The Prophets of Eternal Fjord

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Book: Read The Prophets of Eternal Fjord for Free Online
Authors: Kim Leine Martin Aitken
Their own pastor is not of advanced years, so the prospects are slight, but he has been kind enough to promise to put in a good word for Morten when the time comes for him to apply for a parish. Your father is once more of ill health, she writes, and has now lain for two days without rising while com ­plaining of aches and sounds inside his head. Should he write to inform you of his imminent demise, however, take heed that he is as fit as a confirmand, and the numerous ailments of which he inclines to suffer are but imaginary.
    The letters darken his mood; they make him itch and give him headaches, and he is consumed by the urge to get drunk or go to a pros­titute. He frequents a drinking establishment with Laust, who has returned after his illness, a spontaneous melancholy that almost did away with him. Now he is descended into the opposite ditch, throwing his money about, hiring carriages and insisting on paying for everything wherever they go, inviting his friends to the Comedy House, where he has rented a box. Morten sits in his velvet-covered seat. The large audi­ence and the lamps cause him to sweat. On the stage the singers stamp about, making fearful grimaces, throwing out their arms and roaring at one another. A classical Italian opera is performed. The audience com ­ments loudly on the action, boos and cries of bravo compete to drown each other out. There is a ceaseless coming and going, a slamming of doors, a scraping of chairs, chatter and the chinking of ale glasses that makes it impossible to follow what is going on. The music rises and falls, someone fires a pistol, a soprano shrieks and falls dead, gunpowder smoke drifts into the orchestra pit, the painted backdrop is hoisted up by a noisy pulley, another descends with a clatter, one hears the stage hands tramping back and forth, groaning and out of breath, the first violin shouting out the time to his orchestra and endeavouring to conduct them with his bow. Morten looks down from his vantage point upon dozens of swelling bosoms. The ladies are powdered white, beauty spots decorate marble cheekbones and the occasional breast. They fan themselves to stave off the heat. The stalls are like a warm and sunny field full of flowers and fluttering butterflies. He has the most recent of his mother’s letters in his breast pocket. He thinks to himself that it is a peculiar mingling of worlds. Imagine if my ageing mother were here. He smiles to himself. The world of the theatre must be as distant from his mother’s as anything could ever be. He wishes that she could enjoy it, though most likely she would be shocked and would perhaps even faint with fright. She is not the kind of person who can forget who they are and rise above themselves. She is enchained, like almost everyone else.
    Afterwards he drives with Laust to a serving house, where they sit and pretend to be fine gentleman until they are ejected and make towards the ramparts, pursued by a trail of prostitutes, who stride along, arm in arm, bawling raucous drinking songs.
    Then Laust is gone again. Morten hears rumour that some accident has befallen him, but learns of no details. He writes to his father, a customs officer on Fyn, though without reply. He attends a single per ­formance at the Comedy House, but it is costly and rather dull without the festive Laust to hurl insults or excessively intimate compliments at the ladies, without a box to separate him from the rabble, and he stands alone in the throng of the stalls, unable to hear or see a thing, and thinks of Rousseau and Man is born free and everywhere he is in chains! He cannot expel the sentence from his mind. It is as though the philosopher has placed his hand upon his shoulder and wished to speak to him in person.
    The winter of 1784–5. The royal city is inundated with farm labourers and lads who have run from the villeinage of the StavnsbÃ¥nd to seek their fortunes. January

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