A fortunate man, p.66
A Fortunate Man, page 66
Thus the days passed and the spiritual crisis he had anticipated with such nervousness and dread did not materialize. The explosive charge of spiritual dynamite that had built up in him that night on the steamship had evaporated in the summery outdoor life he had led at Kærsholm since that point. Dame Prangen’s religious edifying texts had remained almost untouched on their shelf. The fact was that he was busy outside the whole livelong day, so much so that when he finally got back to his room and lit his lamp in order to settle down with a book, he would not complete many lines before a wonderful drowsiness came over him, like some blessing from nature drawing him into the simple delight of his bed.
For all that, bit by bit, a longing for Jakobe began to grow in him. When he was sitting in his boat, being happily baked by the sun, or when he stretched in the shade of his favorite spot at the edge of the woods, he would sometimes wish that he could share this summer idyll with her. There was no doubt that the country would do her a service by ridding her lungs of that coast road dust that hung around Skovbakken. Before he had left, she had begun to look so strained and overwrought. But then he told himself that she would probably decline the opportunity. The almost vegetative life that he led here was definitely not to her liking. Just lying there, for example, quite still with your hands behind your neck and letting your thoughts drift, with the clouds scudding across the bottomless blue overhead, feeling your own being rise up and meld with infinity—that kind of pleasure she would never understand. He recalled that once in a love letter she had described her mind as being “as restless as the sea.” How true that was.
Another thing that contributed to his happiness at Kærsholm was the complete lack of formality—the dress code included. Lord Prangen himself would stalk the rooms of his mansion in his long boots and rarely bothered to change for dinner. Even Dame Prangen, while at home at least, was not particularly fussy about what she wore. There was no doubt that this rural informality appealed to Per enormously. The strict house etiquette applied by his parents-in-law, with its constant demands for a change in clothing for each event and time of day, something modern travel also demanded, was a torture to him.
One warm and sunny afternoon, as Per was returning from the river with his fishing rods bouncing on his shoulder, he bumped into Dame Prangen. She was in the company of a young lady who was blond of hue and dressed in a blue-striped dress. The two ladies were strolling along a lane lined by poplars, which led from the park in front of the main building down to the meadows. They walked with their arms about each other’s waist; and there was something in the scene, particularly in the young woman, that made Per think of two lovers.
“This is Hr. Sidenius, an engineer from Copenhagen, Frøken Blom berg,” Dame Prangen said by way of a quick introduction to both. She also mentioned, as they moved on, that Pastor Blomberg was sitting inside with her husband and would no doubt be delighted to meet Per in person.
Per cursed his luck as he walked on through the park and up to his room. He was convinced that the peace and wonderful tranquillity he had enjoyed was now over. He had already set his mind against this cleric, who was obviously highly esteemed in this house. Besides which, Per had gradually worked out who he was. For he now recalled that he had seen Pastor Blomberg’s name occasionally mentioned in the newspapers as a gifted spokesperson for one of the many tendencies within the church, and he now vaguely recalled that his activities had been the subject of debate at home in the rectory, because his brother Thomas—the curate—had been more enamored of Blomberg’s ideas than his father thought appropriate.
His preference would have been to simply remain in his room for the duration of Blomberg’s visit, but Dame Prangen’s request that he should present himself to their pastor was made, despite its winning charm, in such a way that refusal was not an option.
Per did indeed find the guest in Lord Prangen’s quarters where, under a cloud of tobacco smoke, the two gentlemen sat on either side of a table that was replete with a full coffee set and sweet morsels. As he knocked and showed himself in the doorway, their conversation quickly died away, leaving the distinct impression that Per Sidenius had been the very thing they sat discussing.
