He had certainly realized for a long time that she and God were allies, but though he was sorely tried he could never bring himself to utter a wounding word to a grief-stricken human being and her God. And moreover it could well be right, however hard it might be to understand, that it was advisable for a poet not to go sliding on the ice with a carefree young girl.
She often stayed up late at night, knitting for him, or sewing new clothes for him out of old garments she got hold of, and there was never a crease or a speck to be seen on his clothing, let alone a hole; she never tired of washing, she enveloped him in an atmosphere of soft soap. And many was the tidbit she came by for him both late and early. But it was not long before he discovered that she was keeping a constant watch on him. During the daytime when he was teaching he would suddenly see a glimpse of her at the living room door; when he was at the next farm giving religious instruction it happened more and more frequently that she would be waiting for him at the homefield fence of the next farm or behind the farmhouse, and then she would lend him her protection on the way home. But when the days began to lengthen and the realm of the sun expanded, he was often overwhelmed by a throttling melancholy, like a prisoner. The mountains called him and said it was better for a poet to die of exposure in their embrace than to live as a slave on a farm. The summer sky used every opportunity of whispering to him like a dangerous lover who is trying to entice a young girl all day. Even the late-winter snowstorms were just the lover’s disguises and strategems. The poet Grettir Ásmundarson* lived in the wildlands and died on an uninhabited island, but earned himself immortality thereby in the hearts of the nation.
One day when he was on his way back home he overtook one of the girls from his confirmation class. She was carrying a sack on her back. He thought she was too slender to carry the sack, but did not know whether it was morally right for him to take any notice of it. Until now they had had no other communication than matters concerning Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. There was a storm blowing up.
“What’s in the sack?” he said.
“Mussels,” she said, panic-stricken, because her religious faith depended upon this man.
“I’ll carry the sack for you; the wind could blow you over,” he said.
“No, thanks,” said the girl.
“You’re much too slender to carry such a heavy sack in bad weather,” he said.
She was called Stína. Her farm lay halfway between the sea and the mountain. Her clothes were much too thin, and her stockings were hanging down her thin legs. The wind was straight in her face; she seemed to get thinner and thinner the harder it blew. He took the sack from her and took her arm.
That was all.
“What people are you walking arm-in-arm with beyond the homefield in the middle of the day?” asked Jarþrúður.
“People?” he said. “It wasn’t any people. It was just one of the girls from my confirmation class. Her name is Stína.”
“That’s all I needed, to have to watch you behaving in such an unchristian way with one of your confirmation girls before the very altar!”
“How can you possibly speak the way you speak,” he asked, “about an innocent little girl?”
“Oh, they’re certainly not so innocent as they pretend,” she said. “They’re all dirty sluts descended from dirty whores, and they don’t know the meaning of shame. They’ll accommodate strangers on the highway long before they reach puberty, and both Jesus and God know that if I meet that nasty little worm I’ll give her ears such a warning that she’ll remember to leave people alone next time.”
In her eyes, only Ólafur Kárason existed, and the rest of the world was an unending collection of whores; life was a battle in which she fought single-handed against this unappetizing army of enemies; day in, day out, all the womenfolk of the world, both young and old, besieged this frustrated Hallgrímur Pétursson, her poet, in a ceaseless effort to seduce him. He turned away from this woman, his mouth dry and his throat twitching, and walked over to his outhouse and began to put his books into a sack along with a few clothes. When he was almost ready to leave, she came in and asked him what he was doing.
“I’m going,” he said.
“Where to?” she said.
“Away,” he said.
“Away from me?” she asked.
“Yes,” he replied.
First of all her face emptied, then it was shaken by spasms, and finally it disintegrated in weeping.
“I who was ready to die for you,” she said.
“There’s no need,” he said. “I’m going to die for myself.”
“What am I to die for, then?” she said.
He said, “For your God.”
