{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_5603/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_5603","id":"gutenberg_5603","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/5603","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Short Stories","Short stories, Icelandic -- Translations into English"],"text":"Produced by Nicole Apostola, Charles Franks and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nSEVEN ICELANDIC SHORT STORIES\n\nREYKJAVIK\n\nTHE MINISTRY OF EDUCATION\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\nINTRODUCTION BY STEINGRIMUR J. PORSTEINSSON\n\nANONYMOUS (13TH CENTURY)\nTHE STORY OF AUDUNN AND THE BEAR\nTRANSLATED BY G. TURVILLE-PEIRE\n\nEINAR H. KVARAN\nA DRY SPELL (1905)\nTRANSLATED BY JAKOBINA JOHNSON\n\nGU\u00d0MUNDUR FRI\u00d0J\u00d3NSSON\nTHE OLD HAY (1909)\nTRANSLATED BY MEKKIN SVEINSON PERKINS\n\nJON TRAUSTI\nWHEN I WAS ON THE FRIGATE (1910)\nTRANSLATED BY ARNOLD R. TAYLOR\n\nGUNNAR GUNNARSSON\nFATHER AND SON (1916)\nTRANSLATED BY PETER FOOTE\n\nGU\u00d0MUNDUR G. HAGALIN\nTHE FOX SKIN (1923)\nTRANSLATED BY MEKKIN SVEINSON PERKINS\n\nHALLD\u00d3R KILJAN LAXNESS\nNEW ICELAND (1927)\nTRANSLATED BY AXEL EYBERG AND JOHN WATKINS\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\nI\n\n\nOf the seven Icelandic short stories which appear here, the first\nwas probably written early in the thirteenth century, while the rest\nall date from the early twentieth century. It might therefore be\nsupposed that the earliest of these stories was written in a\nlanguage more or less unintelligible to modern Icelanders, and that\nthere was a gap of many centuries in the literary production of the\nnation. This, however, is not the case.\n\nThe Norsemen who colonized Iceland in the last quarter of the ninth\ncentury brought with than the language then spoken throughout the\nwhole of Scandinavia. This ancestor of the modern Scandinavian\ntongues has been preserved in Iceland so little changed that every\nIcelander still understands, without the aid of explanatory\ncommentaries, the oldest preserved prose written in their country\n850 years ago. The principal reasons for this were probably limited\ncommunications between Iceland and other countries, frequent\nmigrations inside the island, and, not least important, a long and\nuninterrupted literary tradition. As a consequence, Icelandic has\nnot developed any dialects in the ordinary sense.\n\nIt is to their language and literature, as well as to the island\nseparateness of their country, that the 175 thousand inhabitants of\nthis North-Atlantic state of a little more than a hundred thousand\nsquare kilometres owe their existence as an independent and separate\nnation.\n\nThe Icelanders established a democratic legislative assembly, the\nAlthingi (Al\u00feingi) in 930 A.D., and in the year 1000 embraced\nChristianity. Hence there soon arose the necessity of writing down\nthe law and translations of sacred works. Such matter, along with\nhistorical knowledge, may well have constituted the earliest\nwritings in Icelandic, probably dating as far back as the eleventh\ncentury, while the oldest preserved texts were composed early in the\ntwelfth century. This was the beginning of the so-called saga-\nwriting. The important thing was that most of what was written down\nwas in the vernacular, Latin being used but sparingly. Thus a\nliterary style was evolved which soon reached a high standard. This\nstyle, so forceful in its perspicuity, was effectively simple, yet\nrich in the variety of its classical structure.\n\nThere were different categories of sagas. Among the most important\nwere the sagas of the Norwegian kings and the family sagas. The\nlatter tell us about the first generations of native Icelanders.\nThey are all anonymous and the majority of them were written in the\nthirteenth century. Most of them contain a more or less historical\ncore. Above all, however, they are fine literature, at times\nrealistic, whose excellence is clearly seen in their descriptions of\nevents and character, their dialogue and structure. Most of them are\nin fact in the nature of historical novels. The Viking view of life\npervading them is characteristically heroic, but with frequent\ntraces of the influence of Christian writing.\n\nBesides these there were short stories (\u00feaettir) about Icelanders,\nof which THE STORY OF AUDUNN AND THE BEAR (Au\u00f0unar \u00fe\u00e1ttr vestfirzka)\nis one of the best known. [Footnote: In this edition, the specially-\nIcelandic consonants \u00fe and \u00f0 are printed as th and d respectively,\nand the superstressed vowels \u00e1,\u00ed,\u00f3, and \u00fa, are given without the\nacute accent, when they occur in proper names in the stories, e. g.\nP\u00f3r\u00f0ur: Thordur.]\n\nThese may be regarded as a preliminary stage in the development of\nthe longer family saga, simpler, yet having essentially the same\ncharacteristics. Both types then continued to be written side by\nside. Although the geographical isolation of the country was stated\nabove as one of the reasons for the preservation of the language,\ntoo great a stress should not be laid on this factor, especially not\nduring the early centuries of the settlement. The Icelanders were\ngreat and active navigators who discovered Greenland (shortly after\n980) and North America (Leifr Eiriksson, about 1000). Thus THE STORY\nOF AUDUNN AND THE BEAR recounts travels to Greenland, Norway,\nDenmark and Italy. It was then fashionable for young Icelanders to\ngo abroad and spend some time at the courts of the Norwegian kings,\nwhere the skalds recited poems of praise dedicated to the king. In\nthis story the occasion of the voyage is a less common one, the\nbringing of a polar bear as a gift to the Danish king. In several\nother Icelandic stories, and in some of other countries, we read of\nsuch gifts, and of how European potentates prized these rare\ncreatures from Greenland.\n\nIn Scandinavia, Germany, and elsewhere, there have been legends\nsimilar to the story of Audunn, where a man, after having been to\nthe Norwegian king with a tame bear, decides to present it to the\nking of Denmark. However, we know of no earlier source for this\nmotif than the story of Audunn. Whatever its value as historical\nfact, it could well be the model to which the other versions might\nbe traced. This story is preserved in the Morkinskinna, an Icelandic\nmanuscript written in the second half of the thirteenth century, as\nwell as in several later manuscripts. [Footnote: The most valuable\nedition of THE STORY OF ADUNN AND THE BEAR is that of Gu\u00f0ni J\u00f3nsson\nin the series \u00cdslenzk fornrit (vol. VI. Reykjav\u00edk 1943). The text of\nthis edition is followed in the present translation, except in a few\ncases where reference has been made to the texts of Fornmannas\u00f6gur\nVI, Copenhagen 1831, and Flateyjarb\u00f3k III, Oslo 1868.] The story had\nprobably been written down by 1220, if not earlier. It is given a\nhistorical background in so far as it is set in the time of Haraldr\nthe Hard-ruler, King of Norway (1046-66), and Sveinn \u00dalfsson, King\nof Denmark (1047-76), when the two countries were at war (c. 1062-\n64). Both monarchs are depicted as generous, magnanimous men, but\nAudunn was shrewd enough to see which would give the greater reward\nfor his precious bear. For all his generosity, King Haraldr was\nknown to be ruthless and grasping. What the writer had in mind may\nhave been a character-comparison of the two kings and the\ndescription of \"one of the luckiest of men\", about whom the\ntranslator, G. Turville-Petre says: \"Audunn himself, in spite of his\nshrewd and purposeful character, is shown as a pious man, thoughtful\nof salvation, and richly endowed with human qualities, affection for\nhis patron and especially for his mother. The story is an optimistic\none, suggesting that good luck may attend those who have good\nmorals.\"\n\n\n\n\nII\n\n\nThe Icelanders have never waged war against any nation. But in the\nthirteenth century they were engaged in a civil war which ended in\ntheir submitting to the authority of the Norwegian king in the\nsixties (this authority was transferred to the King of the Danes in\n1380). It is interesting that, during the next few decades after\nthis capitulation, saga-writing seems to reach a climax as an art,\nin family sagas like Nj\u00e1ls saga, \"one of the great prose works of\nthe world\" (W. P. Ker). It is as if the dangers of civil war and the\nexperiences gained in times of surrender had created in the authors\na kind of inner tension--as if their maturity had found full\nexpression in the security of peace. However, with the first\ngeneration born in Iceland in subjection, the decline of saga-\nwriting seems to begin. This can hardly be a mere coincidence. On\nthe contrary it was brought about by a number of different factors.\n\nSubsequently, in the fourteenth century, saga-writing becomes for\nthe most part extinct. From c. 1400-1800 there is hardly any prose\nfiction at all. Hence the fact that several centuries remain\nunrepresented in this work (though the gap might have been reduced\nto four or five centuries had literary-historical considerations\nalone been allowed to influence the present selection).\n\nBut the sagas continued to be copied and read. After the setting up\nof the first printing press (c. 1530), and after the Reformation (c.\n1550), religious literature grew much in bulk, both translations\n(that of the Bible was printed in 1584) and original works, and a\nnew kind of historical writing came into being. Side by side with\nscholars, we have self-educated commoners who wrote both prose and,\nespecially, poetry.\n\nIn Iceland, being a \"poet\" has never been considered out of the\nordinary. On the contrary, a person unable to make up a verse or two\nwould almost be considered exceptional. Yet, this requires\nconsiderable skill as the Icelanders are the only nation that has\npreserved the ancient common Germanic alliteration (found in all\nGermanic poetry till late medieval times). We frequently find this\ndevice accompanied by highly complicated rhyme schemes. Despite this\nrather rigid form, restrictive perhaps, yet disciplinary in its\neffect, exquisite poetry has nevertheless been produced. This\npoetry, however, is not within the scope of this introduction.\nSuffice it to say that from what exists of their verse it is clear\nthat poets have been active at all times since the colonization of\nthe country. It is this uninterrupted flow of poetry that above all\nhas helped to preserve the language and the continuity of the\nliterary tradition.\n\nDuring the centuries we have been discussing--especially, however,\nthe seventeenth--the Icelanders probably wrote more verse than any\nother nation has ever done--ranging in quality, to be sure, from the\nlowest to the highest. When, in the sixteenth century, they had got\npaper to take the place of the more expensive parchment, they could\nuniversally indulge in copying old literature and writing new, an\nopportunity which they certainly made use of. It was their only\nluxury--and, at the same time, a vital need.\n\nWe have said that the Icelanders had never waged war against any\nother people. But they have had to struggle against foreign rulers,\nand against hardships caused by the nature of their country. After\nthe Reformation, the intervention of the Crown greatly increased,\nand, at the same time, its revenues from the country. A Crown\nmonopoly of all trade was imposed (in 1602). Nature joined forces\nwith mismanagement by the authorities; on the seas surrounding the\nisland pack-ice frequently became a menace to shipping, and there\nalso occurred unusually long and vicious series of volcanic\neruptions. These culminated in the late eighteenth century (1783),\nwhen the world's most extensive lava fields of historical times were\nformed, and the mist from the eruption was carried all over Europe\nand far into the continent of Asia. Directly or indirectly as a\nconsequence of this eruption, the greater part of the live-stock,\nand a fifth of the human population of the country perished.\n\nStill the people continued to tell stories and to compose poems. No\ndoubt the Icelanders have thus wasted on poetical fantasies and\nvisionary daydreams much of the energy that they might otherwise\nhave used in life's real battle. But the greyness of commonplace\nexistence became more bearable when they listened to tales of the\nheroic deeds of the past. In the evening, the living-room\n(ba\u00f0stofa), built of turf and stone, became a little more cheerful,\nand hunger was forgotten, while a member of the household read, or\nsang, about far-away knights and heroes, and the banquets they gave\nin splendid halls. In their imagination people thus tended to make\ntheir environment seem larger, and better, than life, as did Hrolfur\nwith his fishing-boat in the story When I was on the Frigate.\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\n\nAbout 1800, things began to improve. The monopoly of trade, which\nhad been relaxed in 1787, was finally abolished in 1854. In the year\n1874 Iceland got self-government in its internal affairs, and in\n1904 its first minister of state with residence in the country. It\nbecame a sovereign kingdom in union with Denmark in 1918, and an\nindependent republic in 1944.\n\nThe climate of the country has improved during the last hundred and\nfifty years, though there were a number of severe years in the\neighteen eighties. It was at this time that emigration to the North-\nAmerican Continent reached a peak, especially to Canada, where one\nof the settlements came to be called New Iceland--the title given to\nthe last story in this book. Many of these emigrants suffered great\nhardships, and, as the story tells, several of them became\ndisillusioned with the land of promise. Their descendants, however,\nhave on the whole done well in the New World.\n\nUntil recently, the Icelanders were almost entirely a nation of\nfarmers, and the majority of the stories in this collection contain\nsketches of country life. A certain amount of perseverance and even\nobstinacy was needed for a farmer's life on an island skirting the\nArctic Circle (The Old Hay). Only about a quarter of the country is\nfit for human habitation, mainly the districts along the coast. The\nuplands, for the most part made up of mountains, glaciers, sand-\ndeserts, and lava, are often awe-inspiring in their grandeur.\n\nNevertheless it would be wrong to exaggerate the severity of the\nland. In many places the soil is fertile, as is often the case in\nvolcanic countries, and--thanks to the Gulf Stream, which flows up\nto the shores of the island--the climate is a good deal more\ntemperate than one might suppose (the average annual temperatures in\nReykjav\u00edk are 4-5\u00b0 Centigrade).\n\nBesides, the surrounding sea makes up for the barrenness of the\ncountry by having some of the richest fishing banks in the world.\nHence, in addition to being farmers, the Icelanders have always been\nfishermen who brought means of sustenance from the sea--usually in\nprimitive open boats like those described in When I was on the\nFrigate and Father and Son. In the late nineteenth century decked\nvessels came into use besides the open boats, succeeded by steam\ntrawlers at the beginning of the present century. For the last few\ndecades, the Icelanders have been employing a modern fishing fleet,\nand, at the time of writing, fishery products constitute more than\nninety per cent of the country's exports.\n\nWith the growth of the fisheries and commerce there began to spring\nup towards the end of the nineteenth century a number of trading\nvillages in different parts of the country. Reykjav\u00edk, the only\nmunicipality of fairly long standing and by far the biggest one, had\nat the turn of the present century a population of only between six\nand seven thousand--now about eleven times that number. We catch\nglimpses of these small trading stations at the beginning of the\ntwentieth century in A Dry Spell and Father and Son.\n\nNowadays, four fifths of the population live in villages and\ntownships--where some light industry has sprung up--and, in\nReykjav\u00edk alone, more than two fifths of the population are\nconcentrated.\n\nIn the last fifty years, the occupations of the people and their\nculture have changed from being in many respects medieval, and have\nassumed modern forms. The earlier turfbuilt farmhouses have now been\nreplaced by comfortable concrete buildings which get their\nelectricity from a source of water power virtually inexhaustible.\nMany of these,--e. g. the majority of houses in Reykjav\u00edk--are\nheated by water from hot springs, so that the purity of the northern\nair is seldom spoilt by smoke from coal-fires. The reliable\nIcelandic pony--so dear to the farmer in New Iceland, and for long\nknown as \"a man's best friend\"--has now for the most part come to\nserve the well-to-do who can afford to use it for their joy-rides,\nits place in farmwork being taken by modern agricultural machinery.\nAs a means of travel it has been replaced by a host of motorcars,\nand by aeroplanes, which in Iceland are as commonly used in going\nfrom one part of the country to another as railway trains in other\ncountries. In fact, it has not been found feasible to build railways\nin Iceland. Besides this, a large number of airliners make daily use\nof Icelandic airfields on transatlantic flights. What with most\nother nations has been a slow and gradual process lasting several\ncenturies, has in Iceland come about in more or less a revolutionary\nway. It is therefore not to be wondered at that there should have\nbeen a certain instability in the development of the urban and\neconomic life of the country. In this field, however, there appear\nto be signs of consolidation.\n\nForeigners who come to this country in search of the old saga-island\nare sometimes a little disappointed at finding here, in place of\nsaga-tellers and bards, a modern community, with its own university,\na national theatre, and a symphony orchestra. Be this as it may,\nliterature still holds first place among the arts and cultures. A\ncollection of books is indeed considered as essential a part of a\nhome as the furniture itself. For such visitors, there may be some\nconsolation in the fact that in some places they may have quite a\njob in spotting the grocer's among the bookshops.\n\n\n\n\nIV\n\n\nIn literature there had, especially in poetry, been a continuity\nfrom the very beginnings. Yet, in the field also, the early\nnineteenth century saw the dawn of a new age. The Romantic Movement\nwas here, as elsewhere, accompanied by a national awakening, so that\nliterature became the herald and the principal motive force of\nsocial improvement. There was at the same time a new drive for an\nincreased beauty of language and refinement of style, where the\nclassical, cultivated, literary language and the living speech of\nthe time merged. With Romanticism there also emerged poets of so\ngreat merit that only a few such had come forward since the end of\nthe saga period. But henceforward--let's take as our point of\ndeparture the second quarter of the nineteenth century--each\ngeneration in the country has indeed produced some outstanding\nliterary works, comparable in quality with the accomplishments of\nthe ancient classical Edda and saga periods.\n\nDuring this new golden age, several literary tendencies and genres\nmay be observed. But Romanticism remained the most lasting and\npotent literary force for about a century. However, one of the\ncharacteristics of the Icelandic literature of later ages is the\ninfrequent manifestation of literary trends in their purest and most\nextreme forms. Here the stabilizing and moderating influence of the\nancient sagas has, without doubt, been at work. In most cases this\nmiddle course may be said to have been beneficial to the literature.\n\nBut the saga-literature may also well have had a restraining\ninfluence on later authors in so far as it set a difficult standard\nto be emulated. It is probably here that the principal explanation\nof the late re-emergence of prose fiction is to be sought. It was\nnot until about the middle of the nineteenth century that modern\nshort stories, novels and plays began to be written on anything like\na scale worthy of note. The earliest of these were romantic in\nspirit, though most of them had a realistic tinge. With Realism, the\nshort story came into its own in the eighties and nineties of the\nlast century. This trend came like a fresh current to take its place\nside by side with Romanticism, without, however, ousting it from the\nliterary scene. But owing to the realistic technique and the tragic\nendings of much in the ancient literature--Eddaic poetry and sagas\nalike--Realism was never the novel force it generally was felt to be\nelsewhere. Still, it brought social criticism into our literature.\nThis was introduced through the activity of young literary-minded\nstudents who, while studying at the University of Copenhagen, had\nbecome full of enthusiasm for Georg Brandes and his school.