Barbara (15 page)

He often read until the sweat broke out on his forehead as he searched for some brief passage suggesting that God might have some slight ground for satisfaction in him and Barbara. For they loved each other so deeply and so genuinely. But he failed to reconcile Barbara and God. How could he even speak to God about Barbara? And how could he talk to Barbara about God?

He could in no way defend his actions, and yet it was impossible for him to act differently. He had no power over himself.

But of course he could enter into a marriage with Barbara. Then everything would be different. For woman was also a most useful creation with which to combat adultery, fornication and loose living. He read this in an ancient little book that he found among the things Pastor Niels had left. It was called
A Mirror for Pious Women
and in many ways was a charming book in all it had to say about the married woman. “It is irrefutable,” it said, “that it is impossible to find such good tender friends who mean so well and are so faithful to each other as God-fearing husbands and wives, who are one flesh, one body, one heart and have one will with which they share happiness and sadness, good and evil with each other, and especially the woman with her beauty, charm, love and kindness, her sweet and life-giving word is to her husband the supreme fortification in his troubles after the word of God.”

When Pastor Poul read this, his heart was filled with sweetness, but at the same time with a terror that made his head whirl. He knew Barbara’s history, of course, and he knew her far better than his heart would admit.

Woman is compared to a hind, which has an extremely sharp and quick sense of hearing, especially when it pricks up its ears. But when it sinks its ears, it is said to be almost deaf. Like a hind, woman, too, must open her ears when she hears the word of God or when her husband admonishes her and she must pay careful attention to what people say of her. On the other hand, she should be deaf to all Epicurean mockery of God and to the shameful words and deeds of a fool that encourage unchaste thoughts and foolish living…

But oh, Barbara. Were there any words of Epicure that were not immediately caught by her ears and caused her senses to tremble? Was there any subtle remark that did not immediately bring life to her eyes? Was there any game that she was not immediately willing to play?

Pastor Poul was like the fowler hanging on his rope and daring to look neither up nor down.

For if he raises his eyes to heaven, the line is lost to sight in the distance, and it seems he is hanging on a thread that has been cut. But if he looks down, he realises the horrors of the pit.

He scarcely dared to think. He only dared to live. His happiness drew him mercilessly on through the summer days; his happiness was a trembling, fleeting hind whose ears were always raised and alert.

Except in church. But Pastor Poul’s sermons were not good.

Barbara, who noticed everything, also noticed that her beloved was not entirely happy, and she felt that as a profound affront. One day when they were talking about their love, she said, “Every time I give you all my hand, you only give me your little finger.”

Pastor Poul was so amazed at this that he remained silent for a long time. That was not as he had understood it, no, far from it, the contrary in fact.

“You don’t give me your whole hand,” he said. “You don’t because you can’t.”

Now it was Barbara’s turn to be amazed. She flushed a little and hurried to counter, “I give you everything I have to give you.”

She looked rather upset. Pastor Poul walked up and down the floor. Then he suddenly exclaimed, “Barbara. You know I have my calling.”

“Yes, but can I not help you a bit?”

She ran over to him, flung her arms round his neck and asked with such intensity: “Can I not help you a little?”

Pastor Poul remembered the little note from Barbara and how terribly badly it was written. It was as helpless as a prayer; it was the most touching thing he knew about her – he treasured it like a piece of her own soul.

Barbara looked at him in child-like enthusiasm. Her eyes were quite comical: “I can write all right when someone dictates to me.”

The parson was as though intoxicated by it. Christian Scriver’s
Treasures of the Soul
lay on the table and was so delightfully sweetened. Barbara clapped her hands. She suggested that they should write a sermon straight away – now, immediately. But Pastor Poul said no. He wanted to think about it first. They could start tomorrow.

Barbara said she would come early the following day. She was so blissfully happy; she kissed him again and again when she went.

“Now I am sure we shall have a wonderful time together. For, you see,” she added in a quiet voice, “I can now be part of everything you do. Don’t you see?”

