Then the old woman dug her hand under her pillow and withdrew a little bundle. It was made up of useless old rags, both woven and knitted, which were wrapped tightly one round another. Numb-fingered and with trembling hands she proceeded to unwind them.
“Are you there still, urchin?” she asked finally when she had reached the heart of this mystery.
“Yes, Grandmother,” said the boy.
And what should it turn out to be but those two treasures of hers, the only things of value that she possessed: the kerchief and the ear-pick. She was going to give him these treasures at parting, he who had slept in the corner there beside her ever since he was in diapers. She could do no more.
“Oh, it’s not much of a gift to offer anybody,” she said. “But you could wrap this cloth round your neck on festival days when the weather’s good. And this ear-pick, they say it’s been in the family a long time.”
She did not recite any hymns, did not mention Jesus or Kuria, did not warn him against sin. Neither did she ask to be remembered to her sons in America—she had never been able to sense ties of kinship that stretched farther than Methalland in the south. Nor did she ever on any occasion ask about little Nonni when he had gone.
“There are two things I want to ask you to remember when you’ve gone,” she said, the wrinkled old face trembling much more than usual. “I want to ask you never to be insolent to those who hold a lowly position in the world. And never to ill-treat any animal.”
“Say thank-you to your grandmother, Nonni,” said Asta Sollilja. “She’s given you the only thing she has.”
And he put his hand in hers and thanked her in silence, for he knew no words that could express his gratitude for such a gift; she was giving him the nation’s poorest Christmas to cheer him on his way when he went out into the world, and he knew that henceforth she would no longer celebrate Christmas.
MADAM OF MYRI SUFFERS DEFEAT
ON the Saturday before Whitsun Asta Sollilja returned from Rauthsmyri; let us hope she had learned her Christianity, for she was to be confirmed on the morrow. But why had she come home today? Had not Bjartur arranged for a woman up-country to make her a dress and had he not paid for it in advance? Surely it had been decided that the girl was to return only when the confirmation ceremony was over, on Whit Sunday evening? What of it: she came home on the Saturday before Whitsun, late in the afternoon. It happened in this way:
Through the marshes, in a skirt that could have held half the parish, there came a woman riding a smart roan that picked its way daintily between the patches of bog. No, it was no lumbering old draught-horse, it was Rauthsmyri-Sorli with his spirited hoofs and his arched neck. Jumping from tussock to tussock behind them came Asta Sollilja, with downcast head and eyes looking neither to right nor to left, only one step at a time. She was crying.
Bjartur, lavish as ever in his hospitality, marched down the enclosure and out into the marshes, where he gave them a royal welcome. He grasped the reins near to the horse’s head and threaded the driest path home to the enclosure, turning every now and then to throw some waggish remark at Madam, a white raven is a rare sight in these parts and so forth, then lifted her down when they reached the paving. “She gets more and more like herself every day, bless her,” he said, for she was fat and dignified and just like the Pope. “Gvendur my boy, allow Madam’s roan to graze at the bottom of my home-field while she is waiting for coffee. And upstairs immediately, Sola dear, and see if there’s a spark of life left in the fire, though I’m afraid we haven’t troubled it much since you left, we boiled a bit of fish on Sunday to last us the whole week. But what’s all this, child? You look frightfully sad and dreary to say that you’re in the company of Iceland’s poetess.”
She gave her father no answer, but stooping to avoid the lintel of home, disappeared inside, heart-broken. On the pavement there remained Bjartur and the Bailiff’s wife, to expatiate on the poetry and the economics of the Icelandic spring which they both saw in the valley, each in his own fashion.
“The old man will be pretty well on with his lambing by now, I suppose?” asked Bjartur. “Yes, I thought so. And the sheep in fairly good condition for a bungler like him? Yes, quite so; it’s nothing fresh for him to lose more than a few, poor chap; but fortunately he’s got plenty to go at. And the grass fair to middling? Yes, it has a habit of growing here too. And very few foxes and suchlike vermin about this spring? Fine. Same here. Nothing for them to batten on here, no dead sheep at this address. Can’t even say I’ve seen a black-backed gull, let alone a fox; though come to think of it I did hear a raven one day up in the gully there. And worms less rampant than usual with the old man? Tut, tut, what a pity. Why, there’s not a sign of a worm here, not even an ordinary belly-worm, and the lambing has gone beautifully and ought to be finished with today if old Kapa is as punctual as ever. She’s an old ewe of mine that I’m particularly fond of. She’s due today, bless her, and as she’s on the heavier side I was thinking of going down to the moors in the south there to see how she’s getting on with it. A few words with me? Eh? What the devil do you think we’re doing now if we aren’t having a few words with each other? Behind the house? In towards the mountain? This is something fresh all right. It’s not the first time her ladyship offered to dodge behind a bush with me, even though one’s technique may have been growing a little rusty of late.”
