The sheriff came over the mountain with seven horses and his clerk, because tomorrow there was to be a court of inquiry. He stayed with Pétur the manager as usual. Ólafur Kárason worked away furiously and composed a solemn congratulatory ode to Science and the Soul on the occasion of their visit to the village, hoping that these two parties might find one another in Truth, without venturing to define their nature any more closely. An icy shiver of excitement went through him every time he remembered that the sheriff himself, the man who stood as far above parish officers as parish officers stood above parish paupers, was to listen to this poem, and in the evening he had no appetite, only nausea.
He had the poem in his pocket and was waiting the whole time for the poetess to ask to hear it, but she did not ask. On the other hand she offered to cut his hair so that he would appear before the gentry as an intellectual, and this he accepted. She lent him her husband’s Sunday-best trousers and jersey, but there was no jacket to fit such a slender man.
“How lucky the manager is to have got himself a poet in my place,” she said.
“Aren’t you invited?” he said.
“I’m not spiritual,” she said. “I’m grateful just so long as I’m allowed to stay in a barn loft.”
Then he said, “I do so want to let you hear my poem.”
“I don’t want to hear it,” she said. “Not before it’s in ashes.”
“I don’t understand you now,” he said.
“Poems are best when they’re in ashes,” she replied roundly. “When the lettering is faded and the book burnt, only then does the worth of the poem come to light.”
“Still, I’m quite sure that I’ve seldom or never succeeded so well with a poem before,” he said.
“If you succeed in writing it into the heart of the nation, then it’s a good poem,” she said. “There is no other yardstick.”
She finished cutting his hair. She looked at him with her distant smile, and the evening sun shone through the window. He did not understand her and could not bring himself to say any more, because he felt that in conversation with her he became more stupid than in conversation with other people: those deep, sincere eyes that saw everything but said nothing. But the riddle remained: how was it that Pétur the manager was spiritual, while the poetess was not?
15
The gentry sat in plush armchairs in the manager’s best room; the sheriff sat facing the door with his hands clasped and twiddling his thumbs, his paunch flowing over his thighs, his fat official’s cheeks calling to mind that part of the body which is considered the least related to the face. The pastor incessantly brushed the dust off himself and snorted, his worsted suit threadbare from decades of brushing. The gaunt secretary, bespectacled, sat beside his master, Pétur the manager, swallowing saliva, the movement of his Adam’s apple the only certain sign of life in him. The doctor sat hunched in a chair in front of his wife and stared out into the blue with the swimming eyes of a man who had long ago stopped knowing whether it was night or day. If a spoken word, or a passing face, provoked an association of ideas in his mind so that he felt a desire to express himself, his wife put her hand to his mouth at once and said “Uss!”; whereupon the doctor said “By God,” and laughed in a mixture of bad temper and silliness and tried to bite her, but not hard.
On a row of broken-back seats, three-legged stools, and folding chairs that had been brought in for the occasion, sat three widows and four women who had recently lost their children, and who never moved a muscle, but sat staring straight ahead with an expression of petrified auguish as if their throats were about to be cut. One of them was the woman from Skjól.
The room had been arranged in such a way that those attending the meeting formed a circle. And in the middle of the circle, between the sheriff and the manager, there in a crimson dress and brand-new shoes as if she were going to a Churchyard Ball, with a string of pearls and a diamond ring, sat órunn of Kambar, the spirit-girl herself, ambiguous, semi-albino and crystalline, sniffing innocently. There was no seat there for the poet, Ólafur Kárason of Ljósavík, and nobody noticed his arrival except the manager’s lean, taciturn wife, who said he could stand by the wall in the corner behind the door.
Since no others were expected, the manager began his speech. When he had given the sheriff a particularly warm welcome to this inaugural meeting, which he said would mark a new epoch in the village, he turned at once to the kernel of the matter. He set forth once again the views which were no longer entirely unfamiliar to Ólafur Kárason, that nothing was nearly so important in this life as science, above all the science which was devoted to proving the existence of an afterlife. He said that the higher powers had become so tangible nowadays that even doctors and pastors no longer needed to feel offended, or feel put upon, even though the influence of intelligent agencies on human life was demonstrated beyond doubt. (The doctor, from out of his drunken stupor: “What are angels—birds or mammals? By God!”)
“It gladdens me that our learned and distinguished doctor is no exception to this rule; he is both bird and mammal and angel in one and the same person, if I may put it that way. As for the pastor and Christianity, on the other hand, I would take the liberty of pointing out that we all know that the church has declined disastrously in Sviðinsvík and elsewhere over the past few years, to such an extent, even, that it has proved impossible to scrape up a congregation for services except twice or thrice a year at the most—for confirmation, Holy Communion, and Christmas Day; and sometimes it hasn’t even proved possible to drive people into church at Christmas.”
The manager said that the cause of this religious apathy was not that God had ceased to exist nor that we had an incompetent pastor. “No,” said the manager, “God is eternal, and he certainly exists. And as for our pastor, I shall be the first and last to testify to the fact that it would be difficult to imagine a better comrade and guide in everything that concerns the prosperity of this village and its regeneration.
