My son has a strong temper, says the mother with a chuckle. He takes after his father.
The weather changes and they can once more stroll in the woods and along the shore. Things begin to repeat. The woods, the shore, the sea, the same people who greet them as they walk through the town, the heavy meals followed by leaden afternoon naps, the drowsiness when waking up before evening, the effort to summon the energy to go for yet another stroll, only to remain in the chair and read or pass the time with a game of patience. Then another evening of reading aloud for each other, punctuated by the continuing disagreements between the pastor and his mother. He conducts not a single conversation of a personal nature with Kirstine during the entire visit. Indeed, he avoids it on purpose, terrified of what she might confide to him, and he to her.
They depart with the packet boat on the tenth of August and take lodging in a single room at an inn in Vordingborg under the name of Falck, where they spend a week together, much of it without leaving their alcove bed.
We are good at this, she says. At being on our own together. Let us never forget it and let us never allow anyone or anything to change it.
He finds it an odd thing to say. As though she has a premonition that some dreadful event will occur.
Back in Copenhagen. He is with Abelone and she is happy to be home again. They stroll arm in arm in the town and amble through Rosenborg Have with the two sisters. They see the great regatta in the city’s canals. They make excursions to the countryside in the company of Madame Schultz. When again he is alone with Abelone, she asks him to show her the sordid quarters around Nikolaj Kirke and the ramparts, and to explain to her what goes on behind the walls.
He tells her. He conceals nothing. She listens with interest.
But why, Morten?
Why what?
Why do they do it?
It is their only way of earning a living.
But the men, I mean. Why do they do it?
It is the men’s lust, he says. It is their savage nature, a fearful thing. An innocent girl such as yourself cannot understand it.
Innocent, ha! Do you not think girls may possess a savage nature? Let me show you savage!
She wishes to be taught, and in teaching her he becomes himself a student. This is quite another matter than death’s exact and static revelations. It is muscles responding to the touch, glands releasing substances more fragrant than the deathly fluids in the vaults of Bredegade. It is eyes widening and beads of perspiration on the lip, sweat that can be tasted, a pulse throbbing at an artery in the neck, gasps of breath of so many nuances as to be language on their own. And he is an attentive pupil, a sensitive teacher.
Miss Schultz is fond of the inadmissibility of copulating while still being fully clothed, with the exception of small apertures through which a thing may stick out or be stuck in and received. They can spend hours arousing each other with words and small, innocuous touches of the hand, until one of them can withstand no longer and they begin to snatch and tear at each other’s clothing. Often she slaps him hard in the face from sheer excitement, or else happens to bite him.
The opportunity of being together presents itself only seldom. Madame Schultz watches over her daughter and nothing can be concealed from the two sisters. But they are nevertheless betrothed and as such are allowed to walk in the town without a chaperone. The things she says to him during these walks would be enough to make an old whore blush, he says, and she laughs heartily.
Who is the innocent one now, Magister Falck?
When she sneaks up to his room in the evenings, presumably with her sisters’ knowledge, she insists they enter the roles she has devised for them. They play the mad King Christian and his prostitute mistress Støvlet-Cathrine. They play brothel. She commands him to treat her badly and to pay for her humiliations with a few meagre coins. He plays along, and yet he is unnerved. Perhaps it is not men’s lust that is the worst, he thinks to himself.
At the end of August he moves into a small room in the attic of the Seminarium Groenlandicum. He writes a letter to Abelone by which he breaks the betrothal. My dear Abelone, my heart, friend of my soul, love of my life! It is no easy letter to compose. Our visit to Nakskov prompted me to look into the future, he writes. And there I saw that whether I content myself as a rural provost or else follow a call to the colonies of Greenland, what we have enjoyed together will be destroyed for always. It will destroy you, as it will destroy me. I have not the heart for such, my beloved Abelone. Let us therefore be parted, so that what we are may continue to be, and our love be preserved in its original form.
He details the tribulations life in a Greenlandic colony will impose. It is no place for a young woman of her fine standing, a place in which the worst of vices flourish and where the majority of those who venture there succumb to cold and sickness. He cannot defend it. The scurvy, Abelone. Alas, to see you removed of your sparkling white teeth. The mere thought of it is more than an honest man can bear!
It pains him to write such a letter, which he composes in a serving house in Vestergade, drinking several mugs of ale as he ponders. The headache with which he awakes the next morning is not caused by drunkenness. He knows, of course, that the explanations he has proffered are but claims and poor excuses. He cannot fathom why he is so unable to marry her. All he knows is that he does not desire it. Yet to state as much would be unthinkable.
Some days later he receives a frosty letter of business from Schultz. The printer makes it clear that while fully entitled to pursue the breach legally, he has for the sake of his daughter’s reputation, which already is tarnished by Falck’s treachery, as well as in concern for her weakened state in general, decided to let the matter pass. In the expectation of the Magister that he repair from the countenance of my family, and preferably as soon as possible travel to the far and frigid place in which he intends to work, I remain his respectfully, Thøger Schultz, Printer.