\n\nOne of these young men was Einar H. Kvaran (1859-1938), a\nclergyman's son from the North, who, after beginning as a student of\npolitics, soon turned his attention to literature and journalism. He\nbecame editor of Icelandic newspapers in Canada (1885-95), and,\nlater, in Iceland, mainly in Reykjav\u00edk. His chief preoccupation,\nhowever, became the composition of short stories and novels, and\nbesides these he also wrote some plays and poetry. The delicacy and\nthe religious bent of his nature could not for long remain the soil\nfor the satirical asperity and materialism of the realist school,\nthough his art was always marked by its technique. As he advanced in\nyears, brotherhood and forgiveness became an evergrowing element in\nhis idealism, and he became the first bearer of the spiritualist\nmessage in this country. With his stories he had a humanizing\ninfluence on his times, especially in the education of children, and\nin the field of culture he remained actively interested right up to\na ripe old age. If somewhat lacking in creative fervour and\ncolourful raciness of style, he made up for it by the abundance of\nhis intelligence, his humanity and culture.\n\nHe wrote A Dry Spell (\u00d0urrkur) at the beginning of the present\ncentury, when he had disengaged himself from the strongest influence\nof Realism, but before moral preaching and the belief in the life\nhereafter had become the leading elements in his stories. He had\nthen, for a few years, been living in the north-country town of\nAkureyri, which obviously provides the model for the setting of the\nstory. It was first printed in the 1905 issue of the periodical\nSk\u00edrnir.\n\nIn addition to the travelled, academic realists, there appeared a\ngroup of self-educated popular writers, some of whom had come into\ndirect contact with this foreign school. They were farmers, even in\nthe more remote country districts, who had read the latest\nScandinavian literature in the original, and who wrote stories\ncontaining radical social satire. Gu\u00f0mundur Fri\u00f0j\u00f3nsson, for\ninstance, had begun his career in this way. In many of these\nauthors, however, we find rather a sort of native realism, where\nthere is not necessarily a question of the influence of any\nparticular literary tendency. Their works sprang out of the native\nenvironment of the authors, whose vision, despite a limited horizon,\nwas often vivid. They convey true impressions of real life.\n\nOf this kind are most of the works of Gu\u00f0mundur Fri\u00f0j\u00f3nsson\n(1869-1944), a radical who later turned to conservatism--and the\nbest works of J\u00f3n Trausti (1873-1918). These, who had their debut as\nwriters about the turn of the century, are the authors of the next\ntwo stories in our collection. Both were North-countrymen. The\nformer, a farmer's son from a district enjoying a high standard of\nculture, himself settled down as a farmer in his native locality in\norder to earn a living for his large family. In his youth he had\nattended a secondary school in the neighbourhood for a couple of\nwinters, but he never had his experiences enriched by foreign travel\nand was during the whole of his life anchored to his native region.\nJ\u00f3n Trausti, the son of a farm labourer and his wife, who had been\nborn on one of the northernmost farms in Iceland in a barren and\noutlying district, was brought up in dire poverty. From an early age\nhe had had to fend for himself as a farmhand and fisherman, finally\nsettling in Reykjav\u00edk as a printer. Apart from his apprenticeship\nwith the printers, he never went to any sort of school (school\neducation was first made compulsory by law in Iceland in 1907); but\non two occasions he had travelled abroad.\n\nThese energetic persons became widely read, especially in Icelandic\nliterature, and wrote extensively under difficult circumstances:--in\nfact all the modern authors represented in the present book may be\nsaid to have been prolific as writers. Gu\u00f0mundur Fri\u00f0j\u00f3nsson was\nequally versatile as a writer of short stories and poems. He has a\nrich command of imagery and diction, and his style, at times a\nlittle pompous, is often powerful though slightly archaic in\nflavour. The ancient heroic literature doubtless fostered his manly\nideas, which, however, sprang from his own experience in life. One\nmust, he felt, be hard on oneself, and on one's guard against the\nvanity of newfangled ideas and against the enervating effect of\ncivilization. It is in the nature of things that with this farmer\nand father of a family of twelve, assiduity, prudence, and self-\ndiscipline should be among the highest virtues. This is notably\napparent in The Old Hay (Gamla heyi\u00f0), which he wrote in 1909, and\nwhich was published in T\u00f3lf s\u00f6gur (Twelve stories) in 1915.\n\nJ\u00f3n Trausti (pseudonym of Gu\u00f0mundur Magn\u00fasson) is best known as\nthe author of novels and short stories on contemporary and\nhistorical themes, but he also wrote plays and poems. He was endowed\nwith fertile creative powers and the ability to draw vivid sketches\nof environment and character. At times, however, he lacks restraint,\nespecially in his longer novels. Still, his principal work, The\nMountain Cot (Hei\u00f0arb\u00fdli\u00f0)--one of the longest cycles in\nIcelandic fiction--is his greatest. The little outlying mountain cot\nbecomes a separate world in its own right, a coign of vantage\naffording a clear view of the surrounding countryside where we get\nprofound insight into human nature. Like the bulk of his best work,\nthis novel has a foundation in his own experiences. In reading the\nstory by him included in this volume, the reader may find it helpful\nto bear in mind Trausti's early life as a fisherman. What he\nattempts to show us there is a kind of inner reality--an offset to\nreality. When I was on the Frigate (\u00deegar eg var \u00e1 freg\u00e1tunni)\nfirst published in Sk\u00edrnir for 1910.\n\nJ\u00f3n Trausti and Einar H. Kvaran--who between them form an\ninteresting contrast--were the most prolific novelists at the\nbeginning of the present century. By that time prose was becoming an\nincreasingly important part of Icelandic literature. It would be\nmore or less true to say that in the first thirty years of the\ncentury it had gained an equal footing with poetry. For the last\nthirty years, however, prose has taken first place, after poetry had\nconstituted the backbone of Icelandic literature for six hundred\nyears, or since the end of saga-writing.\n\nBut there were several writers who felt that the small reading\npublic at home in Iceland gave them too little scope. So they\nemigrated, mostly to Denmark, and in the early decades of the\ncentury began to write in foreign languages, though the majority\ncontinued simultaneously to write in the vernacular. Pioneers in\nthis field were the dramatist Johann Sigurj\u00f3nsson (1880-1919), and\nthe novelist Gunnar Gunnarsson (b. 1889). Both of these wrote in\nDanish as well as in Icelandic. Early in the second decade of the\ncentury three of this overseas group produced works that were\naccorded immediate acclaim, and which have since become classics,\nbeing widely translated into foreign languages. These were Eyvind of\nthe Hills (Fjalla-Eyvindur) by Johann Sigurjonsson; The Borg Family\n(Borgaraettin, in English Guest the One-eyed) by Gunnar Gunnarsson;\nand Nonni, Erlebnisse eines jungen Isl\u00e4nders, the first of the\nfamous children's books by the Jesuit monk J\u00f3n Sveinsson (Jon\nSvensson, 1857-1944). With these works modern Icelandic literature\nwon for the first time a place for itself among the living\ncontemporary literatures of the world. Since then, Iceland's\ncontribution has been steady, not only in the works of those who\nwrote in foreign languages, but equally--and during the last couple\nof decades exclusively--in vernacular writing. In fact, with the\nreturn to his native country of Gunnar Gunnarsson in 1939, the vogue\nof writing in foreign languages virtually came to an end.\n\nOn his arrival in Iceland Gunnarsson had settled in his native east-\ncountry district though he afterwards moved to Reykjav\u00edk, where he\nnow lives. Indeed he possesses many of the best qualities of the\ngentleman-farmer--firmness, tenacity of purpose, and a craving for\nfreedom in his domain,--combined with a writer's imaginative and\nnarrative powers and understanding of humanity. He often describes\nhuman determination and man's struggle with destiny, especially in\nhis historical novels, which are set in most periods of Icelandic\nhistory. More moving, perhaps, are his novels on contemporary\nthemes. The greatest among these is the cycle The Church on the\nMountain (Fjallkirkjan; of the five novels making up this sequence,\nthree have been translated into English under two titles, Ships in\nthe Sky and The Night and the Dream). This is one of the major works\nof Icelandic literature--containing a fascinating world of fancy,\ninvention, and reality. It is the story of the development of a\nwriter who leaves home in order to seek the world. One of the best\nknown stories in all Icelandic literature is his masterly short\nnovel Advent or The good Shepherd (A\u00f0venta).--Father and Sam\nFe\u00f0garnir) was first published in the periodical Eimrei\u00f0in in\n1916. The present version, with slight changes, is that found in the\nauthor's collected works, Rit XI, 1951.\n\nMost Icelandic writers have, of course, written in the vernacular\nonly, in spite of longer or shorter stay abroad. This applies to the\nlast two authors represented here, both of whom appeared on the\nliterary scene about 1920.\n\nGu\u00f0mundur G. Hagal\u00edn (b. 1898) comes from the sea-girt Western\nFiords, where he was a fisherman before attending secondary school.\nLater, he lectured on Iceland in Norway for a few years (1924-27),\nand is now a superintendent of public libraries. His home is in the\nneighbourhood of Reykjav\u00edk. In his novels, and more particularly in\nhis short stories, he is at his best in his portrayals of the simple\nsturdy seamen and countryfolk of his native region, which are often\nrefreshingly arch in manner. Hagal\u00edn, who is a talented narrator,\nfrequently succeeds in catching the living speech and characteristic\nmode of expression of his characters. The Fox Skin (T\u00f3fuskinni\u00f0)\nfirst appeared in 1923, in one of his collections of short stories\n(Strandb\u00faar).--He has also been successful as a recorder and editor\nof the biographies of greatly different people, based on first-hand\naccounts of their own lives. He is at present continuing with the\nwriting of his autobiography--a long and interesting work.\n\nHalld\u00f3r Kiljan Laxness was born in 1902 in Reykjav\u00edk. Shortly\nafterwards his parents established themselves on a farm in the\nneighbourhood where he was brought up, and where he has now built\nhimself a home. He is a patriot and, at the same time, a\ncosmopolitan who has probably travelled more extensively abroad than\nany other of his fellow-countrymen. After becoming a Catholic at the\nage of twenty, he spent a year in monasteries abroad, but had\nalready begun to waver in his Catholicism when he first visited\nAmerica, where he stayed from 1927 to 1930. During those years he\nbecame more and more radical in his social beliefs. Already in his\nfirst year there, he wrote the short story New Iceland (N\u00fdja\n\u00cdsland), which was immediately published in Heimskringla, an\nIcelandic weekly in Winnipeg. The story thus dates from an early\nperiod, when his art was in process of great development.\n\nIndeed, the nineteen twenties saw important changes in our\nliterature. The last of the great nineteenth century poets were\nvanishing from the literary scene, their places being taken by\nothers, whose poetry, though hardly as profound and lofty in\nconception, was more lyrical and simple in manner, with greater\ndelicacy and refinement of form. Especially in the prose-writing of\nthe period, there were signs of flourishing growth. Gunnar\nGunnarsson wrote The Church on the Mountain, and Laxness was\nbecoming known. In the early thirties he appears as a fully mature\nwriter in Salka Valka, a political love story from a fishing\nvillage, and Independent People (Sj\u00e1lfstaett f\u00f3lk), a heroic novel\nabout the stubbornness and the lot of the Icelandic mountain farmer,\nboth of which have appeared in English translations. Laxness has\ndevoted less attention to the writing of plays and poetry than\nnovels and short stories. Two among his greatest works are the novel\nsequences The Light of the World (Heimslj\u00f3s)--about a poet-genius\nwho never reaches maturity--, and The Bell of Iceland\n(\u00cdslandsklukkan), a historical novel describing a political,\ncultural and human struggle. On the whole, the subject-matter of his\nstories is extremely varied, equally as regards time, place and\nhuman types. However, the greatest variety will probably be found in\nhis style, which he constantly adapts to suit the subject. Behind\nall this lies a fertile creativeness which rarely leaves the reader\nuntouched. No matter where in the wide world his stories may be set,\nthey always stand in some relation to his people--though, at the\nsame time, he usually succeeds in endowing them with universal\nvalues shared by common humanity. To achieve this has from early on\nbeen Laxness' aim; thus the first printed version of New Iceland\ncontains the sub-heading: \"An international proletarian story.\"\n\nWhen this introduction was being written, a new novel by him, Heaven\nReclaimed (Parad\u00edsarheimt) was published (1960), which, like his\nearly short story, is set partly in America--this time among the\nIcelandic Mormons of Utah. Here, the man who goes out across half\nthe world in quest of the millennium is in the end led back to his\norigins.\n\nLaxness was awarded the Nobel Prize in 1955.\n\nTke University of Iceland, Reykjav\u00edk.\n\nSteingr\u00edmur J. \u00deorsteinsson.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nANONYMOUS\n\nTHE STORY OF AUDUNN AND THE BEAR\n\nEARLY 13TH CENTURY\n\nI\n\n\nThere was a man called Audunn; he came of a family of the Western\nFirths, and was not well off. Audunn left Iceland from the Western\nFirths with the assistance of Thorsteinn, a substantial farmer, and\nof Thorir, a ship's captain, who had stayed with Thorsteinn during\nthe winter. Audunn had been on the same farm, working for Thorir,\nand as his reward he got his passage to Norway under Thorir's care.\n\nAudunn had set aside the greater part of his property, such as it\nwas, for his mother, before he took ship, and it was determined that\nthis should support her for three years.\n\nNow they sailed to Norway and had a prosperous voyage, and Audunn\nspent the following winter with the skipper Thorir, who had a farm\nin Mo\u00e9rr. The summer after that, they sailed out to Greenland,\nwhere they stayed for the winter.\n\nIt is told that in Greenland, Audunn bought a white bear, a\nmagnificent beast, and paid for him all he had. Next summer they\nreturned to Norway, and their voyage was without mishap. Audunn\nbrought his bear with him, intending to go south to Denmark to visit\nKing Sveinn, and to present the beast to him. When he reached die\nsouth of Norway and came to the place where the King was in\nresidence, Audunn went ashore, leading his bear, and hired lodgings.\n\nKing Haraldr was soon told that a bear had been brought to the\nplace, a magnificent creature, belonging to an Icelander. The King\nimmediately sent men to fetch Audunn, and when he entered the King's\npresence, Audunn saluted him as was proper. The King acknowledged\nthe salute suitably and then asked:\n\nIs it true that you have a great treasure, a white bear?\n\nAudunn answered and said that he had got a bear of some sort.\n\nThe King said: Will you sell him to us for the price you paid for\nhim?\n\nAudunn answered: I would not care to do that, my Lord.\n\nWill you then, said the King, have me pay twice the price? That\nwould be fairer if you gave all you had for him.\n\nI would not care to do that, my Lord, answered Audunn, but the King\nsaid:\n\nWill you give him to me then?\n\nNo, my Lord, answered Audunn.\n\nThe King asked: What do you mean to do with him then?--and Audunn\nanswered: I mean to go south to Denmark and give him to King Sveinn.\n\nCan it be that you are such a fool, said King Haraldr, that you have\nnot heard about the war between these two countries? Or do you think\nyour luck so good that you will be able to bring valuable\npossessions to Denmark, while others cannot get there unmolested,\neven though they have pressing business?\n\nAudunn answered: My Lord, that is for you to decide, but I shall\nagree to nothing other than that which I had already planned.\n\nThen the King said: Why should we not have it like this, that you go\nyour own way, just as you choose, and then visit me on your way\nback, and tell me how King Sveinn rewards you for the bear? It may\nbe that luck will go with you.\n\nI will promise you to do that, said Audunn.\n\nAudunn now followed the coast southward and eastward into the Vik,\nand from there to Denmark, and by that time every penny of his money\nhad been spent, and he had to beg food for himself as well as for\nthe bear. He called on one of King Sveinn's stewards, a man named\nAki, and asked him for some provisions, both for himself and for his\nbear.--I intend, said he, to give the bear to King Sveinn.\n\nAki said that he would sell him some provisions if he liked, but\nAudunn answered that he had nothing to pay for them,--but yet, said\nhe, I would like to carry out my plan, and to take the beast to the\nKing.\n\nAki answered: I will supply such provisions as the two of you need\nuntil you go before the King, but in exchange I will have half the\nbear. You can look at it in this way: the beast will die on your\nhands, since you need a lot of provisions and your money is spent,\nand it will come to this, that you will have nothing out of the\nbear.\n\nWhen Audunn considered this, it seemed to him that there was some\ntruth in what the steward had said, and they agreed on these terms:\nhe gave Aki half the bear, and the King was then to set a value on\nthe whole.\n\nNow they were both to visit the King, and so they did. They went\ninto his presence and stood before his table. The King wondered who\nthis man could be, whom he did not recognize, and then said to\nAudunn: Who are you?\n\nAudunn answered: I am an Icelander, my Lord, and I came lately from\nGreenland, and now from Norway, intending to bring you this white\nbear. I gave all I had for him, but I have had a serious setback, so\nnow I only own half of the beast.--Then Audunn told the King what\nhad happened between him and the steward, Aki.\n\nThe King asked: Is that true, what he says, Aki?\n\nTrue it is, said Aki.\n\nThe King said: And did you think it proper, seeing that I had placed\nyou in a high position, to let and hinder a man who had taken it on\nhimself to bring me a precious gift, for which he had given all he\nhad? King Haraldr saw fit to let him go his way in peace, and he is\nno friend of ours. Think, then, how far this was honest on your\npart. It would be just to have you put to death, but I will not do\nthat now; you must rather leave this land at once, and never come\ninto my sight again. But to you, Audunn, I owe the same gratitude as\nif you were giving me the whole of the bear, so now stay here with\nme.\n\nAudunn accepted the invitation and stayed with King Sveinn for a\nwhile.\n\n\n\n\nII\n\n\nAfter some time had passed Audunn said to the King: I desire to go\naway now, my Lord.\n\nThe King answered rather coldly: What do you want to do then, since\nyou do not wish to stay with us?\n\nAudunn answered: I wish to go south on a pilgrimage.\n\nIf you had not such a good end before you, said the King, I should\nbe vexed at your desire to go away.\n\nNow the King gave Audunn a large sum of silver, and he travelled\nsouth with pilgrims bound for Rome. The King arranged for his\njourney, asking him to visit him when he came\n\nAudunn went on his way until he reached the city of Rome in the\nsouth. When he had stayed there as long as he wished, he turned\nback, and a severe illness attacked him, and he grew terribly\nemaciated. All the money which the King had given him for his\npilgrimage was now spent, and so he took up his staff and begged his\nfood. By now his hair had fallen out and he looked in a bad way. He\ngot back to Denmark at Easter, and went to the place where the King\nwas stationed. He dared not let the King see him, but stayed in a\nside-aisle of the church, intending to approach the King when he\nwent to church for Nones. But when Audunn beheld the King and his\ncourtiers splendidly arrayed, he did not dare to show himself.\n\nWhen the King went to drink in his hall, Audunn ate his meal out of\ndoors, as is the custom of Rome pilgrims, so long as they have not\nlaid aside their staff and scrip. In the evening, when the King went\nto Vespers, Audunn intended to meet him, but shy as he was before,\nhe was much more so now that the courtiers were merry with drink. As\nthey were going back, the King noticed a man, and thought he could\nsee that he had not the confidence to come forward and meet him. But\nas the courtiers walked in, the King turned back and said:\n\nLet the man who wants to meet me come forward; I think there must be\nsomeone who does.\n\nThen Audunn came forward and fell at the feet of the King, but the\nKing hardly recognized him. As soon as he knew who he was, he took\nAudunn by the hand and welcomed him:--You have changed a lot since\nwe met last,--he said, and then he led Audunn into the hall after\nhim. When the courtiers saw Audunn they laughed at him, but the King\nsaid:\n\nThere is no need for you to laugh at this man, for he has provided\nbetter for his soul than you have.\n\nThe King had a bath prepared for Audunn and then gave him clothes,\nand now he stayed with the King.\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\n\nIt is told that one day in the spring the King invited Audunn to\nstay with him for good, and said he would make him his cup-bearer,\nand do him great honour.