Finnusen spun it out, in his ode; that’s what the skalds in ancient times did, he said, or the authors of the sagas, I don’t remember anymore, however all you have to do is go and look in the autobiography, where I include his ode written first for me and then altered and adapted to Captain Jones, my jailer. That long poem was suitable for both of us, however. Of course Magnus went on at length about those ancient things, but he was very careful not to mention the people who were starving to death, because when they took down my flag, the blue flag with the three white stockfish that I had created for my liberated Iceland, and raised the Danish flag once again, the price of wheat rose along with it, and people started dying again.
In any case I managed to bring the ship into the bay, avoiding those rocks just under the water that the fog obscured. The clouds were torn here and there, rifts through which a very faint light rained down. White birds covered the dark cliffs like snow and rose up in flight, frightened by the ship—a snowfall that swirled thick and fast in the air and the land turned dark again.
The boat approached us when we were in the middle of the bay, in calm waters—broad, sunken faces under filthy fur hats, rheumy eyes, beards hacked with a knife, they stretched out their hands looking up with the moist eyes of a dog. I gave them some hardtack; one of them grabbed my hand with a glove that covered only his palm and the back of his hand, I shook those dirty fingers.
This story too they took away from me. Upon the return to London—the second return, when it was all over—taking advantage of the fact that I had been thrown in jail in Toothill Fields on charges of having left England without permission, breaking my word of honour, they printed not my book but those of Hooker and Mackenzie, which recount the Icelandic revolution in their own way. They had disposed of my manuscript, so I had to rewrite it and meanwhile the other books had already been published. Nearly identical to mine.
Even Magnus Finnusen, who three weeks earlier had been my bard, altered the ending of his ode, when I was deposed and arrested. Read it, Doctor—it’s even mentioned in the extensive book by that Dan Sprod—Vidimus seditionis horribilem daemonem, that would be me, armis succintum omnia abruere, atrum vexillum erexit dicens se pacem et libertatem adferre. What do you think of this Latin, Comrade Professor Blasich from the Normal School of Pisa and from the headquarters on Via Madonnina, you didn’t expect this Latin from up there, did you? And yet Latin was studied at the school in Bessastadir, along with Greek, Hebrew and theology. I immediately allocated a thousand dollars for the requirements of that glorious ancient school, with its venerable volumes, full of ancient stories that ended badly, and the Icelandic Bible—a thousand real dollars, taken from the Danish officials whom I deposed and forced to exchange that money for my pale blue banknotes, newly printed by my government along with my proclamations. I myself was the headmaster of that school, along with Bishop Videlinus and Provost Magnussen; I signed the decree for my appointment, and I knew what my responsibilities were.
All those books in the venerable library of Bessastadir tell stories that ended badly, dragons that futilely guard cursed treasures and are slaughtered, but gold is as fatal as the fleece and what happens to the hero who kills its guardian is worse than what happens to Jason; he is pure and invincible yet he will fall, treacherously betrayed, and his blood will call forth other blood, like the revolution—the reflux of blood strangles the lineage, the red kerchief constricts the throat, princesses are trampled by white horses. In those unchanging tales, the world, men and the gods run up against a great destructive conflagration in the end, so how could I expect my situation to be the only one to end well? All stories end up on the pyre ...
27
LET THEM SAY what they want, about me and my revolution; lies and denigration are what the revolutionary gets in return. But who is it now, hiding behind a pseudonym, dragging out that deposition of Captain Liston, which maintains that it was he who disarmed the guards of the Danish governor in Reykjavík, Count Trampe? We had just arrived from London the second time, on the Margaret and Ann. It was a Sunday in June, a low, wan sun dripped from the sky like blood from the pelt of an animal skinned and hung out to dry. I wanted to press the governor to proclaim free trade and thereby allow a little wheat to be sold to the spent Icelandic population at a reasonable price.
The governor’s residence was a white house, somewhat larger than the few others around there. In front of the door a pile of ice was melting, the smell of rancid fish and whale oil filled the air. I kicked the muddy pile and went in.
