“Oh, it wasn’t because I was short of money that I didn’t move into the house this autumn, Brynja lass,” he continued. “I could have bought plenty of doors, plenty of beds, plenty of chairs if I had wanted to. And perhaps a picture of God, and one of the Czar too, if I’d felt like it.”
“I don’t have to ask why it was,” she replied, still grumbling away at the wall. “Poetry is being written about those who have neither the nature nor the sense to understand it, but other folk never hear a friendly word spoken to them. All that other folk get are the leaks.”
“The leak that comes from outside harms no one,” he stated once more. “It is the leak that one finds indoors that is worst.”
When one is unmarried, one must tell people to shut up in roundabout fashion.
INTEREST
WAS it surprising if most people considered that Bjartur of Summerhouses would have been much better off without the house he had built? Then what about the Fell King and his house? Did he fare any better, may I ask? No; the truth was that Bjartur’s house, though innocent of furniture and so far uninhabitable, was a veritable fount of happiness compared with the house that the Fell King had built and fitted out at such expense. For whereas Bjartur’s house continued to stand there by virtue of the loan he had raised in the savings bank, and his sheep to pay off the interest stipulated, the supports that sustained the Fell King’s house collapsed completely, engulfing the owner in sudden ruin. It was a fine house, this of the Fell King’s, so fine, in fact, and so well furnished that it might be designated, along with the mansion at Rauthsmyri itself, as a dwelling such as civilized human beings need not be ashamed of living in; but the lamentable outcome was that no sooner had the Fell King brought it to such a desirable pitch than he was thrown out neck and crop and forced to flee. People simply can’t afford to live like civilized human beings, as has been so often demonstrated before and will be again; even middle-class farmers can’t afford it, and in a boom year at that. The only sensible course for ordinary folk, the only one that pays, is to live in a little hut on the same cultural level as the Negroes of central Africa and to let the merchant keep a flicker of life going in them, as the Icelandic nation has been doing for a thousand years now. People take more upon themselves than they can manage if they aim higher. True, it had been quite usual in the old days for people to owe the merchant money and to be refused credit when the debt had grown too big. It had likewise been nothing uncommon for people thus denied sustenance to die of starvation, but such a fate, surely, was infinitely preferable to being ensnared by the banks, as people are nowadays, for at least they had lived like independent men, at least they had died of hunger like free people. The mistake lies in assuming that the helping hand proffered by the banks is as reliable as it is seductive, when in actual fact the banks may be relied upon only by those few exceptionally great men who can afford to owe anything from one to five millions. So about the same time as Bjartur sold his better cow to raise money for wages and paid a thousand crowns off the loan and six hundred as interest by making inroads on his stock of sheep, the Fell King sold his farm to a speculator for the amount of the mortgages with which it was encumbered and fled to live in a hovel in the town, yes, and thought himself lucky to escape. The National Bank had passed into Ingolfur Arnarson’s control and had become a State bank on the basis of a huge government loan from England; remissions of and concessions on loans were out of the question now, unless it was a matter of millions, and the farmers’ produce had fallen disastrously in price.
Yes, the bottom fell out of everything, the autumn that Bjartur’s house was one year old. The war’s blessings were no longer operative as far as trade and prices were concerned, for the foreigners had begun rearing sheep of their own again instead of killing men, worse luck. Icelandic mutton was once more one of the world’s superfluous commodities. No one was asking for wool these days, the foreigners’ sheep had started growing wool of their own again. Bjartur had to stand by and watch a hundred of these unwelcome Icelandic sheep melt away simply to pay the interest and the part payment of his loan. But this loss he took with the same unflinching fortitude as he had previously shown in the face of famine, spectres, and merchants, complaining to no one. The walls of his prison of debt were no doubt growing the thicker the lower his produce sank in price, but he was determined to keep on running his head against those walls as long as there was a drop of blood or a particle of brain left in it. This was a new phase in the crofter’s eternal struggle for independence, this fight against the normal economic conditions that must of necessity return when the abnormal prosperity of war has passed away; when the unnatural optimism that has betrayed the hut-dwelling peasant into an act of folly so imbecile as to propose living in a house has evaporated and left not a trace behind. He returned to his senses, now that the boom years were over, to find himself stuck in the bog that, with infinite labour, he had managed to avoid in the hard years; the free man of the famine years had become the interest-slave of the boom years. It seemed after all that in their freedom from debt, their dead children, their dirt, their hunger, the lean years had been more dependable than the boom years with all their coquettish lending establishments, their house.
