The Prophets of Eternal Fjord

by Aitken, Martin, Leine, Kim

  The situation of his room, directly above the printing shop, means that his rent is low on account of the noise. From morning to even- ing, and not infrequently in the night, when a message arrives from Høegh-Guldberg’s cabinet with an ordinance for urgent attention or a proclamation to be pasted up across the city, the compositors slam their type loudly in the letter cases, and the incessant rattle of the printing press causes plaster dust to descend from the ceiling and all the joints in his room. Early in the morning, long before the watchmen have retired, drowsy messengers come to collect printed matter to be sold in the streets or distributed in some other way, and these voices belong to boys before the onset of puberty, voices that make them eminently suited to their work and to terminating his sleep. Horse-drawn carts clatter in and out of the gateway, the iron cladding of the wheels resounding against the cobbles of the printer’s yard, echoing from all its walls. Carriages arrive with ordinances to be printed immediately, bundles of official notices and announcements, smelling sweetly of rolled pulp and the oil-based chem­icals of printer’s ink, are loaded onto carts and taken out into the city. So much on which to dwell, so much that is new and fascinating, things he has never before imagined, and his Greek and Latin gather dust. When he can afford to send a letter, he writes to his sister Kirstine in Nakskov and tells of his life in the royal city. She writes back and tells of hers in the market town, in the home of the pastor in which she lives, and he understands it to be as far from their life in Lier as Copenhagen itself.

  Morten lies on his bed and is kept awake by the eternal rattle and hum beneath him. He hears Schultz ordering his people about. He hears the syncopated rhythm of the press, the tramp of the printers’ and compos­itors’ wooden shoes, their coughing and hacking, and their arguments whenever the ink becomes smudged, the making up of a text has gone wrong, or if some object has contrived to become stuck and thereby halt the press.

  But all that keeps him awake in the beginning later lulls him to sleep. On occasion he sails with the packet boat from the Toldboden to visit his sister in Nakskov. The elderly provost in whose home she resides is a distant relative of their mother’s. The oppressive silence of Nakskov’s rectory makes him sleepless, and when finally he succumbs, the sycamore outside the window rouses him, dabbing its branches against the pane of his room. He attends service with his sister and sometimes sees the count on his way through the market town, drawn by a team of six horses, servants standing at the rear of the carriage, coat-tails flapping, one hand holding on to the vehicle, the other to their tall hats.

  The provost fulminates from the high pulpit. An imposing, red-haired man, stout as a smith, he holds forth on perdition and the lake of fire and brimstone, as though these were places and states under his personal and daily supervision. He then offers to issue loans to tenants who wish to purchase their freedom, and ends by discharging a volley against the Swedish enemy, who, under the protection of Beelzebub himself and his hordes of fallen angels, has robbed the town of its former glory. And in his concluding prayer he prays fervently for the royal household, his voice a tremble as he speaks the names of its members.

  After the service, the congregation file past and deliver their thanks for the sermon. Morten approaches. There is something the matter with the way the old man extends his hand, the expressionless stare of his eyes.

  Is the provost blind? he blurts out.

  Ssh, his sister breathes. It is forbidden for us to mention. But Magister Gram has been without his sight for two years now.

  How, then, can he carry out his office?

  No one dares get on the wrong side of him, she whispers. Besides, he knows the Bible and Luther and Pontoppidan inside and out, so I imagine he will remain in his living until the Lord calls him home.

  And which lord might that be? he enquires, pointing first up, then down, prompting his sister to put her hand to her mouth and giggle.

  Kirstine takes his arm and shows him how the land is in flux. The wilderness is in retreat, and the marshlands also, and ponds with attendant insects that have spread disease for centuries. The forest is long gone and where it lay are waving fields of cereal crops that yield a fifth more in grain than only ten years ago. Ancient trees are felled, hedgerows planted. All is neat and tidy. Even the cows in the meadows seem scrubbed and dispirited.