Her strength gave out then. She sank to her knees in front of him as if before an idol, clasped his knees, buried her face against him and whined: “Even though I’m nothing but a worm beneath your heel, I am nevertheless carrying your child.”
The cold cruelty of the freedom-fighter had seized him suddenly like a flash of madness, like poetic inspiration that turns all obstacles into trifles, all fetters to dust; he had seen the mountains, the resort of the fugitive, rearing up in all their glory, and was ready to trample one worm underfoot. But at her words he saw light. To trample one worm underfoot was to trample all worms underfoot. And he saw once again where he stood. He felt as if he changed suddenly from one substance into another. The fear of hurting was once again dominant in his being—the desire to please. He looked back as he softened, and saw himself splitting in two: the freedom-fighter, the madman, the villain and the poet were left behind in the distance, and forward stepped the socially conscious, Christian, boring and unpoetical man, the warrior who could not toss children on his spear point, the meek adherent of conventional orthodox behavior. He took his things out of the sack again, the books and the clothes, and put them back in their place; besides, it was getting late, and there was a din of worsening weather from the mountains.
8
This notice was pinned to the telegraph pole:
Icelanders! You are the descendants of Nordic vikings! Down with Irish slaves!
Long live the commonwealth of Iceland even though civil order needs to reduce wages! Be freeborn!
All those who own a cabbage patch or a boat—defend your nationality! We demand war against the Danes and Russians!
Support the True Icelanders in their crusade for aviation in Sviðinsvík! Down with the unpatriotic!
We want to build a great church in Sviðinsvík and erect a cultural beacon! Down with the pornographers!
Remember to keep the aura pure!
The Committee.
NB. Cod-liver oil for children is on sale at give-away prices at My Shop. Also vitamin pills. Vitamins are the life-giving substances of modern times. P. P.
Early in the morning, when the poet’s intended, Jarþrúður Jónsdóttir, was about to hurry off to her work at the fish yards as a true and freeborn Icelander, the poet Ólafur Kárason was standing in the doorway.
“I want to ask you to stay at home, today, Jarþrúður dear,” he said quietly.
She looked at him speechlessly for a moment, and then she said, “Am I to believe, Ólafur Kárason, that you are siding with those who would rather obey men than God?”
“It could well be, Jarþrúður dear, that God wants people to work for the old wages and is against people working for the new wages. But I’m sure that if God and men quarrel, then happy the one who stands aside from that quarrel.”
The power that caused this neutral poet to bar his intended’s way when she was trying to become a True Icelander was stronger than his deep-rooted desire to please and his fear of hurting. Without any conscious logic, as if by some secret instinct and yet with the irrefutable certainty of revelation, it had come to him that it was wrong to go to work at Pétur Pálsson’s fish yards today, and right to stay at home.
“Stand aside from that door, or else I’ll call down God’s anger on this house,” said the intended.
“Well, then,” he said, “let your God do to this house what my God has always tried to abstain from.”
It is more than likely that fisticuffs would have broken out elsewhere that morning if a remarkable thing had not happened to divert the attention of the village from its disputes. The Danish warship Valur had pulled off the unbelievable exploit that very night of catching a foreign poacher within territorial waters. It was a British trawler. Just as matters were coming to a climax on land, the Danish fishery patrol boat steamed into the anchorage at Sviðinsvík with the culprit in custody. Pétur Pálsson the manager had already killed the fatted calf and put on his best morning coat by the time the Danish ship had cast anchor, but the notice had disappeared entirely from the telegraph pole. And within a short time the sheriff had arrived and the court was convened. That night, when the poacher had been sentenced to a fine of ten thousand gold krónur and its fishing gear had been brought ashore and Pétur Pálsson the manager had bought the catch, he gave a party at his home for the Danish officers of the fishery patrol boat and the sheriff.
