Irretrievable (27 page)

“You know, doctor, I really do envy you your experiences as ship's doctor there, not only because of scurvy and all the amputations that you must have had to deal with, but for ethnographical reasons.”

Bie, who was little more than a superior medical orderly, had probably never heard the word “ethnographical” in his life and, in any case, had never worried about its meaning; he was thus somewhat taken aback and would have found it difficult to reply if Holk, entirely absorbed by his own curiosity, and quite unaware of Bie's problem, had not continued: “And if Iceland were a country that did not concern us particularly, we should perhaps not be so interested; but the Icelanders are our half-brothers and pray for King Frederick every Sunday just as much as we do, and perhaps more. For they're a serious and religious people. And when I think that we live from one day to the next and really know nothing about things we ought to know, I feel ashamed and rather inclined to blame myself. For example, as my old Pastor Petersen at home has often assured me a hundred times, what would the whole of Germano-Scandinavian literature be like, but for
Snorre Sturleson, the pride of the Icelanders? Nothing at all. And so I should like to ask you, doctor, during your stay on the island, did you find that all those things were still known and loved and sung and talked about by everybody, I mean the women and girls at their spinning-wheels and the men when they were out seal-fishing?”

Schleppegrell had been listening to all these questions with the greatest embarrassment, not for himself, but for his brother-in-law; but the latter had meanwhile recovered his poise and replied with great good humour: “I'm afraid that my brother-in-law knows all about that much better than I do, without ever having been there; people who've never been to places always know more about them. All that I know about the Icelanders is that their beds might be better, although they have eiderducks on their doorstep, so to speak. And the feathers really are good and you really are warm inside them and that, to be honest, is always the most important thing up there. But their weak point is their bed-linen. One could put up with the fact that their thread is as coarse as twine; the real trouble is their lack of cleanliness. It's all too obvious that, up there, ice is commoner than water and the laundry women are only too glad to put their hands back into their fur gloves. It must be admitted that it's not a clean country. But there is some splendid salmon. And then the drink! Some people are always talking of Icelandic moss
[1]
but I can assure you, Count, that I've never found better whisky anywhere, either in London or Copenhagen or even in Glasgow which is, after all, the home of the best whisky.”

This conversation about Iceland continued for a while and Schleppegrell, at first embarrassed, was finally gently amused to see all of Holk's unrelievedly earnest questions skilfully parried by Bie. Ebba came up to them now and again, laughing to see the conversation continually going round in circles, and then quickly went back to the card tables where, to the great advantage of Frau Schleppegrell or Countess Schimmelmann, she picked up the dummy hands and put them down again so often that Pentz, who was losing steadily, finally had to protest. Nothing could have been more welcome to Ebba and leaving the cards, she went over to the fireplace and built up the fire with coal and juniper branches, though not too much, as the large number of lights alone had ensured that nothing could be felt of the cold outside. Also, although it had been freezing all day, the snow had raised the temperature, while the wind had risen, as could be noticed each time Karin, cheerful and competent, came through the doorway with the various trays.

