World Light (49 page)

“I think I must be dead and in heaven,” said the visitor when he had put sugar in his coffee.

“A poet was the last thing I expected,” said the girl.

“I never thought that such a room existed,” he said.

“When I arrived last year, this was the drawing room, but I threw out all the rubbish and put in my loom here instead. I made that corner bench myself; then I painted it and made these casual cushions for it. Don’t you think it looks nice?”

“Don’t ask me,” he said. “Everything I see here is way above me. I have nothing to compare with it. I own nothing.”

“Who then owns the poem you wrote last spring?” she said.

“You,” he said.

“No,” she said. “Don’t try to flatter me. But Pétur
ríhross wouldn’t own it either even if you had recited it at his party. It is and will always be your own poem. And yet I would rather stand barefoot in the frost in a storm like today’s than not know it by heart.”

He stopped eating and drinking and looked at her for a moment as she stood there in the middle of the room, and his eyes moistened a little with tears. Even if he had said something beautiful, how worthless it was in comparison with what she said merely by existing. Her figure was of a quality that left nothing more to be said, neither in a poem nor a story nor a picture nor in divine revelation.

“Jórunn,” he said, and gazed into her eyes imploringly with those deep, sincere, serious eyes of his. “Have mercy on me.”

“Have something to eat with the coffee,” she said, and smiled.

“These pancakes,” he said, and had recovered himself. “It’s like eating auras.”

“Hardly of saints, though,” said the girl.

“No, thank goodness,” he said. “Listen, who’s that woman on the wall over there?”

“It’s me,” she said.

“I cannot believe,” he said, “that you’ve ever lifted your dress so high in other people’s presence.”

“Higher—before a poet,” she said. “Before a poet, one is always naked.”

“And those three men beside her?”

“Do you think they’re genuine?” she asked.

“Their hair is at least well cut and groomed,” he said.

“May I cut your hair?” she said.

He thought for a little while and then said, “I don’t dare to.”

“Do have some more coffee,” she said, and laughed at him. “What are you afraid of?”

“I could catch a chill if I lost my mane,” he said. “Why is there no picture of Faroese-Jens?”

“You and your Faroese-Jens!” she said and laughed a little, and there was a glint of recklessness in her eyes as she laughed, experienced rather than light-hearted, and the poet felt he understood better than before the picture of the girl on the wall.

“Yet you walked together up the hillside last autumn,” he said.

“What hillside?” she said.

“The hillside,” he said.

“I met him outside a house,” she said.

“Outside a house? What house?” asked the poet.

“A house,” she said.

She breathed on the frosted window pane for a while, as if she were thinking, and then she said out of the blue, “How is it that you who write poetry for Pétur
ríhross aren’t rich and happy?”

“Luckily I am poor,” he said. “The one thing for which I thank God is for having given me nothing except myself. While I have nothing, I am free to look upon myself as a human being.”

“That’s odd,” she said.

“It’s quite true,” he said. “A person first begins to exist when everything has been taken from him. And besides, I don’t write poetry at all for Pétur Pálsson the manager. I write poetry for those who will be born after I am dead. My life is an accident. But the nation which has the spirit of poetry is eternal.”

Her eyes warmed at seeing him a little vehement.

“I always think there are birds perching on your hands when you speak,” she said. “You ought to live in a high tower on a wooded heath and sit there by the window and look out over the whole world and live for all eternity and let the birds fly.”

“Birds? Fly? Where to?” he said.

“To me.”

“What would Faroese-Jens say?”

“You speak that man’s name in derision,” she said. “You have no right to do that even though you’re intelligent. But since you have mentioned him again and want to hear about him, then let me tell you that though you’re a great poet and have birds on your hands, he has certain things over and above you that are decisive. He hates injustice and is ready to do battle for justice.”

She was suddenly red in the face, and her eyes were flashing.

“What do you mean when you say that this is decisive?” he said.

She looked down and bit her lip a little. She was an impetuous girl. Her whole life was lived in hot waves and she had no control over it herself; before she knew it, she had given away too much.

“I mean—I mean that one day you might discover that Örn Úlfar is a better friend of Faroese-Jens’s than of yours.”

“That could well be,” said the poet. “And yet I know of someone who is a better friend of Örn Úlfar’s than both Faroese-Jens and me put together.”

“Dísa Pétursdóttir is an intelligent girl,” said Jórunn. “And she’s an educated girl. She understands that justice is worth more than house, home and family, as it says in the catechism. She is ready to do battle against injustice even though it’s her own father. So is Faroese-Jens. He has a house and he has a boat and he has money in the bank, but he is still ready to do battle against injustice. And Örn Úlfar himself, who is so intelligent that he could have become anything he wanted—he has never seen anything except the one thing, one star, one star that shines, and that is justice. But he has therefore never known where his next meal was coming from, except when he was in the sanatorium, and I am convinced we shall one day see him die for the cause of the poor. I love Dísa Pétursdóttir for loving him.”