Pastor Blomberg’s physical appearance gave Per an immediate surprise. After everything he had heard during his time at Kærsholm about this latter-day Luther and his struggle for what had been called a more humane view of spiritual issues, Per had imagined some sort of giant, wild-bearded Nordic apostle figure, a Christian Viking. What he now saw in front of him was a tubby little fellow with wobbly jowls. In other words, Pastor Blomberg did not distinguish himself in any noticeable way from the typical image of an affable Danish cleric. From a large head, ringed by a froth of blue-blond hair and beard, a pair of clear, animated eyes shone out—they resembled two large teardrops within which heaven’s arch was reflected. Both in his mode of dress (he wore a shortened summer jacket of black Italian cloth) and the way he reclined in his chair and puffed on the well-chewed cigar, there was a hint of a wish to occlude his unmistakeable stamp of class privilege—to cast off that “reverence” which he frequently denounced and ridiculed, much to the chagrin of his fellow preachers. However, one could never be in doubt for a moment that this was a man of the cloth that stood before you. No, Pastor Blomberg’s whole shape and demeanor was all too obviously animated by that particular form of religious self-righteousness which Per knew only too well. He positively oozed the patriarchal air of presumed authority, which clings stubbornly to clerics like the moldy damp that emanates from old Church grounds, despite all the new-fangled types of heating and ventilation systems.
Pastor Blomberg rose, a bit arthritically, from his chair and pressed Per’s hand with a heartfelt, country sincerity.
“Well now there we have him—yes indeed!” he said, as he scrutinized Per closely and without the slightest pretense at doing otherwise. “Welcome to our own humble little patch, Hr. Engineer!”
Behind his warm and welcoming tone there was something paternal and overly sympathetic, which put Per on his guard.
“Of course, I am not unfamiliar with the name Sidenius,” the pastor continued. “Not least because your own father was a greatly esteemed person within our clerical ranks. To my sorrow, I never met him personally, even though we were in neighboring dioceses. Yes, his view and my view of the Church’s role were without doubt very different, and in so many ways, but his name is blessed and his great work speaks to us, even from the grave! He was an extremely diligent shepherd of his flock!”
When Per gave no answer, Pastor Blomberg sat down again and there was a moment’s silence. The minister then turned back to Lord Prangen and began discussing local issues that had recently arisen.
Per took a chair over by the window and lit a cigarette. Half-turned away from the room, he looked out over the wide lawn directly in front of the main building, where a sundial in the middle of the green expanse was glinting in the sun’s rays.
He noticed that Dame Prangen and the young woman were coming back along the laneway and had just sat down on a bench that lay in the shade of a large beech tree at the far corner of the lawn. Dame Prangen collapsed her parasol and her young female escort placed her wide-brimmed summer hat beside her on the bench and then stroked a lock of hair away from her forehead.
Per now began to study this priest’s daughter a bit more closely. She was around nineteen years of age by the look of her and bore no resemblance to her father apart from being blond. She was tall, almost gangly, but her figure was refined with shapely flanks. Because of the distance between them, he could not properly discern her facial characteristics, but the overall impression she gave was very captivating. Sitting there in the tree’s dark shadow, her legs crossed and bending forward slightly as she twirled a flower she had plucked, nosing it every now and again for its scent, she cut a dreamlike figure in the shade of the bower. Indeed, when viewed next to the large bulk of Dame Prangen, whose amplitude was made even more prominent by the gray silk jerkin that spanned her broad bosom like an armored breastplate, the young maiden’s diaphanous costume was possessed of an ethereal quality.
It occurred to Per that she reminded him very strongly of someone else. Even when he had seen her fleetingly in the laneway, he had felt the same thing. That fine sapling figure, her blond, almost silvery, and full-bodied hair, as well as the long slope of her fine shoulders—there was something in all of this that was intimately familiar and known to him of old, something in fact that gave him a feeling of melancholy.
In the meantime, Pastor Blomberg had risen from the table and was about to leave.
He explained that he was obliged to call out to a sick man who lived nearby and who had opted for his ministry in favor of another congregation. The poor man had been severely injured while handling a temperamental bull. On his way back, he would call in again to collect his daughter.
