“Honestly, it’s a hell of a joke,” he said. “They’re so scared that even the old women have gone and locked their kitchen doors.” He seemed to think that this was something really funny and laughed at it, but neither of the others could see anything funny about it. In between he went on discussing the police, the weather. women, and anything else that happened to occur to him.
“I say,” he said, “there’s no point in getting married these days.”
“No?” said Bjartur.
“No, none at all,” said the other, clicking his tongue.
“All right, don’t get married then,” said Bjartur.
“I say,” said the man. “I was talking to a very intelligent fellow the other day and do you know what he said? He said that letting people live was a much bigger crime on the part of the authorities than killing them.”
“Damned nonsense,” snorted Bjartur.
“No, no,” said the man quite simply and calmly. “I think so too. I hold the very same opinion. I hold that people aren’t big enough criminals to live under this system. People aren’t big enough damned rogues for this system; that is, the masses, anyway. That’s what’s wrong.”
Bjartur was too busy trying to fathom what the man was saying to make any reply.
“And we aren’t armed either,” said the man. ‘If we were only armed, it would be another matter altogether. We have to steal their own pick-handles from them to smash their blasted heads with. But if they bring fire arms, then of course—half a moment, there’s an old woman lives here.”
In a matter of seconds he was out of their sight behind a house, a medium-sized house with flowers in the windows and a tiny hen-coop. After a brief absence he returned with a large, uncut loaf of rye bread.
“I’ve skinned my hand,” he said, licking the blood from a scratch, “but it’s nothing much. Let’s go now.”
“I hope you haven’t stolen that loaf,” exclaimed Bjartur angrily.
“Pshaw,” said the man, clicking his tongue. He pushed the loaf down inside the front of his trousers and pulled his jersey over it “It doesn’t matter. She owns a lot of land. She’s an archdeacon’s widow.”
Here Bjartur halted on the road and said: “That’s enough; I, for one, am going no farther.”
“Oh, but you must,” persuaded the man. “Come along now, come and have some coffee. This is lovely bread. I don’t think the old girl really needs all this bread.”
“I have never been a thief,” said Bjartur “—or a receiver either.”
“No more have I,” said the other. “But what is a man to do, when everything is stolen from him and he’s probably going to be shot into the bargain? What difference will one loaf more or less make to the capitalism that murdered ten million men for fun in the war? Capitalism punishes people much more for not stealing than for stealing—so why shouldn’t a fellow steal? All the people that I’ve talked to said that they were far better off in prison than anywhere else. The old woman I got the loaf from, all she does is sit on her backside and watch the rents rolling in from the farms she owns. But I’m sure that it’s much better being in prison than owning a farm like you. I’m sure that a man is much more independent in prison. So come along, then, comrades. The coffee must be ready by now. And the only thief there is is capitalism.”
There were ten or twelve workmen in this particular barrack. The oil-stove on which they were preparing coffee smoked abominably, but they had got the water boiled and a delicious smell of coffee pervaded the night air as the newcomers approached.
“Who are these two?”
They were sitting at the side of the road taking snuff,” replied their guide, a statement that was not altogether correct, as they had only been chewing grass stalks. “I asked them along for some coffee.”
“Have you brought any bread back?”
“Yes, of course,” said the guide in matter-of-fact tones, “heaps of bread. Step inside, won’t you, comrades? It’s quite safe to let them in, lads, they’re against capitalism.”
The hosts offered their guests a seat on one of the bunks, then began questioning them when they had made themselves comfortable. Several of them had heard of Bjartur of Summerhouses and knew that he had built a house and that his croft had been sold up by his creditors a few days beforehand; these wanted to know his story in greater detail, but he refused to divulge anything. They offered him a mug of coffee, which he was very thankful to accept, but when it came to the bread, his anger mounted once more, it was other people’s bread. Yet he would have given much for bread to eat. Gvendur accepted a good thick slice and looked at his father.
“You do it on your own responsibility and not on mine.” said Bjartur.
“Bjartur,” asked one young fellow with a peculiar candid expression and living, sensitive features, “do you know what the Russian peasants have done?”
He made no reply.
“From time immemorial they had lived independent existences, like wild cats, or, more properly speaking, like Icelandic crofters such as you. Capitalism used them for stealing from and murdering, you see. Eight years ago capitalism started a war and for a period of three years had them murdered like dogs, for amusement’s sake. On some days two hundred thousand were killed at once. At last the Russian peasants got tired of it, and joining force with their comrades, the workers in the towns, they overthrew capitalism and killed the Czar and took back all the wealth that the capitalists had stolen from them. Then they created a new society in which no one was allowed to make a profit on other people’s work. Such a society is called a socialist society.”
“Well, well,” said Bjartur with a laugh, “so the Czar has fallen, has he.”
He then told them something of his history, and explained to them also the present state of his affairs. “Maybe I'll have a bite of bread with you after all, lads,” he said finally, for he saw that they were all eating the bread, and that their appetites were good, and that half the loaf had already gone. They cut him a good thick slice and it was lovely bread. “Oh, well, maybe they’ll avenge me there then,” he said with his mouth full of bread, “—like Grettir the Strong, who was avenged all the way east in Miklagard, for which reason he was accounted the greatest man in Iceland.”
