8. Denmark

“LUCKY PER (LYKKE PER)” – Henrik Pontippidan. Translator Naomi Lebowitz.

I awarded this 4 stars on my Goodreads review.  4 stars grudgingly given, drawn out of me as Per’s long, frustrating quest for self-knowledge was dragged out of him.  This is a coming-of-age tale scandi-noir style; the antithesis of every Hollywood movie, laced with Northern melancholy and folk-myth.  I won’t be able to stop myself revealing spoilers here, so be warned.

In some ways this book was rather a cheat for my project, being set predominantly during the 19th century (although dates are never given) and published in 1898.  But it is undoubtedly a modern novel, it’s style a precursor to the 20th century rather than the Victorian era and, moreover, was described by various internet sources as THE Danish novel.  So it seemed worth a read, although I only managed to get my hands on a translation through someone else’s access to a university library.

The translator’s note explains that ‘Lykke’ means more than just ‘lucky’; I wondered if it had more of the meaning ‘happy-go-lucky’ by which we might think of a rather free-wheeling and carefree existence, although this is not exactly right by the end.  We meet Per as the wayward child of a provincial Danish pastor with a family history synonymous with Danish Protestant pietism. He rejects this life and the implicature of his family name, Sidenius, to train as an Engineer, a master of technology ready to shape and see in the might of the industrial age.  His saga sees him settle in many guises: the adopted son of a lower middle class Copenhagen couple, the frequenter of avante-garde cafes, continental traveller as the son-in-law of a rich cosmopolitan Jewish family, a rural Christian convert, provincial family man and finally ascetic hermit in the barren northlands.

We follow Per through these machinations and, if you are me, baulk at his temerity.  Per has, at various points in the novel, every opportunity to make a success of any number of potential lives: a cosy city life, a high flying front of a national engineering project, a happy father in a rural district.  But he does not. He turns his back on each of them in turn. By the time I was halfway through I was absolutely livid with him. I wondered what we were witnessing: why was I being subjected to the permanent prevarications of a conceited young man, who fixes obsessively on one goal and yet – at each step – refuses to see it through?  Eventually we learn that this is all in the service of Per’s self-discovery; that we are witnessing his struggle to understand his full self and the terms of his individual happiness. The translator’s afterword suggests this chimes with the more introspective of Europe’s 19th century philosophers: in particular Kirkegaard (appropriately and particularly in matters of Christian faith), Nietzsche, maybe even a bit of Schopenhauer (simply in the fact that it’s so bloody depressing).

By this time there are a trail of broken hearts, disappointed loves, fatherless children and missed opportunities.  I can understand it is supposed to be a tale of self-discovery and the importance of the individual, but it was hard to see it as quite so necessary for Per to show so little regard for other individuals and their self-worth.  While there are times that he harms them for what he sees as their own good, he simultaneously seems to see them as sacrifices to the determination of his own life: some eternal and ineffable life force, or luck, which provides for him in the most unexpected ways but for which he must give up some chances of happiness, never mind the feelings of the other person.  Too many people are thought of only in relation to himself, his own moral development and not as moral agents in themselves. They are pyres to his own sense of self-realisation.

Throughout the book I did not think Pontopiddan forgave Per for this.  Indeed, one of the strengths of the story is how richly the other characters are drawn, despite Per seemingly having so little regard for them and the effects of Per’s ill treatment are not airbrushed away. It would have been easy to draw Per’s nonchalance as the apotheosis of some Nietzschian mastery, and disregard for bourgeoisie morality, but I don’t believe this is what it’s trying to do.  Per is a halting and troubled character, contrasting with his ill-treated fiancee Jakobe. She is described in some write ups as one of the great female Jewish characters and I would like to think this is true: her Jewishness does partly define her (e.g. in making her conscious of the persecution and mistreatment she receives), yet it does not enslave her.  In rejecting all religion – in particular what she sees as the hypocracies of Christianity – she is able to see more clearly than Per and has the freedom to follow her own path. She is strong, forthright and determined where he is wayward, self-obsessed and conceited. She is not perfect and recognises her own weaknesses early yet is able to make plans and follow them through despite the prejudices and disadvantages afforded by her race and position.  Perhaps her biggest contrast with Per is her ability to turn the personal into both a practical and universal good: mourning the death of her child her maternal feelings latch onto the downtrodden children of factory workers which she turns this to good use, establishing charitable schools that provide for the children’s earthly needs. In many ways she is worth ten of Per, yet she is only a counterpoint to his life, another sacrifice for him to make.

What she lacks that Per does not is, as Naomi Lebowitz’s afterword puts it, she has a social but not spiritual sense.  The school is a primary example: the children are given no religious instruction, purely practical skills, education and cleanliness, to the chagrin of Per’s tight-laced brother.  But, to my reading, it is hard to see what we are to value with this ‘spiritual’ as opposed to other-regarding consciousness. Per’s spiritual sense leaves him with self-absorbed thoughts and the seeming freedom to abrogate all responsibilities: Jakobe and Per’s wife Inger are left with children to raise while he retreats into the wilderness and his own being.  Perhaps it is just my own lack of sympathy with the philosophies with which this novel is so concerned, but I fail to see the value here. At the end Per may find himself, but he makes nothing of his life, he leaves very little, he contributes nothing.

It was heavy-going, I would never read the book again.  It reminded me of reading “Crime and Punishment”, which I found to be aptly named; the experience was not enjoyable, but you can see why people still discuss it.  The characters were interesting and it got me thinking, as the best books should. Is a good life just doing good deeds, even if it’s against our nature, or is it facing up to our true self and living on our own terms?  I don’t know the answer, but it’s an interesting question to ask.