Читать книгу Guest the One-Eyed - Gunnar Gunnarsson - Страница 6

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One burning hot afternoon, late in the summer, Ormarr was sitting up on the edge of a high ridge of Borgarfjall, to the west of Borg. A great flock of sheep grazed on the plateau below.

Ormarr, as shepherd, found his task light. It was just after lambing-time, and for the first two or three days the sheep had been difficult to handle. Full of anxiety, and bleating piteously, they rushed about in all directions, vainly seeking their offspring. Now, however, they had more or less accustomed themselves to the new state of things, and kept fairly well together, so that Ormarr was free to devote most of his time to his favourite pursuits: playing the violin, and dreaming.

He made a curious picture, this fourteen-year-old peasant lad, as he sat there, clad in rough homespun, his clothes fitting clumsily, and hiding the lithe beauty of his frame. The clear-cut face, the strong chin resting on the violin, and the lean hand with its supple fingers running over the strings, contrasted strangely with the everyday coat, darned and patched in many places.

Often he fell into a reverie, his dark eyes gazing on the distant mountains, the fingers relaxing, and the slender brown hand with the bow resting on his knee. The face, too thin for a boy of his age, bore a grave and thoughtful expression, with a touch of melancholy. The black masses of curling, unruly hair, and the faint coppery tinge in the skin, suggested Celtic descent.

Yet despite the trace of something foreign in his appearance, he was at heart a true child of his country. The wistful, dreamy thoughts that burned in his dark, passionate eyes, betrayed that rich and abundant imagination peculiar to the sons of Iceland, fostered by the great solitude and desolate yet fertile grandeur of the land itself. So deeply is the sense of that grandeur rooted in their hearts, that even those who have roamed the world over, and lived most of their lives in milder and richer climes, will yet declare that Iceland is the most beautiful of all.

Another typical trait in Ormarr’s nature was the melancholy that consumed his soul—a product of youthful self-absorption without the corresponding experience.

His descent from the ancient and noble race of Borg was apparent in his chariness of words, in his credulity,—it was a thing inconceivable, that he or any of his should tell a falsehood,—in his self-reliance, and strong belief that he was in the right, as long as he followed the dictates of his own conscience. Young as he was, every look, every feature, betrayed the born chieftain in him.

This was evident most of all in his music—which consisted mainly of dreams and fantasies he had himself composed. From the first day he had learned to hold the instrument, he had thrown into his music a burning interest and an overwhelming love. It gave him the only possible outlet for the longing that filled him.

Loneliness and despair sobbed in the sweet and passionate strains; the strings vibrated with a deep desire, that yet had no conscious aim, but the sound brought relief, though never satisfying to the full.

His playing revealed his soul as a wanderer in the wilderness—as a giant whose strength is doomed to slumber under the weight of unbreakable shackles; it showed that, to him, life was a slow, consuming pain, the purpose of which he could not grasp; that he was born with a wealth of power, yet found no single thing to which he could devote it. Here he was, heir to the estate, and yet—perhaps for that very reason—born in bondage.

Despite his youth, Ormarr was alive to the danger of his changing moods, which, as he often thought, bordered on insanity. Proud as he was of being heir to Borg, he nevertheless felt a smouldering hatred of his heritage, since it fettered him from birth. With all these longings in his soul, he was conscious of being himself part and parcel of Borg; something told him that here, and here alone, was the soil in which his personality and varying moods could grow into one harmonious and united whole. He had only to follow in the steps of his fathers. But this, again, seemed too easy a solution of the riddle of life—he preferred a struggle to the death. It was as if his descent, and his natural prospects, excluded him from all the adventures he longed for; the part for which he seemed cast was beneath the level of his strength and ability.

But he realized that any outward expression of such thoughts would compromise him, and bring disgrace upon his family: he must conceal them, hide them in silence, never breathe a word of it all to any other. Only in his music, where he could speak without betraying himself by words, could he venture to ease his heart of its burden.

He felt like a galley slave, chained to the oar for life, without hope of escape. The idea of rebellion, of emancipation, had never crossed his mind. Had any one suggested such a thing, he would have risen up in arms against it at once, for, in spite of all, he felt himself so at one with his race that to desert it thus would be nothing less than to betray himself.

That same afternoon an unexpected event took place at Borg. The Vicar, Sera Daniel, accompanied by Bjarni Jonsson, came to call.