But Madam was in no mood for joking, and gathering up a handful of her skirt so as not to tread on the hem, she led the way round the corner and along the brook towards the mountain. She proposed that they should each sit on one of the little mounds by the brook.
“Listen, my high-born heroine, I always understood it was my privilege, and not yours, to offer people a seat on my own property,” he said with continued facetiousness; but this pleasantry was received just as stiffly as the others. They sat down. Soulfully and artistically she stroked the grass on the mound smoothing it backward and forward with her eloquent, ladylike hand, small and fat, and dimpled in the knuckles—but what little plot was the old hen hatching out now; surely she wasn’t going to try and swindle the croft out of him? and surely the question of breaking up the home was no longer on the agenda now? Who could figure out their little manoeuvres? So he took some snuff. “May I offer her ladyship a pinch of snuff while she’s getting her breath back?” he asked. But Madam did not like snuff; or jokes either.
“Bjartur,” she said at length, “I don’t know whether you noticed that your daughter’s expression was scarcely radiant with girlish happiness when she came home a few minutes ago.”
“Maybe she thought it funny that you didn’t stick an old mare under her backside for the journey,” suggested Bjartur. “But perhaps they were all at work carrying peat, except for the saddle-horses. Not that it matters. I and my people have always walked on our own feet.”
“Well, as a matter of fact, a horse had been brought in for her, but she declined it. The poor child has a mind of her own. She inherits her stubbornness from you.”
“Maybe they couldn’t drive their Christianity into her,” said Bjartur. “It would be like that fool of a minister to go and say something to her. She isn’t used to having people say much to her. At home here there’s always peace and quiet, you see. And as for religion itself, I can’t say that I’ve ever done much to encourage her in suchlike studies, as, if the truth be told, I’ve always felt that all this Christianity was really rather a nuisance in the community, though the late Reverend Gudmundur was of course a great expert with sheep. But I dare bet that though she may not have a particularly good head for religion, our Sola is just as quick on the uptake as any youngster who was ever confirmed at the proper time. And I’d like to see the youngster of her age who is as strong as she is in the classics. And though most of these little chits dissolve in tears as soon as you find fault with them, that’s no reason why it should have any really serious aftereffects.”
“No,” said the poetess. “It isn’t her religious knowledge that’s at fau
lt. More’s the pity, as I almost feel like saying.”
She went on stroking the grass on the man’s mound with those artistic movements of hers, full of deep thought. Then Bjartur said:
“I don’t know whether I told you that it’s an old ewe that’s pegged along with me through thick and thin; she was sired by one of the late Reverend Gudmundur’s rams. She seems to be so remarkably heavy in the rear this time, and yet there’s no fat on her ribs. I’m half afraid that if it’s twins she’s carrying, it will take her all her time to bear them, so I was thinking of taking a walk down the valley before nightfall, because her time is almost upon her.”
“Yes, Bjartur,” said the woman. “I won’t delay you much longer now.”
Then came the story. “It all began when Gudny, who, for reasons of her own, has always considered that she has some small share in little Asta Sollilja, decided that she would like to have her sleeping with her for the few nights that she was staying at Rauthsmyri with us. Well, she noticed on the very first evening that there was some gloom darkening the child’s spirits. Something seemed to be preying on her mind; in fact, she was so worried that it took her all her time to give a sensible answer when anyone addressed her. And when they were in bed Gudny began to notice that she wept into her pillow. Sometimes she wept far into the night.”
Here the Bailiff’s wife paused for a moment, but went on blessing the grass with her artistic fingers. She was nevertheless much affected; but she had to breathe. She had the sort of breathing that is characteristic of fat people.