\n\nAudunn answered: May God reward you, my Lord, for all the favours\nyou would show me, but my heart is set on sailing out to Iceland.\n\nThe King said: This seems a strange choice to me,--but Audunn\nanswered: My Lord, I cannot bear to think that I should be enjoying\nhigh honour here with you, while my mother is living the life of a\nbeggar out in Iceland. For by now, all that I contributed for her\nsubsistence before I left Iceland, has been used up.\n\nThe King answered: That is well spoken and like a man, and good\nfortune will go with you. This was the one reason for your departure\nwhich would not have offended me. So stay with me until the ships\nare made ready for sea.--And this Audunn did.\n\nOne day towards the end of spring King Sveinn walked down to the\nquay, where men were getting ships ready to sail to various lands,\nto the Baltic lands and Germany, to Sweden and Norway. The King and\nAudunn came to a fine vessel, and there were some men busy fitting\nher out. The King asked:\n\nHow do you like this ship, Audunn?\n\nAudunn answered: I like her well, my Lord.\n\nThe King said: I will give you this ship and reward you for the\nwhite bear.\n\nAudunn thanked the King for his gift as well as he knew how.\n\nAfter a time, when the ship was quite ready to sail, King Sveinn\nsaid to Audunn:\n\nIf you wish to go now, I shall not hinder you, but I have heard that\nyou are badly off for harbours in your country, and that there are\nmany shelterless coasts, dangerous to shipping. Now, supposing you\nare wrecked, and lose your ship and your goods, there will be little\nto show that you have visited King Sveinn and brought him a precious\ngift.\n\nThen the King handed him a leather purse full of silver: You will\nnot be altogether penniless, said he, even if you wreck your ship,\nso long as you can hold on to this. But yet it may be, said the\nKing, that you will lose this money, and then it will be of little\nuse to you that you have been to see King Sveinn and given him a\nprecious gift.\n\nThen the King drew a ring from his arm and gave it to Audunn,\nsaying: Even if it turns out so badly that you wreck your ship and\nlose your money, you will still not be a pauper if you reach land,\nfor many men have gold about them in a shipwreck, and if you keep\nthis ring there will be something to show that you have been to see\nKing Sveinn. But I will give you this advice, said the King, do not\ngive this ring away, unless you should feel yourself so much\nindebted to some distinguished man--then give the ring to him, for\nit is a fitting gift for a man of rank. And now farewell.\n\n\n\n\nIV\n\n\nAfter this Audunn put to sea and made Norway, and had his\nmerchandise brought ashore, and that was a more laborious task than\nit had been last time he was in Norway. Then he went into the\npresence of King Haraldr, wishing to fulfil the promise he had given\nhim before he went to Denmark. Audunn gave the King a friendly\ngreeting, which he accepted warmly.\n\nSit down, said the King, and drink with us, and so Audunn did. Then\nKing Haraldr asked: What reward did King Sveinn give you for the\nbear?\n\nAudunn answered: This, my Lord, that he accepted him from me.\n\nI would have given you that, said the King, but what else did he\ngive you?\n\nAudunn said: He gave me silver to make a pilgrimage to Rome, but\nKing Haraldr said:\n\nKing Sveinn gives many people silver for pilgrimages and for other\nthings, even if they do not bring him valuable gifts. What more did\nhe do for you?\n\nHe offered to make me his cup-bearer and to give me great honours.\n\nThat was a good offer, said the King, but he must have given you\nstill more.\n\nAudunn said: He gave me a merchantman with a cargo of wares most\nprofitable for the Norway trade.\n\nThat was generous, said the King, but I would have rewarded you as\nwell as that. Did he give you anything else?\n\nAudunn said: He gave me a leather purse full of silver, and said\nthat I would still not be penniless if I kept it, even if my ship\nwere wrecked off Iceland.\n\nThe King said: That was magnificent, and more than I should have\ndone. I would have thought my debt discharged if I had given you the\nship. Did he give you anything else?\n\nCertainly he gave me something else, my Lord, said Audunn; he gave\nme this ring which I am wearing on my arm, and said that I might\nchance to lose all my property, and yet not be destitute if I had\nthis ring. But he advised me not to part with it unless I were under\nsuch an obligation to some noble man that I wished to give it to\nhim. And now I have come to the right man, for it was in your power\nto take from me both my bear and my life, but you allowed me to go\nto Denmark in peace when others could not go there.\n\nThe King received the gift graciously and gave Audunn fine presents\nin exchange before they parted. Audunn laid out his merchandise on\nhis voyage to Iceland, and sailed out that same summer, and people\nthought him the luckiest of men.\n\nFrom this man Audunn was descended Thorsteinn Gyduson. [Footnote:\nThorsteinn Gyduson was drowned in the year 1190. Unless\ninterpolated, the allusion to him shows that the story was written\nafter that date.]\n\n\n\n\nEINAR H. KVARAN\n\nA DRY SPELL\n\n\nIt had rained for a fortnight--not all the time heavily, but a fog\nhad sullenly hung about the mountain tops, clinging to the\natmosphere and rendering the whole of existence a dull gray colour.\nEvery little while it would discharge a fine drizzle of rain or a\nheavy shower down upon the hay and everything else on earth, so that\nonly the stones would occasionally be dry--but the grass never.\n\nWe were tired of the store--indeed, I should like to know who would\nhave enjoyed it. It dated back to the beginning of the last century,\na tarred, coal-black, ramshackle hut. The windows were low and\nsmall, the windowpanes diminutive. The ceiling was low. Everything\nwas arranged in such a way as to exclude the possibility of lofty\nflights of thought or vision.\n\nJust now, not a living soul looked in--not even those thriftless\nfellows who lived by chance jobs in the village and met in daily\nconclave at the store. We had often cursed their lengthy visits, but\nnow that they had hired themselves out during the haymaking, we\nsuddenly realized that they had often been entertaining. They had\nmade many amusing remarks and brought us news of the neighbourhood.\nAnd now we cursed them for their absence.\n\nWe sat there and smoked, staring vacantly at the half-empty shelves,\nand all but shivering in the damp room. There was no heater in the\nstore at any season, and the one in the office, if used, emitted\nspurts of smoke through every aperture except the chimney. It had\nnot been cleaned since sometime during winter, and we were not\nambitious enough for such an undertaking in the middle of the\nsummer.\n\nWe tried to transfer our thoughts from the store to the world\noutside. We made clever comments to the effect that the farmers were\nnow getting plenty of moisture for the hay-fields, and that it would\nbe a pity if rain should set in now, right at the beginning of the\nhaying season. We had nothing further to say on the subject, but\nthis we repeated from day to day. In short, we were depressed and at\nodds with things in general. Until the dry spell.\n\nOne morning, about nine o'clock, the bank of fog began to move.\nFirst, there appeared an opening about the size of your hand, and\nthrough it the eastern sky showed a bright blue. Then another\nopening, and through it shone the sun.\n\nWe knew what this was called, and we said to each other: Merely a\n'morning promise'--implying, nothing reliable. But it was more. The\nfog began to show thinner and move faster along the mountain ridge\nopposite. Then it gathered in a deep pass and lay there heaped up\nlike newly carded, snowy wool. On either side, the mountains loomed\na lovely blue, and in their triumph ignored the fog almost\ncompletely. When we ventured a look through the doorway of the\nstore, there was nothing to be seen overhead save the clear, blue\nsky and the sunshine.\n\nOn the opposite shore of the fjord, the people looked to us like the\ncairns out on the moorlands, only these tiny cairns moved in single\nfile about the hay-fields. I seemed to smell the sweet hay in the\nhomefields, but of course this was only my imagination. I also\nfancied I could hear the maids laughing, especially one of them. I\nwould willingly have sacrificed a good deal to be over there helping\nher dry the hay. But of this subject no more; I did not intend to\nwrite a love story--at least, not in the ordinary sense of the word.\n\nThe dry spell lasted. We, the clerks, took turns at staying out of\ndoors as much as possible, and 'drinking deeply of the golden fount\nof sunshine'.\n\nIn the afternoon of the third day, I dropped in at the doctor's. I\nfelt somewhat weary with walking--and idleness--and looked forward\nto the doctor's couch and conversation.\n\nA cigar? asked the doctor.\n\nYes, a cigar, I answered. I have smoked only six today.\n\nBeer or whisky and water? queried the doctor.\n\nA small whisky, I replied.\n\nI lit my cigar, inhaling deeply of its fragrance--then exhaling\nthrough mouth and nostrils. I sighed with contentment; the cigar was\nexcellent.\n\nThen we began to drink the whisky and water at our leisure. I\nreclined against the head of the couch, stretched out my feet, was\nconscious of a luxurious sensation--and sent my thoughts for a\nmoment across the fjord, where they preferred to remain.\n\nThe doctor was in high spirits. He talked about the Japanese and\nRussians, the most recently discovered rays, and the latest\ndisclosures on how is felt to die.\n\nMy favourite pastime is to listen to others speaking. I never seem\nable to think of any topics worthy of conversation myself, but I am\nalmost inclined to say that my ability to listen amounts to an art.\nI can remain silent with an air of absorbing interest, and once in a\nwhile offer brief comment, not to set forth an opinion or display\nany knowledge--for I have none to spare--but merely to suggest new\nchannels to the speaker and introduce variety, that he may not tire\nof hearing himself speak.\n\nI felt extremely comfortable on the couch. I thought it particularly\nentertaining to hear the doctor tell how it felt to die. There is\nalways something pleasantly exciting about death--when it is\nreasonably far away from you. It seemed so beautifully far away from\nthe perfume of the tobacco-smoke, the flavour of whisky, and the\nrestfulness of the couch, and when my mind wandered to her across\nthe fjord--as wander it would in spite of my studied attention--then\ndeath seemed so far off shore that I could scarcely follow the\ndescription of how it felt to others to die.\n\nIn the midst of this dreamy contentment and deluge of information\nfrom the doctor, the door was somewhat hastily thrown open. I was\nlooking the other way and thought it must be one of the doctor's\nchildren.\n\nBut it was old man Thordur from the Bend.\n\nI knew him well. He was over fifty, tall and large-limbed, with a\nhoary shock of hair and a snub nose. I knew he had a host of\nchildren--I had been at his door once, and they had run, pattered,\nwaddled, crept, and rolled through the doorway to gape at me. It had\nseemed as hopeless to try to count them as a large flock of sheep. I\nknew there was no income except what the old man and woman--and\npossibly the elder children--managed to earn from day to day. My\nemployer in Copenhagen had strictly forbidden us to give credit to\nsuch--and of course he now owed us more than he would ever be able\nto pay.\n\nHe does not even knock--the old ruffian, I said to myself.\n\nFrom his appearance, something was wrong. His face was unnaturally\npurplish, his eyes strangely shiny--yet dull withal. It even seemed\nto me that his legs shook under him.\n\nCan it be that the old devil is tipsy--at the height of the haying\nseason--and dry weather at that? I mentally queried.\n\nThe doctor evidently could not recall who he was.\n\nGood-day to you, my man, he said, and what matter have you in hand?\n\nI merely came to get those four crowns.\n\nWhich four crowns? asked the doctor.\n\nThordur raised his voice: The four crowns you owe me.\n\nIt was now evident that it was difficult for him to remain standing.\n\nI felt assured that the old rascal had been drinking like a fish. I\nwas surprised. I had never heard he was inclined that way. He lived\nout there on the hillside a short distance above the village. I\nbegan to wonder where he had been able to obtain so much liquor--\ncertainly not from us at the store.\n\nWhat is your name? asked the doctor.\n\nMy name? Don't you know my name? Don't you know me?--Thordur--\nThordur of the Bend. I should best of all like to get the money at\nonce.\n\nYes, that's so--you are Thordur of the Bend, said the doctor. And\nyou are up? But listen, my good man, I owe you nothing. You owe me a\nsmall sum--but that does not matter in the least.\n\nI care nothing about that, but I should best of all like to get the\nmoney at once, repeated Thordur.\n\nMay I feel your hand for a minute? said the doctor.\n\nThordur extended his hand, but it seemed to me that he did not know\nit. He looked off into space, as if thinking of other things--or\nrather as if he had no thoughts whatever. I saw the doctor's fingers\non his wrist.\n\nYou are a sick man, he said.\n\nSick?--Yes--of course I am sick. Am I then to pay you four crowns? I\nhaven't got them now.\n\nIt makes no difference about those four crowns, but why did you get\nup like this? Have you forgotten that I ordered you to remain in bed\nwhen I saw you the other day?\n\nIn bed?--How the devil am I to remain in bed? Tell me that!\n\nYou must not get up in this condition. Why, you are delirious!\n\nWhat a fool you are--don't you know that there is a dry spell.\n\nYes, I AM aware of the dry spell.--It was evidently not quite clear\nto him what that had to do with the case.--Have a chair, and we will\ntalk it over.\n\nA chair? No!--Who, then, should dry the hay in the homefield? I had\nsome of it cut when I was taken down--why do you contradict me? And\nthe youngsters have made some attempts at it--but who is to see\nabout drying it?--Not Gudrun--she can't do everything. The\nyoungsters?--what do they know about drying hay?--Who, then, is to\ndo it?--Are YOU going to do it?\n\nSomething will turn up for you, said the doctor, somewhat at a loss.\n\nSomething will turn up? Nothing has ever turned up for ME.\n\nCold shivers passed through me. His remark rang true: I knew that\nnothing had ever turned up for him. I felt faint at looking into\nsuch an abyss of hopelessness. Instantly I saw that the truth of\nthis delirious statement concerned me more than all the wisdom of\nthe ages.\n\nDo I get those four crowns you owe me?--Thordur asked. He was now\ntrembling so that his teeth chattered.\n\nThe doctor produced four crowns from his purse and handed them to\nhim. Thordur laid them on the table and staggered towards the door.-\n-You are leaving your crowns behind, man, said the doctor.\n\nI haven't got them now, said Thordur, without looking back and still\nmaking his way towards the door.--But I'll pay them as soon as I\ncan.\n\nIsn't there a vacant bed upstairs at the store? inquired the doctor.\n\nYes, I answered. We will walk with you down to the store, Thordur.\n\nWalk with me?--Be damned!--I am off for the hay-field.\n\nWe followed him outside and watched him start out. After a short\ndistance he tumbled down. We got him upstairs in the store.\n\nA few days later he could have told us, if anyone had been able to\ncommunicate with him, whether they are right or wrong, those latest\ntheories on how it feels to die.\n\n--But who dries the hay in his homefield now?\n\n\n\n\nGu\u00f0mundur Fri\u00f0j\u00f3nsson\n\nTHE OLD HAY\n\n\nDuring the latter part of the reign of King Christian the Ninth,\nthere lived at Holl in the Tunga District a farmer named Brandur. By\nthe time the events narrated here transpired, Brandur had grown\nprosperous and very old--old in years and old in ways. The\nneighbours thought he must have money hidden away somewhere. But no\none knew anything definitely, for Brandur had always been reserved\nand uncommunicative, and permitted no prying in his house or on his\npossessions. There was, however, one thing every settler in those\nparts knew: Brandur had accumulated large stores of various kinds.\nAnyone passing along the highway could see that.\n\nBrandur usually had some hay remaining in lofts and yards when\nspring came, and, besides, there was the immense stack that stood on\na knoll out in the homefield before the house. It had been there for\nmany years and was well protected against wind and weather by a\ncovering of sod. Brandur had replenished the hay, a little at a\ntime, by using up that from one end only and filling in with fresh\nhay the following summer.\n\nBrandur was hospitable to such guests as had business with him, and\nrefused to accept payment for food or lodging; but very few people\never came to see him, and these were mostly old friends with whom he\nhad financial dealings. Brandur was willing to make loans against\npromissory notes and the payment of interest. There were not many to\nwhom he would entrust his money, however, and he never lost a penny.\nWhenever these callers came, he would bring out the brandy bottle.\n\nThe buildings at Holl were all in a tumble-down state; the furniture\nwas no better. There wasn't a chair in the whole house; even the\nba\u00f0stofa had only a dirt floor, and it was entirely unsheathed on\nthe inside except for a few planks nailed on the wall from the bed\nup as far as the rafters. The clock was the sole manufactured\narticle in the room. But friends of the old man knew that underneath\nhis bed he kept a fairly large carved wooden chest, bearing the\ninscription anno 1670. The chest was heavy and was always kept\nlocked. Only the nearest of kin had ever seen its contents.\n\nBrandur was not considered obliging; it was very difficult to get to\nsee him. Yet he was willing to sell food at any time for cash; hay,\ntoo, as long as there was still some remaining in his lofts. He\nwould also sell hay against promises of lambs, especially wethers,\nonce it was certain that the cold of winter was past. But his old\nhaystack he refused to touch for anyone.\n\nIn this way Brandur stumbled down the pathway of life until he lost\nhis sight. Even then, he was still sound in mind and body. While his\nvision remained unimpaired, it had been his habit to walk out to the\nold haystack every day and stroll around it slowly, examining it\ncarefully from top to bottom and patting it with his hands. This\nhabit he kept up as long as the weather permitted him to be\noutdoors, and he did not give it up even after his sight was gone.\nHe would still take his daily walk out to the haystack on the knoll,\ndrag himself slowly around it, groping with his hands to feel it, as\nif he wished to make sure that it still stood there, firm as a rock\nand untouched. He would stretch out his hands and touch its face and\ncount the strips of turf to himself in a whisper.\n\nBrandur still tilled the land, though he kept but little help and\nwas living chiefly on the fruits of his former labours. He had fine\nwinter pastures, and good meadows quite near the house, from which\nthe hay could easily be brought in. The old man steadfastly refused\nto adopt modern farming methods; he had never levelled off the\nhummocks, nor drained or irrigated the land. But he did hire a few\nharvest hands in the middle of the season, paying them in butter,\ntallow, and the flesh of sheep bellies. The wages he paid were never\nhigh, yet he always paid whatever had been agreed upon.\n\nOld Brandur had been blessed with only one child, a daughter named\nGudrun. who had married a farmer in the district. Since his\ndaughter's marriage, Brandur kept a housekeeper and one farm hand, a\nyoung man whom Brandur had reared and who, it was rumoured, was his\nnatural son. But that has nothing to do with the story.\n\nWhen Brandur had reached a ripe old age, there came a winter with\nmuch frost and snow. Time and again, some of the snow and ice would\nthaw, but then a hard frost would come, glazing everything in an icy\ncoating. This went on until late in April. By that time, almost\nevery farmer in the district had used up his hay; every one of them\nwas at the end of his store, and nowhere was there a blade of grass\nto feed the live-stock, for the land still lay frozen under its\nblanket of hard-packed snow and ice. When things had come to this\npass, a general district meeting was called to discuss the situation\nand decide what should be done. Brandur's son-in-law Jon was made\nchairman of the meeting.\n\nDuring the discussion it was brought to light that many of the\nflocks would die of hunger unless 'God Almighty vouchsafed a turn in\nthe weather very soon', or Old Brandur could be induced to part with\nhis old hay. That stack would help, if properly divided among those\nwho were in greatest need. The quantity of hay it contained was\nestimated, and the general opinion expressed that, if it were\ndivided, the flocks of every farmer in the district could be fed for\nat least two weeks, even if they could not in that time be put out\nto pasture.\n\nJon being chairman of the District Council, as well as Brandur's\nson-in-law, it fell to his lot to go to the old man and ask for the\nhay.