Ørlygur à Borg was resting on his bed, which in the daytime was covered, like a couch, with a many-coloured rug, when news was brought him of the visit. The girl informed him that she had asked the visitors into the big hall. Ørlygur smiled when he heard their names. He had just returned from a sale of driftwood, held at the instance of one of the farmers whose lands ran down to the shore, and who yearly gathered in large stocks of washed-up timber, which was subsequently sold, either privately or by auction. He was tired, and felt too comfortable where he was to care about moving.

“Let them come in here if they have anything to say,” he told the girl.

The two men exchanged glances when the message was brought them. Each found a certain satisfaction in witnessing the humiliation of the other, which helped him to bear his own. Nevertheless, on entering Ørlygur’s room, both were visibly embarrassed.

Ørlygur himself did nothing to set them at their ease. Without rising, he took their proffered hands, answered their greetings with a murmur of something inaudible, and indicated that they might be seated.

There was but a single chair in the room, placed between the two beds. Sera Daniel would willingly have left it to Bjarni—though he considered it due to himself and his superior social position to take it in order not to be too close to his host. Bjarni, however, had a similar disinclination, and forestalled his companion by taking a seat at once on the edge of the bed, well pleased at having attained his end, while seeming to act from sheer natural modesty.

For a while no one spoke. Ørlygur stretched himself, and smiled faintly, awaiting the explanation of the visit.

Sera Daniel cleared his throat for an introduction he had prepared beforehand. But he got no further than a slight cough. And, looking at Bjarni, he perceived that the latter was in a like predicament, his usually grey face turning a fiery red.

Ørlygur was enjoying the situation, and maintained a ruthless silence.

Sera Daniel soon realized that he could look for no assistance from the trader, who apparently considered that the priest’s closer proximity to the enemy carried with it the obligation to deliver the first attack. At last he stammered out:

“Er—we have come—to tell the truth—to see you. H’m—about a matter that—er—distresses us somewhat. And we thought that—perhaps—it might be not altogether pleasant to yourself—that is to say—of course—I mean, considering....”

Ørlygur slowly rose to a sitting position. Then setting his hands firmly on his knees and leaning forward slightly, he looked straight into the other’s eyes.

“To tell the truth, Sera Daniel, I am not aware of any matter which distresses me in any way at the moment. I fancy your idea of something mutually unpleasant must be due to a misunderstanding. Your troubles are hardly mine, you know; the more so since we have seen very little of each other for quite a long time now.”

“No, no, of course not. But—you know better than any one else that it is you who set the example to all the parish.”

“If that is so, you explain yourself badly. I stay away from church, certainly—for the simple reason that I prefer to avoid meeting a clergyman whom I dislike. My affair with you will keep me away from church until it is settled—possibly as long as you conduct the service there. If the rest of your parishioners elect to do the same, it merely means that your conscience will soon forbid you to remain as spiritual guide to a flock who avoid you. If, on the other hand, your conscience should prove more accommodating in this respect, I have no doubt that the authorities will discover in a short time what you are unable to see for yourself. You take my meaning, Sera Daniel?”

“I am not sure that I do. I cannot see why a thoughtless action on my part last spring—which I deeply regret—should embitter you to such an extent that you stake the spiritual welfare of the congregation in revenge.”

“Oh, that’s rather too much. You say you regret your thoughtlessness last spring. I translate that as meaning simply that you regret having managed so badly; that you realize the failure of your clumsy conspiracy against me, with our friend the trader there—who seems worn out by the heavy business of the summer season, since he apparently can’t open his mouth. And then you haven’t even the decency to keep this sordid affair to itself, but must mix it up with the spiritual welfare of your congregation. Well, it simply shows that you are more impudent even than I had thought.”

“If it were not that my position as incumbent here forces me to set aside my personal interests—for the sake of the parish, you understand—and to avert if possible the disastrous consequences—”

“Disastrous? My dear Sera Daniel, you are a marvel. Unless you take ‘the parish’ as meaning yourself and some few others, I cannot see your argument at all. I do not regret, and see no reason to regret, what has taken place, and I am afraid ‘the parish’ takes the same view. I am not one of those men who act hastily and afterwards regret their folly. Candidly, Sera Daniel, your ideas are too vague and too complicated for me to care to discuss them further. I have had quite enough of empty talk; let us come to facts. And here I imagine that Bjarni Jonsson will be better able to speak. How very fortunate that he happened to come at the same time.”