The unfriendly letter lifts his spirits. It is a liberation, a clear signal that opens up the gates of his life, much like those that allow a person out of a plague-ridden city into the open countryside and fresh air.
But Miss Schultz will not permit him to retreat so easily. She manages to find him, and in the middle of a lesson in which he is receiving instruction in the Greenlandic affixes, she bursts in and announces in the presence of all the alumni: Morten Falck, you lecher! You owe me five rigsdalers for having lain with me!
The classroom is deathly silent. The remaining Greenlandic affixes are scattered to the floor and the only thing to be heard is old Egede’s nervous titter.
Miss Schultz . . . what kind of garb is this? says Morten, staring in bewilderment. He has risen to his feet. Abelone is clad in a loose, pleated, gaudy dress with train, cut low to make her bosom swell. Her shoulders are bare, her hair let down, and in her hand she awkwardly grips a little parasol that rests against her shoulder. You look like a woman of the street!
He receives a triumphant smile in return.
Egede ushers them into his office and leaves them to their own devices. Morten hears him chuckle and click his tongue as he returns to the classroom. Abelone flops down on a chair, abandons her parasol and bursts into tears. I just wanted to show you I’ll do anything for you, she sobs. If I can shame myself in front of a whole audience of priests, then I can surely accompany you to the furthest corner of the world, don’t you see? She weeps. She wrings her hands. Take me with you. Let me be your companion, Morten. I have said I will go with you anywhere in the world, have I not?
Indeed.
Then let me go with you, my dearest. I can be a good friend and a faithful wife. I can teach the children of the savages. We can keep each other company in the dark nights and read Rousseau.
Impossible. The rules do not allow accompanying spouses.
Do you remember the summer? Do you remember how you ran after me, the way you bundled me to the
ground and took me by force? And then ever since, have we not had fun together? What we have shown and confided to each other cannot be given to anyone else. It will be lost if we are no longer together, can’t you see? Lost for always.
He considers her. She extends a hand, a leather glove. He accepts it reluctantly, feels her fingers through the material, the softness of her flesh, the bones. He lets go again. He is embarrassed by what has happened, the thought of what the other alumni will say, and when his eyes meet hers he can tell that she knows what he is thinking.
It is you who are narrow-minded, she says. You think only of your reputation. How will you fare among the savages, Morten? You will perish from shame at what they will do to you.
Yes, he says, perhaps you are right. And for that reason I attend the seminary here, to prepare for life among the savages.
I can be your own little native, she says eagerly, her tone altered at once. I can be as wild as the savages, if only you allow me the chance.
I know you, he says. I know what you are. You are a good and gentle girl of fine standing. Savagery is but a game for you.
And for you! We are alike, even if you refuse to admit it. I understand you. Perhaps I would have done the same if I were a man. But we can liberate ourselves from it all. We can be free together.
You are young, he says. You will mature and change. Such is life. I am ten years older than you. I know what I am doing.
And this has only just dawned on you?
Her words are almost a scream.
Your father has written to me, he says with hard-won composure that must appear stony to her, which is his intention. I think it hardly likely that he would deliver you into my charge.
Indeed, he is angry. Furious. He took his sabre and thrashed at a chair until the stuffing flew in the air, and said, Look, here is your theologian! A smile appears amid the tears; she sniffles and lets out a giggle. But I don’t care. I want to go with you, if you will have me. You can do with me as you wish, anything at all. When do you think you will receive such an offer again, Magister Falck?
How will you get a passport to board the ship? You are not yet of age.
Practical matters! Of no importance! We bribe the captain with my dowry. Take me with you!
No.
Do you not love me any more? She extends her hand again, but this time he does not accept it.
This is leading nowhere.
Some floorboards creak in the corridor. He hears muffled voices, as though in everyday conversation, sounds from the street, the sounds of a sunny day. A shaft of golden light falls upon Egede’s desk. He sees that the shadow cast by the quills in his pen holder have moved the breadth of a finger since he sat down with Miss Schultz. She sits diagonally opposite him, a theatrical harlot. She cries quietly, blinking her eyes, tears streaming down the sides of her nose, halted briefly by the down of her upper lip, which also is made golden by the sun, then to release and fall onto her exposed bosom, where they trickle and dry. She ignores them. She wrings her hands.
I shall take my life, she says faintly. I know where my mother keeps her laudanum.
He sits quite still. Go now, he thinks to himself.
I can have you prosecuted, she says.
I know. You have the power to destroy me.
My sisters know. They know everything. They can give sworn statements.
Yes.
My father’s staff know, too. I’m certain of it. They can bear witness against you. And then you will be neither a priest nor a missionary, unless you wish to preach in the gaol.
No.
She looks up and their eyes meet. How calm you are, Morten. How can you be so calm?
I place my fate in your hands, he says, unperturbed.
At long last, she takes a handkerchief and wipes her eyes, dabs her cheeks and bosom. She sniffles once or twice. I am glad to have come to speak with you one last time.
Yes, I too, in spite of the circumstances. I am sorry. Forgive me.
She looks up at him briefly and winces. I shall not forget you and I will not hate you. You cannot make me hate you. I shall keep what is ours inside my heart and cherish it. No one can take that from me, not even you.
