Hauling fish from the sea—what endless toil. One could almost say what an eternal problem.
Every conceivable effort had been made by the men of Sviðinsvík to lure these strange, tapering creatures from the depths of the ocean, and yet these people were still as far from a satisfactory solution to the problem as ever before. The Privy Councillor had had fishing smacks, cutters and finally trawlers, but just when the fish were well on the way to dragging a million krónur of his fortune into the deeps, not counting the human lives they had managed to lure down into those cold, wet places, the man had come to his senses and fled to Denmark to a warm, dry place. Since then the men of Sviðinsvík had made many desperate efforts to trick the fish, but they had all ended in the same way—the fish had tricked them. Nor had the fish been content with dragging men down into the deeps; all these adventurous attempts by the latter to catch the former had been the direct cause of loading one and all with such a crushing burden of debt to the bank that there was no hope of rising above it in this life, and very little in the next, unless people were made to repay it with the soul’s eternal sojourn in a very hot place. Everyone ought to remember vividly how the trawler Númi had sunk from rust, rats and revenants here in the anchorage a few years ago, with the result that the high-ups of the estate had seen no alternative but to establish an afterlife here on dry land in order to answer the demands of the shipwrecked about footwear, potatoes and peat. When the men of Sviðinsvík then elected Júel J. Júel to Parliament the following year, it was because both Pétur Pálsson the manager and the station owner himself had convinced the people that they would never have another opportunity of catching fish unless they voted for money. Not everyone gave his vote to money, of course, nothing like it, but enough did, all the same.
Twenty picked voters were rewarded by being invited south to the fishing the winter after Júel became Sviðinsvík’s representative. A new Golden Age was in prospect. Unfortunately, twelve of these voters were left behind in the watery ballot box of the sea, and played no further part in elections at Sviðinsvík. When it came to the bit, Júel’s ships turned out to be no better able to grapple with the fish of the deeps than the little Sviðinsvík dinghies, perhaps even worse; the fish went on having the better of it and catching men.
At this time Ólafur Kárason was living in extreme poverty and enjoying little fame as a poet, since Pétur Pálsson the manager had suspected him for a long time of being against the Soul, which was just about the only asset which the people of Sviðinsvík could call their own at the time after the demise of the Regeneration Company. On the other hand, Pétur Pálsson the manager had appointed the poet Reimar as the folk poet of the estate that year, and had declared that this gentleman supported the Soul in his poetry. For this reason he had obtained for the poet an official post carrying the mails. But one day Jarþrúður Jónsdóttir went in tears to see Pétur Pálsson and begged him to take pity on her fiancé. The manager explained to the fiancée that this wretch of a versifier had not been very loyal to his interests and had instead supported those who worked against the Soul, but he said that there would soon be a turning of the tide here on the estate, and therefore it was not entirely out of the question that he might give this poetaster and wretch another opportunity of becoming a major poet and a somebody. He then explained that he had decided to hold a big religious ceremony here at his own expense, in memory of the twelve people of Sviðinsvík who had been lost on trawlers in the south, and to mark the occasion he had decided to commission a personal elegy for each of the drowned trawlermen, as well as one short but heartrending epitaph for all of them together.
Finally the manager asked the fiancée which of the two tasks she would choose for her intended if the opportunity arose—the twelve elegies or the one epitaph. The fiancée reckoned that twelve poems were bound to make at least twelve krónur, but one poem only one króna, and was quick to choose the twelve elegies. Thereupon the poet Ólafur Kárason set to work and toiled like a slave to compose twelve elegies. He tackled the task extremely conscientiously, interviewing the survivors’ mothers, wives and sisters to establish what good and fine things one could truthfully say about each of these men, and then tried to introduce a special individual expression of sorrow into every poem, as well as trying to squeeze out all the spiritual inspiration he had at his command. The result was that these poems were considered some of the finest elegies that had ever been composed in Sviðinsvík.