“I understand you much too well,” said the poet, and had stopped eating. “Whiplashes cannot be misunderstood. You draw pictures of great men in order to let them reflect a picture of a little man and, what’s worse, a picture of a coward, a picture of a man who lacks the courage to live life—in a word, a picture of me. My heartfelt thanks for all your kindness, Jórunn dear. I’ve never had such wonderful pancakes since the time, many years ago, when I was raised from the dead. Now I’m going to leave this lovely warm room, this prosperity where nothing is lacking, not even the proper love of justice, and go home.”

Then she saw that she had hurt him, and came right over to him and said his name without raising her eyes and said, “Why am I worse to you than to other people? Can you tell me that?”

“Good-bye,” he said.

“No, don’t go,” she said. “I know quite well that it needs courage to live your life; yes, even inconceivable courage at that. Forgive me for being so unreasonable, and don’t go yet.”

“I have work to do, and should have been gone a long time ago,” he said. “It was only by chance I came at all, anyway.”

“Thank you for coming,” she said. “But all the same you have misunderstood me a little—yes, and perhaps quite a lot, Ólafur, do you realize that? I know I can’t express myself, but I beg you not to hold that against me. I couldn’t bear it if we didn’t part friends on this one occasion you found your way here by chance. Ólafur, often when I recite your poems to myself, I want so much to do something for you in return. What can we here do for you; isn’t there some little thing you need . . .?”

“No, thanks, I have enough of everything, enough of everything,” he interrupted, withdrew his hand from hers and made for the door. “My little sick child at home cries for her daddy if he’s away any length of time.”

Then he was standing outside in the driving snow again, and he pulled his old cap down over his ears.

12

And now Pétur Pálsson the manager took the bit between his teeth and set off for the south. At first no one thought this particularly remarkable; the manager had a lot of traveling to do. But this time it was not long before the rumor spread that the manager’s journey was not just a matter of routine. Soon everyone was saying that he had been summoned south by the authorities to appear in court. A special investigating judge had been appointed to inquire into the widespread stories of espionage which various highly placed personages in the land had been involved in recently, with a view to helping foreign poachers to plunder and rape the people’s livelihood; and arising from this, a close investigation into the health of Madame Sophie Sørensen, Pétur Pálsson’s grandmother, had been set on foot. At these court hearings it was disclosed, and of course publicized in the newspapers of the capital, that the headquarters of this espionage system on behalf of foreigners had been run by Júel J. Júel, M.P., in the south, but his agents had been operating near all the country’s best fishing grounds. It was proved that Pétur Pálsson had been an agent for the foreigners at Sviðinsvík. The spies were all given fines, the leader being fined the heaviest, of course, but Pétur Pálsson was also given a very tolerable fine, which under the circumstances could be considered rather to have enhanced his credit than weakened it—it was in any event a respectable five-figure sum.

In Sviðinsvík, on the other hand, certain powers left no stone unturned to undermine the general confidence which is bound to be felt in someone who is given a heavy fine. These people maintained that Júel J. Júel was on the verge of bankruptcy, and that his last rusty tub and killer-boat was sure to be sequestered in part payment of the fine. The Trades Union passed a vote of censure on both the manager and the Member of Parliament, and spread the word that they were both broke and in no way to be trusted. For a time it seemed that even a number of freeborn Icelanders were in two minds. To be sure, the Society of the True Icelanders carried a resolution to the effect that the disgraceful attacks on the manager and the Member of Parliament were just one more aspect of the persecution campaign which the anti-patriots were running against the nation, the unpatriotic against the homeland, but nevertheless every day more and more freeborn people were beginning to doubt whether Júel and the manager had very much money. Naturally, all freeborn men were sorry for Pétur Pálsson for having run foul of more or less unpatriotic agencies, such as, for instance, modern justice, but they secretly asked themselves whether one could be sure that men who had been engaged to carry out risky duties for others would be able to afford to pay their own fines? Can we rely on getting money from someone who lets himself be used in risky work for others instead of doing it on his own behalf? In other words, it could no longer be concealed that confidence in the pillars of society and the providence of the estate was beginning to waver where it had least right to—let alone if it was correct that Júel’s last rusty tub was soon to be sold by order of the court. Where then was the independence of the nation? If Júel did not succeed in proving that he had enough money, he could well be in danger of losing the Parliamentary elections in the spring. Really, these were difficult times for the nation. A few of the freeborn now secretly left the Society of True Icelanders to join the Laborers Union.