Pastor Poul walked around for a long time and knew neither what he was doing nor what he was saying. He caught himself reciting two lines of a hymn:

Hallelujah, God is great

And heaven replies: Amen.

Barbara came the following day ready to write. She had so many quills with her that the minister had to laugh. He asked whether the geese up in Kalvelien were completely naked now that Barbara was going to write a sermon. But she explained that she had spoiled her pens so because she wrote so quickly.

She sat down enthusiastically at the table, placed the paper obliquely in front of her, put her head on one side and, as soon as Pastor Poul started to dictate, set about writing eagerly, her tongue protruding just a little from her mouth. Her hair fell a little down over her forehead; her face became more and more flushed as the pen scratched and sputtered.

Never had Pastor Poul imagined anything like this – that this beautiful woman should become his obedient and eager assistant. His happiness increased like a bubble and grew light and unconstrained. Suddenly, all his emotions deserted him; he thought of other things and had ideas. Barbara’s bookish qualities, God help her, were probably not exactly outstanding. But as she sat there she could presumably be of help to him. Yes, even those simple geese were the instruments of the spirit and learning, for they were the source of the quills. For a moment he was filled with elation. Then he became disheartened. In his relationship with Barbara he had never had any sense of superiority, only of devotion. He felt a deep want and went over and stood by the window and made himself a peephole through the condensation on it. All was green and luxuriant outside, and mist was drifting across the grass.

Barbara put in a full stop, ceased writing and looked up: “What more?”

She brushed her hair from her forehead and was flushed with excitement.

“Let me see what you’ve written.”

She handed him the sheet. It was adorned with big letters, dancing about enthusiastically, untidily and all rising towards the right top corner of the paper. The spelling was indifferent, but readable.

Then he discovered something and in a voice full of pain exclaimed, “Jesus.”

Barbara did not at first understand what he meant. She suddenly blushed scarlet.

“Barbara. Oh, you can’t even spell Jesus.”

“Oh.” She quickly snatched the sheet from him, sat down again and with the tip of her tongue between her teeth and with a scratching pen she quickly and determinedly crossed out
Jeses
and wrote the word properly above it. Then she handed him the paper, happy and almost triumphant.

But Pastor Poul did not take it. He sat on his chair, pale and staring at her. Barbara grew confused. It looked at first as though she was searching in her bag for some brightly coloured stone with which to gladden him again. But her heart was too wise. She suddenly understood who Jesus was and grew unhappy.

She went across to Pastor Poul, but he held his face in his hands. She was embarrassed and fiddled uncomfortably with his shoulder and then she gently touched his hair and his cheek, finally whispering quite softly in his ear: “You mustn’t be angry with me.”

He made a fierce movement.

“Get away, you… you… it is not me you have to ask for forgiveness.”

Barbara went over to the window and drew some helpless signs and lines in the condensation. She was miserable, overcome with shame and despair. And the clergyman was filled increasingly with concern. He sat there slumped in his chair. This was the first time there had been an angry word between him and Barbara. He quite forgot his anger. And yet he could not persuade himself to go across to her.

“Of course,” Barbara finally murmured in a broken voice, “of course this was a terribly silly idea of mine. For I am not worthy… I’m a sinner.”

And she drew an array of long lines in the condensation. It looked as though she was undertaking some very important task.

Pastor Poul sat in silence for a time. Then he asked her: “Are you… are you a very great sinner?”

Barbara turned towards him. Her eyes were intensely fearful as she looked at him.

“Yes.”

Then she ran across and knelt before the priest and embraced his knees and hid her face. And so she knelt for a long time without either of them saying a word. But this time it was he who played just a little with her hair.

He was fundamentally embarrassed. What had he done? He did not know what it was that this reminded him of. Perhaps it was some dream. But it was at any rate something very shameful. He began to see himself as a tiny man, an insignificant man with the pointing finger of a Pharisee. But here was a great sinner, a woman weeping before him.

