stubborn, but at the same time gifted and clever little man was no more. An unfortunate little life had been rounded off by a tragedy. And it would be a long time before he found anything like such a gifted compositor and proof-reader again. The new man down there was almost illiterate. And the personal insults he had been subjected to by Hermansen … Good Lord, let him be forgiven them for all time. He was a bitter and lonely man, so to speak predestined to a secret hatred of the society in which his disability prevented him from playing a normal role.

  And one thing with another … yes, things were looking up bit by bit. Even if the blissful days from before the great wars – the age of the Count of Luxembourg – would naturally never return in their glorious innocence. And even though there was still plenty to complain of. When all was said and done, disappointments were a part of life, and you usually got over them. The Oxford Movement had been one of these disappointments, God help it. And in any case that story was not exactly without its amusing aspects, either.

  It had all begun so well. They had had a meeting one evening, dressed in dinner jackets as was prescribed, and the whole thing had more or less got off to a good start. Especially thanks to Mrs. Heimdal’s energy. Which, however, soon turned out to be of an unfortunate kind. Hm. For in her almost endless flow of words the little lady got nearly
all her foreign words wrong. And it was heartrending to witness the suffering she thereby caused her wise and cultured husband. Indeed, the bookseller literally broke down over it on that very first evening. He didn’t go to the next meeting, which was held at De Fine Licht, the pharmacist’s.

  Alas … for that matter, Maja hadn’t been entirely intellectually house-trained at first, the dear creature, but at his kindly but determined request she had kept in the background and allowed her husband to speak for them both.

  And then there was Mrs. Licht. Far too willing to testify, she was a chapter all on her own. A deeply humorous chapter, as well. Good Lord, how she had let herself down, this forceful, big-built and effervescent woman. She was said to be French by birth, and she had what Heimdal called Richelieu eyes, but on this occasion she was unmasked as an unparalleled goose, to put it bluntly.

  Yes, quite honestly, this entire attempt, originally so well intentioned, to create a vibrant intellectual life on religious principles, had already been let down when Opperman came along and finally lit the fuse under the entire structure. That was more than men like the incorruptible Tarnowius, the philosophical Licht, the musically gifted Villefrance, the quick-witted Ingerslev, the quiet and well-read Lindenskov and he himself could take! Opperman … infinitely well-groomed and smiling, wearing a gold bracelet and with a silk-lined New Testament in his breast pocket … and with a mandolin! Though in fact the man had shown himself not to be without some talent as a mandolin player.

  But good God… ! Mr. Skælling shook his head with a chuckle at the memory of the apalling clichés and platitudes coming from the lips of this incredible person. Of course, of course, it had been necessary to put a stop to the experiment. That was done at a secret and extremely pleasant meeting in the Club.

  And the whole thing had only lasted the two days.

  God help them. For fundamentally it was a terrible shame that the whole thing collapsed. Not least when this fiasco was viewed against the background of the phenomenal progress being made at the same time by those intolerable sectarians.

  Mr. Skælling peeped into the bedroom. Yes, she was still sound asleep in there. He emptied his glass and took out his sleeping rug. By Jove, he needed a little snooze himself.

  “Liva!”

  Liva was moving like a sleepwalker, staring ahead with smiling eyes and apparently not hearing that someone was speaking to her. Magdalena and Sigrun exchanged worried looks. Sigrun showed signs of having wept and was dressed entirely in black.

  “Liva,” said Magdalena again and shook her sister by the arm. “Can’t you see us, girl?”

  “See you? Yes, of course, my dear …”

  Liva took her sister’s arm and a moment later Sigrun’s as well. They walked quickly up the hillside. But suddenly Liva stopped and stared at Magdalena as though afraid: “Where are we going? Home? But I … I must go back; there’s something I must talk to him about.”

  “Nonsense,” said Magdalena persuasively. “We’re going home now to have a bite to eat, and then you’re going to have a rest, my dear. Pastor Fleisch said you were in desperate need of sleep, you’ve not had a wink of sleep since you all landed in Nordvík. Do you hear?”

  Liva had again adopted her stare. She went along with them quite willingly. But suddenly she winked gaily to her sister: “Magdalena! Here we are, all of us, you and I and Sigrun, eh? Here we all are, waiting. But I say, the lamps, the lamps – where are they?”

  Sigrun and Magdalena exchanged a glance. “Oh, God help us,” wailed Sigrun. “Sshh,” Magdalena passed it off. “She’ll be all right when she’s had a sleep, you’ll see.”

  Liva seemed to relapse into deep thought. “He still won’t look at me. He won’t look me in the eye. But he pressed my hand. We’re still together after all. He said: ‘The hour approaches. We have conquered ourselves. And I’m not afraid any more. Let it come, Lord. This evening as well as any other time. I enter into it with joy,’ he said. ‘So must you.”’

  “Yes, I will also enter into it with joy,” exclaimed Liva in a loud voice, clutching her sister’s arm.

  “You really must pull yourself together,” said Sigrun.

  “Now!” Magdalena winked at her to keep her silent. “Let’s not get excited.”

  “I’ll run and fetch the doctor,” said Sigrun.

  “No, you won’t. I think you’d better go home, Sigrun.”