  Strolling through the town, they are met by smiles and greetings. Some approach and wish to talk with her. The young girl from the rectory is liked by all. It makes him proud. She speaks Danish, but when they are alone together they converse in their own sing-song Akershus dialect with its consistent stress on the first syllable of each word. They walk along the beach; they kick at the seaweed and search for Baltic amber; they gather shells. She confides to him that she suffers from home­sickness. She has lived here for two years now and yet she does not feel settled. The old pastor is indeed a trial for any man or woman, but her unhappiness cannot be attributed to him alone. Rather, it is more due to his wife, a quiet and self-effacing woman on the exterior, and yet an ill-tempered and cantankerous tyrant when his sister is alone with her. It is intended that I receive instruction in the duties of the housewife and be of service in the home, she explains. Yet the true reason for my pres­ence here is known to me.

  Morten looks at her.

  One of the provost’s four sons is to enter the seminary himself, says Kirstine. My father and the Reverend Gram have corresponded.

  Aha, says Morten. And what is he like, then, your intended? May we see him?

  He is gone to Fyn on horseback to visit some family. He is both affable and decent. I find no fault with him. It’s not that.

  No?

  People of today ought to be able to arrange their matters accord- ing to their own desires, instead of the will of their parents, she says.

  Dearest Kirstine, he replies. If the gentleman in question is an honest and good-natured soul, then you ought to take him. Who knows what else might be presented?

  It is true, I know. As I said, I have nothing against him. It is this flat and filthy land I cannot tolerate. Where there are no hills, the smells and filth collect around the houses like fog. It causes me to feel that I myself am unclean. One cannot wash it away.

  Perhaps he will find a living in another place, Morten says by way of comfort. You can put it to him once he begins to court. State your condi­tions, barter with him. If he is a decent man he will listen to what you say. Perhaps he might even be moved by the prospect of a living in Norway.

  Oh, but these people, says the sister impatiently. They are so proud of their dismal little town. One cannot utter a single word against it without their jumping on one, filling her ears with regard for the rich soil, the glorious history of the town, and the splendid aspects of the land. I have learned to hold my tongue on the matter.

  There is time yet, says Morten. Perhaps it will all sort itself out. He is somewhat irritated by her and cannot fathom why she should make such a fuss. It seems to him akin to complaining that the wind lies mostly in the west or that winter is longer than summer. He thinks she ought more properly to be content at the prospect of becoming a pastor’s wife. And how can a person long to be back in Lier, the most insignificant spot in all the kingdom? He cannot grasp it.

  His visits to Nakskov extend no more than a few days at a time. Often he leaves earlier than planned, consumed by headache at Kirstine’s complaints and his own desires to be home, a yearning for the city. If the packet boat does not sail, he boards the coach to Nykøbing in the early morning, changes to the northbound mail coach and spends the night in Vordingborg, where he lodges at the Kronhiorten, eating a meal comprising hunks of rye bread and cracklings, and sleeping above the stable, wrapped in stinking blankets. The next day he continues on to Køge and Copenhagen, munching on apples and pears he has stolen from a garden. Seated in the mail coach he wedges his boot against the seat opposite and endeavours to steer his way through an edition
of Gulliver’s Travels. He reads of how the hero, abandoned in the land of giants, is cared for by a young woman twelve times his size. Morten rests the book upon his thigh, his index finger inserted between the pages. He has removed his wig and placed it on the seat beside him. He puts his brow to the pane of the pitching, heaving, lurching carriage and stares dreamily out upon the fields that ripple by. A maiden twelve times one’s own size, he thinks to himself. A mouth twelve times larger than normal, a tongue, hands, breasts, vulva. A veritable mountain landscape of a woman! He opens the book once more. Gulliver is marooned in countries whose people are either abnormally small or large, or else aberrant in other manners. But perhaps, Morten thinks, the aberration is in Gulliver himself; that is, in the author who has created him, and thereby in the reader who abandons himself to the story.

  He thinks of Rousseau and his words on the subject of human liberty, to which Kirstine alluded: Man is born free and everywhere he is in chains! Gulliver, too, is enchained to the man he is. Wherever he goes, he remains the same, unable to adapt, thus forever running into trouble with the natives of the various lands at which he arrives. Such a person will he, Morten Falck, never become, he will not stiffen into some fixed form and become old before his time. This he resolves now, in a mail coach trav­elling north along the bay of Køge Bugt.

