Ólafur Kárason of Ljósavík was not angry with anyone. Nothing was personal any more. He no longer saw individuals, but only the whole world; even less did he impute evil motives to anyone for any single action. He was face to face with justice, not people, least of all individuals. And this was the first time in his life since he was kicked on the head by a horse that he was not afraid of anything any more, perhaps the first time in his life he had felt well, the first time he had felt like a truly happy man, a man whom no misfortune could befall any more.
When the expedition had set off at last and the village spectators had had their fill of entertainment for the time being and had gone home, and the sheriff had whipped up his horse and ridden on ahead with his clerk and groom, Ólafur Kárason’s physical senses began to come to life again; he began to distinguish individual features in his surroundings, to see people, horses, earth, even clouds.
“Well, well, my lad, I knew we were bound to have another journey together sometime!” said his escort cheerfully.
“Why, hallo, if it isn’t Reimar the poet!” said Ólafur Kárason. “How very nice to see you again! Where have you been all this time?”
Reimar Vagnsson, major poet, had been living in a number of different fjords, because a man, and particularly a poet, is not a plant but a creature of mobility; he was traveling a lot, often as a postman, always ready to cross a mountain or two if the government had need of a reliable man.
“I’m ashamed of myself for not recognizing you at once,” said Ólafur Kárason. “Yet I have every reason for remembering our first journey, and the joy that reigned in the world then.”
“Yes, there were no cares in the world then, my lad,” said Reimar the poet.
“Yes, it was fine weather then, all right,” said Ólafur Kárason. “Why won’t the Lord create the same day more than once, one day of happiness like that one, and then repeat it forever from then onwards? Do you remember how I was raised from the dead?”
“Oh, our Reimar can never go past Kambar now without shedding a tear,” said Reimar the poet. “Those girls there really knew how to give contact! They gave contact on both a natural and a supernatural plane; contact with heaven and earth; in a word—contact; what a current, what trembling, my God! Yes, they were glorious creatures!”
“To me they gave contact on a supernatural plane,” said Ólafur Kárason. “But I was never quite clear what they gave you. But don’t think for a moment that I’m going to start asking you about matters of conscience after ten years, my dear friend.”
“Look,” said Reimar the poet, and grew serious as people inevitably do when they start talking about their own subject. “The Kambar girls were obviously no exception to other women in that they needed time and opportunity. Women aren’t machines that can be set in motion by pressing a button; women are first and foremost human beings. I had had my eye on órunn, because she was the most peculiar of them, and it has always been my fate to fancy peculiar girls more than pretty girls. But I’ll confess to you now, because ten years have passed, that despite honest efforts all night long, both with her and with the middle sister, I had to make do with the fallen one in the morning when the sun was high in the sky. So it was little wonder that I was sleepy and bad-tempered next day, for which I ask your pardon, my lad, however belatedly; but this was in the days when one still thought oneself cheated with a fallen woman—as if they wouldn’t all fall some day! And besides, they’ve all fallen a long time ago now.”
And thus they trudged out of the village: Ólafur Kárason the poet tied to the tail of a black jade, with Reimar in front leading the horse, walking practically backwards all the time in order to carry on this fascinating conversation about their overnight stay at Kambar; the sheriff went farther and farther ahead. When they had more or less exhausted the subject of the former glory of the Kambar girls, and there was a pause in the conversation, Ólafur Kárason said: “Well, since we’ve started reminiscing about the old days, Reimar, it’s little wonder that I call to mind Sviðinsvík-undir-Óþveginsenni where we were both poets together once. You who travel widely and hear many things: what news can you tell me of Sviðinsvík-undir-Óþveginsenni?”
“Oh, it’s the same old story of unrest at Sviðinsvík-undir-Óþveginsenni,” said Reimar the poet. “Things aren’t any better for our friend Pétur ríhross.”
“No, he never had a very easy time, poor chap,” said Ólafur Kárason. “If I remember rightly, the Danes and the Russians were his enemies, quite apart from poets. Yes, that was quite a struggle.”