Then, turning to Bjarni, Ørlygur went on:

“As far as I remember, we arranged last time I saw you, that you could come out here and buy my wool when you were prepared to pay a decent price.”

“Certainly—yes, of course. That is, I am ready... to discuss....”

“Very well, then. I hope the discussion will be brief. Let me make it clear at the start that my terms are fixed, and not intended as a basis for negotiation. You can, of course, refuse them if you prefer, but I must insist on the matter being settled quickly. I need not tell you, I suppose, that I bought up all the wool I could last spring, when I realized that prices would be exceptionally high—your books have no doubt made that evident to yourself already. I am willing to let you have all my wool at a reasonable price, as I know that many of the peasants hereabout are in your debt, and that you are anxious for a settlement. I myself am not in your debt. I do not owe you money, and certainly very little consideration. My peasants, on the other hand—you must excuse my calling them ‘my peasants,’ we are linked, you know, by friendship and common interests—my peasants owe you money, and I am willing to offer my wool in clearance of their debts, or as much of their debts as it will cover. The debt will thus be transferred to a creditor who can perhaps afford to give them longer credit. You, I take it, are chiefly anxious to make money.”

Bjarni sat with downcast eyes. The word of “the King” cut him like a knife. He realized well enough that his business at Hofsfjordur would be entirely ruined. Up till now he had cherished a faint hope that Ørlygur would spare him, if only he humbled himself sufficiently. At length he realized, that though Ørlygur had mercifully saved him from absolute ruin, and reduced his loss by paying the farmers’ debts, he would never have another customer unless he could succeed in winning him over again. And the present reception did not seem to offer any great hope of re-establishing that connection.

Yet he still clung to the hope that by absolute humility he might work on Ørlygur to extend his leniency still further. Therefore, without a murmur, he agreed to Ørlygur’s terms. He could not reconcile himself to the idea of leaving the place and throwing up the excellent position he had toiled and planned so many years to gain. He could not bear to think that all was absolutely lost through his own stupidity.

His blood boiled at the thought, but he dared not show it; his fate depended now on Ørlygur’s next move. And meanwhile, his little cunning soul was on the alert for any opportunity of showing “the King” what a loyal subject he could be, and would, if only he might be forgiven this once.

Nevertheless, his heart was filled with a vindictive hatred—first and foremost hatred of Ørlygur, then of Sera Daniel and the rest of the community. Fate had been cruel to him, and was mocking him into the bargain—the one consolation about the whole affair was that things seemed as bad at least, if not worse, for Sera Daniel.

Had Bjarni, the trader, but known that Ørlygur à Borg was at that very moment filled with loathing for the servility he displayed, he would have given vent to a burst of rage on the spot—and it might have saved him, as nothing else could.

Ørlygur certainly felt sorry for the fellow; he knew how much Bjarni had at stake, and how harmless and altogether inferior he really was. He decided, therefore, to spare him, if he could, by unreasonable demands, lead him to give up his servile attitude and lose his temper in honest fashion.

“Well, then, my horses and men are at your disposal for carrying the wool, if you wish to buy it—the price of transport, of course, being in addition. I can let you have fifty horses for the work, so it will not take long. The price—well, it will simplify matters to fix one price for all wool of the same colour. That is to say: one Krone for all white, and half a Krone for the rest.”

Bjarni turned pale; for the moment he found it difficult to control his features. He looked at Ørlygur with the eyes of a wounded dog. But Ørlygur seemed not to notice his imploring gaze, and went on carelessly:

“Well, what do you say? Is that fair?”

“Yes,” stammered Bjarni in reply. Then, quickly, and with an assumption of easiness, he added:

“Well, then, that is settled. Tomorrow?” He nodded as he said the last word; he felt that the moment had come to change the tone of the conversation. This cheerful acceptance on his part of an absurd price was a friendly hand, which he expected Ørlygur would grasp at once.

The effect, however, was contrary to what he had looked for. Ørlygur seemed to take it as a personal affront; he rose quickly, and said in an angry voice:

“Very well, then!”

The two visitors also rose, and without a word all three walked from the room.

Sera Daniel also was highly dissatisfied with the result of his visit. Both he and Bjarni were in a state of painful suspense with regard to the future; they could not persuade themselves that this was Ørlygur’s last word in the matter. It was too dismal a failure for them to accept it as final. Sera Daniel had hoped that the threatening cloud of Ørlygur’s displeasure, which had darkened his work and prospects all through the summer, would be dispelled. He fretted inwardly over every word he had said, and the manner in which he had spoken. Bjarni, too, had cherished similar hopes; an amicable settlement meant even more to him than to the priest.

