The Great Weaver From Kashmir

by Halldor Laxness

  “And I even thought that your friendship had been sealed with vows!”

  “Our friendship sealed with vows!” she repeated, feigning indignation. “Absolutely ridiculous! Vows! Did I hear you correctly?! And I think that you are quite mistaken when you say that we were made to understand each other; he was much more of an idealist than that! I can hardly think of two children less alike than Steinn and I.”

  “Then how would you respond to Steinn if he were to come home one day?” asked Örnólfur.

  “Is he coming, then?” she asked sharply, this time completely spontaneously, and added: “I seem to remember you saying quite clearly the other day that he would never come home.”

  “Certainly. He didn’t mention coming home, and avoided mentioning his plans in plain language. On the other hand it wouldn’t surprise me if he were to appear here when we least expect it. Who can figure out a boy of his sort? What’s more, it wouldn’t surprise me even if I were to hear that one day he had become the editor-in-chief of the Socialists’ newspaper here, or something along those lines. How would that strike you?”

  “That would be disgraceful,” she said, and added, “but that won’t happen; Steinn would never join a group of cads.”

  “He has joined a group of cads, Diljá. Their opinions are his. He hails the same solutions to social questions as they do, and would certainly be no more discreet about the means used to bring them about. And what really counts is that he is much more talented than they are. He could be a more dangerous opponent than all of them put together.”

  “I would hate him,” she said. “But I wouldn’t believe that Steinn had joined a party until I saw it with my own eyes. He’s much too fickle to embrace any view for longer than a few days at a time. His views were never anything other than poetic prattle.”

  “Poets are the most dangerous,” answered Örnólfur. “It’s useless to try to meet them on the same grounds as other members of society; they stand outside society and never have anything to lose. No weapons can bite them. They have only one goal, and that’s to confuse the people – if not in this way, then in another. And they have the remarkable ability beyond other men of never listening to reason. That’s why I have never tired of exhorting my party brothers concerning how necessary it is for us not to lose these buffoons to the Communists. But Steinn has a private fortune and can do what he pleases without saying like the others: ‘Wes’ Brot ich eß, des’ Lied ich sing.’”49

  It was clear that the danger presented by Steinn Elliði had occupied Örnólfur’s mind for a long time. And although this was the first time that he found himself compelled to explain a serious matter to Diljá, it did not affect Diljá so deeply that it prevented her from turning back to her reading.

  She hunched over her book, and he looked at the soft curls in her hair and seemed, despite his manifold experience, not to have any clue as to how women want to be treated. She read on, completely unscrupulously; yes, verily fluttered through the pages. Finally he grabbed his notebooks again and started paging through them. Once again crunching footsteps could be heard out in the snow, and immediately afterward the ludicrous thing on the wall struck six times without having the faintest idea that in this house time stood still.

  Finally it was the girl who could no longer stand it. Jean-Christophe flew up onto the mantel once more. She leaned back again in her chair, clasped her hands under her knees, and broke the silence by saying:

  “I want to go abroad.”

  He put the notebooks down slowly and carefully in the same place as before, clasped his hands in his lap, looked at her, and smiled.

  “Well then,” he said.

  “I’ll die here!” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.”

  Now there was a long silence; she stared out into space, full of feminine pertinacity and whimsicality, but he tried to remain cheerful in the face of adversity and continued to smile.

  “I feel like a nobody here!” she said.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  All the same she added after a short silence: “I’m not living. This isn’t life! I’d rather land in misfortune a thousand times! I’d rather be lost a thousand times. I hate the instrument in there; it’s out of tune. I hate these tattered old books that I’m reading; they’re lies. I can’t stand this any longer. I lie awake all night. I’ll go crazy in this deadly lifelessness. I’m going.”

  “Where do you want to go then, Diljá?” he asked cheerfully.