\n\nSo it came about that, on his way home from the meeting, Jon stopped\nat Holl. The day was cold and clear, the afternoon sun shining down\nupon the snow-covered landscape. The icy blanket turned back the\nrays of warmth as if it would have nothing to do with the sun. But\nwherever rocks and gravelly banks protruded, the ice appeared to be\npeeled off, for in those spots the sun's rays had melted it, though\nonly at mid-day and on the south. All streams and waterfalls\nslumbered in silence under the snowy blanket. A chill silence\nreigned over the whole valley. Not a bird was to be seen, not even a\nsnow bunting, only two ravens which kept flying from farmhouse to\nfarmhouse, and even their cawing had a hungry note.\n\nWhen Jon rode up to the house at Holl, he found Brandur out by the\nhaystack. The old man was carefully groping his way around the\nstack, feeling it on all sides and counting the strips of turf in so\nloud a voice that Jon could hear him: O-n-e, t-w-o, three.\n\nJon dismounted and, going over to Brandur, saluted him with a kiss.\n\nHow are you? God bless you, said Brandur. And who may this be?\n\nJon of Bakki, replied the visitor.--Gudrun sends greetings.\n\nAh, yes. And how is my Gunna? Is she well?\n\nShe was well when I left home this morning. Now I am on my way back\nfrom the meeting that was held to discuss the desperate situation--\nyou must have heard about it.\n\nYes, certainly. I've heard about it. I should say so! One can't get\naway from talk of hay shortage and hard times. That is quite true.\nAny other news?\n\nNothing worth mentioning, answered Jon. Nothing but the general hard\ntimes and hay shortage. Every farmer at the end of his tether, or\nalmost there, no one with as much as a wisp of hay to spare, and\nonly a few likely to make out till Crouchmas without aid.\n\nToo bad! said Brandur. Too bad! And he blew out his breath, as\nthough suffocating from strong smoke or bad air.\n\nFor a while there was silence, as if each mistrusted the other and\nwondered what was in the air. Brandur stood there with one hand\nresting on the haystack, while he thrust the other into his trousers\npocket, or underneath the flap of his trousers. He always wore the\nold-fashioned trousers with a flap, in fact had never possessed any\nother kind. Meanwhile, holding the reins, Jon stood there gazing at\nthe hay and making a mental estimate of it. Then he turned to his\nfather-in-law and spoke:\n\nThe purpose of my visit to you, my dear Brandur, is to ask that you\nlet us have this hay--this fine old hay that you have here. The\nDistrict Council will, of course, pay you; the parish will guarantee\npayment. We have discussed that matter fully.\n\nWhen Jon ceased speaking, Brandur blew the air from his mouth in\ngreat puffs, as though deeply stabbed by a sharp pain in the heart.\nFor a while he held his peace. Then he spoke:\n\nNot another word! Not another word! What's this I hear? My hay for\nthe district? My hay to supply all the farmers in the district? Do\nyou think for one moment that this little haystack is enough to feed\nall the flocks in the whole district? Do you think this tiny haycock\nwill be enough for a whole parish? I think not!\n\nBut we have calculated it, protested Jon. We have estimated that the\nhay in this stack will be enough to feed the flocks in the district\nfor about two weeks, if a little grain is used with it, and if the\nhay is distributed equally among the farmers who need it most. There\nmay be enough for three weeks, should it turn to be as much as or\nmore than I expect. By that time, we surely hope, the season will be\nso far advanced that the weather will have changed for the better.\n\nSo! You have already estimated the amount of hay in my stack! said\nBrandur. You have already divided this miserable haycock among\nyourselves, divided it down to the very last straw. And you have\nweighed it almost to a gram. Then why speak to me about it? Why not\ntake it just as it is and scatter it to the four winds? Why not?--\nThe voice of the old man shook with anger.\n\nNo, said Jon. We will not do that. We want to ask your permission\nfirst. We had no intention of doing otherwise; we intended to ask\nyou for the hay. And we did not mean to vex you, but rather to\nhonour you in this manner. Is it not an honour to be asked to save a\nwhole district from ruin?\n\nOh, so all this is being done to honour me! said the old man,\nroaring with laughter. Perhaps you believe me to be in my second\nchildhood. Not at all! Old Brandur can still see beyond the tip of\nhis nose.\n\nThe cold-heartedness shown by the old man's laughter at the distress\nof his fellowmen roused Jon's ire. He could see nothing laughable\nabout the desperate situation in the district.\n\nAre you then going to refuse to let us have the hay, refuse to sell\nit at full price, with the Parish Council guaranteeing payment? he\nasked in a tone that was angry, yet under perfect control?--Is that\nyour final answer?\n\nYes, responded Brandur. That is my final answer. I will not let the\ntiny mouthful of hay I have here go while there is still life in my\nbody, even though you mean to insure payment, and even though you\nactually do guarantee payment. After all, who among you will be in a\nposition to guarantee payment if all the flocks die? The cold\nweather may not let up until the first of June or even later. In\nthat case the sheep will all die. It won't go very far, this tiny\nhaycock, not for so many. It will not, I tell you.\n\nBut what are you going to do with the hay? If everyone else loses\nhis flocks, everyone but you, what enjoyment will there be in owning\nit? And what benefit? asked Jon.\n\nThat does not concern me! replied the old man. That concerns them.\nIt was they who decided the size of the flocks they undertook to\nfeed this winter, not I. Besides, they could have cut as much hay as\nI did, even more, for they still have their eyesight. Their failure\nis due to their own laziness and bad judgment. That's what ails\nthem! Ruins them!\n\nBut you won't be able to take this great big haystack with you into\nthe life eternal, said Jon. The time is coming when you will have to\npart with it. Then it will be used as the needs require. And what\ngood will it do you? What are you going to do with it?\n\nI am going to keep it, answered Brandur. I intend to keep it right\nhere on the knoll, keep it in case the haying should be poor next\nsummer. There may be a poor growth of grass and a small hay crop;\nthere may be a volcanic eruption and the ashes may poison the grass,\nas they have done in former years. Now, do you understand me?\n\nSo saying, Brandur tottered off towards the house to indicate that\nthe conversation was at an end. His countenance was as cold as the\nsky in the evening after the sun has set, and the hard lines in it\nresembled the streaks in the ice on rocks and ledges where the sun's\nrays had shone that day and laid bare the frozen ground.\n\nBrandur entered the house, while Jon mounted again. They scarcely\nsaid a word of farewell, so angry were they both.\n\nJon's horse set off at a brisk pace, eager to reach home, and\ngalloped swiftly over the hard, frozen ground. After the sun had\ngone down, the wind rose and a searing cold settled over the valley,\nwhitening Jon's moustache where his breath passed over it.\n\nJon's anger grew as he sped along. Naturally hightempered, he had\nlately had many reasons for anger since he took over his official\nduties. The people in his district were like people the world over:\nthey blamed the Board constantly, accusing it of stupidity and\nfavouritism. Yet most of them paid their taxes reluctantly and only\nwhen long overdue. Sometimes they were almost a year in arrears.\n\nJon reviewed the matter of the hay in his mind, also the other\nvexations of the past. He was sick and tired of all the trouble. And\nnow the life of the whole district hung on a thin thread, the fate\nof which depended upon the whims of the weather. Jon's nose and\ncheekbones smarted from the cold; his shoes were frozen stiff, and\npinched his feet, and his throat burned with the heat of anger\nrising from his breast.\n\nJon was rather quiet when he reached home that evening, although he\ndid tell his wife of his attempt to deal with her father.\n\nYes, said Gudrun, papa sets great store by that hay. He cannot bear\nto part with it at any price. That is his nature.\n\nTomorrow you must go, Jon told her, and try to win the old man over\nin some way. I'd hate to be obliged to take the hay from him by\nforce, but that will be necessary if everything else fails.\n\nThe following day Gudrun went to see her father. The weather still\nremained cold. When Gudrun dismounted before the house at Holl,\nthere was no one outside to greet her or announce her arrival, and\nso she entered, going straight into the ba\u00f0stofa. There she found\nher father sitting on his bed, knitting a seaman's mitten, crooning\nan old ditty the while:\n\n     Far from out the wilderness\n      Comes raging the cold wind;\n      And the bonds of heaven's king\n      It doth still tighter bind.\n\nGudrun leaned over her father and kissed him.\n\nIs that you, Gunna dear? he asked.\n\nYes papa, she said, at the same time slipping a flask of brandy into\nthe bosom of his shirt.\n\nThis greatly pleased the old man.\n\nGunna dear, he said, you always bring me something to cheer me up.\nNot many nowadays take the trouble to cheer the old man. No indeed.\nAny news? It's so long since you have been to see me, a year or\nmore.\n\nNo news everyone hasn't heard: hard times, shortage of hay, and\nworry everywhere. That is only to be expected. It's been a hard\nwinter, the stock stall-fed for so long, at least sixteen weeks, on\nsome farms twenty.\n\nQuite true, said Brandur. It's been a cold winter, and the end is\nnot yet. The cold weather may not break up before the first of June,\nor even Midsummer Day. The summer will be cold, the hay crop small,\nand the cold weather will probably set in again by the end of\nAugust, then another cold hard winter, and ...\n\nHe meant to go on, foretelling yet worse things to come, but Gudrun\nbroke in: Enough of that, father. Things can't be as bad as that It\nwould be altogether too much. I hope for a change for the better\nwith the new moon next week, and mark you, the new moon rises in the\nsouthwest and on a Monday; if I remember right, you always thought a\nnew moon coming on a Monday brought good weather.\n\nI did, conceded Brandur. When I was a young man, a new moon coming\non a Monday was generally the very best kind of moon. But like\neverything else, that has changed with the times. Now a Monday new\nmoon is the worst of all, no matter in what quarter of the heavens\nit appears, if the weather is like this--raging sad carrying on so;\nthat is true.\n\nBut things are in a pitiful state, said Gudrun, what with the hay\nshortage, almost everyone is badly off, and not a single farmer with\na scrap of hay to spare, except you, papa.\n\nYes, I! answered Brandur. I, a poor, blind, decrepit old man! But\nwhat of you? Jon has enough hay, hasn't he? How is that? Doesn't he\nhave enough?\n\nYes, we do have enough for ourselves, admitted Gudrun. But we can't\nhold onto it. Jon lends it to those in need until it is all gone and\nthere is none left for us. He thinks of others as well as of\nhimself.\n\nWhat nonsense! What sense is there in acting like that? Every man\nfor himself, said the old man.\n\nThat's right. But for us that is not enough. Jon is in a position\nwhere he must think of others; he has to think of all the farmers in\nthe district--and small thanks he gets for his pains. He is so\nupset, almost always on tenterhooks. He didn't sleep a wink last\nnight--was almost beside himself. He takes it so hard.\n\nSo Jon couldn't sleep a wink last night! repeated Brandur. Why be so\nupset? Why lie awake nights worrying about this? That doesn't help\nmatters any. It isn't his fault that they are all on the brink of\nruin.\n\nQuite true, answered Gudrun. He is not to blame for that, and lying\nawake nights doesn't help matters, but that is Jon's disposition.\nHe's tired to death of all the work for the Council and the\neverlasting fault-finding. He has had to neglect his own farm since\nhe took up these public duties--and nothing for his time and\ntrouble. Now this is too much. He is dead tired of it all, and so am\nI. In fact, I know it was worry about all this that kept Jon awake\nlast night. We have been thinking of getting away from it all when\nspring comes and going to America.\n\nDo you side with him in this? asked Brandur, grasping his daughter\nby the arm. Do you, too, agree to his giving away the hay you need\nfor your own flocks, giving it away until you haven't enough for\nyourselves? Do you, too, want to go to America, away from your\nfather who now has one foot in the grave?\n\nYes, I do, Gudrun replied. As a matter of fact, the plan was\noriginally mine. If our flocks die, there will be no alternative;\nbut if our sheep live and those of the neighbours die, our life will\nnot be worth living because of the poverty and want round about us.\nYes, papa, it was I suggested our going. I could see no other way\nout.\n\nOn hearing this, Brandur's mood softened somewhat. I expected to be\nallowed to pass my last days with you and your children, he said. I\ncannot go on living in this fashion any longer.\n\nPass your last days with us! exclaimed Gudrun. Have you, then,\nthought of leaving Holl? Have you planned to come and live with us?\nYou've never said a word of this to me.\n\nI have no intention of leaving Holl. That I have never meant to do.\nBut that is not necessary. I thought you might perhaps be willing to\nmove over here and live with me. I could then let you have what\nmiserable little property I have left, Gunna, my dear.\n\nAnd what about the hay, papa? Will you turn the hay over to us, the\nhay in the old stack? Everything depends on that.\n\nThe hay! The hay! the old man said. Still harping on the hay--the\nhay which doesn't amount to anything and cannot be of any real help.\nIt's sheer nonsense to think that the hay in that stack is enough to\nfeed the flocks of a whole district. There is no use talking about\nit I will not throw that tiny mouthful to all the four winds. It\nwill do no good if divided among so many, but it is a comfort to me,\nto me alone. No, I will not part with it as long as there is a spark\nof life in me. That I will not, my love.\n\nBrandur turned pale and the lines in his face became hard and rigid.\nLooking at him, Gudrun knew from experience that he was not to be\nshaken in his determination when in this mood. His face was like a\nsky over the wilderness streaked with threatening storm clouds.\n\nGudrun gave up. The tears rushed to her eyes, as she twined her arms\naround her father's neck and said: Goodbye, papa. Forgive me if I\nhave angered you. I shall not come here again.\n\nThe old man felt the teardrops on his face, the heavy woman's tears,\nhot with anger and sorrow.\n\nGudrun dashed out of the room and mounted. Brandur was left alone in\nthe darkness at mid-day. Yet in his mind's eye he could see the\nhaystack out on the knoll. He rose and went out to feel it. It was\nstill there. Gudrun had not ridden away with it. Brandur could hear\nthe horseshoes crunching the hard, frozen ground as Gudrun rode off.\nHe stood motionless for a long time, listening to the hoof beats.\nThen he went into the house.\n\nBrandur felt restless. He paced the floor awhile, stopped for a\nmoment to raise to his lips the flask his daughter had brought him,\nand drained it at one gulp. All that day he walked the floor,\nfighting with himself until night fell.\n\nThen he sent his foster-son with a message to his daughter. Jon, he\nsaid, had his permission to haul the hay away the very next day, but\nit was all to be removed in one day; there was not to be a scrap of\nhay or a lump of sod left by evening.\n\nBut the weather changes quickly, says an old Icelandic adage. By\nmorning, the weather had turned its spindle and the wind shifted to\nthe south. Jon sent no message to anyone, nor did he proclaim that\nthe old hay was available. He first wished to see what the thaw\nwould amount to. By the following day, the whole valley was\nimpassable because of slush and water, and the patches of earth\nappearing through the snowy blanket grew larger almost hourly.\n\nMeanwhile, Brandur roamed through the house all day long, asking if\nanyone had come.--Aren't they going to take away these miserable hay\nscraps? About time they came and got them!--He seemed eager that the\nhay be removed at once.\n\nThat day he did not take his usual walk out to the stack to feel the\nhay. In fact, after that no one ever saw him show attachment to the\nold hay. His love of it seemed to have died the moment he granted\nhis son-in-law permission to take it away.\n\nThat spring Brandur gave up housekeeping and of his own volition\nturned over the farm to his daughter and son-in-law. With them he\nlived to enjoy many years of good health. Never again did he take\nhis daily walk out to the haystack to feel the hay. But he was able\nto take his sip of brandy to his dying day and repeat to himself the\nword of God--hymns and verses from the Bible.\n\nNow he has passed on to eternity. But his memory lives like a stone-\n-a large, moss-covered stone by the wayside.\n\n\n\n\nJ\u00f3n TRAUSTI\n\nWHEN I WAS ON THE FRIGATE\n\n\nI was stormbound in the fishing village. I had come there by\nsteamer, but now the steamer was gone and I was left behind there, a\nstranger, at a loss what to do.\n\nMy idea was to continue my journey overland, and my route lay for\nthe most part through the mountainous country on the other side of\nthe fjord. I hadn't managed to hire horses or a guide, and it was no\neasy matter to find one's own way in such stormy weather when the\nrivers were running in full flood. This was in the spring-time,\nround about the beginning of May.\n\nI was staying at the home of the local doctor, who had given me\nshelter and who was now trying to help me in every way he could. He\nwas in my room with me, and we were both sitting there, smoking\ncigars and chatting together. I had given up all hope of continuing\nmy journey that day and was making myself comfortable on the\ndoctor's sofa. But when we least expected it, we heard the sound of\nheavy sea-boots clumping along the corridor, and there was a knock\nat the door.\n\nCome in, said the doctor. The door opened slowly, and a young man in\nseamen's clothes stood in the doorway.\n\nI was asked to tell you that old Hrolfur from Weir will take that\nchap over there across in his boat, if he likes, said the man,\naddressing himself to the doctor.\n\nWe both stood up, the doctor and I, and walked towards the door.\nThat possibility hadn't occurred to either of us.\n\nIs old Hrolfur going fishing then? asked the doctor.\n\nYes, he's going out to the islands and staying there about a week.\nIt won't make any difference to him to slip ashore at Muladalir, if\nit would be any help.\n\nThat's fine, said the doctor, turning to me. It's worth thinking\nover, unless you really need to go round the end of the fjord. It'll\nsave you at least a day on your journey, and it'll be easier to get\nhorses and a man in Muladalir than it is here.\n\nThis was all so unexpected that I didn't quite know what to say. I\nlooked at the doctor and the stranger in turn, and my first thought\nwas that the doctor was trying to get rid of me. Then it occurred to\nme what a fine thing it would be to avoid having to cross all those\nrivers which flow into the head of the fjord. Finally I decided that\nthe doctor had no ulterior motive and that his advice was prompted\nby sheer goodwill.\n\nIs old Hrolfur all right at the moment? the doctor asked the man in\nthe doorway.\n\nYes, of course he is, said the man.\n\nAll right? I said, looking at them questioningly. I thought that was\na funny thing to ask.\n\nThe doctor smiled.\n\nHe's just a bit queer--up here, he said, pointing to his forehead.\n\nThe thought of having to set out on a long sea journey with a man\nwho was half crazy made me shudder. I am certain, too, that the\ndoctor could see what I was thinking, for he smiled good-naturedly.\n\nIs it safe to go with him then? I asked.\n\nOh yes, quite safe. He's not mad, far from it. He's just a bit\nqueer--he's got 'bats in the belfry', as men say. He gets these\nattacks when he's at home in the dark winter days and has nothing to\noccupy him. But there's little sign of it in the summer. And he's a\nfirst-class seaman.\n\nYes, a first-class seaman who never fails, said the man in the\ndoorway. It's quite safe to go on board with him now. You can take\nmy word for that.\n\nAre you going with him? asked the doctor.\n\nYes, there's a crew of three with him. There'll be four of us in the\nboat altogether.\n\nI looked at the man in the doorway--he was a young man of about\ntwenty, promising and assured. I liked the look of him, very much.\n\nSecretly I began to be ashamed of not daring to cross the fjord with\nthree men such as he, even though the skipper was 'a bit queer in\nthe head'.\n\nAre you going to-day? said the doctor. Don't you think it's blowing\na bit hard?\n\nI don't think old Hrolfur'll let that bother him, said the man and\nsmiled.\n\nCan you use your sails?\n\nYes, I think so--there's a fair wind.\n\nIt was decided that I should go with them. I went to get ready as\nquickly as possible, and my luggage, saddle and bridle, were carried\ndown to the boat.\n\nThe doctor walked to the jetty with us.