“Yes, it’s terrible the emotional upsets he used to suffer in those days, our friend Pétur ríhross,” said Reimar the poet. “Örn Úlfar has now vanished with the hoyden to some distant land whose name I can hardly remember. And the war with the poets is over, with the result that the poor old fellow is writing plays himself for the Society of True Icelanders.”
“Yes, poor chap, he always had such a strong desire to be an intellectual,” said Ólafur Kárason. “And seldom has anyone been more opposed to materialism than he. He never thought poets were intellectual enough; they were never sufficiently indifferent to what was happening on earth. The last winter I was in Sviðinsvík he had become so tired of me that he even had our shack pulled down around our ears.”
“Yes, he has certainly provided plenty for his epitaph,” said Reimar the poet. “By the way, you’ve no doubt heard that old Jón the snuffmaker on the French site is dead? Yes, at long last he went to the devil. And naturally he left all his money to Pétur ríhross except for the miserable two thousand krónur he bequeathed to the pastor for the new church. Now, I don’t know if you remember a celebrated spot up in the pass behind Óþveginsenni where criminals used to be executed in the olden days? Pétur ríhross once had a revelation that he was to dig up some murderers who had been buried there in olden times, and transfer them to consecrated ground in Sviðinsvík. When old Jón the snuffmaker died, Pétur ríhross had another divine revelation, this time suggesting that this old place of execution for criminals should be declared a sacred precinct, and that the great men of Sviðinsvík were to be buried there. He had Jón the snuffmaker’s corpse transported up to the mountain and had God’s Word bellowed over it for three days on end. Then he got the pastor an author’s grant from the state to write up Jón the snuffmaker’s life story in two volumes. And now he himself has started to have an elaborate sepulcher built for himself on the site where he once dug up the bones of Satan and Mósa.”
“Yes, he was always full of ideas,” said Ólafur Kárason. “And perhaps a greater poet than both of us put together, even though he never understood the secret of poetic form.”
“You’ve no doubt heard of the National and Cultural Drawers Society?” said Reimar the poet.
No, unfortunately, that was something Ólafur Kárason had not heard about.
“It so happened that the year before last, a society was formed in Sviðinsvík with the object of providing destitute children in the village with footwear; it was Faroese-Jens and his wife, Jórunn of Veghús, who organized it. Through this organization they managed to provide poor children and youngsters with socks and shoes at very reasonable prices. Pétur ríhross, of course, realized at once that a society of this kind must have been inspired by Danes, Russians and poets, and hastened to seek a grant from Júel Júel to start a society to provide Sviðinsvík kings with free drawers. ‘If the Danes, Russians, and Poets start a Socks Society, then I’m starting a Drawers Society,’ said Pétur ríhross. ‘I insist that everyone, both old and young, men and women, go around in free drawers from me. And my society won’t be any treasonable Socks Society but a True-Icelandic, High-Cultural and National Drawers Society. And my Drawers Society will crush all socks and shoes in Sviðinsvík; it will grind all socks and shoes; it will have the guts out of all socks and shoes!’ ”
“The name of Pétur ríhross will live for so long as Iceland is inhabited,” said Ólafur Kárason.
“And yet h
e will have to share his fame with Jón the snuffmaker for a long time,” said Reimar the poet. “Or did you never hear of the ballot that was held in the Society of True Icelanders in Sviðinsvík last fall?”
Far too many things had passed Ólafur Kárason by in that remote corner of the world, Bervík, including this particular ballot.
“Good heavens, yes!” said Reimar the poet. “They held a ballot in the Society about who was the most exemplary man who had ever been born. Now, I know you’ll think it was Pétur ríhross who got the most votes, but you’re wrong there, my lad. Out of almost two hundred votes, Jón the snuffmaker got sixty-one, and Pétur ríhross only sixty. Napoleon the Great got seventeen, Júel Júel Júel fifteen, and the secretary five. Jesus Christ got only one.”
But by now Ólafur Kárason was growing tired of hearing about Sviðinsvík and regretted that he had ever started talking about this place which he had at one time done his best to forget.