  “I don’t know!” she answered, and she turned around in her seat, leaned over the back of the chair, and hid her face in her naked arms. She had said it all, torn down all the walls; her desires had found their voices, all at once, and she was so ashamed that she didn’t dare let the man see her face any longer. He thought that she’d started crying, and was clueless about what to do next. He wasn’t used to a weapon so destructive as a woman’s weakness – he stood up and touched her arm in some bewilderment, but burned himself.

  “Diljá, my child!” he stammered. “I’m sorry!”

  It was impossible for him to put his thoughts into words. He touched her again, involuntarily; this time placed his hand on her bright, bobbed hair. But she jolted her head out from under his hand and did not look up. Suddenly she sprang to her feet without taking her hands from her face, ran out of the room in silent horror, and left the door open behind her.

  52.

  For the next two days she was ill and did not emerge from her room.

  On the third day she sat down at the table without looking up, smiled at no one, ran her slender fingers through her hair. She looked glorious after her two-day stay in her room, a jewel newly unwrapped from its linen cloth, and yet more precious than all other treasures: a woman in the flower of maidenhood, a materialization of grace. Bewitchments dripped from her fingers; she magnetized everything she touched; her femininity surged through her body with every breath, glittered in the algal gloss of her eyes, quivered about her mouth; her body and soul were one. It was as if she knew all of this herself, because she did not dare to look up any more than a Persian noblewoman who has lost her veil. Her mouth was shaped like Cupid’s bow.

  Örnólfur looked at her three or four times, but she did not return his glance. He asked about her health, and she said that she was quite well. He poured wine into her glass and passed her the strawberry jam, but she was as appreciative as a discourteous child. Lunch was hardly finished before he was gone.

  She did not come to dinner, nor did Madam Valgerður.

  “Where’s the madam?” he asked.

  She was at a club meeting.

  “Where’s the missus?” he then asked in a hugely carefree tone, as if it didn’t matter to him at all, and sat down.

  “The missus has been out with her girlfriend since noon and won’t be home until late; they’re going to the theater.” He sat alone at the table and regarded the steam from the dishes, emptied his bowl of preserves, smoked a cigarette, and drank a glass of wine.

  “Perhaps the Director doesn’t like the steak?” said the maid.

  “The steak is heavenly,” said the Director, and he stood up and left.

  He did not sit down at his desk as usual. Instead he paced the floor in his office, back and forth, lit one cigarette after another and threw them all aside half-smoked, looked at the watch on his wrist, forgot just as quickly as he looked what time it was and looked at the watch again. The bell rang in the foyer and he had a servant say that he wasn’t at home. The phone rang and he didn’t answer.

  Finally he put on his overcoat and went out. The street was slippery as glass, with a blustery wind from the north. He headed downtown and stuck to a course along the least traveled streets so as to draw as little attention as possible to the director of the Ylfingur Company. The clock in the theater foyer struck nine thirty; the last act had begun. He goes up to the balcony without taking off his overcoat, sits d
own in a half-empty box, and looks around. But he does not see Diljá or her girlfriends anywhere. He stands up and peers about even more carefully in the half-darkness, examines box after box. No one noticed him; everyone was waiting eagerly for the climax onstage. Diljá was not to be seen anywhere. He sat down for the conclusion of the play and listened distractedly to the gab on stage, then slunk out of the balcony before the curtain fell and waited in the foyer until the audience exited. But she was not among those who exited the hall. He waited again for a little while by the outer doors, in case he had overlooked her, looked carefully at everyone, but she wasn’t in the theater. He couldn’t understand what was going on, drank a cup of coffee in the next café, and headed home.

  It wasn’t until half an hour after midnight that the rustling of her clothing was heard on the stairs, and then her footsteps in the hall. She walked carefree, contentedly, opened the door of her room briskly, and stood there in her unbuttoned coat, hot, winded, her eyes dusky from the nighttime and the luxury, perhaps still intoxicated by the flattery of the boy who had walked her home. But in the doorway she stopped in surprise, because she did not expect a light to be on in her room, and was even less prepared for a man to be sitting there with his hand on his cheek.

  Her eyes widened and she gasped for breath. “Örnólfur!” she said. “You here!”