\n\nThere, in the shelter of the breakwater, was old Hrolfur's boat, its\nmast already stepped, with the sail wrapped round it. It was a four-\noared boat, rather bigger than usual, tarred all over except for the\ntop plank, which was painted light blue. In the boat were the\nvarious bits of equipment needed for shark-fishing, including a\nthick wooden beam to which were attached four hooks of wrought iron,\na keg of shark-bait which stank vilely, and barrels for the shark's\nliver. There were shark knives under the thwarts and huge gaffs\nhooked under the rib-boards. The crew had put the boxes containing\ntheir food and provisions in the prow.\n\nIn the stern could be seen the back of a man bending down. He was\narranging stones in the well of the boat. He was dressed in overalls\nmade of skin, which reached up to his armpits and which were\nfastened by pieces of thin rope crossing over his shoulders. Further\nforward there was a second man, and a third was up on the jetty.\n\nGood day to you, Hrolfur, said the doctor.\n\nGood day to you, grunted Hrolfur as he straightened himself up and\nspat a stream of yellowish-brown liquid from his mouth. Hand me that\nstone over there.\n\nThese last words were addressed not to the doctor or me, but to the\nman on the jetty. Hrolfur vouchsafed me one quick, unfriendly\nglance, but apart from that scarcely seemed to notice me. The look\nin those sharp, haunting eyes went through me like a knife. Never\nbefore had anyone looked at me with a glance so piercing and so full\nof misgiving.\n\nHe was a small man, and lively, though ageing fast. The face was\nthin, rather wrinkled, dark and weather-beaten, with light untidy\nwisps of hair round the mouth. I was immediately struck by a curious\ntwitching in his features, perhaps a relic of former bouts of\ndrinking. Otherwise his expression was harsh and melancholy. His\nhands were red, swollen and calloused as if by years of rowing.\n\nDon't you think it's blowing rather hard, Hrolfur? asked the doctor\nafter a long silence.\n\nOh, so-so, answered Hrolfur, without looking up.\n\nAgain there was silence. It was as if Hrolfur had neither time nor\ninclination for gossiping, even though it was the district medical\nofficer talking to him.\n\nThe doctor looked at me and smiled. I was meant to understand that\nthis was exactly what he had expected.\n\nAfter another interval the doctor said: You are going to do this\ntraveller a favour then, Hrolfur?\n\nOh, well, the boat won't mind taking him.\n\nIn other words, I was to be nothing but so much ballast.\n\nDon't you think it's going to be tricky landing there in Mular\nCreek?\n\nHrolfur straightened up, putting his hand to his back.\n\nOh, no, damn it, he said. There's an offshore wind and the sea's not\nbad, and anyway we'll probably get there with the incoming tide.\n\nIt isn't going to take you out of your way? I asked.\n\nWe won't argue about that. We'll get there all the same. We often\ngive ourselves a rest in the old creek when we have to row.\n\nImmediately afterwards I said good-bye to the doctor and slid down\ninto the boat. The man on the jetty cast off, threw the rope down\ninto the boat and jumped in after it.\n\nOne of the crew thrust the handle of an oar against the breakwater\nand pushed off. Then they rowed for a short spell to get into the\nwind, whilst old Hrolfur fixed the rudder.\n\nThe sail filled out; the boat heeled gently over and ran in a long\ncurve. The islets at the harbour mouth rushed past us. We were\nmaking straight for the open bay.\n\nOn the horizon before us the mountainous cliffs, dark blue with a\nthick, ragged patch of mist at the top, towered steeply over the\nwaves. In between, the sea stretched out, seemingly for miles.\n\nHrolfur was at the rudder. He sat back in the stern on a crossbeam\nflush with the gunwale, his feet braced against the ribs on either\nside and in his hands the rudder lines, one on each side, close to\nhis thighs.\n\nI was up with the crew near the mast. We all knew from experience\nthat Icelandic boats sailed better when well-loaded forward. All\nfour of us were lying down on the windward side, but to leeward the\nfoam still bubbled up over the rowlocks.\n\nIf you think we're not going fast enough, lads, you'd better start\nrowing--but no extra pay, said old Hrolfur, grinning.\n\nWe all took his joke well, and I felt that it brought me nearer to\nthe old man; up to then I'd been just a little scared of him. A joke\nis always like an outstretched hand.\n\nFor a long time we hardly spoke. In front of the mast we lay in\nsilence, whilst old Hrolfur was at the stern with the whole length\nof the boat between us.\n\nThe crew did all they could to make me comfortable. I lay on some\nsoft sacking just in front of the thwart and kept my head under the\ngunwale for protection. The spray from the sea went right over me\nand splashed down into the boat on the far side.\n\nThe boy who had come for me to the doctor's settled himself down in\nthe bows in front of me. His name was Eric Ericsson, and the more I\nsaw of him the more I liked him.\n\nThe second member of the crew sat crosswise over the thwart with his\nback to the mast. He too was young, his beard just beginning to\ngrow, red-faced, quiet and rather indolent-looking. He seemed\ncompletely indifferent, even though showers of spray blew, one after\nanother, straight into his face.\n\nThe third member of the crew lay down across the boat behind the\nthwart; he put a folded oilskin jacket under his head and fell\nasleep.\n\nFor a long time, almost an hour, I lay in silence, thinking only of\nwhat I saw and heard around me. There was more than enough to keep\nme awake.\n\nI noticed how the sail billowed out, full of wind, pulling hard at\nthe clew-line, which was made fast to the gunwhale beside Hrolfur.\nThe fore-sail resembled a beautifully curved sheet of steel, stiff\nand unyielding. Both sails were snow-white, semi-transparent and\nsupple in movement, like the ivory sails on the model ships in\nRosenborg Palace. The mast seemed to bend slightly and the stays\nwere as taut as fiddle-strings. The boat quivered like a leaf. The\nwaves pounded hard against the thin strakes of the boat's side. I\ncould feel them on my cheek, though their dampness never penetrated;\nbut in between these hammer blows their little pats were wonderfully\nfriendly. Every now and then I could see the white frothing of the\nwave-crests above the gunwale, and sometimes under the sail the\nhorizon was visible but, more often, there was nothing to be seen\nbut the broad back of a wave, on which, for a time, the boat tossed\nbefore sinking down once more. The roll was scarcely noticeable, for\nthe boat kept at the same angle all the time and cleft her way\nthrough the waves. The motion was comfortable and soothing to the\nmind; quite unlike the violent lunging of bigger ships.\n\nGradually the conversation came to life again. It was Eric who\nproved to be the most talkative, though the man on the thwart also\nthrew in a word here and there.\n\nWe began to talk about old Hrolfur.\n\nWe spoke in a low voice so that he shouldn't hear what we said.\nThere was, indeed, little danger of his doing so--the distance was\ntoo great and the storm was bound to carry our words away; but men\nalways lower their voices when they speak of those they can see,\neven though they are speaking well of them.\n\nMy eyes scarcely left old Hrolfur, and as the men told me more, my\npicture of him became clearer and clearer.\n\nHe sat there silent, holding on to the steering ropes and staring\nstraight ahead, not deigning us a single glance.\n\nThe crew's story was roughly this.\n\nHe was born and bred in the village, and he had never left it. The\ncroft which he lived in was just opposite the weir in the river\nwhich flowed through the village, and was named after it.\n\nHe went to sea whenever possible; fished for shark in the spring and\nfor cod and haddock in the other seasons. He never felt so happy as\nwhen he was on the sea; and if he couldn't go to sea, he sat alone\nat home in the croft mending his gear. He never went down to the\nharbour for work like the other fishermen and never worked on the\nland. Humming away and talking to himself he fiddled about in his\nshed, around his boat-house or his croft, his hands all grubby with\ntar and grease. If addressed, he was abrupt and curt in his answers,\nsometimes even abusive. Hardly anyone dared go near him.\n\nYet everyone liked him really. Everyone who got to know him said\nthat he improved on acquaintance. His eccentricity increased as he\ngrew older, but particularly after he had lost his son.\n\nHis son was already grown-up and had been a most promising young\nfellow. He was thought to be the most daring of all the skippers in\nthe village and always went furthest out to sea; he was also the\nmost successful fisherman of them all. But one day a sudden storm\nhad caught them far out to sea, well outside the mouth of the fjord.\nRowing hard, in the teeth of wind and tide, they managed to reach\nthe cliffs, but by that time they were quite exhausted. Their idea\nhad been to land at Mular Creek, but unfortunately their boat\noverturned as they tried to enter. Hrolfur's son and one other on\nboard had been drowned, though the rest were saved.\n\nAfter the disaster Hrolfur ignored everybody for a long time. It\nwasn't that he wept or lost heart. Perhaps he had done so for the\nfirst few days, but not afterwards. He just kept to himself. He took\nnot the slightest notice of his wife and his other children, just as\nif they were no longer his concern. It was as though he felt he'd\nlost everything. He lived all alone with his sorrow and talked of it\nto no one. Nobody tried to question him; no one dared try to comfort\nhim. Then, one winter, he started talking to himself.\n\nDay and night, for a long time, he talked to himself, talked as\nthough two or more men were chatting together, changing his tone of\nvoice and acting in every way as though he were taking part in a\nlively and interesting conversation. There was nothing silly in what\nhe said, although the subject matter was often difficult to follow.\nHe would always answer if anyone spoke to him, slowly to be sure,\nbut always sensibly and agreeably. Often, before he could answer, it\nwas as though he had to wake up as from a sleep, and yet his work\nnever suffered from these bouts of absentmindedness.\n\nHe never talked about his son. The conversations he held with\nhimself were mostly concerned with various adventures he thought had\nbefallen him; some were exaggerated, others pure invention.\nSometimes he would talk of things he was going to do in the future,\nor things he would have done or ought to have in the past, but never\nabout the present.\n\nIt wasn't long before the rumour spread that old Hrolfur was crazy,\nand for a long time hardly anyone dared to go to sea with him.\n\nNow, that's all a thing of the past, said Eric and smiled. Nowadays\nthere are always more who would like to go with him than he can\ntake.\n\nAnd does he catch plenty of fish?\n\nYes, he rarely fails.\n\nIsn't he quite well-off then?\n\nI don't know. At any rate he's not dependent on anyone else, and\nhe's the sole owner of his boat and tackle.\n\nHe's rolling in money, the old devil, said the man at the mast,\nwiping the spray from his face with his hand.\n\nThen they began to tell me about Mular Island and the life they\nwould lead there in the coming week.\n\nThe island was a barren rock beyond the cliffs, and, in the autumn\nstorms, was almost covered by the waves. The first thing they'd have\nto do, when they arrived, was to rebuild their refuge from the year\nbefore, roof it over with bits of driftwood and cover them with\nseaweed. That was to be their shelter at night, no matter what the\nweather. Nature had provided a landing-place, so that they'd no\ntrouble with that, though the spot was so treacherous that one of\nthem would have to stand watch over the boat every night.\n\nEach evening they would row off from the island with their lines to\nsome well-known fishing bank, for it was after midnight that the\nshark was most eager to take the bait. Savouring in his nostrils the\nsmell of horse flesh soaked in rum and of rotten seal blubber, he\nwould rush on the scent and greedily swallow whatever was offered.\nWhen he realised the sad truth that a huge hook with a strong barb\nwas hidden inside this tempting dish and that it was no easy matter\nto disgorge the tasty morsel, he would try to gnaw through the shaft\nof the hook with his teeth. Very occasionally he might succeed, but\nusually his efforts failed. Attached to the hook was a length of\nstrong iron chain; and sometimes, though defeated by the hook, he\nwould manage to snip through the chain. Then, in his joy at being\nfree, this creature with the magnificent appetite would immediately\nrush to the next hook, only to be caught there when the lines were\ndrawn in. If the shark failed in his efforts to gnaw himself free,\nhe would try, by twisting and turning, to break either the hook or\nthe chain; but man had foreseen this possibility and had made the\nhook to turn with him. With exemplary patience 'the grey one' would\ncontinue his twisting until he had been drawn right up to the side\nof the boat and a second hook made fast in him. His sea-green,\nlight-shy, pig-like eyes would glare malevolently up at his\ntormentors, and in his maddened fury he would bite, snap and fight\nuntil he almost capsized the boat.\n\nFor centuries our forefathers had hunted the shark like this in open\nboats, but nowadays men preferred to use decked vessels. No one in\nthe district still used the old method, apart from old Hrolfur.\n\nHe had dragged in many a 'grey one'. From the bottom of the boat\nEric picked up one of the hooks and passed it to me; it was of\nwrought iron, half an inch thick, with a point of cast steel. But\nthe spinning joint was almost chewed through and the hook shaft\nbitten and gnawed--the 'grey one' had fought hard that time.\n\nThe crew told me so much about their fishing adventures that I\nlonged to go to the island with them.\n\nSuddenly Eric gave me a nudge.\n\nThe conversation stopped, and we all looked back at old Hrolfur.\n\nNow he's talking to himself.\n\nWe all held our breath and listened.\n\nHrolfur sat like a statue, holding the rudder-lines. His eyes wore a\nfar-away look and a curious smile of happiness played over his face.\n\nAfter a short silence, he spoke again--in a perfectly normal voice.\n\nWhen I was on the frigate--\n\nFor the time being that was all.\n\nThere was a touch of vanity in his smile, as though in memory of\nsome old, half-ludicrous story from the past.\n\nYes, when I was on the frigate, my lad--\n\nIt was just as if there were someone sitting next to him beside the\nrudder, to whom he was relating his adventures.\n\nHas he ever been on a warship? I whispered.\n\nNever in his life, said Eric.\n\nOur eyes never left him. I can still remember the curious twitching\nand working of his features. The eyes themselves were invisible; it\nwas as though the man were asleep. But his forehead and temples were\nforever on the move, as if in mimicry of what he said.\n\nI couldn't utter a sound. Everything was blurred before my eyes, for\nit was only then that the full realisation came upon me that the man\nat the rudder--the man who held all our lives in his hands--was\nhalf-crazed.\n\nThe crew nudged each other and chortled. They'd seen all this\nbefore.\n\nShe was running aground--heading straight for the reef,--a total\nloss, said Hrolfur, a total loss, I tell you. She was a beautiful\ncraft, shining black and diced with white along the sides--ten\nfighting mouths on either side and a carved figure on her prow. I\nthink the king would have been sorry to lose her. She was far too\nlovely to be ground to pieces there--they were glad when I turned\nup.\n\nThe crew did their best to smother their laughter.\n\n'Top-sails up,' I shouted.--'Top-sails up, my lad.' The officer, for\nall his gold braid, went as pale as death. 'Top-sails up, in the\ndevil's name.' The blue-jackets on the deck fell over themselves in\nfear. Yes, my lad, even though I hadn't a sword dangling by my side,\nI said, 'Top-sails up, in the devil's name.' And they obeyed me--\nthey obeyed me. They didn't dart not to. 'Top-sails up, in the\ndevil's name.'\n\nHrolfur raised himself up on the crossbeam, his fists clenched round\nthe steering-ropes.\n\nEric was almost bursting with laughter and trying hard not to let it\nbe heard; but the man at the mast made little attempt to stifle his.\n\nShe's made it, said Hrolfur, his face all smiles and nodding his\nhead.--Out to sea. Straight out to sea. Let her lie down a bit, if\nshe wants to. It'll do her no harm to ship a drop or two. Let it\n'bubble up over her rowlocks,' as we Icelanders say. Even though she\ncreaks a bit, it's all to the good. Her planks aren't rotten when\nthey make that noise. All right, we'll sail the bottom out of her--\nbut forward she'll go--forward, forward she shall go!\n\nHrolfur let his voice drop and drew out his jet words slowly.\n\nBy now we were far out in the fjord. The sea was rising and becoming\nmore choppy because of tide currents. Good steering became more and more\ndifficult. Hrolfur seemed to do it instinctively. He never once looked\nup and yet seemed to see all around him. He seemed to sense the approach\nof those bigger waves which had to be avoided or passed by. The general\ndirection was never lost, but the boat ran wonderfully smoothly in and\nout of the waves--over them, before them and through them, as though she\nwere possessed with human understanding. Not a single wave fell on her;\nthey towered high above, advanced on her foaming and raging, but\nsomehow--at the last moment--she turned aside. She was as sensitive as a\nfrightened hind, quick to answer the rudder, as supple in her movements\nas a willing racehorse. Over her reigned the spirit of Hrolfur.\n\nBut Hrolfur himself was no longer there. He was 'on the frigate'. It\nwas not his own boat he was steering in that hour, but a huge three-\nmaster with a whole cloud of sails above her and ten cannon on\neither side--a miracle of the shipwright's craft. The mainstays were\nof many-stranded steelwire, the halyards, all clustered together,\nstruck at the mast and stays; they seemed inextricably tangled, and\nyet were in fact all ship-shape, taut and true, like the nerves in a\nhuman body. There was no need to steer her enormous bulk to avoid\nthe waves or pass them by; it was enough to let her crush them with\nall her weight, let her grind them down and push them before her\nlike drifts of snow. Groaning and creaking she ploughed straight on\nthrough all that came against her, heeling before the wind right\ndown to her gunwale and leaving behind her a long furrow in the sea.\nHigh above the deck of this magnificent vessel, between two curved\niron pillars, Hrolfur's boat hung like a tiny mussel shell.\n\nOnce upon a time this had been a dream of the future. But now that\nall hope of its fulfilment had been lost, the dream had long since\nbecome a reality. Hrolfur's adventure 'on the frigate' was a thing\nof the past.\n\nFor a long time he continued talking to himself, talked of how he\nhad brought 'the frigate' safely to harbour, and how he had been\nawarded a 'gold medal' by the king. We could hear only anppets of\nthis long rigmarole, but we never lost the drift of it. He spoke\nalternately in Danish and Icelandic, in many different tones of\nvoice, and one could always tell, by the way he spoke, where he was\nin 'the frigate': whether he was addressing the crew on the deck, or\nthe officers on the bridge, and when, his fantastic feat\naccomplished, he clinked glasses with them in the cabin on the poop.\n\nThe wind had slackened somewhat, but now that we had reached so far\nout into the bay the waves were higher; they were the remains of the\nhuge ocean waves which raged on the high seas, remains which,\ndespite the adverse wind, made their way far up the fjord.\n\nHrolfur no longer talked aloud, but he continued to hum quietly to\nhimself. The crew around me began to doze off, and I think even I\nwas almost asleep for a time. To tell the truth I wasn't very far\nfrom feeling seasick.\n\nSoon afterwards the man who had been asleep in the space behind the\nmast rose to his feet, yawned once or twice, shook himself to\nrestore his circulation and looked around.\n\nIt won't be long now before we get to Mular Creek, he said with his\nmouth still wide-open.\n\nI was wide awake at once when I heard this, and raised myself up on\nmy elbow. The mountain I had seen from the village--which then had\nbeen wrapped in a dark haze--now towered directly above us, rocky\nand enormous, with black sea-crags at its feet. The rocks were\ndrenched with spray from the breakers, and the booming of the sea as\nit crashed into the basalt caves resounded like the roar of cannon.\n\nThere'll be no landing in the creek today, Hrolfur, the man said and\nyawned again. The breakers are too heavy.\n\nHrolfur pretended he hadn't heard.\n\nEverybody aboard was awake now and watching the shore; and I think\nhe was not the only one amongst us to shudder at the thought of\nlanding.\n\nOn the mountain in front of us it was as though a panel was slowly\nmoved to one side: the valleys of Muladalir opened up before us.\nSoon we glimpsed the roofs of the farms up on the hill-side. The\nbeach itself was covered with rocks.\n\nThe boat turned into the inlet. It was quieter there than outside,\nand the sea was just a little another.\n\nLoosen the foresail, Hrolfur ordered. It was Eric who obeyed and\nheld on to the sheet Hrolfur himself untied the mainsail, whilst at\nthe same time keeping hold of the sheet. I imagined Hrolfur must be\nthinking it safer to have the sails loose as it was likely to be\ngusty in the inlet.\n\nAre you going to sail in? said the man who'd been asleep. His voice\ncame through a nose filled with snuff.