“On the other hand, the mood of the times is for science, not faith, and this is something no one can change, however good a pastor he may be, and indeed our own pastor has been the first to realize that the mood of the times demands proofs instead of sacraments, a tangible assurance of the soul’s speedy and decisive victory immediately at death instead of vague promises of an uncertain resurrection on the Last Day. But it would only be half the pleasure to see the learned men of the county gathered here to establish a scientific research society, if behind the founding of this society there were not other pillars, I am tempted to say even stronger pillars, and by that I mean the nation itself, the people. By accepting our invitation to participate, the public has shown that it, too, is ready to honor the highest visions of science. It is with very special feelings, which I find it very difficult to describe, that I take the liberty of welcoming to this meeting the nation, the public, these poor and uneducated mothers and widows. Because for whom is science, the true science, the only essential science—spiritualism? It is for the poor, uneducated women of the people. It is chiefly for our wretched, blessed, poverty-stricken widows and mothers who have had to watch their loved ones depart to a better world in more or less harrowing ways. Because religious faith cannot show these destitute people that existence is by nature divine, then science must do so, and though we may have to do without some trivial things in this world, happiness awaits us in the Summerland to which our loved ones have gone before us. . . .”
“Give me another drink!” bawled the doctor, and bit his wife. “Give me some more of that damned poison!”
“Patience, my dear fellow,” said Pétur Pálsson the manager. “And you, dear friends who are gathered here tonight—what was it I was going to say again? . . .”
“Mm—the English lord, English lord,” whispered the secretary, after swallowing carefully.
“Yes,” said the manager. “The English lord. It so happens that a famous English lord of noble rank, apart from the fact that he is a world-famous lawyer, profess
or and doctor, and really a most excellent man, hmmmm . . .” And the manager bent down to his secretary again and asked in a half-whisper, “What was his name again?”
“He’s called Oliver Lodge,” said the secretary. “Mm—Sir Oliver Lodge.”*
“His name is Sir Ólafur Lodds,” continued the manager, “and he has established with absolutely irrefutable evidence how earthly men can communicate, through mediums, with another world. This has revolutionized religious life in Great Britain and in America, and in a few years has transformed churches into purely scientific institutions. There are six hundred churches in England and I can’t unfortunately remember how many in America which have changed into scientific institutions in this way in a very short time, to which millions of people flock every Sunday to receive proofs instead of sacraments. In the old days people fiddled with tables and glasses, but people stopped using inanimate objects long ago, and now one can get direct communication while the medium is in a trance and can speak to anyone one wants just like through a modern telephone exchange. There are even several instances from both England and America of the Creator of the world and the Savior being heard through a medium.”
Finally the manager gave the village the glad news that it had now secured a medium with spiritual gifts of the highest order. “So now it will be within our power to seek information from a higher world whenever we are in difficulties, and receive comfort from our dear departed ones and from world-famous spirits in the Summerland when sorrows and cares afflict our homes.
“This girl, as some of you in the village probably know, has been in contact with supernatural powers and higher beings for some time, and many people in this part of the country have given evidence under oath that they were cured of various incurable illnesses through her mediation. But of all her cures, I reckon the most remarkable was that she as good as raised from the dead that young, promising, and poetical parish pauper standing over there in the corner behind the door, who has come here tonight at my request to present himself before this esteemed company and bear witness to the necessity for spiritualism, not only by his presence but also with a poem I have permitted him to write.”
At this point the doctor began to retch, and the manager’s wife slipped out to fetch a pail. The doctor’s wife held her husband’s forehead while he vomited, gave him water to drink when he had finished, made him comfortable in his chair, and spread a handkerchief over his face. There was a pause in the proceedings while the doctor was vomiting, and the promising young rhymester, parish pauper and miracle-ninny stood behind the door shaking with terror at having to make a public appearance at a scientific society. But then the sheriff stopped twiddling his thumbs for a moment and said that as things stood in this parish at present, esteemed members would doubtless have quite enough of seeing this parish pauper and knowing that he had been woken up from the dead at their expense, without having to start listening to him reciting poetry into the bargain, and anyway poetry had no place in a scientific research society; he permitted himself to hope that the experiments would start as soon as possible.
At that the manager said that the sheriff was quite right, they did not have time to listen to poetry tonight. “In a scientific society the only poetry that has any place is that which can produce proofs. British psychologists reckon that nothing is better suited to producing proofs than hymn-singing and the Lord’s Prayer, and that’s why I have asked everyone to bring their hymnbooks; but I hope most of you know a few bits of the Lord’s Prayer already.”
The manager now began to play the harmonium and asked the company to sing. órunn of Kambar had the lamp turned down. “Praise the Lord, the King of Heaven,” all verses. The doctor was out for the count with the handkerchief over his face. órunn of Kambar settled herself comfortably in the armchair, took off her shoes, stretched her legs out on the floor and closed her eyes. By the time they reached the middle of the hymn her body began to twitch, she started gasping a little for breath, and a series of rattling noises and small cries came from her throat. When the last verse of the hymn was over she said thickly, “Put out the lamp, and turn your thoughts to the light.”
