The moment he was out in the open he realized that the air in the house had been stuffy. It was an unspectacular April evening of no particular beauty, lovely only because it contained a promise of spring, in the way that a young girl has no need to be pretty. He thought to himself that since he had been allowed out that evening without too much trouble, he would take the opportunity of going for a walk along the seashore. How the dickens had he strayed into a meeting full of people discussing Pétur ríhross’s grandmother, and poured his heart out there? Obviously, all that talk about the millennium must have struck the people there as mockery, or at best as lunacy. He bit his tongue, but it was done now. In the evening stillness down by the sea, when he began to think about it honestly, he realized that he would never have spoken like that if the girl had not been there with those eyes. People had laid their problems before him and he had responded to their trust by romanticizing about a dreamland for a girl. What distressed him was that he felt he had stolen the girl from Jens the Faroese; he had sold the skipper an ordinary key to her heart, but he himself had opened it with a golden key so that she walked over to him in public and gave him her hand and spoke to him. The truth was that he had needed to reinstate himself in this girl’s eyes for having been turned back with the fish barrow that day. But had he the right any longer to keep the five krónur he had accepted from the skipper?
4
When he had walked far along the seashore and had turned back and was going past Veghús on his way home, he met the girl. She was coming from the meeting. He pretended not to recognize her in the twilight, raised his cap, and asked who it was, and she came over to him and gave him her strong hand once again.
“It’s me,” she said. “Jórunn.”
She stood very close to him, and he felt that this was a powerful girl who could probably carry him on her back.
“Please forgive me for shaking hands with you in front of everybody like that,” she said. “But my feelings sometimes run away with me, that’s my problem.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” he said. “You must forgive me, because I think I didn’t myself understand what I was saying.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I understood you. Other people understand one better than one does oneself. And poets think one’s thoughts better than one does oneself. I have written a novel, three hundred and fifty quarto pages—it’s called The Dream of Happiness — and that’s why I understood you. Even though I’m sensitive I do everything I can to understand others. So please forgive me for interfering at the fish yards today.”
“Ah yes,” he said, “I let myself be turned back. Perhaps that wasn’t right. But I reckon one has to do something for those who get pleasure out of turning people back.”
She gazed into the twilight thoughtfully for a moment, pondering this reply, and finally said: “How very mature you are! I’m not as mature as that. And yet I felt, when you were speaking tonight, that you were speaking from my own heart, at least in the way I used to think when I was small. In my novel there are a young man and a young girl who change a whole parish into a Dream of Happiness, just as in your speech.”
“I, too, have written a novel, called The Outer Isles Settlement, which is about two young men, friends, the one poor and the other rich; they couldn’t endure the world being so full of injustice and so empty of understanding for the individual, and so they went off in search of an uninhabited island out in the ocean, and found one, and settled there.”
“Were they alone?” asked the girl.
“Yes, more or less, at first. But there was another island close by, where an excellent couple lived with their two grown-up daughters. This couple also had settled in the Outer Isles in order to create a beautiful life in solitude. The young men now married the daughters, and at the end of the story the Outer Isles had become a perfect paradise on earth.”
“Just like my settlement, except that mine was larger,” said the girl. “I thought I would never meet anyone who thought the way I used to think when I was small. It’s strange to hear one’s fairest dreams from others. And moreover, you used the very words I have always wanted to say but never found. Do you mind if we take a short walk along the road?”
He turned with her.
“There’s one thing I’ve always taken very much to heart,” she said. “You see, I can’t write poetry. I’ve so often wanted to write a poem. But however hard I try, I can’t get the words to alliterate or rhyme, can’t find the right words either. What should one do to find the right words? For example, I’ve been trying to write a poem to a man now for the last few days; I know that the right word is there, somewhere, but no matter what I do I can’t get hold of it.”
“Isn’t that because you lack the right feelings?” asked the poet. “If you have the right feelings, the right word comes.”