  The journey is soon at an end. He glimpses the towers of Copenhagen and the wetland expanses of Amager, converses with his fellow passen­gers, one of whom passes round a hunk of yellow cheese, some bread and a bottle. He has felt anxious on behalf of his sister, a tiny lump of pain beneath the ribs, but his concern is revealed to be founded upon mere geography and hunger. As he nears Copenhagen with his stomach full, he feels cheerful once more.

  And then he is home. He walks through the gateway of the printer Schultz’s house in Nørregade with a whistle on his lips, turns right in the courtyard, ascends the stair, enters his room and deposits his sack in a corner. He lays his head upon the stained pillow of his bed above the printer’s machine that ticks and rattles, shudders and groans, knocks and bangs. He sighs with well-being. Gulliver slides from his hand. He sleeps.

  The royal city is ninety thousand people squeezed inside a rampart, enclosing them within an area that may be wandered through on foot in less than an hour. A city ravaged over centuries by epidemics, fires and a series of inebriate, insane, inbred and incompetent sovereigns. Yet still its population steadily rises and the pressure upon the ramparts increases with each year that passes. Morten notes that although most have but a short life ahead, followed by a painful and humiliating death, the people of the city see little hindrance to amusement. On the contrary. The city’s squares and places are alive with entertainers, gateways and street doors customarily occupied by prostitutes, and all would seem to indicate that they have no reason to be idle.

  Morten Falck strolls through the narrow streets whose buildings on each side seem to lean towards each other, allowing only a thin band of sky to show between their roofs. He walks across the expansive public squares, the great concourse before the new palace, a colossal and imper­ishable edifice of Norwegian granite. He wanders over the bastions and crosses the Langebro bridge that swings open whenever a ship has need to pass. He returns in an arc to Christianshavn across the dyke from Amager. A troupe of entertainers has erected a booth on the square in front of the orphanage. He remains standing to see if the strongman Karl Johan von Eckenberg will appear. Von Eckenberg always attracts large audiences, dandies, fine ladies in crinoline who shade beneath parasols, wealthy traders from the merchant houses, ship owners, sea captains, sailors, officers and enlisted men, right down to such inmates of the correctional facility as have been granted parole. And with good reason. Von Eckenberg is splendid.

  Morten is fascinated by the strongman. He knows his repertoire inside and out, yet never tires of watching him. His feats are an expression of something true and profound, he feels, not simply of dexterity and skill. What this profundity consists in, however, he is unable to pin down. And for this reason he continues to attend the man’s performances.

  He is fond of three feats in particular.

  First drum roll. Karl Johan von Eckenberg ascends a wooden construction, some ten ells in height. He positions himself upon a cross-beam and gives a signal to his assistants on the ground by means of a near-imperceptible nod. Beneath him now are brought forward a horse and two liveried riders onto a platform with a rope attached to each corner. Von Eckenberg takes hold of the other end of this rope, winding it around his forearm and wrist, and with one arm he lifts the platform with horse and riders one foot from the ground, while with the other hand he puts a postal horn to his lips and trumpets a fanfare.

  Second drum roll. Karl Johan von Eckenberg, now descended from his platform, places himself between two chairs, his body extended horizontal, one ell above the ground. Whereupon eight good musicians, dressed in red double-breasted jackets, tricorne hats, knee-length stockings and shoes with polished buckles of brass, clamber one by one onto this sinewy and scantly muscular, though very long, body that is supported only by its neck and heels. Balancing on von Eckenberg’s chest, stomach, hips and legs, they now proceed to perform a minuet by Brentner, while von Eckenberg himself stares up into the sky with brown, mournful eyes and resembles one who is thinking back upon his child­hood, his blessed mother or a love of his youth.