Thank you.
She rises to her feet; he likewise. They stand before each other. They shake hands, she turns and leaves the office in a rustle of tulle.
Shortly afterwards Egede’s face appears in the doorway. He wears a crafty smile.
Oh dear, Magister Falck, I fear you have missed your affixes!
He receives the call to Sukkertoppen in January of 1787, half a year before he is to leave. Egede takes him under his wing. They stroll in the garden of the seminary. Egede tells him of his experiences in Greenland, of his father and mother and siblings, of the sly and sullen heathens, of his childhood in Lofoten. They converse in Norwegian. Egede is proud of his Norwegian and Morten has not the heart to tell him it hardly resembles the language at all.
He meets one of Schultz’s print workers in a serving house and learns that Miss Schultz has suffered a breakdown and become worryingly ill. The man does not know her illness, but the mistress has been taken from the city in a weakened state, apparently to some family in the country. They say she is not right in the head, the worker whispers. She called herself Støvlet-Cathrine and was improper towards us in the printing shop, tore her clothes to tatters in everyone’s presence, we had to hold her still until Madame Schultz came and put a blanket around her. The man shakes his head. I can’t forget the sight of her loveliness, so pure and fresh, and then the madness in her eyes. I can’t put it from my mind. Was the Magister not betrothed to the young mistress?
It fell through, says Morten.
Oh, I see. How sad, says the man. But such a madwoman could never make a pastor’s wife, it stands to reason. Skål, Mr Falck!
Man is Free! (June–August 1787)
Morten Falck steps down into a ship’s boat at the Toldboden to be rowed through the forest of masts to the roadstead that is the Rheden. He stands erect in the stern. He is thirty-one, has belonged to the city for almost exactly five years, has become a part of it and it a part of him. The sea air wraps around him. He is leaving. He does not know if he will ever see the city again. He does not know if he will survive the journey. He feels exhilarated and strong.
The boat comes alongside a ship, and he is ushered up a rope ladder. A hand reaches down from the bulwark. He takes it and swings his leg over the gunwale to stand on the deck of the brig Der Frühling. The weather is clear, though here on the water the air has a chill. The sun is above Amager, twinkling in the swell of the sound. The wind makes the masts creak and click and rushes in the rigging, its tone an ebb and flow. The ship strains at its anchor rope; the keel groans. From the main mast waves the double-pointed swallowtail flag that bears the emblem of the Royal Greenland Trade, two crossed harpoons. He turns and takes it all in with his eyes. It is quickly done. His environment these next six to ten weeks is captured in a single glance.
A seaman shows him to his cabin below deck. The ship is a former whaler fitted out for the route to Greenland, which is to say to withstand drifting ice, to carry a small number of passengers as well as goods to the colony, and to bring home raw materials and barrels filled with train oil. His fellow passenger on the voyage is a cook bound for Godthåb. The cabin is a cubbyhole containing a stool, a hinged table that may be raised or dropped, and a bunk whose bedding is a mattress of straw.
Would there be anything else, learned magister? the seaman enquires. Can I bring you something? A blanket?
This will be fine, thank you. I have my own blankets.
And unlike yours, they are free of lice, he thinks to himself. But the mattress is undoubtedly alive with all manner of vermin and he considers it will be a battle against superior forces to endeavour to keep them from his person. Thus, he will not waste energ
y on what cannot be changed, but instead concentrate on what perhaps might. It is something Egede has impressed upon him, the first rule of the missionary.
The man bows and withdraws. Morten looks about. The cabin is neat and clean. Hm, he had prepared himself for a pigsty. Regrettably, it is without a source of natural light. The place will be too dim for him to remain undisturbed in his cabin to commit his observations, he assesses, and he will therefore be obliged to do so in the open. He is unwilling to ruin his good eyesight by the poor glow of a lamp or tallow candle. But so much the better! Of necessity comes virtue, and with virtue unexpected gifts will often follow. He can look forward to lots of fresh sea air.
He tests the bunk, then seats himself on the stool and examines the mattress, prodding gently. The lice seep forth like water. He withdraws his hand in a hurry. Here I must sleep, he thinks with a shudder.
He raises the table and presses down on it with caution. The leaf yields perilously. He must keep his books in stacks on the floor. The table is unfit for writing. Never mind! Reading and contemplation will be on the deck and in the bunk, as the case may be. He is vexed for a moment by the cabin not being as he had expected, but then he dismisses it from his mind.
He goes up on deck to make sure his travelling chests are brought safely on board. And then there is the matter of the particular conveyance for which he has been obliged to purchase an additional passage from his own pocket, the greater part of his savings, as if it were a passenger like himself. Which in a way it is. It should be here presently, sailing on a barge from Kastrup by a farmer and his two sons. Morten looks out to the south-east, but the many ships at anchor obstruct his view. This is what he is most anxious about. Not the seasickness or the scurvy, nor the danger of drowning, or sea monsters, pirates or the many other perils of the ocean. He is most concerned that his precious cargo will not arrive in time.
The Prophets of Eternal Fjord Page 8
