Independent People (75 page)

“Oh, go to the devil with all your bloody nonsense about souls,” said Bjartur, jumping contemptuously down from the pen wall.

It was at this point that Hrollaugur of Keldur turned the conversation to worms.

PART III
Conclusion

T
HAT
spring, at about the same time Bjartur finished rebuilding the ruined farmhouse at Urtharsel—it was the same sort of farmhouse he had built once before, the sort of farmhouse that is built by instinct—the Bailiff of Utirauthsmyri bought back his winter sheep-cotes for the price of the mortgages with which they were encumbered. Most people considered that he had made a good bargain. His intention was to turn Summerhouses into a huge fox-farm, because it was growing daily more and more obvious that the country’s worst enemy was no longer the fox, the country’s worst enemy was the sheep. Bjartur in the meantime had moved his stock and his household goods away up north into Sandgils-heath, and there was now nothing of his left on the place except the old woman, whom he proposed to convey to Urtharsel on his return from town. He was making his first trip to town under the name Bjartur of Urtharsel, his son in company with him. This man was now so deeply in debt to the co-operative stores that he wasn’t allowed even a handful of rye meal on his own account. He was allowed a horse-load of goods in the name of Hallbera Jonsdottir, widow, after producing written authority. It was useless to indulge in threatening language, useless to revile anyone, for no one had time to listen to threats or to hurl back abuse, unless indeed some pack-horse boy told one to keep one’s mouth shut. And there was no point in punching anyone on the nose, because somehow or other it was always the wrong nose that got punched. He had sold his two better horses to buy timber for the new living-room at Urtharsel, and now all he had left was a twenty-six-year-old wreck called Blesi, whom we have met before. We remember him from the old days, when we attended a funeral at Summerhouses, yes, a long time ago; he stood tied to the doorpost on a
winter’s day and gazed in while old Thorthur of Nithurkot sang. Many are the things that can befall a horse. This horse had lived in Summerhouses for as long as Bjartur had farmed it, the only horse in the lean years, one of several when times were good, but now once more the only horse, bony, drooping, mangy, bald, and with a cataract in one eye; poor old nag; but he had a stout heart like Bjartur.

They were late in reaching Fjord, and the crofter felt that it would be too much of a strain on Blesi to make him do the return journey the same evening. They had put him out to graze, but his teeth were few and he was slow in eating his fill, so they had no other choice than to wait for early morning, when he might be presumed to have eaten what he needed. It was late in the evening, the stores shut, their errands finished, and nothing to do but wait for dawn; they walked off down the street. They were both hungry, for they had eaten nothing all day, and as neither had any money, they could not spend the night in lodgings. The sky grew overcast and a cold breeze blew in from the sea, but the rain kept off; they were both longing for coffee, neither mentioned it.

“I shouldn’t think there’s much risk of rain tonight,” said Bjartur, looking up at the sky. “We can lie down behind a garden wall somewhere for an hour or two.”

There had been trouble in the town, though Bjartur of Urtharsel had had more serious matters to occupy his mind. The fact was that Ingolfur Arnarson’s ideals were in process of being realized in Fjord. A fortnight ago work had been started on the great harbour scheme that the Prime Minister had once promised this market town and then pushed through Parliament with all his well-known drive; he was never the man to break a promise. Besides the local inhabitants, a large number of people from Vik had found work on this ambitious undertaking; they had left their homes and were now living in some old baiting-sheds, which were used as dormitories and were called barracks. It had been agreed that the rates of pay should be in conformity with what is usual in the remoter parts of the country. Work was begun by once more rebuilding the far-famed breakwater, a task requiring enormous quantities of stone and concrete. The men had worked for a week at blasting and transporting the stones; then the first pay-day arrived. It then came to light that their ideas of what constituted normal rates of pay in the remoter parts of the country had been much too rosy; they were being offered an amount that,
far from enabling them to become members of the middle class, was in their opinion insufficient to keep body and soul together for themselves and their families. They called such wages an attack by starvation on the workers and said they were against a Constitution which allowed working people to go hungry, as if such a Constitution was anything new! They demanded higher wages, but no one had authority to pay higher wages in these hard times. Who cares though your children have nothing to eat, the Icelandic Constitution is holy. They laid down their tools and came out on strike. There had never been a strike in Fjord before, but the Vik workmen, who were the leaders in the present affair, had once had one in their native town and had won, with the result that their dependents had been able to have rye bread with their refuse fish for quite a while afterwards. The people of Fjord, however, were divided on the question, and while many of them were enthusiastic supporters of the strike, a considerable number kept out of it, being not unwilling to make some sacrifice for Iceland’s independence. The foreman gave a ready welcome to all those willing to accept the pay offered; the others could pack their traps and go. A number of small boat-owners and other members of the middle class even came forward and offered their services free of charge, with a view to preserving the nation’s independence and the Icelandic Constitution. But the strikers refused to quit the job and, what was more, posted pickets who prevented those willing to work from entering. As a result there had been frequent clashes between those who could afford to protect the independence of Iceland and those who wanted their families to have something to eat. Many of the combatants had been sadly knocked about, some had had bones broken. Words and ideas unlike anything previously known in this locality were soon on everyone’s lips; these people who had come here to disturb the peace were a set of vile, disreputable toughs who maintained quite openly that what they were after was a new system in which working people should have enough to eat. There was no police force in the place to suppress such crazy notions, and the Constitution stood helpless and unprotected, along with the country’s independence, till the Sheriff wired the authorities and asked for police to be sent to protect those who wanted to work and to remove from the scene of operations a gang of villainous hooligans who didn’t belong to Fjord anyway and who were illegally using force to prevent the work from being carried on. This request met with a ready response from the government; a squad of police was even
now on its way and was expected to arrive by coastal steamer tomorrow morning. It was also reported that the strikers were well prepared for the police, and a big fight was expected. The whole town was in a state of apprehensive tension, so it was not surprising that no one had a thought to spare for Bjartur of Summerhouses when they were all wondering whether they would get a drubbing on the morrow. But now it was late in the evening; the turbulent voices of the working class had grown silent, giving way to the tern’s untuneful screech. The night lay like a transparent veil over the town. The dale crofter and his son sat down at the edge of the road, in front of a sleeping house, and chewed straws and did not speak for a good while.