\n\nShut up, said Hrolfur savagely.\n\nThe man took the hint and asked no more questions. No one asked a\nquestion, though every moment now was one of suspense.\n\nWe all gazed in silence at the cliffs, which were lathered in white\nfoam.\n\nOne wave after another passed under the boat. They lifted her high\nup, as if to show us the surf. As the boat sank slowly down into the\ntrough of the wave, the surf disappeared and with it much of the\nshore. The wave had shut it out.\n\nI was surprised how little the boat moved, but an explanation of the\nmystery was soon forthcoming: the boat and all she carried were\nstill subject to Hrolfur's will.\n\nHe let the wind out of the mainsail and, by careful manipulation of\nthe rudder, kept the boat wonderfully still. He was standing up now\nin front of the crossbeam and staring fixedly out in front of the\nboat. He was no longer talking to himself, he was no longer 'on the\nfrigate', but in his own boat; he knew well how much depended on\nhim.\n\nAfter waiting for a while, watching his opportunity, Hrolfur\nsuddenly let her go at full speed once more.\n\nNow the moment had come--a moment I shall never forget--nor probably\nany of us who were in the boat with him. It was not fear that\ngripped us but something more like excitement before a battle. Yet,\nif the choice had been mine, we should have turned back from the\ncreek that day.\n\nHrolfur stood at the rudder, immovable, his eyes shifting from side\nto side, now under the sail, now past it. He chewed vigorously on\nhis quid of tobacco and spat. There was much less sign now of the\ntwitchings round his eyes than there'd been earlier in the day, and\nhis very calmness had a soothing effect on us all.\n\nAs we approached the creek, a huge wave rose up behind us. Hrolfur\nglanced at it with the corner of his eye. He spat and bared his\nteeth. The wave rose and rose, and it reached us just at the mouth\nof the creek, its overhanging peak so sharp as to be almost\ntransparent. It seemed to be making straight for the boat.\n\nAs I watched, I felt the boat plummet down, as if the sea was\nsnatched from under her; it was the undertow--the wave was drawing\nthe waters back beneath it. By the gunwale the blue-green sea\nfrothed white as it poured back from the skerries near the entrance\nto the creek.\n\nThe boat almost stood on end; it was as if the sea was boiling\naround us--boiling until the very seaweed on the rocks was turned to\nbroth.\n\nSuddenly an ice-cold lash, as of a whip, seemed to strike me in the\nface. I staggered forwards under the blow and grasped at one of the\nmainstays.\n\nLet go the foresail, shouted Hrolfur.\n\nWhen I was able to look up, the sails were flapping idly over the\ngunwale. The boat floated gently into the creek, thwart-deep in\nwater.\n\nWe all felt fine.\n\nIt's true, I could feel the cold sea water dripping down my bare\nback, underneath my shirt, but I didn't mind. All that had happened\nto me was but a kiss, given me in token of farewell by the youngest\ndaughter of the goddess of the waves.\n\nThe boat floated slowly in on the unaccustomed calm of the waters\nand stopped at the landing-place.\n\nStanding there watching were two men from the farm.\n\nI thought as much, it had to be old Hrolfur, one of them called out\nas we landed. It's no ordinary man's job to get into the creek on a\nday like this.\n\nHrolfur's face was wreathed in smiles: he made no answer, but\nslipping off the rudder in case it should touch bottom he laid it\ndown across the stern.\n\nWe were given a royal welcome by the fanners from Mular, and all\nthat I needed to further me on my journey was readily available and\nwillingly granted. Nowhere does Iceland's hospitality flourish so\nwell as in her outlying stations and in the remotest of her valleys,\nwhere travellers are few.\n\nWe all got out of the boat and pulled her clear of the waves. Every\none of us was only too glad to get the opportunity of stretching his\nlegs after sitting cramped up on the hard boards for nearly four\nhours.\n\nI walked up to where old Hrolfur stood apart, on the low, flat\nrocks, thanked him for the trip and asked him what it cost.\n\nCost? he said, scarce looking at me. What does it cost? Just a\nminute now, my lad,--just a minute.\n\nHe answered me with the complete lack of formality one accords an\nold friend, though we had met for the first time that day. His whole\nface was scowling now, as he answered me brusquely--indeed, almost\ncurtly; and yet there was something attractive about him, something\nthat aroused both trust and respect and which made it impossible for\nme to resent his familiarity.\n\nHow much the trip costs? Just a minute now.\n\nIt seemed that his thoughts were elsewhere. He unloosened the brace\nof his overalls, reached down into the pocket of his patched\ngarments beneath and, drawing out a fine length of chewing tobacco,\ntook a bite. Then, breaking off a smallish length, he dropped it\ninto the crown of his seaman's hat. Finally, slowly and very\ndeliberately, he refastened the top of his overalls.\n\nI expect you got a bit wet out there coming into the creek.\n\nOh, not really.\n\nSometimes one gets unpleasantly damp out there.\n\nHrolfur stood still, chewing his quid of tobacco and staring out at\nthe entrance to the creek. He seemed to have forgotten all about\nanswering my question.\n\nSometimes one gets unpleasantly damp out there, he repeated, laying\ngreat emphasis on every word. I looked straight at him and saw there\nwere tears in his eyes. Now his features were all working again and\ntwitching as they had done earlier.\n\nThere's many a boat filled up there, he added, and some have got no\nfurther. But I've floated in and out so far. Oh well, 'The silver\ncup sinks, but the wooden bowl floats on', as the proverb says.\nThere was a time when I had to drag out of the water here a man who\nwas better than me in every way--that's when I really got to know\nthe old creek.\n\nFor a time he continued to stand there, staring out at the creek\nwithout saying a word. But, at last, after wiping the tears from his\nface with the back of his glove, he seemed to come to himself once\nmore.\n\nYou were asking, my lad, what the journey costs--it costs nothing.\n\nNothing? What nonsense!\n\nNot since you got wet, said Hrolfur and smiled, though you could\nstill see the tears in his eyes. It's an old law of ours that if the\nferry-man lets his passengers get wet, even though it's only their\nbig toe, then he forfeits his toll.\n\nI repeatedly begged Hrolfur to let me pay him for the journey, but\nit was no use. At last he became serious again and said:\n\nThe journey costs nothing, as I said to you. I've brought many a\ntraveller over here to the creek and never taken a penny in return.\nBut if you ever come back to our village again, and old Hrolfur\nshould happen to be on land, come over to Weir and drink a cup of\ncoffee with him--black coffee with brown rock-sugar and a drop of\nbrandy in it; that is, if you can bring yourself to do such a thing.\n\nThis I promised him, and old Hrolfur shook me firmly and\nmeaningfully by the hand as we parted.\n\nAs they prepared to leave, we all three, the farmers from Mular and\nI, stood there on the rocks to see how Hrolfur would manage. The\ncrew had furled the sails and sat down to the oars, whilst old\nHrolfur stood in front of the crossbeam, holding the rudder-line.\n\nThey weren't rowing though, but held their oars up, waiting for\ntheir opportunity. All this while, wave after wave came riding\nthrough the entrance to the creek, pouring their white cascades of\nfoam over the reefs.\n\nHrolfur watched them steadily and waited, like an animal ready to\npounce on its prey.\n\nNow, my lads, cried Hrolfur suddenly. The oars crashed into the sea,\nand the boat shot forward.\n\nJust so, I thought, must the vikings in olden time have rowed to the\nattack.\n\nHrolfur's voice was lost to us in the roaring of the surf, but he\nseemed to be urging the men on to row their utmost. They rowed,\nindeed, like things possessed, and the boat hurtled forward.\n\nAt the mouth of the creek a surf-topped wave rose against them,\nsharp and concave, as it rushed on its way to the reefs. We held our\nbreath. It was a terrifying but magnificent sight.\n\nHrolfur shouted something loudly, and at the same moment every oar\nhugged the side of the boat, like the fins of a salmon as it hurls\nitself at a waterfall. The boat plunged straight into the wave. For\na moment we lost sight of her in the swirling spray; only the mast\nwas visible. When we saw her again, she was well out past the\nbreakers. She'd been moving fast and was well steered.\n\nHrolfur took his place on the crossbeam as if nothing had happened,\njust as he had sat there earlier in the day, whilst he was 'on the\nfrigate'.\n\nTwo of the crew began to set the sails, whilst one started to bail\nout. Soon the boat was once more on the move.\n\nI felt a strange lump in my throat as I watched old Hrolfur sailing\naway.\n\nGod bless you, old salt, I thought. You thoroughly deserved to\ncleave through the cold waters of Iceland in a shapely frigate.\n\nThe boat heeled over gracefully and floated over the waves like a\ngull with its wings outstretched. We stood there watching, without a\nmove, until she disappeared behind the headland.\n\n\n\n\nGUNNAR GUNNARSSON\n\nFATHER AND SON\n\n\nThe two of them lived just outside the They were both called\nSnjolfur, and they usually distinguished as old Snjolfur and little\nSnjolfur. They themselves, however, addressed each other only as\nSnjolfur. This was a habit of long standing: it may be that, having\nthe same name, they felt themselves bound still more firmly together\nby using it unqualified in this way. Old Snjolfur was something over\nfifty, little Snjolfur only just over twelve.\n\nThey were close together, the pair of them--each felt lost without\nthe other. It had been like that ever since little Snjolfur could\nremember. His father could look further back. He remembered that\nthirteen years ago he had lived on his farm within easy riding\ndistance of the village; he had a good wife and three sturdy and\nhopeful children.\n\nThen his luck turned and one disaster after struck him. His sheep\nwent down with pest, his cattle died of anthrax and other diseases.\nThen the children got whooping-cough and all three died, close\nenough together to lie in one grave. To pay his debts Snjolfur had\nto give up his farm and sell the land. Then he bought the land on\nthe Point just outside the village, knocked up a cabin divided into\ntwo by a partition, and a fish-drying shed. When that was done,\nthere was enough left to buy a cockle-shell of a boat. This was the\nsum of his possessions.\n\nIt was a poor and dismal life they led there, Snjolfur and his wife.\nThey were both used to hard work, but they had had no experience of\nprivation and constant care for the morrow. Most days it meant\nputting to sea if they were to eat, and it was not every night they\nwent to bed with a full stomach. There was little enough left over\nfor clothing and comfort.\n\nSnjolfur's wife worked at fish-drying for the factor in the summer\nmonths, but good drying-days could not be counted on and the money\nwas not much. She lived just long enough to bring little Snjolfur\ninto the world, and the last thing she did was to decide his name.\nFrom then on, father and son lived alone in the cabin.\n\nLittle Snjolfur had vague memories of times of desperate misery. He\nhad to stay at home through days of unrelieved torment and agony.\nThere had been no one to look after him while he was too small to go\noff in the boat with his father, and old Snjolfur was forced to tie\nthe boy to the bed-post to keep him out of danger in his absence.\nOld Snjolfur could not sit at home all the time: he had to get\nsomething to put in the pot.\n\nThe boy had more vivid memories of happier times, smiling summer\ndays on a sea glittering in the sunshine. He remembered sitting in\nthe stern and watching his father pulling in the gleaming fish. But\neven those times were mingled with bitterness, for there were days\nwhen the sky wept and old Snjolfur rowed out alone.\n\nBut in time little Snjolfur grew big enough to go off with his\nfather, whatever the weather. From then on they contentedly shared\nmost days and every night: neither could be without the other for\nmore than a minute. If one of them stirred in his sleep, the other\nwas awake on the instant; and if one could not get to sleep, the\nother did not close his eyes either.\n\nOne might think that it was because they had a lot to talk about\nthat they were so wrapped up in each other. But that was not so.\nThey knew each other so well and their mutual confidence was so\ncomplete that words were unnecessary. For days on end no more than\nscattered phrases fell between them; they were as well content to be\nsilent together as to be talking together. The one need only look at\nthe other to make himself understood.\n\nAmong the few words that passed between them, however, was one\nsentence that came up again and again--when old Snjolfur was talking\nto his son. His words were:\n\nThe point is to pay your debts to everybody, not owe anybody\nanything, trust in Providence.\n\nIn fact, father and son together preferred to live on the edge of\nstarvation rather than buy anything for which they could not pay on\nthe spot. And they tacked together bits of old sacking and patched\nand patched them so as to cover their nakedness, unburdened by debt.\n\nMost of their neighbours were in debt to some extent; some of them\nonly repaid the factor at odd times, and they never repaid the whole\namount. But as far as little Snjolfur knew, he and his father had\nnever owed a penny to anyone. Before his time, his father had been\non the factor's books like everyone else, but that was not a thing\nhe spoke much about and little Snjolfur knew nothing of those\ndealings.\n\nIt was essential for the two of them to see they had supplies to\nlast them through the winter, when for many days gales or heavy seas\nmade fishing impossible. The fish that had to last them through the\nwinter was either dried or salted; what they felt they could spare\nwas sold, so that there might be a little ready money in the house\nagainst the arrival of winter. There was rarely anything left, and\nsometimes the cupboard was bare before the end of the winter;\nwhatever was eatable had been eaten by the tune spring came on, and\nmost often father and son knew what it was like to go hungry.\nWhenever the weather was fit, they put off in their boat but often\nrowed back empty-handed or with one skinny flat-fish in the bottom.\nThis did not affect their outlook. They never complained; they bore\ntheir burden of distress, heavy as it was, with the same even temper\nas they showed in the face of good fortune on the rare occasions it\nsmiled on them; in this, as in everything else, they were in\nharmony. For them there was always comfort enough in the hope that,\nif they ate nothing today, God would send them a meal tomorrow--or\nthe next day. The advancing spring found them pale and hollow-\ncheeked, plagued by bad dreams, so that night after night they lay\nawake together.--And one such spring, a spring moreover that had\nbeen colder and stormier than usual, with hardly a single day of\ndecent weather, evil chance paid another visit to old Snjolfur's\nhome.\n\nEarly one morning a snow-slip landed on the cabin on the Point,\nburying both father and son. By some inexplicable means little\nSnjolfur managed to scratch his way out of the drift. As soon as he\nrealised that for all his efforts he could not dig his father out\nsingle-handed, he raced off to the village and got people out of\ntheir beds. Help came too late--the old man was suffocated when they\nfinally reached him through the snow.\n\nFor the time being his body was laid on a flat boulder in the\nshelter of a shallow cave in the cliffside nearby--later they would\nbring a sledge to fetch him into the village. For a long time little\nSnjolfur stood by old Snjolfur and stroked his white hair; he\nmurmured something as he did it, but no one heard what he said. But\nhe did not cry and he showed no dismay. The men with the snow-\nshovels agreed that he was a strange lad, with not a tear for his\nfather's death, and they were half-inclined to dislike him for it.--\nHe's a hard one! they said, but not in admiration.--You can carry\nthings too far.\n\nIt was perhaps because of this that no one paid any further\nattention to little Snjolfur. When the rescue-party and the people\nwho had come out of mere curiosity made their way back for a bite of\nbreakfast and a sledge for the body, the boy was left alone on the\nPoint.\n\nThe snow-slip had shifted the cabin and it was all twisted and\nsmashed; posts missing their laths stuck up out of the snow, tools\nand household gear were visible here and there--when he laid hold of\nthem, they were as if bonded the snow. Snjolfur wandered down to the\nshore with the idea of seeing what had become of the boat. When he\nsaw with what cold glee the waves were playing with its shattered\nfragments amongst the lumpy masses of snow below highwatermark, his\nfrown deepened, but he did not say anything.\n\nHe did not stay long on the shore this time. When he got back to the\ncave, he sat down wearily on the rock beside his dead father. It's a\npoor look-out, he thought; he might have sold the boat if it hadn't\nbeen smashed--somewhere he had to get enough to pay for the funeral.\nSnjolfur had always said it was essential to have enough to cover\nyour own funeral--there was no greater or more irredeemable disgrace\nthan to be slipped into the ground at the expense of the parish.\nFortunately his prospects weren't so bad, he had said. They could\nboth die peacefully whenever the time came--there was the cabin, the\nboat, the tools and other gear, and finally the land itself--these\nwould surely fetch enough to meet the cost of coffin and funeral\nservice, as well as a cup of coffee for anyone who would put himself\nout so far as to accept their hospitality on that occasion. But now,\ncontrary to custom, his father had not proved an oracle--he was dead\nand everything else had gone with him--except the land on the Point.\nAnd how was that to be turned into cash when there was no cabin on\nit? He would probably have to starve to death himself. Wouldn't it\nbe simplest to run down to the shore and throw himself in the sea?\nBut--then both he and his father would have to be buried by the\nparish. There were only his shoulders to carry the burden. If they\nboth rested in a shameful grave, it would be his fault--he hadn't\nthe heart to do it.\n\nLittle Snjolfur's head hurt with all this hard thinking. He felt he\nwanted to give up and let things slide. But how can a man give up\nwhen he has nowhere to live? It would be cold spending the night out\nhere in the open.\n\nThe boy thought this out. Then he began to drag posts, pieces of\nrafter and other wreckage over to the cave. He laid the longest\npieces sloping against the cave-mouth--he badly wanted his father to\nbe within four walls,--covered them over and filled the gaps with\nbits of sail-cloth and anything else handy, and finished by\nshovelling snow up over the whole structure. Before long it was\nrather better in the cave than out-of-doors, though the most\nimportant thing was to have Snjolfur with him for his last days\nabove ground--it might be a week or more. It was no easy matter to\nmake a coffin and dig out frozen ground. It would certainly be a\npoor coffin if he had to make it himself.\n\nWhen little Snjolfur had finished making his shelter, he crept\ninside and sat down with outstretched legs close to his father. By\nthis time the boy was tired out and sleepy. He was on the point of\ndropping off, when he remembered that he had still not decided how\nto pay for the funeral. He was wide awake again at once. That\nproblem had to be solved without more ado--and suddenly he saw a\ngleam of hope--is wasn't so unattainable after all--he might meet\nthe cost of the funeral and maintain himself into the bargain, at\nany rate for a start. His drowsiness fell from him, he slipped out\nof the cave and strode off towards the village.\n\nHe went straight along the street in the direction of the store,\nlooking neither to right nor left, heedless of the unfriendly\nglances of the villagers.--Wretched boy--he didn't even cry when his\nfather died! were the words of those respectable, generous-hearted\nand high-minded folk.\n\nWhen little Snjolfur got to the factor's house, he went straight\ninto the store and asked if he might speak to the master. The\nstoreman stared and lingered before finally shuffling to the door of\nthe office and knocking. In a moment the door was half opened by the\nfactor himself, who, when he caught sight of little Snjolfur and\nheard that he wanted to speak to him, turned to him again and, after\nlooking him up and down, invited him in.\n\nLittle Snjolfur put his cap on the counter and did not wait to be\nasked twice.\n\nWell, young man? said the factor.\n\nThe youngster nearly lost heart completely, but he screwed himself\nup and inquired diffidently whether the factor knew that there were\nunusually good landing-facilities out on the Point.\n\nIt is much worse in your landing-place than it is in ours out there.\n\nThe factor had to smile at the gravity and spirit of the boy--he\nconfessed that he had heard it spoken of.\n\nThen little Snjolfur came to the heart of the--if he let out the use\nof the landing-place on the Point to the factor for the coming\nsummer--how much would he be willing to pay to have his Faroese\ncrews land their catches there?