“Well, Reimar,” he said, “changing the subject for a moment, you haven’t told me anything about yourself. What’s the news of you and yours, and above all, what poetry have you been composing? This would be just the time to hear a good ballad.”
“Then I’ll have to untie you from the mare’s tail,” said Reimar the poet. “I’m not reciting poetry to a bound man. Free men, free poetry! We’ll let the damned sheriff get out of sight.”
They lingered for a while until the sheriff and his companions disappeared round the shoulder of a hill. Then his escort freed Ólafur Kárason from the horse’s tail and unfastened the rope around his wrists.
When Ólafur Kárason was free, Reimar the poet said, “I’ve made it a habit never to criticize someone in fetters, but now that you’re free I can’t contain myself any longer. What a damned silly ass you are, man!”
“Oh?” said Ólafur Kárason, not quite sure what he had done wrong this time.
“You had an affair with a gabber,” said Reimar the poet.
Olaf Kárason was greatly disappointed in his friend at this, and said sadly, “You, too, Reimar!”
“Yes, and I’m not taking it back; the Lord forgives people everything except their own stupidity,” said Reimar.
“May I remind you, Reimar, that it’s only a few years since a pregnant girl was confirmed in Grenivík Church. And what’s more, it’s an old saying in this country that the children of children are fortune’s favorites.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about,” said Reimar the poet. “No one feels sorry for gabbers as such. Gabbers are no good, as it says in the Sagas. But if one wants to commit a crime, one should do it in accordance with the law, because all major crimes are done in accordance with the law. A man of your age should know that law and justice apply only to idiots. A man of experience always plays it safe, my lad. And to the best of my knowledge, no one has ever got it signed and sealed that a gabber would keep her mouth shut over trivialities.”
“Everything that God protects is spared,” said Ólafur Kárason. “I have never been spared. But it doesn’t matter so much for myself; it only really matters when one’s own transgressions hurt those who are dependent upon one.”
Then Reimar the poet said, “Please don’t think I’m being an old pastor’s wife. The sin is not in being unfaithful, far from it. Those who aren’t unfaithful are usually villains and scoundrels towards others, especially towards their wives. The sin lies in being unfaithful in such a way that before you know it, you find yourself tied to a horse’s tail.”
“How very different we are as poets, Reimar Vagnsson!” said Ólafur Kárason. “I have always had one ideal as far as love is concerned: one woman. I only love one woman, and could never love anyone but her. All other women are a crime or a misfortune in my life.”
“Who is she?” asked Reimar the poet.
“I don’t know,” said Ólafur Kárason. “Fortune hasn’t allowed me to find her yet.”
“You’ll never find her,” said Reimar the poet. “No one ever finds her. Monogamy is a mixture of monasticism and self-deception.”
“Every man is his own world,” said Ólafur Kárason. “My world is my law, your world is yours. I love one girl and haven’t found her, but am tied to my wife through compassion, which is perhaps stronger than love. My whole life is like the mind of a man who has lost his way on a fogbound mountain.”
Then Reimar the poet said, “I’m now as old as my beard suggests, my lad, and I haven’t yet strayed from the right road in life—never composed a verse with half-rhymes or failed to find a word to rhyme with another. And if I’ve sometimes been a bit malicious in my versifying, it’s not because I’ve ever felt any malice towards anyone, but because they were an easy target. I’ve been married to my old woman for nearly thirty years, and we’ve had seven strong and happy children whom we have given a good start in life, and I’d like to see the father who has been better to his children and his old woman than Reimar the poet. For instance, I’m going to use this journey to get hold of some stockfish at Aðalfjörður, and a man on the Kaldsvík coast has half promised me a side of beef.”
“This is another point where we are miles apart,” said Ólafur Kárason. “I have never provided for the home. To bring up fat, contented children is an ambition I have never understood. On the other hand, I don’t think it’s my nature to retreat from the belief that true love between a man and a woman is indivisible. That’s how I regard my responsibilities—and mourn my shortcomings.”