The manager had now bought enough fish to save all the people of Sviðinsvík for the time being, and he offered a lump sum for the whole job: unloading, gutting, splitting and salting. With that, the dispute over wage rates was over for the time being; the fish yards did not become a battlefield and people refrained from coming to blows. The Danish party went on all night while the unloading was going on—and it was not only cod-liver oil that went down their gullets!— and in the morning before the sheriff went to bed the fishing gear of the British trawler was put up for auction in the presence of the pastor, the secretary, and a few drunks and children, not forgetting the manager himself, who stood on the quayside with his legs a little apart, somewhat dark around the mouth and puffy in the face. And although he perhaps was not thinking absolutely straight, he was not so far off course as to bid any more for the gear than was absolutely necessary, a few hundred krónur for many thousand krónur’s worth, and got it all knocked down to him. The business was over in two minutes, and the manager took the sheriff’s arm and led him away. The Danish warship had put to sea and the notice had reappeared on the telegraph pole; but some joker had scrawled this observation underneath: “Grandmother is well again.”
The following evening the manager manned a motorboat with a lighter in tow to return the fishing gear to the trawler which was waiting off the mouth of the fjord.
But during the night of the party, while the populace had been toiling to unload the trawler and work on the catch, there were two other freeborn Icelanders who had not been idle either—the pastor and the secretary.
It is significant to note that there are always worthy individuals to be found who are ready to save the community even though they themselves are not invited to the celebrations. While Pétur Pálsson was feting the Danes with the fatted calf and wine, sparkling, sweet and heady, until no one could tell the difference between Danes and True Icelanders any more, these two Icelandic sobersides went round all the houses with a document in which people were required to make and sign a solemn declaration that they preferred continuous work this summer to high rates of pay this spring. Most of them made haste to sign. After all, man is not a butterfly which lives for one day to spread its beautiful wings to the sun, nor a tiger beetle which is content to fly for one month at midsummer and then be more or less dead for the rest of the year; no, unfortunately, man has to live all the year round.
A few days later, the Society of True Icelanders was founded in Sviðinsvík with general participation. A lot of people preferred to be True Icelanders rather than Laborers, apart from the fact that human beings are, generally speaking, unselfish creatures, always ready to support ideals (particularly if these ideals are sufficiently unlikely to improve their own lot) and to fight tooth and nail against enemies if they are sufficiently insignificant, unbelievable and incomprehensible, not to mention if they are simply bogeys. It was agreed to fly in the air, build a great church and have a cultural beacon, and war was declared on Irish slaves and anti-patriots. Further, it was agreed to celebrate Midsummer Day in honor of St. John the Baptist with a poem by Ólafur Kárason and a lecture about the aura, followed by communal cod-liver oil drinking. The inaugural meeting was held in the primary school, and on the blackboard was chalked in large letters: “Keep the aura pure. Skarpheðinn Njálsson. Vitamins are the lifesavers of modern times. Pétur Pálsson, manager.”
Thereafter there was peace on the estate, and the spring sun reigned alone in the sky. The clouds clustered together in banks and drifted apart again, all in a much simpler way than one had suspected. The poet avoided going out-of-doors for fear of meeting people. As a rule he sat with his little daughter and looked at the sky and the earth through the window. But with the coming of summer the poet’s daughter revived; she wanted to make her fish-bone bird start flying like other birds. Other little girls from the village came up to show her their toys, and one day she was out of bed and playing with them on the floor in the sunbeam. Another day she sat with them beside the road and played with the flowers. The poet stood on the threshold of his empty house and looked out through the doorway, out into the universe. And then it was as if his house slid away into the distance from under his feet, and he was left standing alone in the middle of infinity watching his house moving off, sailing farther and farther away into the distance, concerning him less and less, until it had vanished; and he did not have a house any more.
Was he not sorrowful, then, at the disappearance of his house? Did he not find everything desolate around him? Did he not feel that God had forsaken him? Far from it. He felt he was left standing in an orchard of fruit trees and roses. He composed this:
Dear earth, you turn your once discordant ear
To the wilderness in which the heart once slept;
And every single creature now can hear
That luminous word in which God’s smile was kept.
