Tamar Records presents Soja Smooth popularly known by his stage name Barrister Smooth in this evergreen Ijaw highlife music titled Everybody Go Enjoy This Life for free download.
I was a town child, it is true, but that did not prevent me enjoyingopen-air life, with plants and animals. The country was not so far fromtown then as it is now. My paternal grandfather had a country-house alittle way beyond the North gate, with fine trees and an orchard; it wasthe property of an old man who went about in high Wellington boots andhad a regular collection of wax apples and pears--such a marvellousimitation that the first time you saw them you couldn't help taking abite out of one. Driving out to the country-house in the Summer, thecarriage would begin to lumber and rumble as soon as you passed throughthe North gate, and when you came back you had to be careful to come inbefore the gate was closed.
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Next day, when I thanked him for the entertainment, I added: "But youmade game of me. You were not in it at all." "What? I was not in it? Didyou not see the old hag? That was I. Didn't you see the girl? That wasI." It was incomprehensible to me that anyone could disguise himself so.Mr. Voltelen must most certainly have "acted well." But yearsafterwards, I could still not understand how one judged of this. Sinceplays affected me exactly like real life, I was, of course, not in aposition to single out the share the actors took.
Still, progress was not always smooth. When I was small I had prettyblouses, one especially, grey, with brown worsted lace upon it, that Iwas fond of wearing; now I had plain, flat blouses with a leather beltround the waist. Later on, I was ambitious to have a jacket, like bigboys, and when this wish had been gratified there awoke in me, ashappens in life, a more lofty ambition still, that to wear a frock coat.In the fulness of time an old frock coat of my father's was altered tofit me. I looked thin and lank in it, but the dress was honourable. Thenit occurred to me that everybody would see I was wearing a frock coatfor the first time. I did not dare to go out into the streets with iton, but went out of my way round the ramparts for fear of meetinganyone.
Just about this time, when in imagination I was so great a warrior, Ihad good use in real life for more strength, as I was no longer taken toschool by the nurse, but instead had myself to protect my brother, twoyears my junior. The start from home was pleasant enough. Lunch boxes oftin with the Danish greeting after meals in gold letters upon them,stood open on the table. Mother, at one end of the table, spread eachchild six pieces of bread and butter, which were then placed together,two and two, white bread on brown bread, a mixture which, was uncommonlynice. The box would take exactly so many. Then it was put in the school-bag with the books. And with bag on back you went to school, always thesame way. But those were days when the journey was much impeded. Everyminute you met boys who called you names and tried to hit the littleone, and you had to fight at every street corner you turned. And thosewere days when, even in the school itself, despite the humanity of theage (not since attained to), terms of abuse, buffets and choice insultswere one's daily bread, and I can see myself now, as I sprang up one dayin a fight with a much bigger boy and bit him in the neck, till a masterwas obliged to get me away from him, and the other had to have his neckbathed under the pump.
It soon began to be said that Gerhard was not turning out well. Themanner in which he procured the money for his pleasures resulted, as Ilearnt long afterwards, in his sudden dismissal. But he had made someslight impression on my boyish fancy--given me a vague idea of aheedless life of enjoyment, and of youthful defiance.
But Henrietta had ways that I did not understand in the least; she usedto amuse herself by little machinations, was inventive and intriguing.One day she demanded that I should play the school children, small,white-haired boys and girls, all of whom we had long learnt to know, adownright trick. I was to write a real love-letter to a nine-year-oldlittle girl named Ingeborg, from an eleven or twelve-year-old boy calledPer, and then Henrietta would sew a fragrant little wreath of flowersround it. The letter was completed and delivered. But the only result ofit was that next day, as I was walking along the high road withHenrietta, Per separated himself from his companions, called me a dandyfrom Copenhagen, and asked me if I would fight. There was, of course, noquestion of drawing back, but I remember very plainly that I was alittle aghast, for he was much taller and broader than I, and I had,into the bargain, a very bad cause to defend. But we had hardlyexchanged the first tentative blows before I felt overwhelminglysuperior. The poor cub! He had not the slightest notion how to fight.From my everyday school life in Copenhagen, I knew hundreds of tricksand feints that he had never learnt, and as soon as I perceived this Iflung him into the ditch like a glove. He sprang up again, but, withlofty indifference, I threw him a second time, till his head buzzed.That satisfied me that I had not been shamed before Henrietta, who, forthat matter, took my exploit very coolly and did not fling me so much asa word for it. However, she asked me if I would meet her the sameevening under the old May-tree. When we met, she had two long strapswith her, and at once asked me, somewhat mockingly and dryly, whether Ihad the courage to let myself be bound. Of course I said I had,whereupon, very carefully and thoroughly, she fastened my hands togetherwith the one strap. Could I move my arms? No. Then, with eager haste,she swung the other strap and let it fall on my back. Again and again.
