Barbara (8 page)

The better off and the
fine
folk also came to church. As was their right, they had their regular places, which none of the common folk dared violate. Bailiff Harme came and spread himself beside his daughter Suzanne. They sat in the front row. There was also the judge’s pew, which was still used by Mrs Stenderup, the previous judge’s widow, and a pew for the clergyman’s family, in which the two sisters Armgard and Ellen Katrine were allotted seats as Pastor Wenzel’s relatives and guests. Pastor Poul Aggersøe was also given a seat in this pew.

There were in addition many others who had their permanent pews despite not being among the elite: Mrs Dreyer, Sieur Arentzen and old Miss Kleyn. They were solid folk who paid for their seats. This was their pride and their token of distinction in the eyes of the ordinary folk, and their faces betrayed just a little awareness of this as they seated themselves.

But one feature all the churchgoers had in common was that their breath rose as grey clouds in the bitterly cold air.

Pastor Poul sat thinking of all the times he had attended service in the cathedral in Copenhagen, all the courteous commotion outside the west door of carriages, hansoms and servants banging carriage doors. He thought of the well-dressed throng of distinguished and ordinary citizens who with pleasure and dignity strode down three equally lofty aisles between the columns as the organ played a solemn voluntary and growled beneath the vaulted roof. Alas, here in Tórshavn there was only a poor, bent parish clerk hoarsely stammering his way through the
introit
. And meanwhile there was a deathly silence beneath the roof beams and not the usual coughing and spluttering.

Immediately after this, Barbara hurried quietly in and sat down beside her mother in the judge’s pew – as a final living glimpse of the world before the start of the sombre hymn.

Judge Johan Hendrik Heyde had on this day come to church together with the bailiff and his daughter. He had greeted them, exchanged a few words and smiled, but when they had entered the porch he had not accompanied them up the floor of the church to his pew. Instead, he had made his bulky way up into the gallery.

Why did he do this? He had nothing against them, but there was nevertheless something keeping them apart at that moment. They were speaking Danish. Well, of course, that was their language. And Johan Hendrik had nothing against things Danish – he had himself spent much time in Denmark, and his own family was Danish. Indeed, he would have thought it unreasonable if people such as the bailiff or the storekeeper had spoken Faroese. And yet, here on home ground among ordinary Faroese people, this easily flowing language was in conflict with the right tone. It irritated him a little, as when he heard someone nearby playing a badly tuned instrument. He was himself attuned to the people. So it was against his nature to go forward into the front row. He preferred to remain in the background in the gallery. Here, he could sit quietly and think about agricultural improvements, new fishing experiments and other useful subjects serving the interests of the country.

Some time after the judge had taken his place, there was a heavy creaking on the stairs, and up came his cousin Samuel Mikkelsen, the islands’ law speaker. He was big and ungainly, but he, too, preferred the gallery. Not on account of any subtle ill will towards other good people, but purely out of discretion. He proceeded so carefully; if he made a joke it was an elegant one, and when he took a drink during the service he did so with great delicacy – not secretly like some scoundrel or schoolboy, but with imperturbable dignity. Johan Hendrik felt refreshed by his presence, but, perhaps not without reason, Bailiff Harme thought that His Majesty’s Faroese-born officials misunderstood their position by hiding themselves from view among the riffraff in the six free benches in the gallery.

Things were completely different with the commandant, Lieutenant Otto Hjørring. He did not hide his light under a bushel, but strode into the church in his red dress uniform, with rapier, moustache, pigtail and everything that could be required of a military personage. But admittedly, he made a mistake and blundered into one of the common pews. Beach Flea was both honoured and concerned and directed a great number of anxious glances at the overwhelming proximity of such splendour and delectable perfume.