This lowliest soul, oh, Lord of all the skies,
This wordless poet, this most worthless worm,
Is once again a child who snugly lies
Warmed by Your smile, Your light, Your loving word.
How eagerly I gaze upon Your glorious face
You showed me dimly when I was a boy.
My happiness o’erflows: oh, endless grace,
Oh, ecstasy of life, oh, infinite sea of joy!
9
Then it was autumn again, and the raven sharpened his beak on the eaves of the houses.
“Why have you been avoiding me all summer?” asked Jórunn one wet September day. It was at the corner by the shop, he had not had time to escape, they bumped into one another. “Am I so frightening?”
She looked him straight in the face, without blinking, even though the rain was beating on her face.
“Good-day,” he said, and raised his cap.
“I asked you why you always avoid me if you see me coming in the distance.”
He replied, “I never try to avoid anyone except myself.”
“I have time and again wanted to speak to you this summer, but you always run away. Why are you running away?” she repeated.
“Where is Faroese-Jens?” he asked.
“Faroese-Jens!” she said. “So that’s it—Faroese-Jens! Are you perhaps still angry since that time in the spring?”
“I wouldn’t say that,” he said, when he saw he could not get away from her. “But I’ve been living in great luxury this summer, and sometimes I’ve been afraid that someone might come and disturb me. I have been afraid that someone might come and involve me in a fight.”
“Fighting’s as it should be,” she said. “What’s the meaning of life if one has no enemies? What’s the meaning of life if one doesn’t fight? What’s the meaning if one doesn’t win—or if one gets defeated, what’s the meaning if one isn’t human?”
“It may well be that fighting is normal,” he said, “like having something to eat. Peace, on the other hand, is a luxu
ry. The only thing I yearn for is to live in luxury.”
“What have you been doing then?” she said.
“I have been looking at the sky,” he said.
“You don’t need to talk in riddles,” she said. “I know perfectly well you’re a great poet.”
“I’m not much of a poet,” he said, “worse luck. On the other hand, I’m an extremely wealthy man. I own the sky. I have invested all my capital in the sun. I’m not bad-tempered, as you seem to imagine, nor do I bear grudges. But like all wealthy men, I’m a little frightened of losing my fortune.”
She half turned away and became thoughtful; it became her well to let the rain fall on her sunburnt face, healthy and strong, and one could see her thoughts marching across her face like clouds, almost like regiments of troops.
“Why do you despise humanity?” she then said through the rain.
“Incidentally,” he said, “what became of the battle that Faroese-Jens was wanting to wage?”
“You’re such a great poet that I’m glad I have burnt my Dream of Happiness,” she said. “And yet I’m disappointed in you, Ólafur Kárason.”
“Yes, I know you think I’m a villain,” he said. “And you’re quite right; he who examines the heavenly light is a villain. The earth is and will always be an accident in his eyes. To examine the heavenly light is to harden the heart utterly. Such a man, if you can call him a man, is beyond saving. That’s why I ask you to leave me in peace. In peace.”
The expression round his mouth tightened with emotion as he repeated these words, and she watched him and his emotion pitilessly.
“You are two-faced,” she said.
“Really,” he said.
He was going to raise his cap to her and go.
“Stop that silly cap-raising,” she said. “Tell me instead why you dislike me so much.”
“I’ve already told you what I most yearn for,” he said.
Afterwards he walked for a long time, restless in the rain. The autumn birds held their coal-black assemblies on the moors with strange antics beyond human comprehension, and a few dogs who were worn-out by chasing them lay not far away with their heads on their paws, ears cocked and tongues hanging out, keeping a close watch on the tantalizing movements of these haughty creatures while they gathered their strength for a fresh chase.
World Light Page 44