  Third drum roll. Karl Johan von Eckenberg’s third feat is performed between the same two chairs, though after his having risen, accepted due applause and enjoyed a moment’s retreat inside his wooden booth. Refreshed and ruddy-cheeked, he returns, his brown eyes now sparkling. He bows and positions himself once more between the chairs, where­upon two assistants place a solid stone slab upon his stomach. A third assistant, dressed like a smith or perhaps an executioner, steps forward with a sledgehammer, raises it above his head and hesitates. In the name of Jesus, strike! von Eckenberg commands in a loud and melodious voice. The hammer falls and the slab is broken into two parts that drop away at each side. Karl Johan von Eckenberg rises and bows to his audience. A boy goes round with a hat while acrobats caper. Coins are thrown onto the cobbles from windows above.

  But one day the strongman is no longer there. His booth on the square is dismantled and removed, and there is no trace of the troupe of acrobats. Morten asks around with the street traders and they say von Eckenberg has injured himself during a performance and was carried away in a state of weakness. He can find no one who knows what has become of him.

  Occasionally, Morten allows himself the luxury of hiring a carriage to one of the city gates and paying the driver a supplement to take him a couple of land miles into the countryside, to some outlying village: Gladsaxe, Husum, Ordrup, Herlev. Here he alights, sends the carriage home and proceeds back along the highway. He passes through villages where the stench of soap-making and tanning hangs like some infectious fog, greasy and sticky in the air. He walks by the fields where cows peace­fully graze, and past dwellings where silent peasants stare at him from beneath their hats.

  In the city he devotes himself to his books, although abandoning divinity in favour of natural science. Driven by scholarly thirst, he seeks out and attends lectures whose subjects are anything other than the doctrines of the Trinity and transubstantiation. Thus, he immerses himself in one professor’s lecture on the hierarchical classification of all life on Earth, as elaborated by Linnaeus. There is booing, but also applause. The lecture, held in the Comedy House on account of the university’s unwillingness to provide a venue, opens his eyes in a new and surprising manner. The world is a connected whole! A banal real­ization once revealed, and yet a total reorganization of his consciousness, his picture of the world and of himself: I am a part of a connected whole.

  One of his friends, Laust, who studies medicine, invites him to the Academy of Surgery on Norgesgade, popularly called Bredegade, where he attends lessons on blood vessels and bones and nerve channels and
glands. It is a journey inwards, whereas botany and zoology are journeys outwards, although just as staggering and just as eternal. And in such eternity, man is at the middle. So placed by the Lord.

  In the company of Laust he earns a small sum hauling corpses from the canals, or else they bribe a watchman to procure bodies and deliver them to the faculty’s vaults, where the professor stands ready with frigid eyes and a scalpel. With the instrument poised between three fingers as though it were a quill pen, the yellow skin of the corpse a parchment upon which he intends to jot down his thoughts, he informs the students of what they must pay attention to during the autopsy that will follow. He makes his incisions with casual exactness, exposes the greenly glistening muscles of the dead, layer by layer, allowing their shameful smells to be released into the air as the students snigger uneasily or exchange jokes in Latin, and the iridescent tinge of the intestines becomes, little by little, reflected on their own faces. But not on Morten Falck’s. He stands with the morning’s bread and warm gruel pleasantly wallowing inside his stomach and gazes in wonder upon these humans whose humanity is gradually removed from them as they become divided into their constituent parts according to the Latin nomenclature. Nerves, muscle fibres, the finely separated layers of cutis and subcutis, adipose tissue and organs, creamy yellow, salmon-pink, violet as a beet, as lustrous as varnish. The professor divides limbs from torsos, his knife descends into the tissue, splitting joint capsules, laying bare arteries and veins whose names he cheerfully lists. Morten thinks it sounds as if he is hailing them, as if at a morning roll call of a classical Roman college. Arteria carotis! Nervus olfactorius! Musculus mastoideus! He listens to the professor’s explanations, which are always attended by a doleful clang of sarcasm, but also of solidarity with the deceased. As we are, so were you, and as you are, so will we become. After the shock of the vaults a number of students abandon the course in favour of other studies, devoting them­selves instead to the law, retiring to the estates of their fathers or else departing to the south on Grand Tours, where many end their days as drunkards tormented by fever. Morten Falck, the only one among them who knows he cannot complete the study and become a physician, remains.