Three soldiers on guard duty were sprawled out on a bench; when I asked to speak with the governor, one of them told me to get lost, then, seeing my insistence, he stood up and was about to give me a shove, but even before he raised a hand I had already hit him, without quite realizing it; a blow to the neck and one to the stomach and he was now on the ground. Seeing the flash of a knife, which another man was pulling out, I snatched the fallen soldier’s pistol and, pointing it along with a sword I removed from the wall, ordered the three men, and two others who appeared at that moment, to get into a cubbyhole, where I locked them in, sliding the bolt.
The commotion hadn’t even really awakened Count Trampe, half asleep on a sofa in his office. He was mumbling and coughing and sputtering, not realizing what was happening, when I pulled him up, grabbing him by his coat and shaking him; I could smell his breath and his sweat, and he stared at me with watery eyes as I told him to consider himself a prisoner, and only then did Liston, who had lingered on the ship, arrive, just in time to grab a couple of other guards by the lapel, as they came back from religious services, stick them in the little room as well, take the governor away, amid some applause from the small crowd that had gathered in front of the house, and put him on board the Margaret and Ann, which fired a cannon shot as the Danish vessel, which had returned from Copenhagen with Count Trampe a short time earlier, hoisted the white flag on the other side of the bay.
Afterwards Phelps, Liston and Savignac—Hooker, later on, stated that he was not on board during those hours, but out collecting tufts of Trichostanum canescens, the snowy-white grass—talked privately for several hours, and finally proposed that I temporarily assume authority, given that I was Danish and therefore would not compromise England. They came ashore to tell me—I had not followed them onto the ship, I stayed to drink a few glasses of rum with my people, in Madame Malanquist’s tavern, the city’s only one—and on the following day, June 26, installed in the residence, I issued the first proclamation, with my name and seal. That we, Jorgen Jorgensen, have undertaken the management of public affairs, under the title of Lord Protector, until a settled constitution can be adopted, with full power to make war or conclude peace with foreign powers. That the military have nominated us their commander by land and sea. That all public documents of consequence shall be signed by my own hand, and my seal. (J.J.) fixed thereunto, until such time as the Representatives shall assemble and provide a proper seal. We promise to lay down our offices the moment that the Representatives shall be assembled. The time appointed for the convocation of the Assembly is the 1st of July, 1810; and we will then resign when a proper and suitable constitution shall be fixed on.
I would have done so, if they had given me time. I know that revolutions hardly ever do, but it’s wrong. If we realize it in time, we save ourselves a lot of trouble and a great emptiness in the heart. And it is declared that the poor and the common people shall have an equal share in the government with the rich and powerful. Free trade is sacred … The price of wheat shall be fixed subject to our unappealable decision … Danish officials and employees shall be removed from public offices, but shall be protected by the law of the free people of Iceland and anyone who harms a hair on their head shall be sentenced to death.
Revolution must be magnanimous; otherwise it’s no longer a revolution. If it begins punishing its vanquished enemies, even the scoundrels, it starts to enjoy it and never stops punishing, killing, it can’t stop; once the real enem
ies are killed off, it feels compelled to do away with those who didn’t want to kill them, then those who didn’t want to kill them right away, then still others, everybody, it must destroy itself and so it’s demolished. It’s happened so many times; its enemies, the enemies of the people, don’t have to do a thing, all they have to do is stand there and watch and wait for people to chop off their own heads. We must not allow this mechanism to be triggered; we must crush it immediately, before it takes hold, before it begins. This is why it is necessary to put to death anyone who wants to harm a hair of those parasitic, exploitative officials, even if they deserve it—however, the proclamation states, all sentences and acts of condemnation must be signed by us before they can be executed. It is indeed a guarantee; in fact I never signed one and no one was executed, in those three weeks. I even set Einersen free after two days, that Danish official who was attempting a counter-revolution. Whereas on the hills above the Ebro, and in Barcelona … the flag red, the fleece bloodied—That the Icelandic flag shall be blue, with three stockfish thereon, and the honour of it we promise to defend at the risk of our life and blood.