Reimar the folk poet had been away on a journey when the elegies were being allocated. When he returned he was told the news that Ólafur Kárason had now composed twelve elegies for the manager, and that only the one collective epitaph remained for him to write. The poet Reimar did not think much of these tidings, but composed the epitaph in a trice and delivered it to the manager, with the message that he would not be requiring any payment. But the outcome of it all was that Ólafur Kárason’s twelve elaborate elegies were forgotten even though they were brimming with artistry and inspiration, and each one was enhanced by a particularly personalized mourning; rather, they never went into circulation. No one recited them for real consolation in sorrow even though Pétur Pálsson had valued each one of them at two krónur. But the one free-of-charge epitaph by the poet Reimar spread through the whole county like wildfire and was sung in season and out by old and young alike until it ended up as a cradlesong. This is how the epitaph went:
There once were twelve good fellows,
And each one had the vote,
And off they went a-fishing
In the leakiest tub afloat.
And none of them returned,
And every widow weeps,
The fish pulled all the fishers
Into the watery deeps.
After this, Pétur Pálsson the manager announced that the poet Reimar was a poetaster with a filthy tongue and an even filthier mind who poisoned the thoughts of the young and besmirched the Icelandic language as well as Sviðinsvík’s reputation. He said that as a democrat, a Christian and a socialist he could not countenance this kind of libel being composed about the common people when they drowned; and the folk poet was promptly dismissed from his job of carrying the mails. Soon afterwards he was also evicted from his house, so that he was left destitute with all his brood in the middle of winter. On the other hand, Pétur Pálsson now let it be known that Ólafur Kárason had a real talent for rhyming and would probably become a major poet in time, and gave him a shack which he told him to move farther up the hillside so that he could keep himself to himself, and then chose for the poet’s house that lofty name of The Heights.
But while the struggle between men and fish had brought no more positive results than a change of poets on the estate, people from far-off countries continued to have their own opinions about the Sviðinsvík fishing grounds and to stand by them. They reckoned that these fishing grounds were neither more nor less than the finest in the whole world, without exception. Could that be right? One thing was certain—the foreign fishing vessels frequented these fishing grounds incessantly, and there scooped up catches worth one million after another while the fish continued to drag the men of Sviðinsvík down to the bottom of the sea or, what was worse, into that morass of debt which had no known bottom. And while the trawlers which were associated with Sviðinsvík’s trusted Member of Parliament were either sunk or sold, or mortgaged against debts of millions at the state bank, the day never passed without a foreign fishing boat sailing away from the fishing grounds of these destitute people, laden to the gunwales with wealth for the benefit of foreign millionaires.
There is no denying that at this time some grumbling was heard in Sviðinsvík, because people thought that the station owner, Júel, perhaps did not own as much money as they had thought when they elected him. Rumor also reached Sviðinsvík that Grímur Loðinkinni Ltd. would soon perhaps be declared bankrupt. It was at this time that Pétur Pálsson the manager first put forward his idea that it was essential for the people of Sviðinsvík to b
uild a new church to commemorate the fact that Guðmundur goðl (the Good)* had broken his leg there in a storm at sea some seven hundred years ago; he also said it was imperative for them to get an airplane, or at least to secure the use of an airplane, and talked about floating a company for this purpose. But a few people who were getting tired of Pétur Pálsson’s ideas now took the bit between their teeth and went all the way south to have a word with Júel himself. They told him frankly that they would not elect him to Parliament again if he did not have enough money. Júel at once pulled out his checkbook and asked, How much? They said they wanted to catch fish. That was the first of the drafts endorsed by Júel for a number of people in Sviðinsvík to enable them to indulge in the luxury of losing money on fishing enterprises. People were satisfied with their representative again for another year. But no sooner had Júel paid up their drafts than they started to become restless again. On top of everything else it transpired that the two trawlers which Grímur Loðinkinni still managed to keep afloat had more than once, according to what people asserted, joined company with the foreign poachers fishing within the Sviðinsvík territorial waters.