People asked themselves expectantly: “How will our dear pillar of society and benefactor look when he comes ashore again here after his journey to distant parts?” People no doubt pictured this to themselves in different ways, each according to his own conscience, because people are apt to give others their own image; and yet probably no one suspected that his arrival would turn out the way it actually did. No one could possibly attribute such fortitude to anyone else in this part of the world. It was now seen how much Pétur Pálsson the manager surpassed other men.

One day a Norwegian freighter came sailing up the fjord and headed for Sviðinsvík; she did not ask for a pilot—she knew the course exactly. A short distance away from the village, down the fjord a little, the Norwegian cast anchor. Here was Pétur Pálsson the manager, wearing a hat both broader in the brim and higher in the crown than ever before; it appeared to be one of Júel’s own hats. The manager was surrounded by a handsome retinue of learned gentleman with hats, walking sticks and spectacles, like himself. They walked in procession onto the estate.

What the devil was brewing now? It was briefly this: Júel Júel had plenty of money. Grímur Loðinkinni Ltd., which had gone bankrupt last June and owed the state bank millions, had now obtained a new loan running into millions from the same bank to build the long-awaited station at Sviðinsvík, and here was Pétur Pálsson with a ship laden with materials for the station, as well as engineers and foremen; an immediate start was to be made on constructing quays and building factories. On the very same day a meeting of the Society of True Icelanders of Sviðinsvík was called, and this society was fortified by the glad news about the station in the same way as the palsied man who rose to his feet, took up his bedding and walked. People declared themselves ready to work on the station for low wages. Iceland’s Cause was held in high honor in Sviðinsvík.

But Ólafur Kárason of Ljósavík sat by his child’s sickbed and the news of these outside events reached his ears like a rumbling in the distance. What concerned him was her suffering, which had grown worse in the last few days; it overwhelmed that little body in waves, with brief respites, and he sat up beside her, pale and sleepless, awaiting each new wave with a heartfelt prayer to the Creator of suffering that this surf might break over him instead of the child. Everything humanly possible had been tried, even to the extent of fetching the doctor.

The child had had a terribly difficult night before Pétur Pálsson’s return to the village, and both her parents had stayed up all night without going to bed. On the following afternoon she fell into a coma; her breathing, which had been much too rapid, was now only just discernible, and every now and again weak spasms went though her body. The poet’s intended fell into a deep sleep early that evening, but Ólafur Kárason stayed up beside the bed with his head drooping, overcome by that exhaustion which lies in the body like a bittersweet toxic pain and carries the mind and senses away into the drunken world of symbols and dreams.

Suddenly he started up, thinking he had seen a lion thrusting its head round the door and gazing around with that resolute look which, allied to its lack of pity and sensitivity, has made it the mighty king of the beasts—that face which knows it is superior to everyone else and is therefore the most perfect face on earth and the face most remote from humanity.

The poet stretched and tried to tear his eyes open to see if this unreal world would change its appearance, so that another picture might replace this one by way of explanation. The lion’s head in the shadow of the doorway gradually changed into another face, not much more comprehensible than the other, certainly; it was the perfect face of his friend peering around carefully, like an animal on the lookout, before he came into the open.

“Are you the only one awake?”

“Yes,” whispered the poet. “I’m the only one awake.”

“Can I sleep here on the floor tonight?” whispered Örn Úlfar.

“You don’t need to ask for anything in this house,” said the poet. “This is your house.”

“I had a room with the True Icelanders,” said the other, “and that was paid in full. But tonight I was thrown out on the ground that the Home Rulers had won. How are things with you?”

“It’s touch and go,” said the poet.

“Have you tried calling the doctor?”

“Yes, he came here this morning.”

“And obviously didn’t do anything.”

“Yes, he drank all the medicine his wife had prescribed for the child for the last few weeks, the dregs of three bottles. He also ate up all the cream he had got to rub on her where she felt pain.”

Örn Úlfar walked quietly over to the child’s cot and looked at her for a moment; one could read nothing in his expression.

“She no longer knows her mother and me,” said Ólafur Kárason. “For the last three days she hasn’t been able to smile at me.”

“Are you going to stay up?”

“Yes, I’m going to stay up; I slept a little today. But Jarþrúður, my intended, didn’t sleep at all last night, and didn’t sleep at all today, either; so the bed is occupied, unfortunately. But I can lend you a blanket to wrap around yourself.”

“If you’re staying up, I’ll stay up too,” said Örn Úlfar. “It’s no worse for me than for you. I can sit on that box there on the other side of the girl’s bed and lean against the wall, and we can perhaps talk together.”