I opened up the old prisons, confiscated thirty muskets, organized a militia—one hundred and fifty volunteers stepped forward, I chose eight, more than enough for my army. I signed a peace treaty between Iceland and England; if the response from London had arrived in time, thereby recognizing my status as plenipotentiary, that Captain Jones, three weeks later, would have had to present me with his credentials instead of arresting me. But with those storm-tossed seas, the voyage is long and letters always arrive too late, when they’re of no use. Every letter reaches someone who is dead. Marie’s letters too—For that matter I am dead, buried somewhere in the park in Hobart Town. I don’t know where exactly, I don’t remember if I indicated it in my autobiography.
28
“IT’S YOUR TURN to cut the cards, if Your Majesty doesn’t mind.”—Are you trying to outdo those drunkards at the Waterloo Inn? At least there anyone can come and go when he wants to, maybe kicked out the door if he falls asleep under the table, but without having to ask all those permissions, like in here. Still, Doctor, your permission, or rather your order to play cards—okay, invitation, instruction, suggestion, whatever—is a fine thing and in the evening, when darkness rises at the windows like a tide, even a deck of cards helps to …
I enjoyed playing at the Spread Eagle Inn too, where I lodged after returning from Iceland. For one thing I liked the inn because of that carving on the door, an eagle spreading its wings over people as they come in and out. I also liked it because the landlord told me that that eagle, many years before, had been a figurehead, and that the last captain of the ship, a certain Barrow, had carried it off when the ship was sent to demolition, and given it to the owner of the tavern, whose name was changed from that time on. I liked looking at it. Of course, real figureheads are those in the form of a woman, a hand at her breast securing her dress which flutters and ripples like a wave, her astonished, dilated gaze focused on the sea and imminent disasters. The eyes of the eagle instead were those of a stuffed bird, round and furious at finding itself fallen from the sky, amid the chickens in the barnyard. This can happen even to those who sail. As long as you’re at sea you’re sovereign, and when you land you’re just a poor wretch, swaying like a trained bear.
Protector of Iceland, if you don’t mind, I say each time, dealing out the cards, a man of the people who protects the people from those who want to suck their blood. Who knows, however, who will now be dealt a nice king.
There, thirteen apiece, and now the last one, the jack of spades. So the suit, for this hand, is spades. The jack wears a cloak with a wide fur border and holds a kind of hooked halberd; it would be good for accosting a ship, for grappling a rail. The hook darts through the air and harpoons the side of the vessel, with a leap you’re on deck, like that first time in Algoa Bay; the smell of burnt gunpowder, the sword rises, flashes for a moment in the sun and strikes fiercely, a large red rose spreads across the chest of the French officer who falls and looks up, mouth open, eyes wide, dying is the most natural thing in the world but it always comes as a surprise.
Well, Doctor, card playing is a fine thing as you too know, since from time to time in the evening you hand us these cards. It’s good to shuffle them quickly; you don’t think about all those sorrows anymore, numbers and images blur in a whirling kaleidoscope—Yes, I’ll deal them right away, just a moment, please, let me catch my breath—Too many cards, too many images, too many things. Clear out, give me some air. This is another reason why I like to answer your questions, by doing so I feel like I’m letting things out of my head—but then they come back, they crowd in, not even a corner is left for me. In Iceland there’s such emptiness, such whiteness; you can breathe deeply.
29
RIGHT, ICELAND. As soon as the most pressing matters were taken care of, I decided to visit the country, to travel across it as far as the northern coasts, to get to know my people. Before leaving I dutifully paid a visit to Magnus Stephensen, former governor and supreme magistrate, on the island of Videy. The old man, wearing a scarlet gown with blue trousers and a sword with silver studs, greets me, murmuring solemn good wishes for the dangerous journey or perhaps, in his heart, even wishing that I will meet my death in a crater—you never know with these old men, the venerable white hair and beard are like the wig of a judge or a ship’s captain, all it takes is a few shillings to procure one and it’s easy enough to rip it off and expose that obscene bald pate to public ridicule—unspeakable vices, naked flesh is a disgrace, it’s a mystery how a woman isn’t disgusted by that erect member and that glans that pops up smooth and hairless.