As if by common instinct, both men hesitated to leave; their manner showed plainly that there was more in their minds. But Ørlygur pretended not to understand their anxiety, and left it to them to make any further move.

Meantime, they had reached the stables. And here they stopped. Ørlygur seemed only waiting for them to take their leave; but the visitors still hoped for some opening—something to happen, they did not quite know what.

Then suddenly the quivering notes of a violin were heard. Here was a welcome excuse for delaying their departure. Ørlygur was listening with delight, as so often before, to his son’s playing; for a while all three stood motionless.

Ørlygur smiled; a smile that covered, perhaps, both his admiration and his aversion—the two conflicting feelings which Ormarr’s playing always seemed to awaken at the same time.

Then Sera Daniel spoke—simply and naturally:

“How beautiful!” But at the same moment he reflected that he ought to know Ørlygur’s character better than to say things like that. And by way of altering the impression of his words, he added, in an entirely different tone:

“There is the making of a fortune in that music.”

Ørlygur à Borg did not grasp his meaning. And though he knew that Sera Daniel would never dare to make fun of him, “the King,” to his face, he was on his guard. He looked at the speaker with a glance of cold inquiry.

Sera Daniel went on:

“In foreign countries there are artists who make fortunes by playing the violin. I have often wished that I were an artist like that... it must be wonderful to travel from one great city to another and be rich. I have heard such men in Copenhagen, when I was studying there.”

When Ørlygur à Borg realized that the priest’s words pointed, not to impossible realms of fancy, but to a world of beautiful reality, the look in his eyes changed. So strange was his glance, so complete the alteration, that Sera Daniel flushed with pleasure at the effect of his words.

For a while Ørlygur stared straight before him, as if in thought. Great things were passing in his mind. Where others would deliberate at length, Ørlygur à Borg was capable of taking in a situation in a moment. He was thinking of Ormarr’s and his brother’s future, and with his wonted respect for sudden impulses, which he was almost inclined to attribute to divine influence, he made up his mind quickly.

He turned to the priest.

“While I think of it, Sera Daniel, there is a matter I have been wanting to talk over with you for some time. Are you going back home by the shorter road? Then I will go with you part of the way.”

The trader took the words as a hint to himself to disappear. Bidding good-bye to Ørlygur and the priest, he rode off with a troubled mind. This was worse than all; an understanding between Ørlygur and Sera Daniel left him utterly hopeless.

Sera Daniel, on the other hand, was delighted at the honour conferred on him by the King of Borg. Leading his horse, he walked down the road with Ørlygur, waiting for what was to come.

Ørlygur had made no mistake in calculating that the fright he had given the priest would suffice to keep him from any further attempts at revolt. After that lesson in the unwritten law of the parish, Sera Daniel would be ready to serve him to the utmost, if need should arise. And as things were turning out now, the priest might well be useful to him, in regard to the future of his sons. Ørlygur determined to make peace.

They walked on for a while in silence. Then Ørlygur spoke:

“Sera Daniel—would you undertake to teach Ormarr Danish? He knows a little, and it would be as well for him to improve on it before he goes away. He will be leaving for Copenhagen this autumn.”

Sera Daniel was almost moved.

“A pleasure indeed—a very great pleasure. I am glad to hear he is going. There is a great future in store for him—of that I feel sure. I have rarely heard any one play so well; he seems far in advance of his age. You should send him to the Conservatoire at Copenhagen—they will make a great artist of him there.”

“Yes—or to some eminent teacher.”

“At first—yes, of course.”

“From first to last,” Ørlygur corrected, with a smile. “He must have the very best teacher throughout. I am going to give him every possible chance. And with regard to his stay in Copenhagen, and matters generally, perhaps you could give him some hints....”

They discussed the matter at length. And when Sera Daniel rode home, his fickle heart swelled with love and admiration for Ørlygur the Rich, who had become his gracious patron after the long, dreary months of enmity.

That evening when Ormarr had driven the sheep into the fold, he saw his father coming slowly towards him, and realized that Ørlygur wished to speak to him.

The two sat down on the grassy wall of the paddock.

“Bjarni Jonsson has been up to buy the wool.”

Ørlygur spoke without any sign of triumph in his voice, and Ormarr evinced no excitement at the information. To both it seemed only natural and inevitable that the matter should have ended thus.