“How very glad I am that you should have found your way here,” said the poet. “I’ve been sitting here for a long time and seeing hallucinations. Now I’ll warm some coffee for us. And you can tell me all the news.”

First there came some smoke from the oil stove, then the whistling of water on the boil, finally the aroma of coffee. The two friends sat one on each side of the child’s bed and sipped coffee at long intervals, and the visitor recounted everything happening on the estate. He told all about Pétur Pálsson’s travels and the court case he had been involved in, about the bankruptcy and wealth of Júel J. Júel, about money in Iceland and for whom it is minted, and about the penniless populace, those toiling or unemployed but at the same time good-hearted margarine- and chicory-eaters who above all must not be called Icelanders in their own land, but were either called antipatriots or were named after races they had never heard mentioned, from Celts to Slavs, to justify the economic war being waged against them. Then the visitor told how the first thing Pétur Pálsson had done when he stepped ashore that day was to summon a meeting of the society of those in his pay and to promise them work at a wage rate he himself would determine, in a phony enterprise into which a hundred thousand krónur or so would be poured before the elections. The Sviðinsvík Trades Union had also held a meeting that evening and had agreed not to budge from the wage rates it had demanded last spring nor the claim for the right to negotiate about working conditions here on the estate—failing which, it would declare a strike. This decision had been communicated to Pétur Pálsson that same evening, whose first reaction had been to reply that whoever listened to Örn Úlfar’s was not only an enemy of the soul but also an enemy of Iceland and would be treated accordingly; and in the second place, the hoyden now being placed under house arrest in her room at home, with her door locked on the outside and a guard at her window.

The poet listened not entirely absentmindedly to this story, which in Örn Úlfar’s mouth was long, colorful and dramatic, told with much embroidery and innumerable digressions—definitions, deductions and conclusions—which were totally alien to the poet’s empirical and objective way of thinking. The visitor’s impassioned story, told in a temperate, almost whispering, voice across the poet’s dying child, gave a human content to the chilly solo of the cold night and sustained the poet through that jungle of waking nightmares which otherwise this lonely night would have brought while the sweetest light of his life was being extinguished. What his friend actually said did not matter all that much—the poet was deeply grateful that his voice should be there under his roof on this particular night. When the visitor had been talking far into the night, with the poet gazing into the blue and listening, the poet said: “I am so grateful to the Almighty for letting me hear a noble-minded person talking, tonight of all nights, and letting me forget that man is a creature of dust.”

Örn Úlfar looked sharply at his friend with renewed attention and replied in a different register: “A normal person is noble-minded, but I am not. And man isn’t a creature of dust.”

“You always belittle yourself, Úlfar—that’s a characteristic of good people. They feel they never do anything for anyone. Love for others is as much a part of their natural life processes as eating and drinking.”

Örn Úlfar sat thinking for a long time without acknowledging the handsome compliment he had been paid by his friend. And when he eventually replied, it was quite out of keeping with the dispassionate, hesitant stillness of the night: “I don’t believe in love,” he said. “I don’t even know what love is.”

“Love?” said the poet, a little unsure of himself at having to define such a commonplace thing without warning, and repeated the word in embarrassment: “Love, that’s feeling for others—as I feel for my child when the waves of suffering break over her.”

“Man has only one characteristic that equals the most commendable qualities of animals, one mark of nobility above the gods; he chooses justice,” said Örn Úlfar. “He who doesn’t choose justice isn’t human. I have little fondness for that pity which the coward calls love, Ljósvíkingur. What is love? If a loving person sees someone’s eye being gouged out, he howls as if his own eye were being gouged out. On the other hand he isn’t moved at all if he sees powerful liars utterly rob a whole people of their sight and thereby their good sense as well. If a loving man sees a dog’s tail being trodden on, he suffers as if he himself had a tail; on the other hand, it doesn’t touch any string in his heart if he looks upon demented criminals trampling half of mankind into the dirt.”

“But because of this pity for mankind, God sent his only begotten Son to suffer on the Cross—don’t you then see anything magnificent in that ancient story, Örn?”

“Yes,” said Örn Úlfar, “that pity for mankind should have caused the death of the god.”

“Don’t you think it right, then, that I should feel pity for this little child who lies here at death’s door between us?” asked the poet.

“It is justice, not love, that will one day give life to the children of the future,” said Örn Úlfar. “The battle for justice is the one thing which gives human life rational meaning.”

“Örn,” said the poet, “hasn’t it occurred to you that it’s possible to fight for justice until there’s no one left alive on earth? ‘Though the world should fall, justice shall conquer,’ says an old proverb. I can’t imagine any proverb more suitable as a motto for lunatics. If the battle for justice calls forth Armageddon, Örn—what then?”