It was the son who at last broke the silence.

“Oughtn’t we both to go along to our Asta Sollilja’s and see how she’s getting on?” he said. I’ve heard she’s ill.”

No reply.

The son: “Don’t you think we ought to go along and see our Asta Sollilja? They say her sweetheart has run away and left her.”

Continued silence.

The son: “Father, I’m certain our Asta Sollilja would love us to look in and see her. I’m certain she would give us a drink of coffee.”

Finally the father lost his patience, gave his son an angry look and said, “Oh, shut up before I slap your face. Won’t you ever learn to behave like a man, you damned young milksop?”

There the matter ended.

They had been sitting there in silence for a good while when they espied a man loitering about on the road at no very great distance, dawdling slowly nearer, tall and thin, wearing blue nankeen trousers and a jersey, his cap on the back of his head. Now and then he halted and looked at the houses and turned around in a circle. Presently, catching sight of the pair, he stopped examining the houses and slouched up to them, halting at a few paces’ distance. He fumbled in his pockets and produced a cigarette butt, then considered the two countrymen and the cigarette in turn. Then he smiled and, after lighting up, approached still nearer.

“Good evening, comrades,” he said.

They answered his greeting stolidly and without any great enthusiasm, not moving, and still staring down into the ditch at the side of the road, with the grass stalks between their teeth.

The stranger hung about, shifting his feet and altering his
posture occasionally, but showing no signs of leaving. His gaze wandered about here and there, but fixed itself finally on the sky.

“It’s clouded over with the coming of night.” said he.

They made no reply.

“This is a rotten hole to be in anyway.’ said the stranger. “I wish I was back home. Not that it’s any better there, of course.”

“Where do you come from?” asked Bjartur.

He came from Vik, and had left that town because he had thought that things wouldn’t be so bad in Fjord this summer, whereas actually they had turned out to be a good deal worse than they were at home even. The whole business had turned out to be nothing but a damned swindle. “Listen,” he said all at once, looking at Bjartur as if he had just had a brain-wave, “I don’t suppose you could sell me a loaf of bread, could you?”

“Sell you a loaf? Are you sure you’re right in the head? No; I have no bread to sell.”

“Oh well,” replied the other, smiling aimlessly, “it doesn’t matter. I can’t pay for it anyway.”

There was a short silence, then the stranger exclaimed: “God damn and blast it all, flaming hell and bloody corruption—what book is that in again?”

“In the Bible, I expect,” replied Bjartur.

“Tut, what am I thinking of?” said the other; “of course it is.”

“You’re one of these fellows who have come out on strike, I suppose,” said Bjartur. “You ought to be ashamed of yourselves and get back to work.”

“What’s the point, when we’ve been swindled?” said the man. “It’s to be hoped that you aren’t one of those who want to go on working?”

“Yes, I am,” replied Bjartur. “I’ve always been a hard-working man. But I am no man’s underling. I am an independent man—still.”

“They’re saying now that the police are coming tomorrow,” said the stranger. “I hope you didn’t vote for Ingolfur Jonsson, the damned bloodhound.”

But on this point Bjartur preferred to remain silent.

“It’s a crime not being able to get hold of some bread,” observed the man. “The chaps sent me out to get some, you see. We were going to make some coffee.”

Bjartur: “You said you hadn’t any money.”

The man looked up at the sky again, clicked his tongue, and smiled the same aimless smile as before. “Well, I wasn’t actually
thinking of buying it, you see. Not very seriously, anyway. I was just taking a look at the bakery.”

The bakery shut hours ago,” Bjartur informed him.

That doesn’t matter so much, as long as they haven’t hidden the bread,” said the man.

“Hidden it?”

“Yes, yes, they’ve hidden it. I saw some -damned fine loaves in the shop at seven o’clock, real monsters, you should have seen them, man.”

He had finished his cigarette butt now. “Do you suppose it will rain?” he added, looking once more at the sky.

“I shouldn’t think so,” said Bjartur.

“Not that I mind,” said the man. ‘It can rain as hard as it damned well likes for all I care. Listen, it’s a hell of a long time since I was last with a woman, now that I come to think of it.”

“Dear me,” said Bjartur.

“Oh well, it doesn’t matter anyway,” said the other. “If the bastards send the police tomorrow, it will be just as well not to have been with a woman. I say, wouldn’t you like to join in with us, comrades?”

“Against whom?”

“Against that big bastard Ingolfur Jonsson, of course,” said the man.

Bjartur considered the matter for a while, then replied: “No, I’m afraid I wouldn’t be much good in a scrap nowadays.”

“We’ve a whole heap of pick-handles,” said the man. “And all sorts of clubs.”

“Really,” said Bjartur.

“But if the bastards bring rifles, we’ll just have to give in, of course. We’re all agreed on that. Most of us have kids, you see. I wouldn’t mind being shot if I didn’t have any kids. I say, are you two waiting for anything special?”