“Well?” said Bjartur at length, for he did not know how to appreciate artistic silences. “Is it any novelty if the tears are always on tap with these young people, particularly if they happen to be of the female sort—it’s just as I’ve said time and time again to the bitch and my wives: the female sex is even more pitiable than the human sex.”
“For the first two or three nights the girl refused to tell what was weighing on her mind.”
“Yes,” said Bjartur, “why should people who’ve been reared on independence describe what goes on in their minds? The mind is just like a weathercock. And just as apt to box the compass every five minutes.”
“She was so lost during the daytime that we thought at first that she was unhappy in her new surroundings and could not stand the company of other people. She couldn’t be persuaded to join in games with the other children.” (Bjartur: “Yes, she probably had more sense than to wear her shoes out with all this fat-headed hopping and slapping.”) “Then in the mornings Gudny began to notice that the girl was by no means well. She was miserable and listless; and sick while she was dressing.” (Bjartur: “The horse-meat can’t have agreed with her.”) “If we offer our guests horse-meat to eat, Bjartur, it’s the first I’ve heard of it The children actually had had a lovely ragout the evening before, and the housekeeper thought that perhaps she had overeaten, for at times she had seemed strangely ravenous with her food. But when this was repeated morning after morning, Gudny could not help thinking it rather suspicious, and she began to pay more attention to the shape of the girl’s figure when they were going to bed nights. It had struck her at once that the girl was pretty well-developed for her age, her figure is almost that of a grown woman; and then in addition, as we had all noticed immediately, though without giving it much thought, she has grown quite unnaturally big round the waist for a girl who is otherwise so very slim. So last night Gudny asked her whether she could examine her a little, saying that she thought she might have something wrong with her stomach. And then of course the housekeeper soon saw what was the matter; and she accused her of it. At first the child would admit nothing. It was then that the housekeeper called me up. And naturally I saw immediately what was wrong. I told the girl that it was quite useless to try to hide it from us. Finally she owned up. She is pregnant. She is about four months on.”
Bjartur looked at the woman with eyes like those of a horse that, hearing some unpleasant clatter behind it, pricks its ears, rears its head, and is on the very point of shying; then he jumped to his feet and took one step backward, incapable at first of finding any suitable form in which to take this news. At length he gave a foolish laugh, out into space, and said: “Pregnant? My Sola? No, you don’t pull my leg this time, my dear lady.”
“Very well, then; in that case it’s the first time I’ve run round to my neighbours with lies and gossip, Bjartur,” said the woman. “And I thought I deserved more of you than to be accused of falsehood. I have always wished you well. All of you. My heart and my home have always stood open to you country folk. I have been the spokeswoman of all that is most noble in rural life. I have looked upon the farmer’s work as holy work. And at the same time I have looked upon the farmer’s sorrows as my own sorrows, his defeats as my defeats. Never have I lost sight of the fact that the dale-farmer’s dogged perseverance is a lever with which to lift the nation to higher things.” (“Yes, the Rauthsmyri nation,” interrupted Bjartur angrily, “but the Rauthsmyri nation has never been my nation, though I have been crushed under you for thirty years and have been forced to join your co-operative society at last”) “All right, Bjartur, your opinions are your own, but I can tell you this: that every time the parish council has been on the point of breaking up your home I have invariably taken up the cudgels on your behalf and said: ‘It is the Icelandic peasant who has been the life-blood of the nation for a thousand years, leave my Bjartur alone, But now it has finally reached a point where I have to confess that I am beaten. For fifteen years I have tried to stand up in your defence while the parish sat with its heart in its mouth; first of all poor Rosa dies in that awful fashion, then your children die year after year, either at birth or in their swaddling clothes, and year after year you come with them on your back to have them buried in our little churchyard; then your second wife dies last year, and everyone knows what it was that finished her off, and finally come these strange happenings here during the winter and the loss of your oldest boy. And yet I never completely withdrew my protecting hand. But now I can do no more. To run away from all the enormities of the past winter and send an infamous wretch in your place, a notorious drunkard and jailbird who is not only a parish pauper with a horde of children but also rotten with consumption, and this blackguard is to look after your children, to look after Asta Sollilja, a full-grown young woman—”
“Now listen here, damn you, that’s enough from you, yes, go to hell, you aren’t on your own land here, you’re on my land. And if you’ve come along here today because of Asta Sollilja, let me tell you that you’ve come just fifteen years too bloody late. You palmed her off on me while she lay in her mother’s womb, damn you, and if she is my child, then it’s only because you as good as abandoned her to die and sold me some ground so that she could die on any property but your own. Do you think I didn’t know from the very first that it was you Rauthsmyrians who begot the child that was born in the hut here in the days when I rode the Devil over Glacier River and could not be killed? And if you propose to sit there and tell me that you’ve never lied, I say you lied at my wedding, when you stood up in the tent at Nithurkot with a lot of new-fangled fantasy and foreign religion on your lips after dumping your son’s bastard on me to save the Rauthsmyri reputation. And if you’ve come here to take me to task because Asta Sollilja is pregnant, then I say that that is something which has nothing at all to do with me, in the first place because I haven’t made her pregnant, and in the second place because I am in no way related to her and am therefore not responsible for her. It is you who are related to her and therefore responsible for her. You people in Rauthsmyri begot her and then abandoned her. She has nothing to do with me. And now let me tell you once and for all that in future you can go to hell with your own bastards, and can christen them with your own names; and whether they are pregnant or not pregnant is your business entirely; henceforward they no longer exist for me.”