It was about the same time as Ingolf ur Arnarson was appointed Governor, and the National Bank resuscitated by means of several millions in share capital from the Icelandic State,—that is to say, from a certain bank in London,—that there came a new manager to the co-operative society in Fjord. ‘Things have got into a hell of a mess here,” growled the new manager angrily, and the deeper he probed into the books, the angrier he became; people’s debts had been allowed to run far too high, things were in an awful state, precautionary measures of a most drastic nature would have to be taken immediately. Those people who owed more than they could ever pay were straightway declared bankrupt, and might thank their lucky stars for being let off so lightly, but all those who had anything in them at all were allowed to hang on in their halter of debt, with their toes barely touching the ground, in the hope that they might be able to scrape at least the interest together with their broken and bleeding nails—a misfortune even greater, perhaps, than that of being bankrupted and kicked out empty-handed. The big men arranged that the public should be put on rations in the co-operative society, so that they might go on keeping body and soul together—for the sake of the interest, People’s most essential requirements were then doled out to them, in quantities varying with their means and circumstances so that they could go on slaving for the interest they had to pay. Many folk could only get essential provisions if a more prosperous person went security for them. Coffee and sugar were out of the question except for landed farmers; the wheat ration could be measured most conveniently with a thimble, though some unfortunates got none at all; small wares were cut down severely, and clothes were strictly forbidden, especially to those people who were really in need of them. On the other hand, the Government had made tremendous progress as regards tobacco, laws having recently been passed whereby a free grant of tobacco from public funds was to be made to every member of the farming community to aid him in defending his sheep against scab and lung-worm; this luxury might be administered either internally, as a medicine, or externally, as a dip. This tobacco was given a very warm welcome; it was christened Exchequer or Wormy and even the Bailiff chewed Wormy in the interests of economy in these difficult times.
“It’s hard lines, surely,” said Bjartur, on being informed of the rations allotted him for his subsistence in the second year of the new house, “if I’m no longer to be allowed to decide my purchases for myself, like a free man. And if I don’t get what I want here, I’ll take my custom elsewhere.”
“Please yourself,” was the reply. “But in that case we simply distrain on your property.”
“What the hell am I supposed to be, a slave and a half-wit, or what?”
“I don’t know,” was the rejoinder, “we’re only going according to the books.”
H
e was allowed only half a sack of rye meal and the same of oats, but was given plenty of salt refuse fish, which the co-op seemed to have in cartloads, likewise lots of Wormy. It was the first time in all his hfe as a farmer that he was refused a handful or so of wheat flour with which to make pancakes should a visitor ride into the enclosure, and coffee and sugar were out of the question for such people as he, unless they paid in cash. Time was when he had not scrupled to say what he thought of those who held the peasants’ lives in their grasp, but whom was he to rail at here? A few books?
However, they did not succeed in preventing his making the house habitable that autumn. There were still a good many things lacking, of course, but at least they had got the biggest room on the middle floor into some sort of order, and the kitchen had also been brought into use, and the house fitted with three doors, one outer and two inner, all hung with proper hinges, and complete with suitable knobs at that. He bought a second-hand bedstead for himself and Gvendur down in Fjord, and though no one had hitherto considered him much of a handy man, he hammered a few planks together to fashion a bed for the old woman, likewise a rough-and-ready sort of table and a little bench to sit on. The family then moved into the house, all into the one room. But no sooner had they got settled than they discovered that there was something wrong with the range; the smoke blew down incessandy whenever a fire was made, and the whole house filled with an incredible reek. Various people were called in, and many were the meetings held to discuss the matter, many the noteworthy theories propounded and conclusively demonstrated. Some held that the chimneypot wasn’t high enough, others that the chimneypot was too high. Some people thought that the flue was too wide, while others considered that it must be too narrow, or even im-perforate. Reference was made, moreover, to a scientific theory that had been published in a newspaper, to the effect that chimneys built during spring tides always gave a lot of trouble. Judging by this, Bjartur’s chimney must have been built during spring tides. One thing was certain: the chimney went on smoking in spite of all their theorizing. Obviously, expensive repairs would be necessary to put the thing in order, and it was extremely doubtful whether it would pay to have them done, for the range was a glutton for firewood and other fuel with its three big grates. Finally an oil-stove was bought for cooking on, and the range allowed to stand untouched in the kitchen, as if for ornament.
TROLLS IN AUTUMN
NOW it was housekeeper Brynja’s custom, once every autumn, to saddle her mare and take a trip to town on a shopping expedition. On these occasions she would be away for a week at a time, for this trip of hers was in the nature also of a holiday tour; probably she had friends the same as anyone else. She was wont to return ruddy of complexion and with a certain air of importance about her as she ambled along on her roan, with a large assortment of packages tied to the saddle, small wares, cotton remnants, sewing-thread, hard biscuits to gnaw at on festive occasions and to offer folk if they were of a reasonable way of thinking, a grain or so of coffee, a lump or two of sugar. This time, however, things were rather different, for she returned, not on horseback, but on foot, leading the roan behind her with saddle-packs filled to capacity. She was warm and cheerful in her mood as she asked the crofter if he would help her unhitch the packs and carry them in.
“What’s all this you’ve been buying?” inquired Bjartur.