Stephensen, rigid, chest out, gave me two silver buckles and a snuffbox made from walrus tusk, and to return the kindness I appointed him governor of the island of Nyö, with profits deriving from the fishing along its coasts, declaring the Danish government at an end. It doesn’t matter to me that the island, which emerged in 1783 due to earthquakes and volcanic eruptions that year, quickly sank again before the Danish fleet arrived to take possession of it in the name of the King, finding only icy, leaden waters upon their arrival. Although at the time a Captain Olafsen, from Aarhus, had planted the flag only on water, I nonetheless declared Danish rule to be officially ended, because a proclamation, even if only to the deserted seas, is an official act and must be revoked properly. The islet might re-emerge, just as it sank, and if so Stephensen will be able to install himself on the island newly risen from the sea and still dripping, fish running off with the last of the waters. When the old man waves his farewell, holding my seal that I thrust in his hand, a cod on a blue field, I am already far away.
30
I STARTED OUT with six men, but it was too many, almost the entire army, and once in Bessastadir, after paying tribute to the old school and to Bishop Videlinus, I sent five of them back home. One is more than enough. Indeed, I would gladly even do without him, but a leader needs a subordinate, at least one. The revolution has not yet been completed and until that time we are not all equal. Even in the Fifth Regiment I was me and Commander Carlos was Commander Carlos.
Before advancing into the interior of the country, I had six cannons, one hundred and fifty years old, moved from Bessastadir and mounted on a dilapidated fortification, Fort Phelps. The old cannons look out at the deserted sea; waves pound the dark cliffs, thunderous and deafening, birds soar up screeching, the mist of the spray rises like smoke in battle. The rock face is stauncher than the broadside of a warship; cannon balls would smash against it in vain and even the bombardment of the water falls back ineffectual, shattered, but the sea persists, assails, batters, erodes and consumes the cliffs, which slowly, very slowly surrender, disintegrate. Each wave that plunges back into the sea carries with it a bit of crumbled stone; the battle is drawn out but undoubtedly lost, sooner or later the land will be swallowed up and the sea will be the only ruler in the world, an immense expanse, empty and unvaryin
g, the Flood’s triumph. I felt lighthearted; I would have liked to have the cannons fire at the towering waves, a solemn, cheerful boom that re-echoes all around, but if those rusty cannons failed to fire, it would have been a nasty blow to my reign.
31
YES, MY FRIEND, my reign. Only for three weeks, but enough to realize, for once in my life, what it means to command. Not even three weeks, ten days to be precise—I checked, it’s correct—ten days of that regal journey of mine amid deserts and volcanoes. Maybe not even ten, but three, when I was actually alone. It’s only solitude that confers legitimate authority. Me and the frozen expanses. As long as you’re among others, you’re a puppet, and if you have to command it’s even worse; every order you shout is based on tacit compromises and favours, even if you don’t realize it.
Those who give orders delude themselves that they are in command. Like the Kapò in Dachau, who thought they could escape death by doling it out, who shouted and beat us, driving us into the yard for roll call with their blows. Emil, the Kapò in the crematorium, thought it was a sign of great authority to personally put the noose around the neck of the condemned man whom he was hanging from the rafters and make him flail his legs a minute; he was satisfied and proud of it. It’s no accident that Dachau was established in 1898 as an institution for the feeble and mentally ill, idiots and cretinoids, says the plaque placed by Prince Starhemberg to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of the reign of Franz Joseph. Hitler perfected it in 1932, transforming it into a concentration camp. Another plaque, Dachau, a school of higher learning for the SS. The same thing, idiots and cretinoids.
Even God’s authority collapsed when he renounced infinite open spaces and had to start handing out commandments and prohibitions, forced to punish or negotiate when they were sidestepped. I order Brarnsen to ride behind me, that way I can’t see him and I feel more solitary, more like a king, in my uninhabited domains.
Blindly (The Margellos World Republic of Letters) Page 14