“I’ve always had the right feelings,” replied the girl, almost resentfully, and the poet was afraid he had offended her.
“Do you love him?” asked the poet.
“Why do you ask so directly?” she said.
“If you love him, I shall write a poem to him for you; it costs one and a half krónur at the very most.”
“Do you believe in love?” she asked.
“What a question!” he said.
“Why are you being evasive?” she asked.
“It’s you who asks too directly,” he replied.
“He is ready to do battle with anyone at all,” she said.
“Yes, he’s undoubtedly a man after your own heart. I am quite sure you love him.”
“He has sent me a poem which could well have been written by himself,” she said.
“Indeed,” said the poet.
“He has a boat, and a house he shares with his mother, and money in the bank, no doubt. And has been sailing on foreign ships. And it doesn’t matter if he’s a little older than me. I never look at very young men. Do you ever look at very young girls?”
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Twenty-three,” she replied. “But when I wrote The Dream of Happiness I was only seventeen. For the last five years of my foster mother’s life, I had so much to do that I didn’t have time to write novels; I was keeping house for her.”
“House!” said the poet. “Yes, I understand that.”
They were at the gate of Veghús.
“You have turned me back,” he said.
“Thank you for seeing me home,” she said.
“Now I’ve let myself be turned back twice in the one day,” he said.
“ ‘One has to do something for those who get pleasure out of turning people back,’ ” she said.
“Never forget your Dream of Happiness.”
“I’ll never forget the pleasure it gave me to hear you speak. I shall go on thinking about it until I fall asleep.”
“Well, good-bye, and good-night.”
But when he had gone a few paces he stopped and called out, “Are we going to think about the poem at all?”
“Oh, I’d nearly forgotten all about it,” she said from her doorway. “Yes, let’s think about it.”
“How would you like it?” he asked.
“Any way you like,” she answered.
“Do you want it to be long?” he said.
“As long as you think suitable,” she said.
“Some people want to get as much as they can for their money,” he said.
“Let’s say three verses; it could be five, but on no account more than seven. But anyway, do it your own way.”
“True love needs few words,” he said.
“Who knows but that my love is so true that even poets cannot find the right words for it?”
“Then you wouldn’t have asked me to write a poem,” he said.
“You’re making fun of me now,” she said, and opened the door and went inside. He stood on the roadway outside the house without having understood her completely. It was difficult to write a love poem to Faroese-Jens, the way things
were now.
5
There was a light on in The Heights. It occurred to him that one of his intended’s cronies was with her, telling her that a young girl had shaken the poet by the hand in public. What could he say to excuse himself, not to mention if word had already reached her that he had been seen taking a walk with her in the dark? News traveled like lightning on this estate. But when it came to the bit, this was no gossipmonger. It was none other than Pétur Pálsson the manager himself who was sitting at the foot of the baby’s cot with his pince-nez on his nose and a gold chain across his paunch.
“Can you imagine it; this blessed man has come here to bring us a whole tin of life-giving vitamins for the child,” said his intended. “May my dear Jesus in Heaven reward these wonderful people now and always.”
“There’s no need to mention these trifles, my good woman,” said Pétur Pálsson the manager. “Are we not all true Icelanders?”
“Yes, I hope God grants we shall always remain true Icelanders for all eternity,” said the intended.
But the poet opened his eyes wide at this far-fetched prayer. “I don’t suppose one has the choice of being anything but an Icelander for the time being anyway,” he said, not without a hint of impatience at Pétur Pálsson’s unexplained presence.
“That’s what I like to hear from a poet’s lips,” said the manager. “I can see now that you’re a freeborn Icelander and not a pornographer.”
“I’m so terribly sorry not to be able to offer our blessed manager some coffee,” said the intended.
