We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [128]
Still, there was no conflict between the minister and the rest of us. The inner circle of his congregation was made up of old women who devoutly slept through his sermons, and there was no hint of rebellion in its outer ranks either. We felt it was right and proper to have a minister, and as Abildgaard never questioned our way of life, our relationship was characterized by mutual tolerance.
"You really shouldn't call the farmers stupid," the minister persisted. "The farmers support the notion of public education, which I know you also favor. Just look at the adult high schools. But sailors—well, is anyone more superstitious? And the new radical newspaper in the town—why isn't that prospering if the sailing profession is, as you say, so very enlightened and informed about international affairs? And at election time, haven't you noticed that people here inevitably vote conservative? How do you explain that?"
Pastor Abildgaard's tone had become teasing.
"It's the concept of ownership," Albert said. "If the cabin boy has a hundredth share in the ship, that's enough to make him feel like a captain. He believes that their interests are the same."
"And what's wrong with that?" the minister went on. "Look at your own dictum. You've gone to the trouble of having it chiseled into fourteen tons of granite and unveiled to the sound of patriotic songs. Its message is precisely that there's strength in fellowship."
"I meant that in a socialist sense." Albert had grown irritated with the minister and wanted to rile him. "Where would this town be if its inhabitants didn't know how to unite? We have the second-largest fleet in the country, though the town itself, in terms of population size, is in hundredth place at best. We have mutual marine insurance, financed by the town's sailors. And we have the breakwater. No outsider built it for us. We did it ourselves. I'd call that socialism."
"Which is something to mention in my next sermon. I'll inform the staunchly conservative citizens of Marstal that they are, in fact, socialists. I normally find laughter in church inappropriate; however, I'll make an exception next Sunday."
Albert was aware that he wasn't acquitting himself well, but he refused to give up. For a moment it seemed as if his old fighting spirit had been rekindled.
"Take a sailor," he said. "He signs on to a new ship. He's surrounded by nothing but strangers. Not only do they come from other towns and parts of his own country, but often from completely different nations. He has to learn to work with them. His vocabulary's broadened, he learns new words and grammar, and he comes across new ways of thinking. He turns into a different man, unlike the one who spends his life plowing the same old furrow. These are the men the world needs, not nationalists and warmongers. I fear that this war will cut to the heart of a sailor's life."
The minister laughed again, ready with a new riposte.
"Yes, and then this cosmopolitan returns to Marstal, speaking in a broader Marstal dialect than ever, and claims that the farmer, simply because he lives a few field boundaries away, speaks a foreign language that no one understands. And therefore must be stupid. Yes, you've created a proper world citizen, Captain Madsen. I still prefer the nationalist. His sense of solidarity is more inclusive. It embraces high and low, farmer and sailor, as long as they share a language and a history. And I see no sign of this fellowship being destroyed in these unhappy war years. On the contrary, I think it's growing stronger."
Such a long time passed before Albert spoke again that Pastor Abildgaard, with a little feeling of triumph that he did his best to conceal, assumed that the conversation was over and prepared to continue his inspection of the exhibits. But