“Oh, they can always get into plenty of trouble without generals,” retorted Bjartur. “I should say from my experience of womenfolk that most of them want to be raped, more or less. Maybe they don’t like to hear the truth, but I think I’m pretty near the mark, worse luck.”
Thorir of Gilteig, however, felt that this was a little too hard on the poor girls, and thought, not without emotion, of the fate of his own three daughters. “If only they could withstand guile as well as they can force,” he argued, “many a girl would be in better case.”
“Personally I see very little difference between guile and force as long as the object is the same,” said Bjartur.
Einar made no contribution to this part of the conversation. His wife and his only daughter were both dead of consumption, so that there had never been any question of guile or force in his household. “But,” said he, taking up his own thread again, “I agree with our worthy Fell King in this, that if you look at the war with one eye upon the ideals that He behind it, and the other on all those thousands of men and women whom it robs of life and limb, then you can’t help wondering whether it wouldn’t be better to lay more store upon preserving people’s lives than upon fulfilling a set of ideals. For if ideals aim not at improving the lot of mankind on earth, but at slaughtering men by the million, one may well ask whether it wouldn’t be more praiseworthy to be wholly devoid of ideals, though such a life would naturally be a very empty one. For if ideals are not life, and life is not ideals, what are ideals? And what is life?”
“Well, if they simply must have it that way,” said Bjartur, “they’ve only themselves to blame. Surely anyone who wants war must also be willing to have himself killed. Why can’t they have leave to be as idiotic as they please? And since the swine can be bothered to go to the trouble of butchering one another—from imbecility or ideals, it’s all the same to me—well, I'll be the last man on earth to grieve for them. To hell with the lot of them. All I say is this: let them continue till doomsday, as long as the meat and the wool keep on rising in price.”
“But what happens if there’s no one left in the end?” asked Krusi of Gil.
“Why, in that case we simply fit out a boat together, lads, then sail off south to the Continent and see how they are off for pasture-land in those parts; yes, it would be a first-rate chance of discovering whether there are any prospects of good farming down there. It wouldn’t half be a joke if Thorir of Gilteig’s grandchildren should end up by making dandelion chains on the ruins of London city, after all their damned china rubbish has been smashed to fragments; yes and their statues. And I might even set to and dig myself a vegetable garden on the plain where Paris had been razed to the ground hahaha.”
The Fell King: “You may be right in maintaining that the war arose from nothing but sheer stupidity, Bjartur, but personally I’m inclined to agree with Einar when he says that such a statement is an exaggeration of the truth. At least I doubt whether we, both you and I, who enjoy all the blessings of an increasing prosperity because of the war, have the right to call it by such indiscreet names. But, on the other hand, I am convinced that Einar likewise overshoots the mark when he says that the war sprang from some definite ideal. I should like to point out that I am not speaking as a parish councillor in this matter, for the war does not concern the parish council as such. But if I were to give you my own personal private opinion of this war, which in my eyes is only a sort of disagreement, I should say that this disagreement was, like most other disagreements, begotten first and foremost of a misunderstanding. This war, so far as I have been able to discover, is being waged principally between two countries, France and Germany as they are called, though naturally England also plays an important part, especially at sea, where she has a whole host of elegant warships that would be a credit to any country even if they were put to some useful purpose. Now, one day in the summertime, shortly after war broke out, it so happened that I had occasion to visit the District Medical Officer on some small business connected with the animals’ physic, and while we were sitting over a cup of coffee he brought out a most interesting foreign book and showed me some pictures of these two countries, France and Germany. I should like to make it clear that I examined the pictures as closely as circumstances allowed. And I came to the conclusion, after minute scrutiny and conscientious comparison of the pictures, that there is no fundamental difference between France and Germany at all, and that they are actually both. The same country, with not even a strait between them, much less a fjord. Both countries have