Suddenly, he came to think of Simon the Leper’s house and his heart was delivered. He had it. He got up and leafed in the Bible to the seventh chapter of St Luke.

“Barbara, will you listen?” he asked.

She nodded, sullen and silent.

“And behold. A woman in the city who was a sinner, when she knew that Jesus sat at meat in the Pharisee’s house, brought an alabaster box of ointment, and stood at his feet behind him…”

Barbara sat in total silence while he read to her. She gave Poul an occasional stolen, frightened look. But he read on to her about the woman’s humility and about the Pharisee’s self-justification, and he reached Jesus’s parable of the man who had two debtors. “The one owed five hundred pence, and the other fifty. And when they had nothing to pay, he frankly forgave them both. Tell me therefore, which of them will love him most?”

Barbara started. It was as though something suddenly dawned upon her and she was on the point of making an exclamation.

But the parson continued to read more of Jesus’s words: “And he turned to the woman and said unto Simon, Seest thou this woman?”

Now Barbara was trembling and she became very embarrassed. For she was the woman, of course, and her heart had turned into an alabaster pot of ointment. Never had she given and never had she received as now.

“I entered into thy house, thou gavest me no water for my feet; but she hath washed my feet with tears and wiped them with the hairs of her head. Thou gavest me no kiss, but this woman since the time I came in hath not ceased to kiss my feet. My head with oil thou didst not anoint, but this woman hath anointed my feet with ointment. Wherefore I say unto thee, her sins, which are many, are forgiven; for she loved much, but to whom little is forgiven, the same loveth little.”

As these last words were read to her, Barbara started to brighten up. Her golden eyes shone, afraid and happy. But Pastor Poul sat motionless and silent. He was completely taken aback. He had learned something quite new about God’s infinite mercy.

“Thank you, Poul,” said Barbara. She was dreadfully ashamed. “I thought God had rejected me long ago,” she whispered, embracing him blindly and passionately as never before.

But Pastor Poul had to say to her, “Dearest of all,
I
am not the one to be thanked. I will go outside for a time so you can be alone here as in a closet and thank God for His words.”

How she managed to thank God, Barbara scarcely knew herself. But if it was sweet – and that it undoubtedly was – it was also short. For one two three, she was outside in the open with Pastor Poul, chirping like a bird.

The fog was dispersing and was now illumined by the sun’s rays. A gentle warmth was weaving its way in through the drizzle, gently burning their skin. And the green infield of Midvág lay smiling among the figures created by the rising mist. Buttercups and cowslips shone golden in the grass. But every blade was still heavy with dew.

It was ebb tide now, but that was of no significance.

Barbara was happy; she took Pastor Poul by the arm and said that they should go up to the lake, to Sørvág Lake.

When they reached the brown heath, the sun was shining in all its splendour, and the heather and the earth became dry and good to walk on. Pastor Poul walked along pondering at what had happened. It was such an inconceivable joy to him that he could scarcely believe in it. The pearl had been found now, for God and Barbara had become reconciled.

But Barbara was not thinking so much. She was walking quickly and dancing about. She was a great sinner and Jesus was her friend. She was merely thinking that Pastor Poul was not happy enough. She walked close to him and held on to his arm and interlaced her fingers with his. Then she gave him a consolatory smile and said as though to a child, “You are a sinner as well, aren’t you, Poul? Yes, of course you are. We are both great sinners.”

Pastor Poul did not know whether to laugh or cry. He said “Alas!” and was both burdened and happy. And Barbara smiled and consoled him still more and was not far off turning to lies and saying that even if he didn’t owe 500 pence, the figure was rapidly approaching 450. But then she held back and gave him a sympathetic look. For in her heart she knew that he did not even owe 50. Poor, good Pastor Poul, she so loved him.

Pastor Poul had a feeling that her Christianity would not stand a theological test. But he merely smiled at the thought and remembered the words of the Scriptures: unless you turn and become like children… That tinder-dry book
The Treasures of the Soul
at home on his table had only confused his mind and hidden God’s true love from him.