“You could well be a tolerable hymn-writer and satirist some day, my dear Ólafur Kárason of Ljósavík,” said Reimar the poet. “But someone who has no notion of a man’s duty towards a woman can never be a great poet. The moment a woman is in flower, she wants children and yet more children, that’s what a woman wants. A man’s love doesn’t give a woman her fulfillment; it’s first and foremost children: five children, ten children, fifteen children to bear in her womb and bring forth in pain and bring up in riot and disorder, children to wake over at night, to spank and caress in turn, children who either scatter all over the country and settle in far-off places or die of all sorts of ailments, children to bury in the ground and sing hymns over. A married man has only one duty towards his wife in order to make her happy, and that is to ensure that she is constantly pregnant, and with a child in her arms.”
“What a very happily married man you have been, Reimar!” said Ólafur Kárason.
“My old woman’s a good old woman who has always looked upon me as a great poet and a great traveler and has always been ready to take my side,” said Reimar the poet. “She has always looked askance at the women who turned up their noses at me; she thought it showed bad taste and was therefore an affront to herself.”
They had the wind behind them, these two old acquaintances, fellow poets and traveling companions, who were no doubt just as far apart today as when they had traveled together for the first time. Yet this was the second time that Reimar the poet had had a hand in freeing Ólafur Kárason from his bonds: the latter had changed places with the black mare, despite the wishes of the authorities.
“Two people can never understand one another’s lives,” said Ólafur Kárason. “But poetry is the Redeemer of us all.”
And then the ballads began.
10
When Ólafur Kárason the poet had been kept in the cold and dark so-called prison at Kaldsvík for three days, and faced two more court hearings, he began to weaken. The sheriff’s frowns and whisky bass got the upper hand. Finally he was ready to confess. He made his confession with the preamble that he had not held out from fear of punishment—that was neither here nor there. He had been thinking of his wife and son; he said he had shrunk from causing them humiliation and sorrow. Whatever a crime might be in reality, and human behavior generally, crimes had to be proved and admitted in order to be called by that name. On the other hand it is a minor issue whether a person knows that be has committed it or whether a person actually has committed it, or whether other people know that on
e has committed it, or whether crimes actually do exist: with the proof and the confession, the crime becomes a fact. And Jarþrúður Jónsdóttir and Jón Ólafsson were sacrificed.
He said it was quite true that on the morning before Christmas Eve he had woken up when the widow at Syðrivík had gone out to tend the livestock with her older children. Jasína Gottfreðlína, whom he regarded as a grown-up girl however little she might know about the Christian faith, was lying in the next bed; he had gone into her bed, turned down the lamp, lain down beside her, and slept with her. And she had received him willingly for the simple reason that a grown-up girl in love with a man thinks that nothing is more natural or inevitable. And that was all.
He found himself standing that evening in the county town, in the dim light of the scattered streetlamps.
It was here, to this place, that he had dreamed of coming in the old days; it was here that he had intended to go to school and become a man of learning and a famous poet; and last but not least, it was here that he had hopes of a mother who lived in a real house with a window on each side of the door. It was to her, over countless mountains, that he had wanted to flee when he was in distress in alien places.
He wandered about for a long time in this big place, no longer a weeping child, unfortunately, but an unshaven, hungry law-breaker with a cold, who had forfeited his right to a mother. The days were gone forever when he had been so happy that he believed that the height of unhappiness was to carry heavy buckets from an icy spring.
But even though his situation was now such that he no longer had any claim to a mother in a real house, nevertheless an old defiance against this more or less imaginary woman arose in him, anger over her treatment of the little boy who was put in a sack and taken away in a snowstorm, a lack of any desire to whitewash her even though she was a great and noble woman while he was a convicted criminal. If he knocked at her door and she resented meeting a forgotten past in the person of a son awaiting sentence, he was going to say: If such things had happened to him in the snowstorm of life, who was it then who had sent him out into that snowstorm, crying in a sack, when all he had wanted was to have a mother and to rest against her bosom? That’s how he was going to justify himself in relation to this woman.
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