woods, both countries have mountains, both countries have cornfields, and both countries have cities. It is at least impossible to see any difference in the landscapes. And as for the inhabitants of these two countries, I am not afraid to declare that they are neither more stupid nor more vicious in appearance than any other folk, and certainly no more stupid-looking in the one country than in the other. To judge from the pictures, they would appear to be quite ordinary people, except that whereas the Germans are said to keep their hair close-cropped, many of the French are supposed to stick to the old custom of growing beards, much the same as in our own parish for instance, where some people keep their hair short while others prefer to grow a beard. The truth, I imagine, is that both the French and the Germans are just ordinary sort of folk, fellows of a decent, harmless sort of nature such as we find so many of around here, for instance. That is why I have arrived privately at the conviction, and I am fully prepared to maintain it in public if need be, that the aforesaid disagreement between these men sprang from a misunderstanding. And that the cause of it is that each thinks he is better than the other, when as a matter of fact there is no real difference between them except perhaps some trifling variation in the manner of wearing the hair. Each maintains that his country is in some way more holy than the other’s, though in strict reality France and Germany are exactly the same country, and no one in full possession of his faculties can possibly see any difference between them. But in spite of that, it is always a serious business to side with one when two are fighting, and tie most sensible course, obviously, is to stay on good terms with both parties and speak ill of neither. I say for my part that I shall wait patiently until one or the other wins, and it’s no matter to me which it is, as long as somebody wins, for then there will be a greater likelihood of the two countries being combined and made into one country, so that there need rise no future misunderstanding about their being two different countries.”
Olafur of Yztadale had never been fond of discussing matters with the superficial wisdom that merely scratches at the crust and leaves the kernel undisturbed, for his was the type of mind that prefers to inquire into a thing’s deeper causes, and loves especially to probe into the utterly incomprehensible and inexplicable aspects of any question. He had been waiting impatiently for an opening, and when at last the Fell King was silent, he lifted up his piping voice and crammed on full speed in order to make best use of that short space of time that he knew from past experience was his grudging dole in every conversation.
“When ten million men murder one another in bad will,” he said, “I for one don’t give a damn whether it’s from no reason at all or because of a dirty little cock-sparrow like this chap Ferdinand. It’s just as Bjartur says: Why can’t they have leave to be as idiotic as they please? Now, one idiot is a curiosity, as everyone knows who has seen an idiot; their jowls stick out beyond then-shoulders and they slaver at the mouth. But what is one to say of ten million idiots? Let us imagine that these ten million idiots murder one another, possibly because of a dirty little cock-sparrow, possibly for no reason at all, it’s no matter to me. Let us take it mathematically and say that five million of each are killed, for twice five are ten, as everybody knows. Suppose now that all these idiots go to heaven, for even if I believed in hell I would never wish anyone so ill as to send him there. Suppose further that they meet each other in heaven on the same day as they murdered each other on earth—it’s no matter to me whether it was out of imbecili
ty, it doesn’t affect the question at issue, as I said before, because murder is murder as Einar of Undirhlith says. Now then, here are three questions which I ponder over night and day and which, since this seems a favourable opportunity, I intend to put to you also. In the first place, do they forgive one another in heaven for having murdered one another? it’s no matter to me whether it was out of stupidity. In the second place, do they perhaps thank one another in heaven for having murdered one another and thus helped one another on the way to heaven? Or, in the third place, do they go on fighting with undiminished imbecility in heaven, and if so for how long? And if they murder one another afresh, where do they land then? Will there eventually arrive a time when the whole universe will be too small to accommodate people who want to murder one another in stupidity, for no reason and to no purpose to the end of all eternity? I expect I'll be pretty grey at the temples before I get an answer to that, as to so much else.”