The Danish master, Professor H.P. Holst, was not liked. He evidentlytook no interest in his scholastic labours, and did not like the boys.His coolness was returned. And yet, that which was the sole aim andobject of his instruction he understood to perfection, and drilled intous well. The unfortunate part of it was that there was hardly more thanone boy in the class who enjoyed learning anything about just thatparticular thing. Instruction in Danish was, for Holst, instruction inthe metrical art. He explained every metre and taught the boys to pickout the feet of which the verses were composed. When we made fun of himin our playtime, it was for remarks which we had invented and placed inhis mouth ourselves; for instance: "Scan my immortal poem, The DyingGladiator." The reason of this was simply that, in elucidation ofthe composition of the antique distich, he made use of his own poem ofthe above name, which he had included in a Danish reading-book edited byhimself. As soon as he took up his position in the desk, he began:
For a time I based my ideas of the French mind and manner upon thismaster, although my uncle Jacob, who had lived almost all his life inParis, was a very different sort of Frenchman. It was only later that Ibecame acquainted with a word and an idea which it was well I did notknow, as far as the master's capacity for making an impression wasconcerned--the word affected.
There were several strophes of this heavenly poetry. Just because I soseldom met her, it was like a gentle earthquake in my life, when I did.I had accustomed myself to such a worship of her name that, for me, shehardly belonged to the world of reality at all. But when I was sixteenand I met her again, once more at a young people's ball, the glamoursuddenly departed. Her appearance had altered and corresponded no longerto my imaginary picture of her. When we met in the dance she pressed myhand, which made me indignant, as though it were an immodest thing. Shewas no longer a fairy. She had broad shoulders, a budding bust, warmhands; there was youthful coquetry about her--something that, to me,seemed like erotic experience. I soon lost sight of her. But I retaineda sentiment of gratitude towards her for what, as a ten-year-old child,she had afforded me, this naturally supernatural impression, my firstrevelation of Beauty.
I had certainly never acted as Petsjrin did, and never been placed insuch situations as Petsjrin. No woman had ever loved me, still less hadI ever let a woman pay with suffering the penalty of her affection forme. Never had any old friend of mine come up to me, delighted to see meagain, and been painfully reminded, by my coolness and indifference, howlittle he counted for in my life. Petsjrin had done with life; I hadnot even begun to live. Petsjrin had drained the cup of enjoyment; Ihad never tasted so much as a drop of it. Petsjrin was as blas as asplendid Russian Officer of the Guards could be; I, as full ofexpectation as an insignificant Copenhagen schoolboy could be.Nevertheless, I had the perplexing feeling of having, for the first timein my life, seen my inmost nature, hitherto unknown even to myself,understood, interpreted, reproduced, magnified, in this unharmoniouswork of the Russian poet who was snatched away so young.
The first element whence the imaginary figure which I fancied Irecognized again in Lermontof had its rise was doubtless to be found inthe relations between my older friend and myself (in the reversal of ourrles, and my consequent new feeling of superiority over him). Theessential point, however, was not the comparatively accidental shape inwhich I fancied I recognised myself, but that what was at that timetermed reflection had awaked in me, introspection, self-consciousness, which after all had to awake some day, as all otherimpulses awake when their time comes. This introspection was not,however, by any means a natural or permanent quality in me, but on thecontrary one which made me feel ill at ease and which I soon came todetest. During these transitional years, as my pondering over myselfgrew, I felt more and more unhappy and less and less sure of myself. Thepondering reached its height, as was inevitable, when there arose thequestion of choosing a profession and of planning the future rather thanof following a vocation. But as long as this introspection lasted, I hada torturing feeling that my own eye was watching me, as though I were astranger, a feeling of being the spectator of my own actions, theauditor of my own words, a double personality who must nevertheless oneday become one, should I live long enough. After having, with a friend,paid a visit to Kaalund, who was prison instructor at Vridslselille atthe time and showed us young fellows the prison and the cells, I used topicture my condition to myself as that of a prisoner enduring thetorture of seeing a watchful eye behind the peep-hole in the door. I hadnoticed before, in the Malm prison, how the prisoners tried to besmearthis glass, or scratch on it, with a sort of fury, so that it was oftenimpossible to see through it. My natural inclination was to act navely,without premeditation, and to put myself wholly into what I was doing.The cleavage that introspection implies, therefore, was a horror to me;all bisection, all dualism, was fundamentally repellent to me; and itwas consequently no mere chance that my first appearance as a writer wasmade in an attack on a division and duality in life's philosophy, andthat the very title of my first book was a branding and rejection of aDualism. So that it was only when my self-contemplation, and withit the inward cleavage, had at length ceased, that I attained toquietude of mind. ff782bc1db
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