It was now ten o'clock, the game was over, the card-tables pushed to one side and the supper-table, laid on three sides only, so that no one need sit with their back to the blazing fire, stood ready in the centre of the room. Countess Schimmelmann had the place of honour in the middle of the table, with Holk and Pentz on either side; then, to left and right, the four remaining men, while Frau Schleppegrell and Ebba sat at the ends, so that they could survey the whole table and, if necessary, renew the provisions. The atmosphere of the party was already gay but it now became even gayer, largely owing to the lively and varied talents of Dr. Bie as an entertainer. He was not only a good raconteur and toast-master but above all a virtuoso in the art of laughing, which enabled him to accompany not only his own but also other people's stories with veritable salvoes of uncritical guffaws, thereby making everyone else laugh too, even if they did not know what they were laughing at. Even Countess Schimmelmann, to everyone's delight, deigned to show unmistakable signs of enjoying herself, although this did not prevent the general hilarity from increasing noticeably as soon as she withdrew punctually at eleven o'clock. There was, indeed, one further factor in the increasing gaiety and this was the Swedish punch which though not appearing regularly on all occasions, was being served today from a huge silver bowl. Everyone sang its praises, especially Bie who, after reaching his fifth glass without undue delay, rose in his seat to give a toast, with the permission of the ladies. “Yes, ladies, a toast. But to whom? Naturally to our charming and hospitable hostess, in whom our sister-land of Sweden, a seafaring people like ourselves, has reached, if I may say so, its supreme expression. As we all know, beauty was born out of the sea, but in the North Sea there was born northern courage—Swedish courage. Although I was not myself a witness of that splendid deed of Nordic courage this afternoon, I have heard all about it. And surely, to hover on the brink of death, one false step and you're in Davy Jones's locker for good, isn't that one of life's greatest thrills? And such a life is a Norseman's life. Where the ice begins, there the heart burns with the fiercest flame. So let us drink to the Nordic lands and their brave and beautiful daughter!”

Glasses were raised and, not for the first time that day, the “Lake Arre escapade” became the subject of general pleasantry. Pentz, who had little confidence in either Holk or Ebba, was particularly enjoying making fun of them and lovingly enlarged on what would have become of the couple had an ice floe, with a fir tree on it, broken free and carried them away into the open sea. They might perhaps have landed in Thule. Or perhaps not, and then they would have had nothing on their iceberg but a Christmas tree, without any nuts or raisins. And then Holk would have killed himself and offered his heart's blood to Ebba, not forgetting the inevitable references to the pelican. In olden times such things had been known to happen.

“In olden times,” laughed Ebba. “Yes, such things did happen in olden times. I don't claim to know much history, I leave that to others, and I know still less about ancient history than any other sort, but you only need to know a little about the Trojan war to have great respect for the olden days and their courage—even greater respect than for that Nordic courage that Dr. Bie has just been praising in such glowing and for me, flattering, terms.”

Here, Westergaard and Lundbye chimed in together to point out that, where the most important form of heroism, the heroism of passion, was concerned, times never changed and that they personally would guarantee that love could still perform the same marvellous feats as in former days.

At this, the company immediately split into two camps, those who were of the same opinion (including the little pastor's wife, whose face was now glowing all over); and those who flatly denied the truth of what the captains said, the latter headed, of course, by Ebba. “The same marvellous feats,” she repeated ironically. “That's not possible because such feats were the product of something that has been lost, a sort of sublime recklessness. I use that word because I want to avoid the word passion, although one of you has already used it; but we can talk of recklessness without feeling compelled to blush when we say it. And now I should like to ask you all, and I shall begin with the two captains, which one of you would be willing, for the sake of Helen, to start a Trojan war? Who would be ready to kill Agamemnon for the sake of Clytemnestra?”

“We would, we would,” and Pentz, waving a fork, even added: “I'm Aegisthus!”

Everyone laughed but with growing vehemence Ebba continued: “No, gentlemen, the truth is, that sort of recklessness no longer exists. Of course, it must be admitted—and it is up to you to make use of this against me—even in antiquity there were isolated cases of weakness. I remember, many long, dull years ago, when I was still in short skirts, I remember seeing Racine's
Phèdre
with the celebrated actress Rachel in the title role; she had just come from St. Petersburg and was taking in poor old Stockholm on the way. Well, they said Phaedra loves her stepson, that is, someone not really of the same family and therefore having no reason at all to consider any question of incest; and yet this stepson refused to say yes, and spurned her although she was beautiful and a queen. Perhaps the first example of decadence, the first small voice of our modern weaklings.”

“Oh no,” protested Lundbye, “not modern. Modern taste would condemn that sort of pusillanimity out of hand,” and Pentz added: “What a pity that we haven't a Phaedra handy to settle the argument straightaway; perhaps we might manage to fetch one from Skodsborg …” But he broke off in the middle of his sentence as he noticed that the two officers were looking at him very sharply, to let him know that, in their presence at least, he must not mention irreverently the name of Countess Danner which was on the tip of his tongue.