This was how they came, all the people of the parish, high and low. Gabriel in his Sunday best, pious and unrecognisable. The staff of the Store and the gunners from the Redoubt, the owner of the home farm with his workers and the village farmer who had come on foot from afar. The congregation worked their way through the first long-winded hymn. There was no organ. The cold, shivering voices hardly kept time with each other. Some sang splendidly and with a sense of artistry; for instance Sieur Arentzen, on whom it was plain to see that he saw himself as the main singer. Others sang with no sense of music whatsoever, and their wives simply wailed from beneath their black scarves. There was a great deal of coughing and sniffing when the last, endless, asthmatic verse had finally been sung. Hanging beneath the roof, the model of the East-Indiaman
The Lion of Norway
turned slowly on its cord. Its bowsprit started to point south.

The minister, who had been standing turned towards the altar, now addressed the congregation: “
The Lord be with you.”

A cloud of steam emerged from his mouth. A hundred clouds of steam from the congregation replied: “
And with thy spirit.”

Pastor Wenzel was a little too small for the red chasuble, and it looked as though he at any time could stumble and fall in the folds of the alb. He glanced at the congregation. The Royal Store manager had not come. That was unfortunate. No, that man regrettably only had a mediocre record for attending church. It was particularly annoying today. The clergyman felt a sudden sense of disappointment. The sermon for the day had a message for everyone, though mainly for the great and those with temporal responsibilities, those who were most inclined to forget the church and to ignore its servants. The bailiff was there. But as soon as he turned towards the altar again, Pastor Wenzel noticed that his own wife was absent. Anna Sophie had not come yet!

“Let us pray.”

He started to feel a vague sense of unease. He hesitated in the midst of the ritual. Then he swallowed hard and chanted the collect in a voice that trembled slightly. No one thought that unusual. Pastor Wenzel often spoke as though something or other had upset him. The whole of his small, red-bearded figure always gave the sense of having been slightly insulted.

The service took its course. They reached the Epistle. Pastor Wenzel, who had been feeling strangely outside it all, pulled himself together. He turned to the congregation and in a powerful voice intoned: “
The Epistle for the twenty-sixth Sunday after Trinity is taken from the First Epistle of St Paul to the Thessalonians.
”

Anna Sophie had not come.

“And we beseech you, brethren, to know them which labour among you, and are over you in the Lord, and admonish you. And to esteem them very highly in love for their work’s sake. And be at peace among yourselves. Now we exhort you, brethren, warn them that are unruly…”

Some time after he had finished the Epistle, Pastor Wenzel could still hear his voice echoing within his head. He had not associated any meaning with a single word of what he had read out. His heart was uneasy, his mind empty. Nor had Pastor Poul, sitting in the pew reserved for the clergy, been listening. His thoughts, too, were wandering restlessly on other paths. Indeed, in the entire church there were scarcely many who had noticed the words of the Apostle. Some were too worried, others too sleepy. And so the service progressed like a game that had been started and must go on. Unnoticed, the
Lion of Norway
had again turned and was now heading towards the south west.

As soon as the minister had gone up into the pulpit and started to speak, Johan Hendrik up in the gallery could hear that his brother had been upset by something or other. There was a certain quality in the tone of his voice that he knew so well. He had known it ever since they had both been boys.

Pastor Wenzel began hesitantly, but soon found the sure thread he had planned and followed it determinedly. It was this sermon he had prepared with such zeal and which the store manager should have heard, although it was equally aimed at the bailiff, indeed fundamentally at everyone in the congregation, right down to the most humble.

“And we beseech you, brethren, to know them which labour among you and are over you in the Lord…”

It was not every year there was a twenty-sixth Sunday after Trinity, and it was not every minister who during the service was allowed to preach on the text of the Epistle instead of the Gospel. But Pastor Wenzel, who had a master’s degree, was so permitted, and at last, on this Sunday which so rarely occurred, he had the opportunity to say what had burdened his heart for so long.

Anna Sophie had still not come.

She, too, could benefit from hearing what he had to say. Although it would presumably be like water off a duck’s back. No, that was not why he was missing her. He did not allow himself to think more deeply about it. But his heart knew better; it was beating strongly.

