pietists were marked by an incomprehensible love for their brethren. There was a great deal of repenting, as usual; there was sobbing and handwringing, done with an infernal zealotry. And the false doctrines were jammed down everyone’s throat with gospels and books of chronicles.
When we were done with confessing our sins, we would meet in the library. That gave my lord the chance to show off his Chinese curios and his collection of clocks from Bohemia. In the library the lights were kept dim, the voices were fervent. The fire crackled briskly in the fireplace, though not at full blaze, so that no one would mistake the warmth of the library with Whitsunday in Hell. The conversation was of Our Savior Jesus Christ, but also of his long-suffering disciples, with whom we were supposed to have a close relationship. The disciples were supposed to live inside of us, or so it was said. They ought to find their way into our prayers, they were supposed to be embraced, even loved, like Jesus himself.
On one particular evening in the library, the intention was for each of us to choose our favorite disciple and speak of the specific qualities he possessed. We were supposed to describe the light that emanated from the disciple and that had become engraved on each of our sins.
“And who have you chosen, Sørine?”
My lord placed a gracious hand on my shoulder and gave me a loving look—something he did only with the Bible on the table and a bottle of aquavit stashed in his inside pocket.
“I have chosen Judas,” I said.
My lord’s eyes turned glassy. He leaned back. His big hands lay dead on his knees. And during my speech he looked only at his guests, never at me.
I spoke with great sincerity about Judas—why I was fond of him; how I felt that he had been cowed and misunderstood. Judas was not a criminal; he had merely allowed himself to doubt. Judas had asked questions of the Savior—questions that the Savior could not answer. He had been critical instead of howling along with the wolves who were his companions. And it was there that the greatness of Judas resided: He saw through the duplicity around him. He was not a hypocrite, and that made him dangerous in the eyes of the Christians.
Judas also seemed the most intelligent of the disciples.
He was not filled with hatred like Paul; he was not a coward like Simon Peter. He loved Jesus with all his heart, but he had seen through the hollowness of the rebellion, because Judas was a thinker, not a fanatic. But did this lack of fanaticism make him a demon? Did he take the silver talents because he was greedy and avaricious? No, Judas took the money because he was weak, just as all of us are weak at one time or another. It had nothing to do with a lack of nobility of soul. Judas was simply something that was not often found in the Bible. He was a human being!
After my little speech there was silence in the library.
No one looked at me. The participants looked away or down. The silence was deep, almost mournful—as if they had all been witness to a soul’s fall from the heights.
My lord looked at me for a long time.
“Woe is you, Sørine, for you are treading in the footsteps of Cain.”
I met his glance, but there was no more to discuss. There was never anything else to discuss in the world of human beings. I was blasphemous, sacrilegious, inflammatory. And there was no place for someone like me in Jesus. Or in the absolute monarchy of Denmark.
RASMUS ÆREBOE IS once again the person who comes to see me in my cell.
I have no idea how long I’ve been sitting here. Time never has any meaning in the dark; maybe it has no meaning at all.
I’ve slept off and on, been awake for a while and played with a couple of gluttonous rats. I’ve named them, pampered them, and let them sleep in my lap, as rats should.
As a child I collected grass snakes. I found them down at the marsh and took them home to the parsonage, but my father killed them with a shovel. Then there was a period when I collected toads and shrews. My father turned them loose in a vain attempt to educate me. On the other hand, he was fond of horses, so I was supposed to be fond of them too. A horse, he said, was a “good” animal, an animal that ought to be enjoyed. Not merely as a utilitarian beast, but as a “holy” and poetic animal whose beauty was apparent to everyone who had eyes to see. Yet horses are anything but beautiful. And even for an animal they’re obtuse. I have observed them for years, and horses have a slavish temperament and a submissiveness that I find disgusting to a high degree. Add to that the fact that they can be tamed. If an animal can be tamed, I have no interest in it.
I have no interest in Rasmus Æreboe either.
He’s now standing here, holding a tallow candle and wanting my praise in order to rescue me. But I don’t want to be rescued. I’m done with running the gauntlet between tsars and Pharisees. Rather a public whipping at Torvet than the esteem of fools.
“Come with me, Sørine,” he says in his melodic voice.
I stay where I am, seated in my cell. Why does the human being think that his world is so attractive? Isn’t it possible that I feel better in the silence? Last night Terje visited me. He put his arm around me and called me his good wench, even though I had helped him on his way into the next world. Terje would never make an appearance in the Light. But in the Dark he came to me, bringing solace and relief. In the Dark he could slip away from God and whisper what he hadn’t been able to say when he was a scoundrel here on earth.
“We have a new dress for you.” Rasmus Æreboe smiles. “You’re going to have a splendid visitor.”
He turns around, expecting me to follow him.
Dwarves are always supposed to be grateful. We’re supposed to be grateful for every crumb we receive—for every flatbed cart that does not run us over; for every axe that does not chop off our heads. Dwarves are supposed to be grateful to live in a world where seven-year-olds outgrow us!
“What’s going to happen?” I ask.
The cavalier beams mysteriously but doesn’t answer. His eyes are a lighter blue than I remember. In spite of the scar on his forehead there is something virginal about his face. Against my will I wonder whether Rasmus Æreboe is married; whether he has children and a wife; whether his home is an earthly paradise with wig stands, a Bible, and chamber pots made of faience—whether Rasmus Æreboe is a puppet, a human being, or something else.
10.
THERE ARE LAVISH PAINTINGS OF VENUS IN THE KING’S audience chamber, paintings of mountainous landscapes in Italy with green silken rivers, of trumpet-blowing angels with light blonde curls lapping around their cheeks and throats.
I’ve often seen these paintings of Paradise—of angels comforting the saved with lyres and peaches. The angels are always looking up toward Heaven, even though they are in Heaven. Their eyes are light-blue like holy water, their arms are chubby, their penises so tiny that they could disappear in the beak of a blue titmouse.
But the pudgy angels are not the worst part. Even worse is their devotion to the Lord—a devotion that reminds me of certain Schnauzers. Why waste devotion on something so obscure? If you ask me, Our Lord should not be received with open arms, but with a hailstorm of questions. Paradise is and continues to be a form of bait—a heavenly hostelry with corpulent angels who deserve a good taste of the truncheon.
Paradise