The light was extinguished and they began to say the Lord’s Prayer. “Again!” whispered the manager in near ecstasy, and the Lord’s Prayer was recited over and over again. When the Lord’s Prayer had been recited about twenty times, Pétur whispered, “Little órunn, órunn dear,” but she didn’t reply. “Are you awake, dear little órunn?” asked the manager, “or have you fallen into the trance?”
Silence.
“She has fallen into the trance,” said Pétur. “Now we must sing and sing, and remember to call for light and strength from above the moment contact is made.”
A few more hymns were sung, and the Lord’s Prayer was recited a bit more. All of a sudden an unfamiliar man’s voice, but not particularly deep, was heard through the prayer: “Good evening, hallo.”
“God be with you,” said Pétur Pálsson the manager.
“I am Friðrik the elf doctor in the next world,” said the voice. “Some say I am one of the Hidden People, but that’s due to a misunderstanding at the beginning. I am a spirit. I am the son of love and the friend of the light. Hallo and welcome my dear sheriff, and may the light be always with you. Welcome, welcome, Pétur Pálsson, my dear manager. The light is always trying to shine more and more upon you. And all hail and good wishes to you, dear Pastor Brandur Jónsson, minister and rural dean of the deanery of Sviðinsvík . . .”
Friðrik continued to address all those present in this way, in theological vocabulary and prodigiously Christian speech; but he got a little mixed up over the widows and mothers. Finally it was the poet’s turn, and this was the only greeting which was not couched in flowery theological language: “It is you whom I greet with sorrow,” said the elf doctor.
“Oh, why is that?” said the manager, who took it upon himself to reply on behalf of the poet.
“He is without gratitude in his heart,” said Friðrik.
“It’s strange to have no gratitude in his heart for being allowed to live,” said the manager.
“I want him to speak for himself,” said the elf doctor. “I don’t want others to speak for him. Speak, Ólafur Kárason, say where you are.”
“I’m here behind the door,” said the poet in a small voice.
“We must have gratitude in our hearts,” said the elf doctor. “And spiritual maturity. And lift our minds from base things, lift them to higher spheres, search for the right current. Not to think of ourselves but to raise ourselves to the light and love one another like invisible beings in space. If we do that we shall achieve gratitude in our hearts. And spiritual maturity. And shall get the right current like the invisible beings in space. That’s why we ought to go to visit those who have contact with higher spheres, and show them gratitude. One mustn’t talk much to the girl standing in a doorway, because she has a bad influence on spiritual maturity. She has a base current which ruins the right heart-current. She robs the wealth of the heart. She kills the light of the heart.”
“What a hell of a lot the spirit’s got to say to this boy,” said the sheriff, rather displeased.
“Friðrik dear,” said the manager, interrupting. “Can’t you produce some proof for the authorities as quickly as possible, my dear friend?”
“There’s a tall, dark-haired woman standing behind the sheriff,” said Friðrik. “Now she’s laying her hand on his shoulder and leaning down over him, I almost think she’s going to kiss him. Does the sheriff recognize her at all?”
“She shouldn’t be very tall if it’s her,” said the sheriff.
“Did I say tall? I thought I said small, at least I meant that she was small,” said Friðrik. “That’s to say, a little under average height.”
“Can you give me proofs about yourself, my dear?” said the sheriff gently.
“Why did you have the sofa in the drawing-room moved over to the other wall, dear?” came a weak whisper.
> At that the sheriff recognized at once that this must be his first wife, and started to explain why the sofa had been moved, and apologize for it. “But how are you feeling, anyway, dear?” he asked.
“Oh, I’m feeling so wonderfully well,” said the sheriff’s first wife.
“Can you let me touch you?” said the sheriff.
“No,” said the sheriff’s first wife. “I have long since lost my wretched, neurasthenic earthly body. And besides I haven’t time, there are so many others here waiting to make contact tonight. But perhaps I’ll be able to borrow a strong, good body somewhere, some time, and then I shall let you touch me as much as you like, but you mustn’t tell Jóhanna your second wife about it, because then she’ll send me a bad current. We must have spiritual maturity. Good-bye.”
“Isn’t that a wonderful proof?” said the manager.
“Yes,” said the sheriff. “Particularly the bit about the sofa.”
Soon came the husbands of the widows; they kissed them in the dark and tried to comfort them with assurances of how good a life they were leading in the Summerland. One had nothing to do but wander up and down through orchards and pick flowers and fruit the size of lumpfish, instead of carrying rocks on the beach at Sviðinsvík; and those who wanted to could build themselves palaces from different light rays when they had nothing better to do.
The women wept, each one harder than the next, and one of them in particular was inconsolable and kept on crying, “Grímur, Grímur, the cow died this winter, I wish I could come to you with the children, we don’t have any potatoes left!” Another said, “You must remember our Númi here; it was on her that you broke your back just before you died. Now she’s sunk. She sank last night.”
World Light Page 27