“Down with all poison!” said Pétur Pálsson the manager with a gesture of renunciation and disgust. “We Icelanders are descended from Nordic vikings who drank raw cod-liver oil to quench their thirst, yes, and didn’t mind the sediment, either. I know of old shark fishermen who were shipwrecked on the outskerries in winter and drank hot seal’s blood instead of brennivín. And these weren’t any Irish slaves, my lad, they were freeborn Icelanders from Iceland, who would never have dreamed of forming a Bletherers and Murderers Union against industry. Instead, they kept their aura pure.”
“Yes,” said the intended. “They were wonderful people, bless them!”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what an aura is,” said the poet. “And that’s because of my lack of books.”
“A poet, and he doesn’t know what an aura is!” said the manager in amazement. “Well, you don’t know much, I must say, my lad. My right-hand man and I, on the other hand, we know what an aura is, we’ve got a first-class book from England. One can tell from the aura whether people are true Icelanders or not; those who won’t make any effort for industry in these difficult times aren’t true Icelanders. Listen, you’re a poet; we need to compose a little something together. You see I’ve been thinking of writing a play; drop in and see me tomorrow or the next day and we’ll have a chat over a bottle of cod-liver oil. I hope you don’t use tobacco?”
“No,” said the poet. “I’m afraid not. And I’m probably missing a lot because of that.”
“No, no, no—no immoral views, my lad,” said the manager, holding his hand up to stop the poet. “The difference between a tobacco-less aura and a tobacco aura is like the difference between raw flatbread and a burnt pancake. That’s why we shouldn’t use tobacco. We ought to have ideals instead of tobacco. We ought to be patriots instead of tobacco men. But at the same time we have a responsibility to do something for culture here in Sviðinsvík. We lack high culture. We lack avant-garde culture. Listen, what do you say to having a cultural beacon erected here, to burn night and day in memory of órður of Hattardalur* or one of those sages of old?”
“Eh, who?” said the poet.
“Well, it could just as easily be someone else; we can always discuss that later. The main thing is to think up something to draw people’s attention away from the bletherings of the unpatriotic so that they don’t bring industry to ruin. Incidentally, how did that meeting go tonight? Was a union formed?”
“I don’t really know,” said the poet. “I heard someone or other mention a laborers’ union, but I left the meeting early and went for a walk along the seashore.”
“A laborers’ union!” said Pétur Pálsson the manager. “They must think I’m some sort of small fry! They must think they can intimidate me by creeping together into a lousy union which is basically an idlers and riffraff union. But they’ll soon see what’s what. Let me just tell you that if they form a laborers’ union, then I’ll form a craftsmen’s union, and if they form a craftsmen’s union then I’ll form a champions’ union. And if they think they can form a materialists’ union against me, I’ll just show them: I shall unleash such spiritual forces here in Sviðinsvík that they’ll have no need to call the doctor. We true Icelanders of Sviðinsvík must start fighting for a fine church. I’ve had someone in mind for that for a long time, old Jón the snuffmaker on the French site there, who really should have been dead ages ago and will be popping off soon with any luck, because he’ll undoubtedly be worth fifty thousand krónur when he dies, apart from what’s in the church fund already. In addition, we need to buy an airplane here in Sviðinsvík to elevate the people, or at least secure the use of an airplane. Here are two krónur for the child, Jara dear. But to digress for a moment, my lad, who d’you think is the leading idiot in all this? Hardly that rat of a parish officer? A man who was out having a look at the weather told me that that new wench from Veghús, who has had work in my own fish yards, was hanging around there. May I ask, do you think that Faroese-Jens, who’s an idiot and a rat, has had a letter from that damned fellow from Skjól, the one who lets his parents die off here like a couple of curs?”
“Örn Úlfar has been in a TB sanatorium,” said Ólafur Kárason.