“Oh, nothing very much, really. Nothing worth talking about anyway,” she replied, unwilling to tell him everything at once. Her manner was a trifle self-important, and perhaps just a trifle happy, just a trifle proud underneath; perhaps on her way over the moors she had been looking forward to his questioning her and trying to probe into every detail. But he closed up immediately in cold reserve and showed no further sign of curiosity. It was not his habit to cross-examine anyone about anything, he himself never permitted anyone to cross-examine him about anything, let her please herself about what she bought. He bundled her purchases into the entrance in silence, then let her mare loose in the marshes and gave it a kick, it was a pitch-dark autumn night. He found a few odd jobs to delay him outside and did not go in again before bedtime. He suspected that the housekeeper, following her usual autumn habit, would offer him a biscuit to eat if he went in before she was in bed, but on this occasion he cared less for biscuits than ever before, being afraid of what they might lead to, maybe hard words on both sides. Yet when at long length he entered with the intention of going to bed, he found that he could not restrain himself from striking a light in the passage and taking a closer look at the stuff she had bought. There was half a sack of wheat flour, a bag of rice, a whole loaf of sugar, and a box fragrant with the odours of colonial goods such as coffee, raisins, and who knows what else—all goods that the burden of debt forbade an independent man to buy in a free country. Prizing open one of the boards in the lid, he peered under. And what was the first thing that met his eyes? It was a roll of delightfully fragrant snuff-tobacco. No wonder he felt like losing his temper, a man who for a whole month past had had nothing but free Wormy to allay, or rather irritate, his craving for tobacco. Too disturbed to pursue his investigations further, he put out the light and went into the room.
The old woman asleep, Gvendur in bed too, his face turned to the wall. Only Brynja was still up, and she was sitting on her bed, still dressed in her best. She had unpacked some cloth to examine and had laid it aside again as if disappointed in it. She gazed down at the hands in her lap and did not look at him. It was only a short while since she had been so proud and so consequential, yet now she said nothing; no delight, no expectant cheerfulness left.
“Do we have to waste all this oil?” grumbled the farmer, screwing down the lamp by more than half.
She made no reply, something most unusual for her, but after a while she gave a slight sniff. He had begun unlacing his shoes. He hoped he would be able to get into bed and pull the clothes over his head before she found an opportunity of offering him a biscuit. He was careful not to look at her, but pondered all the more her behaviour. This sensible, hard-headed woman, who had long outgrown the years of youthful folly and frivolous excitement, this woman who had scraped and saved all her life long, never wasting a penny, except perhaps on a pound of biscuits once a year—had she taken leave of her senses? Was she sitting there sulking because the eyes had not popped out of his head with admiration when she had brought a horse-load of provisions into his house, his big new house? But she was a fine, dependable woman nevertheless, and rarely given to idle chatter, and he had had no complaints to make against her, except that once, last year it must have been, she had interfered in something that didn’t concern her. And she was a fine figure of a woman, too, wherever one saw her, strong-looking and in good flesh, with the red blood of youth still in her cheeks; actually all she needed was the spectacles to be as imposing in presence as Madam of Myri a few years ago, when she was still at her best. And she was the very soul of cleanliness, never let anyone put anything on unless it had been mended, never allowed dirt to accumulate in the corners, knew how to make the most of the provisions, invested everything she cooked with an appetizing flavour. And she wasn’t the one to spare herself either, or to turn her nose up at anything, for she was ready to carry muck by night or day, if necessary; no, she was most definitely not the type to lie coddling herself in bed, like a bailiff’s daughter with nothing better to do. And she was a woman of substance, with a tidy little sum to her credit in the savings bank, and though her mare was a false stepper, a mare is always a mare nevertheless. And last but not least there was that magnificent bed of hers, the finest piece of furniture in the whole of the crofter’s new house, the range not excepted; it was doubtful whether Madam of Myri herself slept between sheets that were softer.
No, she showed no signs of offering him a biscuit; probably it would never occur to her the way things stood now. For a good while she went on sitting on the bed with her hands in her lap—strange how helpless her hands could look when there was nothing in them—and he remained acute
ly conscious of her in the twilight of the room, there was a shadow lying across her face. Finally she took the stuff she had been inspecting and, rolling it up into a careless bundle as if it were some worthless rag, stuck it under the lid of her clothes-chest. Then she gave a little sigh. Then she took the counterpane off her bed, folded it with habitual neatness, laid back the red-chequered eiderdown and the snow-white sheet, sat down on the edge of the bed, and began undressing—unfastened her tie, unhooked her jacket, wriggled out of her skirt; and, having carefully folded all her outer clothes, put them, together with her best petticoat, under the lid of the chest. She was wearing thick, well-made woollen underclothes which she had worked herself, and her figure seemed to grow and burgeon and be set free as she peeled off the close-fitting outer garments; the strong, substantial haunches were so elastic still that it seemed incredible that she could be past the age of child-bearing yet. There dwelt a colossal strength in her knees and thighs, her neck was strong and youthful, her breasts the breasts of a girl, firm and tremulous, resilient, high in front, cupped even. She took her vest off altogether, she was a troll of a woman, but no more of a troll than he, for he too had the shoulders of a giant, a breast that could withstand anything. She put on her night-jacket. Then and not before did she put the light out. Her bed creaked as she lay down.
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