  “I’m sorry,” he said as he stood up. “Forgive me for waiting up for you; for sitting here in ambush like a highwayman–”

  “I’d been planning to be home a lot earlier,” she said, as if she felt some need to apologize. “But I was at the theater,” she added. “And afterward we went to a café. Time flew by.”

  “How is it that I didn’t see you at the theater? Where were you sitting?”

  “Were you at the theater?” she asked, and she blushed to the roots of her hair.

  “I dropped in.”

  “Yes, that is to say, we decided not to go at the last minute,” she hastened to correct herself, pale and disconcerted. “But we were going to go. We even booked seats. If I had known that you were going too, then–”

  “I went down there just to find you,” he said. “It’s so slippery and windy. I wanted to walk you home. And besides that – I can’t put it off any longer–”

  “Put what off?”

  “I’ve got to talk to you, Diljá.”

  He stood in the center of the room and stared at her with dilated pupils, rigid breaths, as if something perilous were about to happen, his arms hanging down at his sides.

  “Almighty!” she said in alarm. “Are you mad at me? I’ll tell you exactly how it was: I was at home with Sigga P. all evening. There were guests. We danced a little, actually only a tiny bit. Don’t be angry with me.”

  “What reason should I have to be angry with you? Nonsense, Diljá!”

  “Sit down,” she said calmly. And when he had sat back down: “I’m sorry I lied, Örnólfur. But we did book seats; that’s absolutely true. But it was so icy and windy.”

  She went into her bedroom, put her coat in the closet, took off her hat, fixed her hair, powdered her face, and then came back into the sitting room. She pushed over the silver box of cigarettes that stood on the little table next to him, sat down opposite him, and continued to run her fingers through her hair.

  After a little silence he said:

  “I’ve been very distracted since last Sunday evening, Diljá. It’s no exaggeration to say that I haven’t had any sleep or anything to eat for the last twenty-four hours. The time has come; in fact it came a long time ago – I haven’t kept my mouth shut for any other reason than cowardice. There’s nothing that I fear as much as my own feelings. I’ve been gnawing the backs of my hands because I lacked the words for it when we spoke together last time, or, to put it better, lacked the courage to tell you what’s been in my heart, what’s been in my heart for many years–”

  She was at that stage of understanding instinctively the female art of changing oneself into all different forms of living creatures, and now she put on the best face she could manage of a complete moron who couldn’t discern one thing from another:

  “I beg you, Örnólfur,” she said, “it’s hopefully nothing terrible!”

  “I haven’t been able to forget what you told me on Sunday, that you want to go away.”

  “No, Örnólfur,” she interrupted, “I don’t want much of anything. I just want a little – sometimes.”

  Now there was a short silence, punctuated by a feeling of dread that ran through the girl when she beheld his face so heavy with passion: she’d never seen him like this before; his voice, his glance, the lines in his face, his entire being had transformed. But no matter how much he had pressing on his mind, he did not break out of the basic mode of the businessman at this moment any more than usual, and he told her, straight out, the entire story of his heart in this simple declaration:

  “Diljá, I have loved you for many years.”

  “Örnólfur!” she said reproachfully, as if he’d been swearing. “I think that you’re not quite in your right mind! What dreadful foolishness has gotten into you, man?” – at the same moment she grabbed the powder box from the table and started to powder herself from old habit, but he placed a finger on her wrist so that she would stop this foolishness.

  “Diljá! Listen to me!” he said, and his eyes were burning. “Listen, when I finally open my heart! I’ve been sitting here waiting for you because I can’t put off telling you my deepest secret; I know precisely what I want to say. Listen!

  “I’ve been sitting here waiting for you to tell you that I love you, Diljá, I love you and have always loved you. In fact I’ve never loved anything but you. My life is founded upon nothing but love for you. I’ve loved you from the time that you were a little child. It might be ugly and sinful for an adolescent to love a little girl, but I didn’t care about that. The truth is that I’ve loved you since you sat on my knee when you were a six-year-old girl. Deep inside your child’s eyes I saw the woman dozing.