When he said goodbye to Per, he held his hand for a moment longer and, once again looking penetratingly and without pretense at him, told him that if his travels should ever take him past Bøstrup rectory, he would be only delighted to see him there.
“Of course I am well aware,” he said teasingly, “that the youth of Copenhagen regard the church as nothing more than the temple of superstition and ignorance with the rectory as its main entrance. But perhaps we are not quite as bad as your newspaper and literary elite in Copenhagen wish to portray us. Anyway, I’m quite sure you can make up your own mind!”
Despite the patronizing tone in the pastor’s address, Per shook his hand firmly this time and issued a politely murmured thank you. The affect his daughter had worked upon him had made him more well disposed to this self-satisfied little man.
Lord Prangen followed the pastor out of his room. However, Per lifted the large straw hat he had brought back with him from Italy, and went out through the day room. Once on the outside terrace, he began to study the skies, using his hat as a shade, and letting on that he was completely unaware of the ladies in the garden.
Dame Prangen called out to him.
“Hr. Sidenius, Hr. Sidenius . . . can you guess what Frøken Blomberg thinks you look like?” she asked.
The young girl, whose hand was being held in Dame Prangen’s lap, went immediately scarlet and made attempts to cover the dame’s mouth with her free hand.
“But dearest, why am I not allowed to tell him what you said? I think it’s a priceless description. Frøken Blomberg believes that you resemble a young nabob. And she is completely right. There is something very exotic about you today.”
“A nabob?” Per inquired, as he looked down at his yellow suit made of light cotton. The suit, just like the hat, had been bought in Italy, and he was wearing it for the first time today because of the heat and strong sunshine. “I am of course flattered. All I need now are the millions to go with the title.”
“Ah but you’ll get them soon enough no doubt,” Dame Prangen cried, an almost regretful tone entering her voice at the last, as if the words fell from her mouth half against her will. She regretted them immediately and began to speak of other things, while at the same time using all of her graces to get Per to come down and sit with them—a folded garden chair was leaning against the bench as if for that very purpose.
However, Per had caught the significance of her previous words only too well—and was immediately dejected. In other words, they had been sitting there talking about his engagement, and of course his father-in-law’s great wealth had been mentioned. As far as everybody was concerned, the two things had become entwined in their imaginations. Per also now realized that Miss Blomberg’s nabob comparison might not exactly pass as a compliment.
He sat down to the side of them and ran a proper rule over this young lady. Now that he had her at much closer quarters, he could carry out a sober assessment of her figure and form and come to a judgment, as befitted a connoisseur. He had to admit that there was very little there to criticize. Despite his sense of despondency at their topic of conversation, he was amazed that he hadn’t noticed how beautiful she was when they had first met along the path. What a pair of crystal clear and innocent eyes! And that gorgeous mouth, strawberry soft, still a bit immature perhaps and thus lacking in fullness but, on the other hand, completely unspoiled and chaste as an innocent wild rose.
The two ladies had begun talking about the same farm accident that Pastor Blomberg had just referred to in Lord Prangen’s rooms. In terms and expressions that sounded suspiciously like her father’s, the young lady described how that “poor unfortunate soul” had had his whole innards torn out and that the doctor very much doubted whether he would survive. But Per had suddenly lost interest in what was being said. He now realized who it was that the delectable Frøken reminded him of. It was Francesca. His Nyboder sweetheart!—My God! he mused, his heart softening as he did so—how long it now was since she had been in his thoughts!
While the ladies continued to chat, Per drifted off to indulge in his memories. Though he still kept an eye on the pastor’s daughter, who did not look at him once, and gave the impression, at least, that she was unaware of Per’s attentions.