“Yes, one should spit on them. These idlers and wretches who can’t be bothered working for themselves or for others, they all crawl off to a sanatorium. There they’re fed like lords and barons and have Marconi earphones on their heads at the country’s expense. But I’ll show him, that Irish slave, that anti-patriot whose parents I kept off the parish for ten years, if he’s sending letters here against me, yes, and even trying to worm his way into my own family, he’d better watch out, and those who are his friends had better watch out, too. I shall crush them, I shall grind them, I shall have their guts out, they’ll see! What we need here is a fine church with pillars and painted windows which reflect the history of this county back to the time of Guðmundur góði at least, who was caught in a storm at sea here and broke his leg. That’s what Sviðinsvík lacks. But as poets and idealists we also need to look ahead. A church alone isn’t sufficient, we must also have aviation.”
“As you know, I have always liked to call myself an idealist,” said the poet. “Nothing is so essential as elevating the people. But don’t you think it would be better to keep these two things separate, the church on its own and the airplane on its own?”
“What’s the difference between Christianity and aviation?” asked Pétur Pálsson the manager.
The poet could not answer that.
“You see, my lad?” said the manager. “You can’t tell me any difference between Christianity and aviation! Some say Christianity but not aviation, others say aviation but not Christianity. I say not just Christianity AND aviation; I don’t even hesitate to say Christianity IS aviation, and aviation IS Christianity. Listen, if you want some vitamins free of charge for yourself, just come to the shop and talk to my right-hand man. I can even get you some litmus ribbon from Germany to piss on.”
“Many thanks,” said the poet, and his intended prayed once more that Jesus would give the manager strength. “But as an uneducated poet of the people, I would very much like to ask you one thing, Pétur. What are we to do with an airplane here in Sviðinsvík?”
“What are we to do with an airplane?” said the manager, scandalized. “Are you quite right in the head, my lad? Can’t you understand what we’re to do with an airplane? We are obviously to fly in the air, man! An airplane,
that’s modern times.”
“I thought that modern times first and foremost meant having food and clothing,” said the poet.
The manager was flabbergasted. He opened his mouth, speechless, as if Ólafur Kárason had suddenly started quoting proverbs in Chinese, and in his amazement over the sound of this remote language, a dark muddy stream came welling out of one corner of the manager’s mouth and trickled in a curve down his chin.
“Say no more, my lad,” said the manager at last when he had recovered, and sucked the trickle back up into his mouth again. “It’s quite obvious where you’ve been this evening. There’s no concealing the spirit of the Russians. Their souls are frozen. But let me just tell you that poets who become Irish slaves had better watch out. There are no guarantors for poets, my lad. The poet’s house can be blown down. It can burn down. If you think that modern times means having food and clothing, you’re very wrong. Modern times means service; it means having a fatherland to starve for and to drown for if industry requires it. Modern times means being ready to give one’s last drop of blood for the nation’s history and future hopes. Modern times means not being a Russian. Modern times means not being an unpatriotic Irish slave. Remember what happened to Sigurður Breiðfjörð! Remember what happened to Jónas Hallgrímsson, my lad!”
“These are big names to be mentioned in such a little house,” said the poet. “I am ashamed. If they deserved to die of penury and hunger, hounded and mocked, then what am I worth?”
“All right, my lad; if you stop talking thoughtless drivel, you’ll come to no harm,” said the manager. “Because if we really examine what you were saying, who is there in Sviðinsvík who doesn’t have food and clothing? To the best of my knowledge I provide everyone with food and clothing. I’m a democrat. I’ve always been a good socialist. I’m in favor of all the latest scientific discoveries. I’ve just bought vitamins for the village for more than a thousand krónur. Let other estate owners beat that. What industry demands is labor conscription, not paid labor where people get into the habit of unpatriotic blethering and would kill us, the freeborn, if they could, just like Irish slaves, and sell Icelanders into the hands of Danes and Russians. Listen, what do you say to having the cultural beacon up on top of Óþveginsenni in memory of the settler Úlfur óbveginn (the Unwashed)?”
World Light Page 41