  “I lived abroad for many long years,” he continued, fixing every word precisely, with soporific calmness, although his eyes were moist. “I won’t bore you by describing the nature of the training that I undertook. You would never understand it, and I would never require you to understand it. But I have lived many sad, empty days and racked my brain between dawn and dusk over problems that are thoroughly counter to personal life. I lived like an ascetic, and this has certainly made me strong; I struggled mercilessly against everything human in my nature, and that struggle has given me the strength to raise myself over the populace. What do you suppose has been my only pleasure all these years? It was to think about a little fair-haired girl who had sat on my knee when I was a youth far in the north of the world. There was only one picture for my guests to look at in my apartment; it stood on my desk: a photograph of a seven-year-old child, a smiling girl with two golden braids, in a white dress and white shoes. At night I dreamt childish dreams: I dreamt that we walked side by side, hand in hand in the sunshine through green valleys, that we picked flowers on the banks of streams and listened to the songs of the birds.”

  After a short silence he continued:

  “I have never before spoken of my feelings, Diljá, and I know that I have difficulties expressing myself clearly. I don’t know how to speak, but I know how to feel. I trust that you will not only listen to my words, but also to their spirit. You understand things that are not possible to say with words. I would have felt that I was committing blasphemy if I had ever dared to speak about the things that I kept hidden inside, so sensitive were my feelings to me.

  “All of my life I have despised those peddlers, those naked whores who shout about human feelings out in the streets. This repulsion gripped me first one summertime here at home when I heard Steinn Elliði read one of his poems, when he was fourteen years old.

  “Diljá! I have been disgusted by Steinn Elliði since the time when he wasn’t such a bigwig that I couldn’t spank him w
ith one hand. From his earliest days his entire personality has been tinged with treachery, every one of his movements, every look of his eyes, every word of his fit for the mouth of a sorcerer. His mother is a harlot, and it’s from her that he inherits this poetic caprice; in our family we’ve never been given to any sort of libertinism. Steinn Elliði is a degenerate and malefactor who has no ability to live for anything other than his own hallucinations.

  “When I saw the gleam of sympathy in your eyes it became clear to me that in my nephew dwelled the archenemy of my life. I knew that he had all the requirements to be your beloved; he was almost the same age as you, he was your companion, and last but not least – a poet! A woman is a more innocent, more simple being than a man, always ready to let herself be deceived by the illusions of a clown. One quick flash of an illusion enchants her more than the mighty lifelong work of an honorable man.

  “Diljá, I would have looked upon it with equanimity if you had fallen in love with a wholesome and true man, a man who desired only to be able to be everything for you. I would have wished you congratulations for having such a man and kept silent until my dying day about my own feelings toward you. But it was clear to me from the beginning that Steinn was a man who would do nothing other than ruin your life, unless you were to part ways. Love is only of any worth to poets when they can sing about it on the streets and corners, like the Salvation Army about God. A woman is only of any worth to them if they can deceive her. Lost souls and shamed women are to these members of the Salvation Army of love their most beloved topics for song. The poet is a talking mannequin, a conscienceless imp; his soul is nothing but a perfidious monster. Because men only become poets if they are prepared to defend lies: everywhere, in everything and always. I hate Steinn Elliði.

  “And I told myself: ‘Be quiet and strong. Don’t speak with words, but with deeds. Prove to Diljá that greatness is not found in high-flown gurgling and marvelous babbling, but rather beyond anything else in the productive might of the iron will of a quiet man, who surpasses thousands and hundreds of thousands of others. Perhaps someday she will understand that no matter how glorious she thought the gab, the clownish antics, and the castles in the clouds, it on the other hand takes manliness to dare to place unwieldy reality beneath one’s chisel, to choose a working-place in the center of the battlefield of life and there raise a monument around which the children will play, securely and fearlessly, long after the chatterboxes with their castles in the clouds have fallen silent and been forgotten.’”