“Bjartur my friend,” said the woman mildly, as she sat uprooting the grass on th
e man’s mound, “we must try to control our tempers and discuss what has happened like rational human beings. Actually it had occurred to me while she is expecting she would be more than welcome to find shelter with us—”
It’s no damned business of mine any longer whether you give your own children shelter or expose them to die. I know no better than that I did my duty when you wriggled out of doing yours. When your own child lay lifeless under the bitch’s belly, and you had abandoned it to die, I took your own child and gave it shelter, and made it the flower of my life for fifteen years, but now I say that I have had enough; and if you come along and threaten to sell me out and drive me from house and home, then do it if you dare and if you think you have the legal authority for it. But I order you to go to hell with your children in future, and leave me in peace with my children, and that’s all we have to say to each other and I’m off down the valley to see whether my ewe has lambed or not.”
With these words the dale-farmer shouldered his skins and lumbered away, down the brook, southward over the marshes; and no further word of farewell was spoken. The bitch joined him. He did not look around. The poetess was left sitting where she was, disconcerted and at a loss, with the man’s ground under her hand. She stared after him in perplexity: he was like an invincible army. It was she who had suffered defeat.
IT IS I
THE EVENING was far spent when he came home. The return was a very lengthy business, as he was driving two ewes before him, a ewe that had lambed and another that was still carrying. The mother-ewe had had one lamb and her udders were swollen with milk; the other was old Kapa. She was suspiciously heavy for a skinny old ewe, and since her udders were practically dry, there was no prospect of her being able to suckle two. It was a devil of a job herding them along, damned if they would keep going in the right direction. The bitch was very impatient and the man had to keep calling her off, one must not set dogs on them, never set dogs on ewes in the spring. The mother-ewe bolted off with her lamb in the opposite direction. When at last he had headed her off, old Kapa had turned also. So he had to go and fetch Kapa. The other was not long in seizing the opportunity, and raced off at full speed, with head in the air, in another direction altogether. This went on and on, and it was for this reason that the crofter was so long in returning home. But he got his own way in the end, for he happened to be more stubborn than both ewes put together; he had learned too much from sheep in his day to give in to sheep. The ewes stood at last at the foot of the home-field; now he would have to get the mother in and milk her. There was no sign of life in the house, probably they were all in bed, but he was averse to waking them up and asking for help, and went on running round the ewe. The ewe ran in endless circles; the man ran in endless circles also; for a while each party’s obstinacy seemed quite indomitable, but finally the ewe submitted and suffered herself to be driven into the stalls. The lamb hopped light-footed about the pavement and the vegetable garden; it hopped on to the roof and bleated. It sprang down from the roof and jumped on to the garden wall and bleated. It ran away in towards the mountain and down along the brook. Gripping the ewe with her head between his legs, he milked her into a bowl, and though she floundered about as if in a frenzy, he managed to get three gills or more from her. When he had released her she bleated her way to her answering lamb. Old Kapa was grazing away at the bottom of the home-field, quite contented now. The night was bright, but by no means mild; showers on the moors, mists on the mountains. The birds were silent for the space of an hour except for a loon complaining at long intervals down by the lake.
Independent People Page 47