MATTERS OF FAITH
AND SO, to the ever increasing prosperity of the land and its inhabitants, the World War proceeded. For four lucrative years and more it went on, and the longer it lasted, the greater was the gratification it aroused in the hearts of the community. All good men hoped and prayed that it might go on till doomsday. Many, especially those of a nice ingenuous nature, never called it by any other name than the Blessed War, for Icelandic goods were still rising in price abroad, and on the Continent whole nations were fighting, among other things, for the honour of importing them. These gifted but singular belligerents who hitherto had been content to turn a blind eye upon an Iceland racked with famine, slavery, merchants, and every other scourge conceivable, were now of a sudden falling over themselves in the rush to buy our exports and to help us onward and upward along the road to wealth and happiness. Many tenant farmers undertook the task of purchasing from their landlords the land they held, and those who already before the outbreak of hostilities had gone through fire and water to acquire theirs began now to think of renewing their buildings. Those who were in debt were given opportunities of incurring greater debts, while upon those who owed nothing, but who might be likely to require a loan for extensions, the banks smiled with an incredibly seductive sweetness. Folk began to farm on a larger scale, folk increased their livestock, folk even sent their children to be educated. In some houses there were to be seen not one but as many as four china dogs of the larger size, even musical instruments; womenfolk were walking about wearing all sorts of tombac rings, and many persons had acquired overcoats and Wellington boots, articles of apparel that had previously been contrabrand to working people. The government embarked upon a huge program of public works, and those who were fortunate enough to have an energetic idealist like Ingolfur Arnarson as their representative in Parliament were granted roads and bridges throughout their constituency. A highroad was built from Fjord up through Bjartur of Summerhouses’ valley all the way to the homesteads around Rauthsmyri, and soon the first automatic carriages were thundering along this road at unbelievable speed, scaring everyone’s horses so that they bolted under them.
Now, in this welter of money and joyous prosperity that had burst like a flood upon the country’s scattered homesteads, some, it was to be regretted, appeared to have lost their powers of sound judgment, for there was no disguising the fact that holdings were being bought at prices which were ridiculously high, that the passion for building was exceeding the bounds of good sense, and that many children were returning home from school both hurriedly educated and over-educated. There were, however, those who preserved their sanity, men who took everything with the greatest calm. Such men made no changes in their mode of living, neither did they buy china dogs. They spent nothing on the education of their sons, rather increased their stock by steady degrees, exercised moderation in the improvement of their property, and kept jogging quietly along towards the higher goals they had set themselves. One such was Bjartur of Summerhouses. He was no fonder of needless luxuries now than he had ever been, but with every year that passed he was spending more and more money on the hiring of work-people and the buying of sheep. Time was when he had based his calendar upon the arrival of an old bitch named Fritha, as grim a misfortune as any that had to do with a cow, but those days were over now; in less than no time he had reached two hundred and fifty sheep, two cows, and three horses and was employing hired labour, male and female, in the summer, and a housekeeper and a herd in the winter. Furthermore, to house all these new people he had adapted the old stable under the living-room, and where once there had been a hole in the wall as an exit for the dung, there was now a little window with four panes. Many a little makes a mickle, as the saying goes, and this was the sure and trusty growth that proceeds without revolution, without noise, and as if of itself alone, the healthy development. The man himself remained unaltered. He allowed himself no greater luxury in his mode of life than that of sprawling on a haycock for four minutes during the daytime, in the hope that he would soon roll off, preferably into a puddle. Of his work-people he demanded a suitable degree of exertion in their labours winter and summer, and he still had the habit of muttering crafty verse to himself on any occasion when he was alone.
The old woman lived on in her own peculiar fashion, like a candle the Lord has forgotten to snuff. She mumbled her psalms and knitted, never noticing the existence of a new era and refusing to admit that a carriage-way had been laid through the valley, or that automobiles could reach the fjord in forty-five and Uti-rauthsmyri in fifteen minutes. The fact was that she did not believe there was any way at all, except at most the way of the Lord. And there’s a world war on too, cried folk joyfully. But she said there was no world war; she said that at most it was just the same old war that had been going on abroad ever since she could remember; world war, what nonsense! This she said because she did not believe that the world existed. But she still persisted in maintaining that there was a curse over the croft. Sooner or later it would be fulfilled, and those who lived to see it would know it to their cost; Kolumlrilli has rarely allowed anyone who hung on to this hut to escape scot-free. But the sunsets were lovely in Urtharsel, I lived there forty years and nothing ever happened. She was always wanting to get back home.