  “Oh, so you’re actually turning me away?” said Sigrun indignantly. “Yes, you are. That’s nice of you, I must say. But I’ll go, you needn’t be afraid. Home … to an empty house.”

  “No, dearest Sigrun, don’t take it like that.”

  Sigrun tossed her head and was clearly offended: “I’m not one to make a nuisance of myself, Magdalena, you can be sure of that. In future I’ll look after myself, I promise you. I’ve had enough of you and your daft family. Thank God I can be rid of you all now.”

  She twisted her mouth in disgust and quickly turned round.

  “There’s father,” said Liva. She embraced the old man warmly.

  “Dearest child,” he said emotionally. “God be forever praised that we have you here again. I was so worried because it dragged on for such a long time, I was almost afraid you were ill and …”

  Magdalena motioned to him, and he fell silent, with a questioning look.

  “She’s very tired,” whispered Magdalena. “We must get her to bed straight away.”

  “Alfhild,” exclaimed Liva in delight. “You, too, Alfhild!”

  “What have you brought for me?” begged Alfhild, dancing around in expectation. “What have you got, Liva?”

  Magdalena managed to move her aside. Thomea was standing in the kitchen. She looked up dully and stretched a lifeless hand out to Liva.

  “Come along, now,” said Magdalena gently and persuasively, pushing Liva gently in the back. “All we need now is some sleep. Then everything will be all right, you’ll see.”

  Before long Liva had been put to bed in her alcove in the loft. But she did not sleep. She lay murmuring to herself, sometimes smiling, sometimes gently sobbing and with a scared look about her. Magdalena fetched a bottle of snaps and offered her a glass: “See, my dear, drink this, it’ll do you good.”

  Liva emptied the glass at a gulp and gave her sister a grateful look. “It’s angelica,” she said with a smile. “Do you remember when we used to make wine of angelica? When was that, Magdalena? It’s not so long ago. And then we dressed up and went down into the village, do you remember?”

  “Yes, we used to go dancing,” said Magdalena. “Those times are past, dear.”

  She poured herself a small glass.

  “Now you’ll see, you’ll soon be asleep,” she said. “Shall I sing a while for you?”

  She laid her hand on Liva’s and gently began to sing:

  High in the oaken grove

  There hangs a golden bowl,

  There dance the maids at Christmas,

  The maidens all…

  Tired out, Liva wriggled a little under the duvet and finally fell asleep.

  When Liva woke up, it was in deep twilight. She sat up in bed for a moment and rocked backwards and forwards in great confusion and fear. She had had a bad dream … she had dreamt that she was walking along among some blacked-out houses with a lighted pocket torch in her hand … it was Judgement Day, and the darkness far and near resounded with calling voices. In the distance she caught brief glimpses of small flickering lights … they were the wise virgins’ lamps, they were moving slowly away and grew distant like a group of stars in the sky. She held her torch up to show that it had not gone out, but now it was losing strength, its light was becoming more and more reddish and weak, and suddenly it went out, and she was left alone in the dark …

  Trembling she leapt from the bed; foaming waves of anxiety and terror tore through her breast. But now she heard Magdalena’s calm voice: “Well, Liva. Have you had a good sleep? You must feel better for that, don’t you?”

  “Coul
d I have a glass of water?” said Liva. Her sister fetched her a glass, and she drank greedily.

  “More?”

  Liva was trembling violently. Wasn’t there a little more of the angelica wine in the bottle? She heard Magdalena laugh: “Yes, but be careful you don’t get completely addicted to it.”

  As though in a fever, Liva downed two large glasses of snaps. There. Now she was calm again. Good heavens, but she felt better for it.

  “Now we’ll have something to eat,” said Magdalena. But Liva would not hear of eating, she was in a hurry … she must go down and have a talk to Simon.

  “Nonsense,” said Magdalena persuasively. “You just take it easy this evening. Now, we’ll go for a walk, just the two of us, shall we?”

  Liva obviously had no objection to the idea. Magdalena lit the lamp. Liva took down the little looking glass from the wall and put it on the table.

  “Oh no, do you know what?” she exclaimed with a laugh. “I can’t be seen like that. I must have my black Sunday dress on. And … Magdalena, be a lamb and lend me your silver necklace, the one with the cross on.”

  Magdalena could not refrain from laughing aloud. “Well, that’s the limit. You’re actually going and getting all vain, aren’t you?”

  Liva did her hair carefully in front of the mirror.

  “Wouldn’t you like to borrow my hair slide?” asked Magdalena. “And my earrings?”

  “Yes, dear,” said Liva eagerly.

  Magdalena could scarcely believe her own eyes. Liva was actually sitting dolling herself up as though she was going to a dance. She had to give her a powder puff and lipstick and eau-de-cologne.

  “And then some shoes,” implored Liva. “Won’t you lend me your lovely new shoes, those with the silver brocade on? I’ll be careful with them.”

  “Of course,” said Magdalena cheerfully. It suited Liva to have a bit of make-up on. Her cheeks were glowing now. It was like former times. Good Lord, that’s what she was like only a couple of years ago, a happy, fun-loving girl, full of life. Magdalena almost had tears in her eyes on seeing that the old Liva was not dead and gone. No, of course she wasn’t! And she wasn’t more than twenty-three in any case. And … time is the great healer.