“Sera Daniel came with him.”

After this there was a pause. Then Ørlygur looked his son in the eyes. “Ormarr,” he went on, “I have something important to say to you. You are growing up now, and we must think of your future. Not yours alone, but that of your brother and the estate as well. In short, it concerns Borg. Have you any wish to take over the management of the place?”

“I don’t know....” Ormarr gazed thoughtfully before him.

“Well, I will tell you what I have been thinking of today. Sera Daniel tells me that there are men in foreign countries whose whole work in life consists in playing the violin. You understand, of course, that first of all they must learn to master it thoroughly. They are taught at schools, or by private teachers. Would you care to do the same—to learn to play properly—rules and notes and everything?”

“That means—going abroad?”

Ormarr’s voice trembled, and he turned a little pale. The golden bird of fortune and adventure flashed into the vision of his mind.

“Yes. I spoke to Sera Daniel about teaching you English as well as Danish. While you are in Copenhagen, you might find time to study other languages, without neglecting your music. Languages are always useful: if you become a great artist, you may have to travel in many countries, play your violin everywhere. Anyhow, you shall have the chance. Perhaps your liking for it may not last, or you may find you have not talent enough. If so, you can come back to Iceland again—to Borg if you care to. What do you think—would you like to try?”

“Yes, father—if you will let me. It would be wonderful.”

“I pray God I may be allowed to live a few years more. If you come back here, you will still have your birthright to the estate. But if you prefer to give up your claim, I will see that your brother is brought up to take over the place himself. The next few years will show what is best.”

Ormarr could not sleep that night. He lay weaving dreams about his future.

To him, it all appeared one bright, sunny vision. He pictured life as one grand triumphal procession. He knew that the country he was going to abounded in forests of bright-hued beech and dark pine woods; with lovely orchards, where ripe fruit hung on the trees ready for one to pick and eat. He had read of Danish gardens, where roses and lilac filled the air with their scent.

He counted the days now till he should be able to look with his own eyes on palaces he had known hitherto only from pictures in books—real palaces of kings! They would be no longer castles in the air to him, but real; grand piles of solid stone and mortar. He could walk through their halls, breathe the air of bygone centuries that hung there still; could touch with his hands the very walls that had stood there for hundreds of years.

He painted for himself a future like that of one of the old Icelandic bards. He would play to kings and nobles. There was a lust of travel in his blood, of wandering through life by the royal road of glory and fame. It was almost painful to remember that he had ever thought of living all his days at Borg, as his ancestors had done.

The great world called to him, and every fibre in him answered to the call. He knew that there, where he was going, were wonderful machines contrived to do the work of men. He had never been able to think of such machines as really inanimate things; he longed to see with his own eyes the arms, hands, and fingers they must surely possess. Yet, at the same time, the thought of it made his flesh creep.

Think—to fill a room with light by the mere turning of a switch! And to talk with people through a wire—which he imagined as hollow. And there were places where conjurers worked miracles, and acrobats performed impossible feats; clowns jested and played tricks.... And gardens filled with cages of strange beasts from countries even farther off....

All these and many other things which he had read of, and grown to consider as accessible only to a favoured few, were now to be part of his own surroundings in his daily life. He would live in a city with streets like deep chasms between unscalable cliffs—cave-hollowed cliffs peopled with human beings, instead of giants and goblins. He would go to theatres, where actors seemed to kill one another, and thunder, lightning, and snow could be brought into play within four walls. He would travel endless miles in machine-driven cars that raced along over rails of steel....

Ormarr lay in his dark room, his eyes wide open, letting his fancy paint all manner of visions in the richest colours. His mind was overwhelmed by a turmoil of new sensations.

He tried to recall, one after another, all the pictures he had seen of things in foreign lands; even to portraits of celebrities, of jockeys galloping over turf, and sordid lithographs with impossible figures in ridiculous postures, such as he had seen stuck up in the local stores.

A fever of anticipation burned in his veins. And when at last, towards morning, he dropped off into a broken sleep, he was still surrounded by a crowd of the impressions he had conjured up while awake. They vexed him now; he found himself being thrown from cars that raced away from him at full speed, losing his way in gloomy streets and labyrinthine passages, being snatched up by the steel arms of strange machines and crushed to pieces; standing with one end of a wire between his teeth and vainly trying to speak to a famous man at the other end; he switched on a light and set the house on fire, and was only saved from being burned to death by waking to find the sun shining full in his face.