And now we come to the co-operative society, that flourishing business concern of the farmers’ own which renders middlemen superfluous and guarantees the rural producer a fair return for what he has to sell. Before long these societies will have saved the country’s peasantry and made all poor farmers into affluent people, as they are said to have done in Denmark. The co-operative society in Fjord flourished, co-operative societies everywhere flourished. The nation’s parasites, the merchants, either went completely under or struggled on with heads barely above water; the farmers were taking a firmer and firmer grip on all their own affairs, trade, agriculture, building, even electricity, and the farmers’ newspapers in the south said that the foundations were now being laid for large-scale agriculture in Iceland, agriculture of an order fully capable of keeping abreast of the times, agriculture that would be the principal occupation of the people and the cornerstone of the community’s freedom. Those who oppose the farmers’ interests are the nation’s worst enemies. Down with the middlemen. You save twenty-five per cent by dealing with the co-operative societies, the co-operative societies were founded to resist the tyranny of capitalism and to safeguard the interests of the small producer and the common man. But the most important point is still to mention. The co-operative societies aim at a higher ideal than that of mere financial gain. They seek to better mankind itself, to widen man’s horizons, educate him, make him kindlier in his dealings with those of inferior status.
In connection with all this, peasant culture had suddenly become the great gospel preached by the newspapers in the south. Everything for the farmers. The peasantry are the life-blood and the backbone of the nation. The mountain valleys are the cradle of all that is most admirable in the race. The countryman walks out to his green meadows in an atmosphere clear and pure,
and as he breathes it into his lungs some unknown power streams through his limbs, invigorating body and soul. Townsfolk have no conception of the peace that Mother Nature bestows, and while this peace is yet unf ound, the spirit allays its thirst with ephemeral novelties. The shepherd, on the other hand, is filled with the heroic spirit, for the frozen blast hardens him and steels him. Such is the beauty of the rustic life. It is the nation’s finest educational institution. And the peasants bear the rural culture on their shoulders. A wise prudence sits enthroned beside them, a perpetual fount of blessing to the land and its people. And nature, yes, the Icelandic scene is beautiful with its hillsides, its dingles, its waterfalls, and its mountains; no wonder that those who dwell in the mountain valleys are the true people, the people of nature, the only true people. Their life is spent in the service of God.
The dignity of the peasant’s life and the virtues of his culture had hitherto been only a peculiar sort of gospel that the lady of Rauthsmyri had preached at social gatherings, especially wedding feasts, probably because she so much regretted ever having left the town herself. No one had ever bothered to pay it any particular attention; it had made no more impression and evoked no more response than, for instance, the minister’s sermons. But now it was appearing in fine newspapers that were printed in the south and sent to every household in the country, every week it turned up in some form or other. It was as if one met Madam Myri on every page that was published, with a motherly face like the Pope. And people in general began to believe in this gospel, and soon rural culture was in great demand in the country districts; away with the traditional niggardliness, away with the heritage of spectres—Kolumkilli, who can be bothered to listen to such rubbish nowadays? No, the Icelandic crofter had waked from the sleep of centuries. It was even a matter of great doubt whether he had ever slept at all. In less than no time he had formed his own political party in the land, a party whose endeavours were directed against conservatives, egoists, middlemen, and thieves; the party of co-operators, small producers, common people, and progressive reformers, the party of justice and ideals. One of the first who went into Parliament with the express aim of wiping out injustice and fighting for the ideals of the new golden age that was dawning was Ingolfur Arnarson Jonsson; one of those who voted for him was Bjartur of Summerhouses, The credit that stood to his name in the books of the co-operative society was mounting year by year. Then had he begun to believe in Ingolfur Arnarson and the rest of the Rauthsmyrians? Whether he had actually begun to have any real faith in them I cannot say, but this much is certain: that when the State roadmen were building a bridge over the ravine that cuts the ridge, the spring after Ingolfur Arnarson had persuaded the government to build a highroad through the valley and to bridge all the rivers, he took a stroll as far as the ridge one evening just before the roadmen ceased work, and there entered into conversation with them. That conversation reflected in some measure the state of his faith in these times.
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