“You aren’t dead yet,” said one of them. “And you’ll be fighting along with us tomorrow,” said another.
“No,” he said, “I’ve built myself another hut, on another holding, and I’ve no time for brawling down on the fjords.”
“The day will come when the working class will throw off these murderers and thieves,” said one of the men. “And in that day you won’t need to regret joining in with us.”
“Sorry, but I’ve always been an independent sort of person. I want land of my own. I’m going over to Urtharsel first thing in the morning, as soon as the nag has had its fill, that’s definite. But little Gvendur there can stay behind with you, and if he breaks a few of those Rauthsmyri bastards’ heads, I don’t think I’ll let it worry me too much. So you’ll stay behind with these fellows, Gvendur, do you hear? Who knows whether some day they may not give you the America you were seeking not so long ago.”
When they had drunk their coffee, some of them started singing while others prepared themselves for sleep. They did not undress, but threw themselves into bed as they were, two or three to each bunk. In most of them there were one or two rags of blankets by way of bedclothes. Two of the men offered Gvendur a third of their bunk. “He shall be found work if we win,” they said. “Well make him one of the union straight away.”
After a short space of time most of them had lain down and things were comparatively quiet. Room had been found for Bjartur also in one of the bunks; he was lying on the outside. He was feeling sick, as if he might vomit at any moment. It must have been the bread, of course; but, strange as it may seem, he managed to keep it down. It seemed as if he would never get to sleep; this night’s lodging put him in too great a quandary. Was it a gang of thieves he had fallen in w
ith? Of hooligans and robbers who intended to beat up the authorities and pillage the country? Had he not gone too far when he had decided that his son should remain here in the company of thieves? What had he, the free man, or his children, in common with such a crew? Why the devil had he had to go and fall in with them, of all people; he, an independent man who had just taken over a new holding? Or was it, on the other hand, possible that these were the just men? If such was the case, they were the only just men he had ever met. For there were only two things to choose from now; either the authorities were the officers of justice and these men criminals, or these men were the officers of justice and the authorities criminals. It was no easy problem to solve in the space of one short night, and he bitterly regretted having accepted the invitation to come here. He still had pains in the stomach from the stolen bread. He felt that he had sustained the greatest defeat of his life. So great was his sense of shame that the blood mounted to his cheeks, and there were moments when he was on the point of getting out of bed and vomiting the bread of humiliation out of the door. But nevertheless he did not get up, rather lay where he was. The others had long been snoring around him.
THE CZAR FALLEN
So he had fallen asleep, after all. When he opened his eyes it was broad daylight in the hut, the morning sun shining in through the open door. He got out of bed and looked at the sun, to find that the time must be about six o’clock; he had slept three hours or so. The men were still asleep. The bread and the talk from the night before had lost something of their reality but none of their guilt, as if he had dreamed something that was unworthy of him; it was strange that he should have landed in this mess. His back was aching and he was feeling stiff. The talk wouldn’t have mattered, one hears so many things at one time and another—if only he hadn’t eaten that accursed bread. Then he remembered that he had given them his son, too. Surely they hadn’t put something in his coffee, to deprive him of every vestige of common sense? He stood on the threshold of the barrack, looking alternately in and out of doors, and wondering how he could get Gvendur away from them again. After a few moments’ indecision he tiptoed across the room, intending to nudge him and wake him as quietly as possible. There lay the lad, fast asleep between his two mates, big, powerful men all three of them, broad in the chest and with resolute jaws, their hands thick and big-boned; while above them lay several pick-handles. And he felt that his son showed up so well in his sleep among these strong, well-built fellows that he had not the heart to wake him and take him away; he would show up just as well among them when he was awake. He felt that in reality such men deserved to own the land and govern it. But if Ingolfur Arnarson’s men should bring rifles and kill them, his son included—what then? Wouldn’t it be safer to wake the boy and take him away up-country rather than let him be shot like a dog on the street here? He had always thought a lot of the lad, though he had concealed it well. To be sure, he had once been on the very point of sneaking off to America, but his love of independence had won the day and he had decided to overcome the difficulties of life at home here along with his father. “Ah, well,” reflected Bjartur, “what does it matter? I suppose I’ve lost boys before.” For a moment he cast his memory back to the boys he had carried off in a box to bury in the Rauthsmyrians’ churchyard; and to those others that he had lost in his struggle for independence. Maybe it’s just as well that this one should go the same way, then, he thought. A man is not independent unless he has the courage to Stand alone. Grettir Asmundarson was an oulaw on Iceland’s mountains for nineteen years, until he was vanquished in Drangey; but he was avenged in Miklagard for all that, the biggest city in the world. Possibly I too will be avenged, with the passing of the years. Possibly in some big city even. All at once he remembered that the Czar had fallen, and the thought cheered him greatly—what would old Jon of Myri have to say to that? So, having abandoned the idea of waking his son, he left the barrack as quietly as possible.