That is how the estate’s fishing problems stood one April morning soon after the Faroese’s love poem had been composed, when the poet Ólafur Kárason wandered down to the fish yards at the manager’s invitation and his intended’s promptings to take part in the day’s work. His way led past the parish officer’s house. There were four men standing at the gate talking to the parish officer in the morning quiet, and the poet raised his cap and said Good-morning. But as he walked past them he suddenly felt they were looking at him in a peculiar way, so that he became a little afraid of them and began to wonder what he might have done wrong now.
When he had gone a stone’s throw past them, one of them called out to him and said they wanted to talk to him. He turned and walked back to them, raised his cap again, and said Good-morning. He thought they looked a little odd. The parish officer stood there, bowed and dejected, with sawdust in his eyebrows and chewing a chip of wood, his face and hands smeared with pitch. Two of them were boat-owners, two were quarrymen.
One of the quarrymen said, “You’re getting work at the fish. I don’t get any work at the fish.”
“Really?” said the poet.
The other quarryman: “What does Pétur ríhross mean by letting you work at the fish?”
“I don’t know,” said the poet.
“I do,” said one of the boat-owners. “Pétur ríhross doesn’t keep poets in food unless he needs to bribe them—either to speak or to be silent.”
Then the parish officer said, “There must be some reason why you get work at the fish yards for full pay while men with large families to provide for have nothing, and a pay cut in prospect for those who work for the government.”
“Pétur Pálsson the manager has always been good to me,” said the poet.
“Yes, it’s obvious enough he’s got you in his pocket,” said one.
“Tell me, Ólafur,” said the parish officer, “why did you make the parish pay your food bill at midwinter when you’re so well in with Pétur ríhross? Why didn’t you make ríhross supply you from the shop without my intervention?”
The poet: “I had already got so much on credit from him before Christmas, he thought it was reasonable for the parish to pay the midwinter bill since I couldn’t meet it myself. And this spring he allowed me more credit once again without the intervention of the parish. And after that my intended, Jarþrúður, began to get work from him on odd days, splitting fish and suchlike. I hope to be able to pay off all my debts some time, both to the parish and to him.”
“So you don’t consider yourself under an obligation to him?” said one.
The poet said, “I don’t consider myself under an obligation to anyone, except perhaps to my little house, if you can call it a house.”
“What do you say to looking in at Guðmundur’s here tonight?” said one.
“It’s an unexpected honor,” said the poet, “especially if it’s the parish officer himself who is giving the invitation.”
The parish officer said nothing.
“He’s good at writing,” said one of the quarryman.
“Oh, I don’t suppose there will be all that much writing to do,” said one of the boat-owners.
“Poets get a lot of good ideas,” said the other quarryman.
“Yes, but can they use their fists?” asked the other boat-owner.
“I hope there isn’t going to be any fighting?” said the poet.
“No,” said the parish officer. “But you’re not being invited to a party, either, if that’s what you think. And there’s no need to say that anyone’s spoken to you.”
“I don’t understand,” said the poet.
“You’re to keep quiet,” said the man.
“I’m going to be late for work,” said the poet.
“After eight o’clock tonight,” they said.
He raised his cap and went.
At the fish yards there was a girl whom the poet did not know. She wore her head scarf differently from other girls, she wore it farther forward, and yet one could not help noticing her eyes—some eyes interest you even before you can describe them, or were they just unusually wide open? She was strongly built, solid but not stout, but otherwise dressed in the usual way for fish work, so that the clothing gave only a hint of the figure underneath. He did not look at her, really, and would not have admitted to anyone having seen her. He was thinking about something else: he was deep in thought about the conversation at the parish officer’s gate that morning; but even so he could not help wondering why she pulled her head scarf farther forward than the other girls. It struck him as a protest—but a protest against what? Was this perhaps a nun? Or had she been beguiled, but only once, and was now determined never to let such a thing happen again?