Almost at once, they rose from table and prepared to take their leave; and Holk, as the sole other inhabitant of Ebba's tower, felt in duty bound to accompany the guests as far as Karin's hall, which was being used as a cloak-room. He remained here until they had all left and then, saying good night to Karin, he suggested opening the windows and the door, as the stove seemed to be giving off too much heat; and then quickly went upstairs again.

As he came upstairs, Ebba was standing in her open door and the lights were still burning. Holk felt some doubt whether she had merely been waiting for all the guests to depart, or for him to return. “Good night,” she said and with a mock-solemn bow seemed to be on the point of going back into her room. But Holk seized her by the hand and said: “No, Ebba, you mustn't go like that. You must listen to me.” And following her into her room he gazed at her with eyes full of a turmoil of passion.

But she gently released herself from his grasp and, alluding to the conversation of a few minutes ago, said: “Well, Helmut, what role are you playing now? Paris or Aegisthus? You heard that Pentz has volunteered for one of them.”

And she laughed.

But her laugh only increased Holk's confusion, which she continued to enjoy for a moment and then, half-pityingly, she said: “Helmut, you really are more German than the Germans …. It took ten years to conquer Troy. That seems to be your idea, too ….”

An hour
later there was a knock at the door. Holk started up; but Ebba, less afraid of being discovered than of appearing ridiculous by anxiously trying to avoid discovery, went quickly to the door and opened it. It was Karin.

“What's the matter, Karin?”

“Something serious. My room is full of smoke and luckily a piece of soot fell down the chimney and woke me. I've opened the door and windows and made a draught, but it doesn't seem to help, it seems to be coming out of the walls and floor-boards.”

“What can it be?” said Ebba, who at first had thought that it was merely curiosity that had brought Karin up to her room. “The wind must be blowing down the chimney. I'll come and see but I must put some more clothes on and fetch a light, you must have groped your way up in the dark.” She went back to her room, letting the door shut behind her, but in less than thirty seconds she was back with a light in her hand and went downstairs, followed by Karin. The maid had not been exaggerating; smoke and fumes were filling the staircase and before either of them was half-way down, they were finding it almost impossible to breathe. “We must dash through quickly,” said Karin and set off across the hall, through the floor of which small flames were already beginning to spurt. Immediately afterwards she could be heard shouting “Fire” in the courtyard. Ebba was about to follow Karin to safety when she remembered Holk and, hastily deciding not to leave him in the lurch, she hurried upstairs again to her room. He was no longer there. “The fool, he wants to save my reputation, and perhaps even his own, and now he'll kill himself and me with him.” Saying this, she ran quickly up the second flight of stairs to see if he was in his own room. He was standing in the doorway. From the courtyard, they could hear Karin still crying for help and other voices were now joining in. “Quick, Helmut, or we are lost. Karin is safe. We must try, too.” Without waiting for an answer, she seized his arm and dragged him with her down the two flights of stairs. Fast as they were, the fire was even faster and what had been possible two minutes ago was now no longer so. “We're lost!” said Ebba and seemed on the point of collapsing on the stairs. But Holk grasped her, half-fainting, and with the strength of despair carried her up the spiral staircase from floor to floor until at last they were standing together beneath the rafters of the roof of the tower. Here, the light from an open dormer-window enabled them dimly to discern where they were in the jumbled disorder of the room. Laboriously feeling his way past the roof-timbers towards the opening, Holk stepped out into the open air, pulling Ebba after him. For the moment, they were out of danger and, had the almost vertical roof of the castle had a gentler slope, they would have been completely safe; but the roof was so steep that it was not possible to climb along it and the best they could do was to hold on to the lightning-conductor, bracing their feet against the strong gutter. Fortunately, the wind was blowing the smoke and fumes away from them in the opposite direction. But all this was but a respite: how would it help them if they were not noticed from below or if the wind were to change and set fire to the roof against which they were leaning?