--Only for the coming summer, mind!\n\nWouldn't it be more straightforward if I bought the Point from you?\nasked the factor, doing his best to conceal his amusement.\n\nLittle Snjolfur stoutly rejected this suggestion--he didn't want\nthat.--Then I have no home--if I sell the Point, I mean.\n\nThe factor tried to get him to see that he could not live there in\nany case, by himself, destitute, in the open.\n\nThey will not allow it, my boy.\n\nThe lad steadfastly refused to accept the notion that he would be in\nthe open out there--he had already built himself a shelter where he\ncould lie snug.\n\nAnd as soon as spring comes, I shall build another cabin--it needn't\nbe big and there's a good bit of wood out there. But, as I expect\nyou know, I've lost Snjolfur--and the boat. I don't think there's\nany hope of putting the bits of her together again. Now that I've no\nboat, I thought I might let out the landing-place, if I could make\nsomething out of it. The Faroese would be sure to give me something\nfor the pot if I gave them a hand with launching and unloading. They\ncould row most ways from there--I'm not exaggerating--they had to\nstay at home time and time again last summer, when it was easy for\nSnjolfur and me to put off. There's a world of difference between a\ndeep-water landing-place and a shallow-water one--that's what\nSnjolfur said many a time.\n\nThe factor asked his visitor what price he had thought of putting on\nit for the summer. I don't know what the funeral will cost yet,\nreplied the orphan in worried tones. At any rate I should need\nenough to pay for Snjolfur's funeral. Then I should count myself\nlucky.\n\nThen let's say that, struck in the factor, and went on to say that\nhe would see about the coffin and everything--there was no need for\nlittle Snjolfur to fret about it any more. Without thinking, he\nfound himself opening the door for his guest, diminutive though he\nwas,--but the boy stood there as if he had not seen him do it, and\nit was written clear on his face that he had not yet finished the\nbusiness that brought him; the anxious look was still strong on his\nruddy face, firm-featured beyond his years.\n\nWhen are you expecting the ship with your stores?\n\nThe factor replied that it would hardly come tomorrow, perhaps the\nday after. It was a puzzle to know why the boy had asked--the pair\nof them, father and son, did not usually ask about his stores until\nthey brought the cash to buy them.\n\nLittle Snjolfur did not take his eyes from the factor's face. The\nwords stuck in his throat, but at last he managed to get his\nquestion out: In that case, wouldn't the factor be needing a boy to\nhelp in the store?\n\nThe factor did not deny it.\n\nBut he ought to be past his confirmation for preference, he added\nwith a smile.\n\nIt looked as if little Snjolfur was ready for this answer, and\nindeed his errand was now at an end, but he asked the factor to come\nout with him round the corner of the store. They went out, the boy\nin front, and onto the pebble-bank nearby. The boy stopped at a\nstone lying there, got a grip of it, lifted it without any obvious\nexertion and heaved it away from him. Then he turned to the factor.\n\nWe call this stone the Weakling. The boy you had last summer\ncouldn't lift it high enough to let the damp in underneath--much\nless any further!\n\nOh, well then, seeing you are stronger than he was, it ought to be\npossible to make use of you in some way, even though you are on the\nwrong side of confirmation, replied the factor in a milder tone.\n\nDo I get my keep while I'm with you? And the same wages as he had?\ncontinued the youngster, who was the sort that likes to know where\nhe stands in good time.\n\nBut of course, answered the factor, who for once was in no mood to\ndrive a hard bargain.\n\nThat's good--then I shan't go on the parish, said little Snjolfur,\nand was easier in his mind. The man who has got something to pot in\nhimself and on himself isn't a pauper,--Snjolfur often used to say\nthat, he added, and he straightened himself up proudly and offered\nhis hand to the factor, just as he had seen his father do. Good-bye,\nhe said. I shall come then--not tomorrow but the day after.\n\nThe factor told him to come in again for a minute and leading the\nway to the kitchen-door he ushered little Snjolfur into the warmth.\nHe asked the cook if she couldn't give this nipper here a bite of\nsomething to eat, preferably something warm--he could do with it.\n\nLittle Snjolfur would not accept any food.\n\nAren't you hungry? asked the astonished factor.\n\nThe boy could not deny that he was--and for the rest he could hardly\nget his words out with the sharpness of his hunger whetted still\nkeener by the blessed smell of cooking. But he resisted the\ntemptation:\n\nI am not a beggar, he said.\n\nThe factor was upset and he saw that he had set about it clumsily.\nHe went over to the dogged youngster, patted his head and, with a\nnod to the cook, led little Snjolfur into the dining-room.\n\nHave you never seen your father give his visitors a drink or offer\nthem a cup of coffee when they came to see him? he asked, and he\ngave his words a resentful tone.\n\nLittle Snjolfur had to confess that his father had sometimes offered\nhospitality to a visitor.\n\nThere you are then, said the factor. It's just ordinary good manners\nto offer hospitality--and to accept it. Refusing a well-meant\ninvitation for no reason can mean the end of a friendship. You are a\nvisitor here, so naturally I offer you something to eat: we have\nmade an important deal and, what's more, we have come to terms over\na job. If you won't accept ordinary hospitality, it's hard to see\nhow the rest is going to work out.\n\nThe boy sighed: of course, it must be as the factor said. But he was\nin a hurry. Snjolfur was by himself out on the Point. His eyes\nwandered round the room--then he added, very seriously: The point is\nto pay your debts, not owe anybody anything, and trust in\nProvidence.\n\nThere was never a truer word spoken, agreed the factor, and as he\nsaid it he pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket. He's a chip of\nthe old block, he muttered, and putting his hand on little\nSnjolfur's shoulder, he blessed him.\n\nThe boy was astonished to see a grown man with tears in his eyes.\n\nSnjolfur never cried, he said, and went on: I haven't cried either\nsince I was little--I nearly did when I knew Snjolfur was dead. But\nI was afraid he wouldn't like it, and I stopped myself.\n\nA moment later and tears overwhelmed little Snjolfur.--It is a\nconsolation, albeit a poor one, to lean for a while on the bosom of\na companion.\n\n\n\n\nGUDMUNDUR G. HAGALIN\n\nTHE FOX SKIN\n\n\nNo need to take care now about fastening the door, Arni of Bali said\nto himself as he wrapped the string around the nail driven into the\ndoor-post of the outlying sheepcote. Then he turned around, took out\nhis handkerchief, and, putting it to his nose, blew vigorously. This\ndone, he folded the handkerchief together again, wiped his mouth and\nnose, and took out his snuff horn.\n\nWhat fine balmy weather, thought Arni. That miserable fox won't come\nnear sheepcotes or houses now. Blast its hide! Yes, it had caused\nhim many a wakeful night. All the neighbouring farmers would have\nthe fool's luck to catch a fox every single winter. All but him. He\ncouldn't even wound a vixen, and had in all his life never caught\nany kind of fox. Wouldn't it be fun to bring home a dark brown pelt,\none with fine overhair? Yes, wouldn't that be fun? Arni shook his\nhead in delight, cleared his throat vigorously, and took a pinch of\nsnuff.\n\nBending his steps homeward, he tottered along with his body half\nstooped, as was his habit, and his hands behind his back. When he\nlooked up, he did not straighten out, but bent his neck back so his\nhead lay between his shoulder blades. Then his red-rimmed eyes\nlooked as if they were about to pop out of his head, his dark red\nbeard rose up as though striving to free itself from its roots, and\nhis empurpled nose and scarlet cheek-bones protruded.\n\nPretty good under foot, thought Arni. At least it was easy to go\nbetween the sheepcotes and the house. Everything pretty quiet just\nnow. The sheep took care of themselves during the day, and grazing\nwas plentiful along the seashore and on the hillsides. No reason why\nhe might not now and then lie in wait somewhat into the night in the\nhope of catching a fox; he wasn't too tired for that. But he had\ngiven up all that sort of thing. It brought only vexation and\ntrouble. Besides, he had told everybody that he did not think it\nworth his while to waste his time on such things and perhaps catch\nhis death to boot. The Lord knew that was mere pretence. Eighty\ncrowns for a beautiful, dark brown fox skin was a tidy sum! But a\nman had to think up something to say for himself, the way they all\nharped on fox-hunting: Bjarni of Fell caught a white vixen night\nbefore last, or Einar of Brekka caught a brown dog-fox yesterday. Or\nif a man stepped over to a neighbour's for a moment: Any hunting?\nAnyone shot a fox? Our Gisli here caught a grayish brown one last\nevening. Such incessant twaddle!\n\nArni's breath came short. Wasn't it enough if a man made an honest\nliving? Yet, work or achievement which brought no joy was unblessed.\nAt this point Samur darted up. Arni thought the dog had deserted him\nand rushed off home. Now, what in the world ailed the creature?\nShame on you for a pesky cur! Can't you be still a minute, you\nbrute? Must I beat you? asked Arni, making threatening gestures at\nSamur, a large, black-spotted dog with ugly, shaggy hair. But Samur\ndarted away, ran off whimpering; he would pause now and then and\nlook back at his master, until finally he disappeared behind a big\nboulder.\n\nWhat's got into the beast? He can't have found a fox trail, can he?\n\nArni walked straight to the rock where Samur had disappeared; then\nslowing down his pace, he tiptoed as if he expected to find a fox\nhidden there. Yes, there was Samur. There he lay in front of a hole,\nwhimpering and wagging his tail.\n\nShame on you, Samur!\n\nArni lay down prone on the snow and stretched his arm into the hole.\nBut all of a sudden he jerked his hand back, his heart beating as if\nit would tear itself out of his breast. He had so plainly felt\nsomething furry inside the hole, and he was badly mistaken if a\nstrong fox odour did not come out of it. Was the fox alive, or was\nit dead? Might it bite him fatally? But that made no difference. Now\nthat he had a good chance of taking a fox, it was do or die. He\nstood up straight and stretched every muscle, and pulled the mitten\non his right hand carefully up over his wrist. Then he knelt down,\nthrust his hand in the hole, set his teeth, and screwed up his face.\nYes, now he had caught hold of it and was pulling it carefully out.\nWell, well, well, well! Not so bad! A dark brown tail, a glossy\nbody, and what fine over-hair! For once Arni of Bali had some luck!\nThe fox was dead; it had been shot in the belly and just crept in\nthere to die. Sly devil! Poor beast! Blessed creature! Arni ended by\nfeeling quite tenderly towards the fox. He hardly knew how to give\nutterance to his joy.\n\nGood old Samur, my own precious dog, let me pat you, said Arni,\nrubbing the dog's cheek with his own. They could shout themselves\nblue in the face. It was no trick to kill all you wanted of these\nlittle devils if you just had the powder and shot and were willing\nto waste your time on it. But here Arni's face fell. He did not even\nhave his gun with him. It stood, all covered with rust, at home out\nin the shed. Just his luck! And how could he claim to have shot a\nfox without a gun?--Get out of here, Samur. Shame on you, you\nrascal!--And Arni booted Samur so hard that the dog yelped.\n\nBut, in direst need, help is at hand. He could wait for the cover of\ndarkness. Not even his wife should know but that he had shot the\nfox. Wouldn't she stare at him? She had always defied him and tried\nto belittle him. No, she should not learn the truth, she least of\nall. He would not tell a soul. Now Samur, he knew how to hold his\ntongue, faithful creature! Arni sat down on the rock, with the fox\non his knees, and started singing to pass the time, allowing his\ngood cheer to ring out as far as his voice would carry:\n\n     My fine Sunday cap has been carried away\n      By a furious gale;\n      And I'll wear it no more to the chapel to pray\n      In the wind and the hail.\n\nHe chanted this ballad over and over again until he was tired, then\nsat still, smiling and stroking the fox skin. He had learned the\nsong when he was a child from his mother, who had sung it all day\nlong one spring while she was shearing the sheep. And he could not\nthink of any other for the moment. It wasn't, in fact, a bad song.\nThere were many good rhymesters in Iceland. He began singing again,\nrocking his body back and forth vehemently, and stroking the fox\nskin the while. And Samur, who sat in front of him, cocked his head\nfirst on one side, then on the other, and gave him a knowing look.\nAt last the dog stretched out his neck, raised his muzzle into the\nair and howled, using every variation of key known to him. At this\nArni stopped short and stared at him, then bending his head slightly\nto one side to study him, he roared with laughter.\n\nWhat an extraordinary dog! Yes, really extraordinary.\n\nIn the little kitchen at Bali, Groa, the mistress, crouched before\nthe stove and poked the fire with such vigour that both ashes and\nembers flew out on the floor. She was preparing to heat a mouthful\nof porridge for supper for her old man and the brats. She stood up,\nrubbed her eyes and swore. The horrid smoke that always came from\nthat rattletrap of a stove! And that wretched old fool of a husband\nwas not man enough to fix it! Oh, no, he wasn't handy enough for\nthat; he went at every blessed thing as if his fingers were all\nthumbs. And where could he be loafing tonight? Not home yet! Serve\nhim right if she locked the house and allowed him to stay in the\nsheepcotes, or wherever it was he was dawdling. There now, those\ninfernal brats were at the spinning wheel. Groa jumped up, darted\ninto the passage, and went to the stairs.\n\nWill you leave that spinning wheel be, you young devils? If you\nbreak the flier or the upright, your little old mother will be after\nyou.\n\nA dead calm ensued. So Groa returned to the kitchen, and taking a\nloaf of pot-bread from the cupboard, cut a few slices and spread\nthem with dripping.\n\nNow a scratching sound was heard at the door, and Arni entered.\n\nGood evening to all, said he with urbanity, as he set down the gun\nbehind the kitchen door. Here's that gun. It has certainly paid for\nitself, poor old thing.\n\nHis wife did not reply to his greeting, but she eyed him askance\nwith a look that was anything but loving.\n\nBeen fooling around with that gun! Why the blazes couldn't you have\ncome home and brought me a bit of peat from the pit? A fine hunter\nyou are! I might as well have married the devil.--And his wife\nturned from him with a sneer.\n\nYou're in a nice temper now, my dear. But just take a look at this,\nsaid Arni, throwing down the brown fox on the kitchen floor.\n\nAt first Groa stared at her husband as if she had never seen him\nbefore. Then she shook her head and smiled sarcastically.\n\nYou found it dead, I'll wager!\n\nArni started. His face turned red and his eyes protruded.\n\nYou would say that! You don't let me forget what a superior woman I\nmarried! Found it dead!--And Arni plumped down on the woodbox.\n\nHis wife laughed.\n\nI'll wager I hit the nail on the head that time!\n\nArni jumped to his feet. That confounded old witch should not spoil\nhis pleasure.\n\nYou're as stark, raving mad as you always have been. But I don't\ncare what you say. Kids, come and look at the fox your father has\nshot.\n\nThree days later they had a visitor. Arni stood outside and stared\nat him. For a wonder, somebody had at last found his way to Arni's.\nDays and nights had passed, but nobody had come. They always came\nwhen they weren't wanted. And now came Jon of Lon, that overbearing\nfellow! But now he could see that Arni of Bali was also a man among\nmen.\n\nHowdy, Arni, you poor fish! said Jon, fixing his steely gray eyes on\nArni.\n\nHow are you, you old snake! answered Arni, smiling contemptuously.\nWhat monstrous eyes Jon had when he looked at a person!\n\nHas something special happened? You're somehow so puffed up today,\nsaid Jon with a sarcastic smile.\n\nDarn him! muttered Arni. Was he going to act just like Groa? In that\ncase, Arni had at least a trump card in reserve.\n\nDid you say something? inquired Jon, sticking a quid of tobacco into\nhis mouth. Or wasn't it meant for my ears? Oh, well, I don't care\nfor your mutterings, you poor wretch. But now, go ask your wife to\ngive me a little drink of sour whey.\n\nArni turned round slowly and lazily. Wasn't the old fellow going to\nnotice the skin? It wasn't so small that it couldn't be seen. There\nit hung on the wall, right in the sunlight, combed and beautifully\nglossy.\n\nThat's quite a nice fox skin. Whose is it? asked Jon, walking over\nto the wall.\n\nArni turned round. He could feel his heart beating fast.\n\nMine, he said, with what calm he could muster.\n\nWhat is the idea of you buying a fox skin, you poor beggar?\n\nBuying? Arni sighed. You think I can't shoot me a fox?\n\nYou! Jon laughed. That's a downright lie, my dear Arni.\n\nA lie! You'd best not tell people they lie unless you know more\nabout it. A scoundrel like you, I say, a scoundrel like you! replied\nArni, swelling. I think you'd better be getting in and see her. You\nknow her pretty well, I believe.\n\nJon looked at the farmer of Bali with his steely eyes.\n\nFor whom are you keeping the skin, Arni?\n\nNo one, said Arni, crossly; then after some hesitation: The Lord\ngave it to me.\n\nAll right, Arni. Miracles never cease. That is plain enough after\nthis, and no question about it. That's an eighty-crown skin, however\nyou came by it. But now let's go in and see Groa. As you say, I know\nher pretty well. She was a smart girl, you poor wretch. Too bad I\nwas married and had to throw her to a creature like you.\n\nArni grinned and, trotting to the door of the house, called: Groa, a\nvisitor to see you.\n\nThe woman came to the door. A smile played about her lips,\nsmouldering embers glowed in her blue eyes, and the sunlight lighted\nup the unkempt braids of golden hair which fell down about her pale\ncheeks.\n\nBut Arni for once was satisfied. At last Jon was properly impressed.\nThe affair between Groa and Jon was something that could not be\nhelped. Jon surely regretted having lost that girl! Yes, indeed! And\nshe had her good points. She was smart, and a hundred crowns a year,\nbesides everything else that was brought them from Lon, was pretty\ngood compensation. Yes, many a man had married less well than Arni\nof Bali. And the children were his, most of them, anyway. Nobody\nneed tell him anything else.\n\n                              *\n\nThe fox skin became Arni of Bali's most cherished possession. Every\nday, when the weather was clear, he would hang it, well smoothed and\ncombed, on the outside wall, and when he left home he carefully put\nit away in a safe place. The skin became famous throughout the\ndistrict, and many of the younger men made special trips to Bali to\nexamine it. Arni would beam with joy and strut around with a\nknowing, self-satisfied expression on his face, and would tell of\nthe patience, the agility, and the marksmanship he had to put into\nkilling this monstrously clever fox. It certainly wasn't hard to\nkill all you wanted of these devils, if you just had the powder and\nshot and were willing to give your time to it, he would say, as he\nturned the skin so that the sunlight shone full on the glossy pelt.\n\nThen one day that fall, Arni came home from tending the sheep, which\nhad just been brought down from the mountain pastures. He hung the\nskin out and went into the kitchen, where Groa was busy washing, sat\ndown on a box by the wall on the other side of the room, let his\nhead rest on his hands, and looked wise. For a while there was\nsilence. At last Groa looked up from her washtub and gave Arni a\npiercing glance.\n\nHave you got your eye on a cow to replace the greyspotted one we\nkilled last spring?\n\nCow? asked Arni, scratching his head. Cow? Yes, so you say, my good\nwoman.\n\nSo I say? Do you think the milk from Dumba alone goes very far in\nfeeding such a flock of children as we have? You haven't gone and\nsquandered the money we got for Skjalda? asked Groa, looking harder\nstill at her husband.\n\nDon't be foolish, woman! The money lies untouched at the factor's.\nBut he wouldn't pay much for the meat and hide of Skjalda, not\nanywhere near enough to buy a good milking cow. He said the English\non the trawlers don't set much store by cow's meat. The summer has\nbeen only so-so, and I'm sure we'll have plenty of uses for what\nmoney I've been able to scrape together. Of course, a cow is a good\nthing to buy, an enjoyable luxury, if only you have plenty of money.\n\nIf you can't scrape together the money for a cow, we must cut\nexpenses somehow. Perhaps you could stop stuffing your nostrils with\nthat dirty snuff? And you ought at any rate to be able to sell that\nfancy fox skin you play with so childishly.\n\nIs that so!\n\nYes, you play with that wretched fox skin just exactly like any\ncrazy youngster.\n\nWretched is it? Take care what you say, woman! Wretched skin! A fine\njudge of such matters you are!