Yes, Per said to himself, the resemblance was clear. Her height and whole demeanor were very similar. And undeniable! Frøken Blomberg was more distinguished in stature, slimmer along her lines—a more refined version of Francesca. There was also something about the play of her mouth that reminded him of her. Every time she smiled, the tip of her tongue would habitually run across her upper lip in a delightful little movement that seemed to laughingly lick her smile away.
“Oh dear. It’s starting to get chilly you know. Would you not cover up your neck and shoulders little darling?”
Dame Prangen was suddenly all concern. The sun had sunk behind the trees in the park and the damp from the shaded soil on their side of the garden was soon noticed here beneath the leaves.
“I’m not in the least bit cold. I couldn’t be better sitting here,” she said, clearly happy that Dame Prangen had once again taken her hand and was busy patting it.
“Well dear, I still think you should put your wrap on. I think you left it in the sitting room.”
Per stood up.
“I’ll get it,” he said.
But at the same moment, the young lady had shot up from the bench. “No, Hr. Sidenius, you’ll never find it,” she hurried to say. And as she was afraid that he might follow her, she raced off across the lawn.
“Isn’t she just so sweet?” Asked Dame Prangen, when she had gone and Per had sat down again.
“Yes, she is quite pretty,” he answered somewhat tersely.
“Well yes, she’s that too, and with such a good nature, so open and sincere. Unfortunately, her health is not the best.”
“Is Frøken Blomberg sick?”
“My dear Sidenius, she spent the whole winter laid up in bed with typhoid fever, poor girl. As she says herself, she was more dead than alive for over three months. Can you not see it in her?”
“Well, I suppose she does leave a rather ethereal impression. But to say that she looked weak, I don’t know Dame Prangen—”
“Yes—and thanks be to God—she is over the worst now, and this glorious summer will hopefully do the rest. That dear child, who is the light and joy of so many of us here, and who herself is so grateful just to be alive, as only they can be that came close to death while still very young—indeed, who know that the gift of life comes by God’s grace Hr. Sidenius!”
Per looked away. Just recently he had begun to feel slightly embarrassed whenever Dame Prangen began to speak of religious matters.
“Frøken Blomberg obviously thinks the world of you Dame Prangen,” he said, in order to lead the conversation onto a different track.
“Ah, she loves to come here, the dear angel. She tells me all the time that she gets such enjoyment from coming to Kærsholm. I would say that life at her parents’ house is perhaps a bit monotonous for such a lively young girl. But now it has to be said that Pastor Blomberg’s rectory is perfectly lovely. You really should make a point of paying the pastor a visit. I’ve no doubt that he would be delighted to speak to you.”
Over at the entrance to the garden, the gardener himself appeared and stood at a respectful distance.
“What is it Petersen?” Dame Prangen asked.
The gardener took a few steps forward with his cap in his hand. He wished to ask her grace if she would be so kind as to come down to the kitchen garden for a moment when her grace found it convenient.
“I’ll be there shortly,” said Dame Prangen, whose idea of Christian fraternity had still not managed to embrace her own underlings.
Shortly afterwards, she got up and headed off towards the vegetable garden. In the meantime, the young lady had returned and looked the height of discomfort on finding that she had been left alone with Per. She sat with both hands at her sides and gripping the front edge of the bench seat. Her face visibly colored a number of times. And then suddenly she called out to Dame Prangen, who could still be seen in the distance, asking whether she might go with her.
Almost before she received an answer, she was up from the bench and rushed off.
“Oh, dear, remember . . .you’re not supposed to run!” Dame Prangen called out in alarm.
Per looked sidelong at the girl as she moved away—and a shadow passed over his face.
There was something about her reticence that provoked troubling memories for him. His brothers and sisters had fled from his presence in exactly the same way during their childhood years, especially after morning or evening prayers when his father had pronounced the wrath of God upon him. And of course he’d had the same experience with his twin brothers just recently. He saw them before him now, standing sheepishly outside Eberhard’s offices and unsure whether they even dared look at him.