It was time to fetch the horse from pasture and to make ready for departure, but he showed no signs of wishing to fetch the horse, rather loitered here and there about the sleeping village for a while, answering absently-mindedly the morning greetings of the few old fishermen who were already afoot After a good deal of this aimless wandering he turned his steps with more purpose seaward along the fjord, towards that part of the town where the worst hovels were congregated. This part was called Sandeyri. He had never had occasion to go there before, but he knew various people who lived there. One or two women were up and out of doors, dusting sacks against the wall. A group of working men stood deep in conversation in a garden at the side of one of the huts; none of them paid any attention to Bjartur, it was some sort of meeting.
By the side of the road sat a thin-faced little girl making mud-cakes early in the morning. As he passed her by, she stood up and wiped her hands on her stomach; yes, she had long legs for her years, poor child, and long-knuckled hands as well, and her face, her face was not the face of a child, but full of character and experience; and she looked at him by chance and he knew her eyes immediately, both the good eye and the cross-eye, and coming abruptly to a halt in the middle of the road, he stared at her fixedly - it was little Asta Sollilja.
“What?” he said, staring at the child, for it had seemed to him that she said something as she looked up at him.
I didn’t say anything,” she said.
“What are you doing out of bed at this hour, little girl?” he asked. “It’s barely six o’clock.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” she replied. “I have whooping cough. My mother said I would be best outside.”
“Oh, dear,” he said, “so you’ve a bad cough, have you? No wonder you’ve a bad cough when that thing you’re wearing is so terribly thin.”
She made no reply, but sat down to see her cakes again. He scratched his head.
“Well, well, Sola girl,” he said, “poor lass.”
“They don’t call me Sola,” she said.
“What do they call you, then?”
“They call me Bjort,” she replied proudly.
“Well, well, Bjort my girl,” he said, “I don’t suppose it makes much difference.”
He sat down at the side of the road and went on looking at her.
She ladled the mud into an old enamel mug, then placed the mug on a stone for baking.
“It’s a Christmas cake,” she said, giving him a little smile to keep the conversation going.
He said nothing, but still went on gazing at her.
Finally she stood up again and asked:
“What are you sitting there for? What are you looking at me for?”
“Your mother ought to be making the breakfast coffee by now, oughtn’t she?” he asked.
‘There isn’t any coffee,” she said, “only water.”
“Oh, lots of people have had to content themselves with water before today.”
She was seized with a fit of coughing. It turned her face blue. She lay down on the ground until the fit was over.
“What are you doing there?” she asked when she began to recover from the coughing. “Why don’t you go away?”
“I was thinking of coming in with you for a cup of breakfast water,” he answered in matter-of-fact tones.
After looking at him searchingly for a moment or two, she said: “All right, come on, then.”
He had eaten other people’s bread last night, bread, moreover, that had been stolen by thieves, so what did it matter if he had his breakfast water with this little girl. He straddled the barbed-wire fence and followed the child home to the hut. Never had his moral fortitude ebbed so low as the night that was passing and the morning of sunshine that was succeeding it; yes, it was doubtful whether he could really call himself an independent man any longer.
There was a window made for four panes in the gable, with sacks stuffed into two of the openings, the third nailed over with pieces of wood, and only in the fourth a whole pane of glass. Bjort led the way. At one time the hut had been pape
red inside, in town fashion, but the paper was now black with damp and hanging from the clincher roof in tatters. There were two beds; in one of them lay the owner of the house, the old woman, and in the other Asta Sollilja with her younger child. There was an oil-stove on a table by the window, a box, and a broken chair.
“Are you back already?” said Asta Sollilja when she saw her daughter in the doorway. She sat up in bed, her breasts pendulous under her open vest, her hair in disorder; she was very thin, very pale. But when she saw Bjartur following the child inside, her eyes began to stare. She shook her head as if to break some optical illusion, but it was no illusion, he was standing there on the floor, it was he.
“Father,” she cried, gasping for breath.
Open-mouthed she stared at him, her eyes growing bigger and bigger, the pupils more and more dilated. Her features drooped, as if she had lost control of her facial muscles, but seemed at the same time to fill out and grow younger, all in the twinkling of an eye, and then again she shouted, completely beside herself: “Father!”
Grabbing her petticoat, she pulled it hastily over her head and smoothed it down over her hips as she sprang barefooted out of bed, ran to the door, and flung herself into his embrace. With her arms round his neck she pressed her mouth to his throat, under the beard.
Yes, it was he. Her mouth was resting once more in its old place, it was he, he had come. At last she lifted her head, looked into his face again, and sighed:
“I thought you would never come.”
“Listen, lass,” he said, “hurry up and heat some water and dress the kids. I’m taking you back with me today.”
“Father,” was all she could say, with her eyes still glued on liis face. She stood as if rooted to the spot “No, I can’t believe it’s you.”
He went over to her bed and she pivoted round on the floor and continued to stare at him, overwhelmed. He stood contemplating the infant that lay sleeping on the bed before him, and was, as always when he saw a living babe, filled with compassion.
Independent People Page 61