--And standing up, Arni paced the\nkitchen floor.--An eighty-crown skin! And you call it wretched! Jon\nof Lon didn't call it any names. You'll believe at least what he\nsays.\n\nNow, don't get puffed up. You ought to be thankful to get what you\ncan for the skin. It will help in buying the cow.\n\nThe cow? Let me tell you, woman, that I am not going to buy a cow\nfor the skin. You can take it from me that you will never get a cow\nfor that skin. Or anything else, in fact. The farmer at Lon can\nshell out whatever is needed for buying the cow. That's the least he\ncan do for you.\n\nGroa stopped her washing, stared for a few seconds at Arni, and then\nwith a quick movement walked up to him, brandishing a bit of wet\nlinen.\n\nWill you tell me what you're going to do with the skin? she asked,\nalmost in a whisper.\n\nArni shrank back. The way to the door was cut off. He raised his arm\nin self-defence and retreated as far as possible into the corner.\n\nI'm going to sell it. Now be reasonable, Groa. I'm going to sell it.\n\nAnd what are you going to buy for it? his wife hissed, boring into\nhim with her eyes.\n\nA cow. I'm going to buy a cow for it.\n\nYou lie! You know you're not going to sell it. You're going to play\nwith it. Know your children hungering for milk and play with the\nskin!\n\nMy children?\n\nNo, God be praised, they're--not--yours, said Groa, allowing the\nblows to rain on Arni.--But now I'll keep the skin for you.--And\nlike an arrow she shot out of the door, all out of breath and\ntrembling.\n\nFor a few seconds Arni stood still. His eyes seemed bursting out of\ntheir sockets, and the hair in his beard stood on end. In a flash he\nrushed over the kitchen floor and out of the house.\n\nGroa had just taken the skin down off the nail on the wall. Now she\nbrandished it and looked at Arni with fury in her gaze. But he did\nnot wait. He rushed at her, gave her such a shove that she fell,\nand, snatching the skin from her, ran. A safe distance away, he\nturned and stood panting for several seconds. At last, exhausted and\ntrembling with rage, he hissed:\n\nI tell you, Groa. I'll have my way about this. The skin is the only\nthing that is all my own, and no one shall take it from me.\n\nArni fled then. He took to his heels, and ran away as fast as he\ncould up the slopes.\n\n---\n\nFar in the innermost corner of the outlying sheepcote at Bali, to\nwhich the sun's rays never reach, Arni built himself a little\ncupboard. This cupboard is kept carefully locked, and Arni carries\nthe key on a string which hangs around his neck. Arni now has become\nquite prosperous. For a long time it was thought that he must keep\nmoney in the cupboard, but last spring an acquaintance of his\nstopped at the outlying sheepcote on his way from the village. The\nman had some liquor with him and gave Arni a taste. At last the\nvisitor was allowed to see what the cupboard contained--a carefully\ncombed and smoothed dark brown fox skin. Arni was visibly moved by\nthe unveiling of his secret. Staring at the ceiling, he licked his\nwhiskers and sighed deeply.\n\nIt seems to me, Gisli, he said to his friend, that I'd rather lose\nall my ewes than this skin, for it was the thing which once made me\nsay, 'Thus far and no farther!' And since then I seem to own\nsomething right here in my breast which not even Jon of Lon can take\naway from me. I think I am now beginning to understand what is meant\nin the Scriptures by 'the treasure which neither moth nor rust can\ncurrupt.'\n\nArni's red-rimmed eyes were moist. For a while he stood there\nthinking. But all of a sudden he shook his head and, turning to his\nacquaintance, said: Let's see the bottle. A man seems to feel warmer\ninside if he gets a little drop.--And Arni shook himself as if the\nmental strain of his philosophizing had occasioned in him a slight\nchill.\n\n\n\n\nHALLDOR KILJAN LAXNESS\n\nNEW ICELAND\n\n\nThe road leads from Old Iceland to New Iceland. It is the way of men\nfrom the old to the new in the hope that the new will be better than\nthe old. So Torfi Torfason has sold his sheep and his cows and his\nhorses, torn himself away from his land, and journeyed to America--\nwhere the raisins grow all over the place and where a much brighter\nfuture awaits us and our children. And he took his ewes by the horn\nfor the last time, led them to the highest bidder, and said: Now\nthis one is my good Goldbrow who brings back her two lambs from\nMulata every fall. And what do you say to the coat of wool on Bobbin\nhere? She's a fine sturdy lass, Bobbin, isn't she?\n\nAnd thus he sold them one after another, holding them himself by the\nhorn. And he pressed their horns against the callouses on his palm\nfor the last time. These were his ewes, who had crowded around the\nmanger in the dead of winter and stuck their noses into the fragrant\nhay. And when he came home from the long trip to the market town\nafter having wrangled with some of the rascals there, he marvelled\nat how snow-white they were in the fleece. They were like a special\nkind of people and yet better than people in general. And yonder\nwere his cows being led off the place like large and foolish women,\nwho are nevertheless kindness itself, and you are fond of them\nbecause you have known them since you were young. They were led out\nthrough the lanes, and strange boys urged them on with bits of\nstrap. And he patted his horses on the rump for the last time and\nsold them to the highest bidder, these fine old fellows who were\nperhaps the only beings in the world that understood him and knew\nhim and esteemed him. He had known them since they were boys full of\npomp and show. Now he sold them for money because the way of man\nleads from the old to the new, from Old Iceland to New Iceland, and,\nthe evening after this sale, he no more thought of saying his\nprayers than would a man who had taken God Almighty by the horn,\npatted Him on the rump, and sold Him, and let some strange boy urge\nHim on with a bit of strap. He felt that he was an evil man, a\ndownright ungodly man, and he asked his wife what the devil she was\nsniffling about.\n\nIn the middle of July a new settler put up a log cabin on a grassy\nplot in the swamps along Icelandic River, a short distance from what\nis now called Riverton in New Iceland. Torfi hung the picture of Jon\nSigurdsson on one wall, and on another his wife hung a calendar with\na picture of a girl in a wide-brimmed hat. The neighbours were\nhelpful to them in building their cabin, making ditches, and in\nother ways. All that summer Torfi stood up to his hips in mud\ndigging ditches, and when the bottom was worn out of his shoes and\nthe soles of his feet began to get sore from the shovel, he hit on a\nplan: he cut the bottom out of a tin can and stuck his toe into the\ncylinder. And the first evening when he came home from the ditch-\ndigging. and was struggling to remove from himself that sticky clay\nwhich is peculiar to the soil of Manitoba, he could not help saying\nto his wife: It's really remarkable how filthy the mud is here in\nNew Iceland.\n\nBut that summer there was an epidemic among the children, and Torfi\nTorfason lost two of his four, a six-year old girl and a three-year\nold boy. Their names were Jon and Maria. The neighbours helped him\nto make a coffin. A clergyman was brought from a distance, and he\nburied Jon and Maria, and Torfi Torfason paid what was asked. A few\nnot very well washed Icelanders, their old hats in their toil-worn\nhands, stood over the grave and droned sadly. Torfi Torfason had\nseen to it that every body would get coffee and fritters and\nChristmas cakes. But when autumn came, the weather grew cold and the\nsnow fell, and then his wife had a new baby who filled the log cabin\nwith fresh crying. This was a Canadian Icelander. After that came\nIndian Summer with the multi-coloured forests.\n\nAnd the Indians came down from the North by their winding trails\nalong the river and wanted to buy themselves mittens. They took\nthings very calmly and did not fuss about trifles, but bought a\nsingle pair of mittens for a whole haunch of venison together with\nthe shoulder. Then they bought a scarf and socks for a whole\ncarcass. After that they trudged off again with their mittens and\nscarfs like any other improvident wretches.\n\nThen came the winter, and what was to be done now? Torfi christened\nhis farm Riverbank. There was only one cow at Riverbank, three\nchildren, and very little in the cupboard. The cow's name was\nMulley, in spite of the fact that she had very long horns, and she\nwas known as Riverbank Mulley. And she had big eyes and stared like\na foreigner at the farmer's wife and mooed every time anybody walked\npast the door.\n\nI don't think poor Mulley will be able to feed us all this winter,\nsaid Torfi Torfason.\n\nHave you thought of anything? asked Torfi Torfason's wife.\n\nNothing unless to go north and fish in the lake. It's said that\nthose who go there often do well for themselves.\n\nI was thinking that if you went somewhere, I might just as well go\nsomewhere too for the winter. Sigridur of New Farm says there's lots\nof work for washerwomen in Winnipeg in the winter. Some of the women\nfrom this district are going south the beginning of next week. I\ncould pack up my old clothes on a sled like them and go too. I'd\njust leave little Tota here with the youngsters. She's going on\nfourteen now, Tota is.\n\nI could perhaps manage to send home a mess of fish once in a while,\nsaid Torfi Torfason.\n\nThis was an evening early in November, snow had fallen on the woods,\nthe swamps were frozen over. They spoke no more of their parting.\nJon Sigurdsson grinned out into the room, and the calendar girl with\nthe wide-brimmed hat laid her blessing upon the sleeping children.\n\nThe tiny kerosene lamp burned in the window, but the frost flowers\nbloomed on the window-panes.\n\nIt seems to me it can get cold here, no less than at home, said\nTorfi Torfason presently.\n\nDo you remember what fun it often was when guests came in the\nevening? There would be sure to be talk about the sheep at this time\nof the autumn on our farm.\n\nOh, it's not much of a sheep country here in the west, said Torfi\nTorfason. But there's fishing in the lake ... And if you have\ndecided to go south and get yourself a 'job', as they say here, then\n...\n\nIf you write to Iceland, be sure to ask about our old cow Skjalda,\nhow she is getting along. Our old Skjalda. Good old cow.\n\nSilence.\n\nThen Torfi Torfason's wife spoke again:\n\nBy the way, what do you think of the cows here in America, Torfi?\nDon't you think they're awfully poor milkers? Somehow or other I\nfeel as if I could never get fond of Mulley. It seems to me as if it\nwould be impossible to let yourself get fond of a foreign cow.\n\nOh, that's just a notion, said Torfi Torfason, spitting through his\nteeth, although he had long since given up chewing. Why shouldn't\nthe cows here be up and down just the same as other cows? But\nthere's one thing sure. I'll never get so attached to another horse\nagain, since I sold my Skjoni ... There was a fine fellow.\n\nThey never referred in any other way than this to what they had\nowned or what they had lost, but sat long silent, and the tiny lamp\ncast a glow on the frost flowers like a garden--two poor Icelanders,\nman and wife, who put out their light and go to sleep. Then begins\nthe great, soundless, Canadian winter night.--\n\nThe women started off for Winnipeg a few days later, walking through\nthe snow-white woods, over the frozen fields, a good three days'\njourney. They tied their belongings on to sleds. Each one drew her\nown sled. This was known as going washing in Winnipeg. Torfi\nTorfason remained at home one night longer.\n\nHe stood in the front yard outside of the cabin and looked after the\nwomen as they disappeared into the woods with their sleds. The\nNovember forests listened in the frost to the speech of these\nforeign women, echoed it, without understanding it. Ahead of them,\nwalked an old man to lead the way. They wore Icelandic homespun\nskirts, and had them tucked up at the waist. Around their heads,\nthey had tied Icelandic woollen shawls. They say they are such good\nwalkers. They intend to take lodging somewhere for the night for\ntheir pennies.\n\nWhen the women had disappeared, Torfi Torfason looked into the cabin\nwhere they had drunk their last drop of coffee, and the mugs were\nstill standing unwashed on the ledge. Tota was taking care of the\nlittle boy, but little Imba was sitting silent beside the stove.\nMamma had gone away. Torfi Torfason patched up the door, patched up\nthe walls, all that day, and carried in wood. In the evening, the\nlittle girls bring him porridge, bread, and a slice of meat. The\nlittle boy frets and cries. And his sister, big Tota with her big\nred hands, takes him up in her arms and rocks him: Little brother\nmust be good, little brother mustn't cry, little brother's going to\nget a drop of milk from his good old Mulley.--But the boy keeps on\ncrying.\n\n     My Mulley cow, moo, moo, moo\n      Mulley in the byre,\n      What great big horns she has.\n      What great big eyes she has!\n      Blessings on my Mulley cow, my good old\n       Mulley cow.\n\n     Our Mamma went away, 'way, 'way,\n      Away went our Mamma.\n      Our Mamma's gone but where, where, where.\n      Where has she gone, our Mamma?\n      She'll come back after Christmas and\n       Christmas and Christmas,\n      Back with a new dress for me, a new dress,\n       a new dress.\n\n     We mustn't be a-crying, a-crying, a-crying,\n      For surely she'll be coming, our Mamma,\n       our Mamma,\n\n     For she is our good Mamma, our Mamma,\n       our Mamma.\n      God bless our Mamma and our little brother's\n       Mamma.\n\nBut the boy still kept on crying. And Torfi Torfason ate his meal\nlike a man who is trying to eat something in a hurry at a concert.\n\nThe day after, Torfi Torfason started off. A Canadian winter day,\nblue, vast, and calm, with ravens hovering over the snow-covered\nwoods. He threaded his way along the trails northward to the lake,\ncarrying his pack on his back. This was through unsettled country,\nnowhere a soul, nowhere the smoke from a cabin mile after mile, only\nthose ravens, flying above the white woods and alighting on the\nbranches as on a clay statue of Pallas. 'Nevermore.' And Torfi\nTorfason thinks of his ewes and his cows and his horses and all that\nhe has lost.\n\nThen all of a sudden a wretched bitch waddled out from the woods\ninto his path. It was a vagrant bitch, as thin as a skeleton, and so\nbig in the belly that she walked with difficulty. Her dugs dragged\nalong the snow, for she was in pup. They came from opposite\ndirections, two lonely creatures, who are paddling their own canoes\nin America, and meet one cold winter day out in the snow. At first\nshe pricked up her ears and stared at the man with brown mistrustful\neyes. Then she crouched down in the snow and began to tremble, and\nhe understood that she was telling him she wasn't feeling well, that\nshe had lost her master, that she had often been beaten, beaten,\nbeaten, and never in her life had enough to eat, and that nobody had\never been kind to her, never; nobody knew, she was sure, how all\nthis would end for her. She was very poor, she said.\n\nWell, it takes all kinds to make a world, said Torfi Torfason. And\nhe took off his pack and sat down in the snow with his legs\nstretched out in front of him. In the mouth of the pack there was\nsomething that little Tota had scraped together for her papa on the\ntrip. And then the bitch began to wag her tail back and forth in the\nsnow and gaze with lustful eyes at the mouth of the pack.\n\nWell, well, poor doggie, so you have lost your master and have had\nnothing to eat since God knows when, and I've just chased out my\nwife, yes, yes, and she went away yesterday. Yes, yes, she's going\nto try to shift for herself as a washerwoman down in Winnipeg this\nwinter, yes, yes, that's how it is now. Yes, yes, we packed up and\nleft a fairly decent living there at home and came here into this\ndamnable log-cabin existence, yes, yes. ... Well, try that in your\nchops, you miserable cur, you can gobble that up, I tell you. Oh,\nthis is nothing but damned scraps and hardly fit to offer a dog, not\neven a stray dog, oh, no. Well, I can't bring myself to chase you\naway, poor wretch--we're all stray dogs in the eyes of the Lord in\nany case, that's what we all are....\n\nTime passed on and Torfi Torfason fished in the lake and lived in a\nhut on some outlying island with his boss, a red-bearded man, who\nmade money out of his fishing fleet as well as by selling other\nfishermen tobacco, liquor, and twine. The fisherman vehemently\ndisliked the dog and said every day that that damned bitch ought to\nbe killed. He had built this cabin on the island himself. It was\ndivided into two parts, a hall and a room. They slept in the room,\nand in the hall they kept fishing tackle, food, and other supplies,\nbut the bitch slept on the step outside the cabin door. The\nfisherman was not a generous man and gave Torfi the smaller share of\nthe food. He absolutely forbade giving the dog the tiniest morsel\nand said that bitch ought to be killed. To this Torfi made no\nanswer, but always stole a bite for the dog when the fisherman had\ngone to bed. Now the time came when the bitch was to pup. The bitch\npupped. And when she had finished pupping, he gave her a fine chunk\nof meat, which he stole from the fisherman, for he knew that bitter\nis the hunger of the woman in child-bed, and let her lie on an old\nsack in the hall, directly against the will of the fisherman. Then\nhe lay down to sleep.\n\nBut he had not lain long when he is aroused by someone walking about\nand he cannot figure out why. But it turns out to be the fisherman,\nwho gets up out of bed, walks out into the hall. lights the lamp,\ntakes the bitch by the scruff of the neck, and throws her out in the\nsnow. Then he closes the outer door, puts out the light, and lies\ndown on his bunk. Now it is quiet for a while, until the bitch\nbegins to howl outside and the pups to whine piteously in the hall.\nThen Torfi Torfason gets up, gropes his way out through the hall,\nlets the bitch in, and she crawls at once over her pups. After that\nhe lies down to sleep. But he has not lain long when he is aroused\nby somebody walking about and he can not figure out why. But it\nturns out to be the fisherman, who gets up out of bed, walks out\ninto the hall, lights the lamp, takes the bitch by the scruff of her\nneck for the second time and throws her out into the snow. Then he\nlies down to sleep again. Again the bitch begins to howl outside and\nthe pups to whine, and Torfi Torfason gets up out of bed, lets the\nbitch in to the pups again, and again lies down. After a little\nwhile the fisherman gets up again, lights the lantern, and fares\nforth. But even soft iron can be whetted sharp, and now Torfi\nTorfason springs out of bed a third time and out into the hall after\nthe fisherman.\n\nEither you leave the dog alone or both of us will go, I and the dog,\nsays Torfi Torfason, and it was only a matter of seconds till he\nlaid hands on his master. A hard scuffle began and the cabin shook\nwith it, and everything fell over and broke that was in the way.\nThey gave each other many and heavy blows, but the fisherman was the\nmore warlike, until Torfi tackled low, grasped him round the waist,\nand did not let up in the attack until he had the fisherman doubled\nup with his chin against his knees. Then he opened the door of the\ncabin and threw him out somewhere into the wide world.\n\nOutside, the weather was calm, the stars were shining, it was\nextremely cold, and there was snow over everything. Torfi was all\nblack and blue and bleeding, hot and panting after the struggle. So\nthis was what had to happen to Torfi Torfason, renowned as a man of\npeace, who had never harmed a living creature--to throw a man out of\nhis own house, hurl him out on the frozen ground in the middle of\nthe night, and all for one she-dog. Perhaps I have even killed him,\nTorfi thought, but that's the end of that--that's how it had to be.\nTo think that I ever moved to New Iceland!\n\nAnd he sauntered out of the cabin, coatless as he stood, sauntered\nout on to the icy ground and headed for the woods. And he had hardly\nwalked twenty feet when he had forgotten both his rage and the\nfisherman and started to think about what he had owned and what he\nhad lost. Nobody knows what he has owned until he has lost it. He\nbegan to think about his sheep, which were as white as snow in the\nfleece, about his horses, fine old fellows, who were the only ones\nwho understood him and knew him and esteemed him, and about his\ncows, which were led out the lanes one evening last spring and\nstrange boys ran after them with bits of strap. And he began to\nthink about Jon and Maria, whom God Almighty had taken to Himself up\nin yon great, foreign heaven, which vaults over New Iceland and is\nsomething altogether different from the heaven at home. And he saw\nstill in his mind those Icelandic pioneers who had stood over the\ngrave with their old hats in their sorely tired hands and droned.\n\nAnd he threw himself down on the frozen ground among the trees and\ncried bitterly in the frosty night--this big strong man who had gone\nall the way from Old Iceland to New Iceland--this proletarian who\nhad brought his children as a sacrifice to the hope of a much\nworthier future, a more perfect life. His tears fell on the ice.","title":"Seven Icelandic Short Stories","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":31239}