He started by rendering unto Caesar the things that were Caesar’s. The king’s officials and servants and all the temporal authorities – they should all be respected and obeyed. For the authorities were placed there by God. But what of God’s servants? Should they not be honoured and respected in the same way? The Apostle Paul explained it in his Epistle to the Ephesians. “Pay heed to yourselves,” he writes to the leaders of the congregation, “and to the entire flock, among which the Holy Ghost appointed you bishops to feed God’s people, which he achieved through His own blood.”

He looked around for the first time and raised his voice: “But when bishops and priests give you your spiritual food, take care of your souls and justify yourselves before God, ought they then not to be seen as equal to those – indeed at least equal to those who provide you with food for the body, ensure there are provisions in the country (this was something the Royal Store manager should have heard!), take care of your temporal wellbeing and maintain justice and righteousness among you?”

Pastor Wenzel had worked himself up: “The spiritual and the temporal are two concepts, but the spiritual is not inferior to the temporal. If you observe the laws of the land, which the authorities impose on you, ought you not to obey God’s eternal commandments, which I also proclaim?”

He looked appealingly at the bailiff, and Harme nodded.

“And when you pay your land dues and taxes to the office established for the purpose by the king, ought you not to pay your dues to the Church established by God?”

The bailiff nodded again, conceding the point. Pastor Wenzel worked himself up still more: “And when you do service and pay rates to the military and its officers, are those above you in the service of the Lord not of such value that you will pay them a tithe?”

His eyes wandered over to the lieutenant, who was sleeping soundly in his scarlet dress uniform.

Then his eyes turned back to the bailiff; indeed, it was almost as though this sermon was developing into a conversation with the bailiff. And the bailiff again nodded graciously.

“For the priest,” continued Pastor Wenzel, “the
priest
is your spiritual superior, appointed by the Holy Ghost – and, by the way, also by His Majesty the King – in the same way as the bailiff and the law speaker, the Royal Store manager and the judge…”

He gave his brother a look in the hidden depths of which lay a kind of mild reproach. But then he quickly looked back at the bailiff and continued: “…errh, in the same way as these are your high-ranking temporal superiors, whom it is your duty to honour and love. Do not be angry with your minister for telling you the truth. Even the most high-ranking should not be deaf to his exhortations, if not for the sake of his humble personage, then for the sake of his lofty calling.”

Now it was said. Pastor Wenzel paused; his watery blue eyes wandered around rather uncertainly as though he was trying to fathom the effect of his words. Then he went on: “Furthermore, the Apostle says to us today: ‘Now we exhort you, brethren, warn them that are unruly…’”

It was suddenly as though he was unable to go on. Anna Sophie – now he could see her! And he could see the Royal Store manager as well. Through one of the open windows in the church he could see over to the parsonage, and there, in the small sitting room, he could see both his wife and the manager of the Royal Store…

He swayed as he stood there, understanding nothing and feeling nothing. It was almost as though he were dreaming. Anna Sophie and the Royal Store manager! What was it… he did not remember immediately… there had always been something about this; he had known it all along.

He wanted to go on where he had left off, but he had a pain in his heart. It was growing. He was overcome by an ache that paralysed him. His heart beat slowly like an iron knot; his throat was tightened and burned, his entire figure radiated pain.

Anna Sophie!

He heard his own voice, still stammering: “Warn them that are unruly, warn them that are unruly…”

The entire congregation saw him standing there rocking on his feet, helpless, deathly pale with a tiny blood-red patch on either cheek. A few thought he had been taken ill; no one understood the true reason for his terrible distress. Some time passed. The lieutenant’s easy snoring started to become restless, and he uttered a few words in his sleep.

Then it was as though the minister himself started at the great silence. He realised he was standing in the pulpit but not preaching. The congregation was sitting in the church and not listening. A ray of sunlight fell on the windows and he saw all the faces quite clearly. High up at the back of the church sat his brother with a look of surprise in his face. The
Lion of Norway
was slowly rocking in its cords, pointlessly. And the entire church was like a ship that was sailing out of control on the ocean’s waves, full of people, but without anyone at the helm.