But he was really thinking about something else, and it did not occur to him to ask who she was. He avoided talking to anyone for fear of becoming embroiled in other people’s affairs any more than he already was; perhaps his gullibility had got him into trouble already. As the day wore on he became more and more worried— what on earth had he pledged himself to keep silent about? Had he perhaps allowed himself to be snared, had he already been trapped into keeping his word about something, or tricked into supporting something or opposing something, and thereby losing his freedom, his independence and peace of mind? Perhaps he was already a member of a conspiracy or a criminal band, perhaps at war with Júel J. Júel; perhaps he had already become an opponent of the government?
With an old woman he carried fish on a barrow until early evening, but his mind was yearning for unrelated values. He wished that the evening were over with its cares, and everyone asleep except him. Then suddenly the foreman had turned on him and was asking what he thought people were being paid wages for here? It was very far from Ólafur Kárason’s mind to shirk his work, and if he refrained from overloading the barrow it was the kind of accident caused by his subconscious regard for fish. “I’m afraid I didn’t notice that there was too little on the barrow,” he said politely. The foreman called the poet a lazy layabout and a moron and ordered him to turn back and add at least half as much again to the barrow. The poet turned back at once, with the old woman muttering behind him. Somewhere a burst of laughter was heard. But when he had put the barrow down again to add to the load, full of shame at this humiliation, the girl he did not know was standing in front of him. Her eyes beneath her wide, thick eyebrows were large and piercing, hooded by strong lids and long lashes. She looked at him.
True repentance is the feeling of shame at having been punished. He felt much worse about being sent back with the barrow than about having cheated over loading it. Committing a crime is nothing compared to being caught at it, and to let oneself be turned back before the eyes of an unknown girl was a greater disgrace than persevering in obduracy without accepting correction: anything is better than a woman’s scorn. Th
e worth of any deed depends on how it is assessed by the onlookers. To load too little onto a barrow is good if one gets away with it, bad if the foreman sees it, a calamity if the bystanders laugh; because once you have made yourself ridiculous you go on being ridiculous whatever you do, perhaps for the rest of your life. But your deed only becomes an eternal humiliation when you meet ridicule in the eyes you have maybe dreamt about without knowing it, or even compassion for your uselessness, perhaps contempt. Thank goodness, that was not the case now. In that unknown girl’s look there was challenge and encouragement. And she said to him these words:
“Do you let yourself be turned back?”
That was all she said.
3
Work on the one side, the home on the other—they were two walls in the one prison. Every time he was allowed to go out, and not on some routine errand connected with his livelihood or his home, it was as if he were being given the world for a little while. However small a digression it was from his everyday routine, the Voice began to echo at once. It was the same Voice as of old. The difference was that when he was a child he thought he knew what it was, and that he understood it, and he gave it a name; but the older and wiser he became, the more difficult he found it to say what it was, or to understand it, except that he felt it called him away from other people and the responsibilities of life to the place where it alone reigned. He no longer knew its name now—far from it; just that its music sounded ever sweeter in his ears as time went by, so much so that he sometimes felt that the day might come when he would abandon everything to listen to it alone. Ah, sweet Voice, he said, and filled his lungs with the cool evening breeze of the north, but he did not dare open his arms to it for fear that people might think he was mad.
In the parish officer’s room there was a crowd of men and a few women. There was a lot of talking going on; everyone was so engrossed that no one noticed when the poet joined them. People were all talking without any attempt at order, sometimes many at a time and all eager to have their say, but for some reason or other it was not made to look like a formal meeting. Some were agitated and angry, others despondent and grim; only a few seemed to be enjoying themselves. The poet had difficulty in making out the subject under discussion at first, and although he asked two people on either side of him what it was all about, he got no reply. After he had listened for a while, he came to the conclusion that the debate concerned Pétur ríhross’s family, but especially his grandmother. It was little wonder that the poet began to prick up his ears.
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