CHAPTER I
Fru Alma had come to Iceland knowing nothing of the language of the country. Ketill and his brother had always spoken Danish; it had never occurred to her that all Icelanders might not understand it.
When she came to Borg on her first arrival, and met her father-in-law, who could neither understand her nor speak to her, she realized that this ignorance on her part would make her lonely and isolated, and she asked her husband:
“Why did you not teach me Icelandic, Ketill?”
But Ketill answered curtly. He was in ill-humour on account of the failure of his first plans, and his reception generally.
“Never thought of it,” was all he said.
Alma, whose womanly instinct had told her at once that all was not as it should be among the family, glanced anxiously from one to another of those round her. Then she observed:
“But I can’t talk to any one.”
“You can talk to me.”
Alma was silent. It was the first time her husband had spoken unkindly to her.
Later on, as they went home to Hof, Ketill rode in silence, with never a word to his wife all the way.
Alma’s heart was full of conflicting emotions. She was sorry that there should be any coolness between herself and her husband; but her conscience at least was clear. And why could he not talk to her; tell her what it was that evidently troubled him? It struck her that he had never really confided in her, save in regard to matters of no account.
Suddenly she realized that they were really strangers. She had never really known him, after all; he had never opened his heart to her. And the distance between them seemed so tangible that it was hard to realize that they were actually married. Despite the intimacy of their relationship, they were separated by a veil of darkness and uncertainty. And so they were to live, side by side, year after year, bound one to another by a bond that could not be broken,—ay, and by another that would soon be evident,—to live in each other’s company through every day. And the thought was so painful to her that she found herself unwilling to contemplate that her children would have to call this man their father.
The change in her feelings, or more properly, her sudden realization of the true state of things, the recognition of her thoughtless rashness in entering upon this marriage, came to her as something overwhelming; she hardly knew herself. All in a moment she was changed; she was no longer the light-hearted, innocent girl, but a creature unknown, with unknown possibilities.
It was done now, and she was helpless. She had given vent to thoughts and feelings which, as her old self, she would never have dreamed of. So unaccustomed was she to act on the dictates of her own feeling and not by custom and tradition, to measure things by her own ideas and not by orthodox, accepted standards, that she felt herself now a dangerous person, a criminal, forced to seek refuge in silence and emptiness from words or thoughts that might lead to disaster.
There was her husband now, riding ahead, and paying no heed to how she managed on the way. Where was the courteous gentleman who had stood by her side at the altar? And she had told herself—and others—that she had found the ideal partner for life! A priest, moreover, a servant of God, set in the forefront of humanity as an example to others!
Little by little she worked herself up to a state of bitter scorn. Once she had let herself go, she knew no bounds.
And she did not spare herself, now that she had once ventured to form her own judgment of things and people, herself included.
Oh, what an irresponsible fool she had been in her self-deception! Trustful and idealistic—yes, and narrow-minded and unwittingly a hypocrite. A doll, a child, a foolish butterfly thing.... Heavens, how little and mean and stupid, wicked and ridiculous, she had been—she and so many others of her kind.
There was her husband, riding ahead ... yes....
A reaction of regret at her impetuosity came over her. It was a dreadful thing not to love and honour him. Oh, if only he would make it easier; turn round and nod to her kindly, or say a friendly word. She would be loving and forgiving at once. Who could say what troubles were burdening him all the time? And perhaps it was only to spare her that he said nothing. Men were strange in that way; they fancied that a woman suffered less in such estrangement if she did not learn the cause of it.
Then—oh, it was incredible! They were at the ford now, and he was riding through the stream without so much as a look behind him.... Well, perhaps there was nothing so strange in that, after all; possibly it had not occurred to him that she had never forded a stream on horseback in her life; it was only thoughtlessness on his part.
But all the same it was a hard struggle to keep her mind in any friendly attitude towards him, or to keep back the fears that would rise to her eyes. She bit her lips, and strove to restrain her feelings.
Her horse was already knee deep in the water—and the Hofsa at this part was wide, yet with a fairly strong current.
Alma had never ridden through running water before; at first it seemed to her as if the horse had suddenly flung itself sideways against the stream. Instinctively she leaned over herself, farther and farther, against the stream. Ketill, a couple of lengths in front, looked round just as she was about to fall, turned his horse, and seized her arm just in time.
The roar of the water, and a sense of dizziness in her head, rendered her unconscious for the moment. But the grip on her arm was hard, and a feeling of anger rose in her towards her husband. Again she restrained herself; it was perhaps only his firmness that had saved her; she forgot about his carelessness in riding ahead of her across the ford. Her kindly feelings were uppermost, and as soon as they had crossed to the farther bank, she turned to him, trying honestly to speak in a friendly tone, and asked:
“What is it, Ketill; what is the matter with you?”
“Nothing—nothing,” answered Ketill, and gave his horse a cut with the whip, so that the animal sprang forward a pace.
At that, Alma broke down entirely, and fell to sobbing helplessly; she was weary and desperate, unable to think, or even consciously to feel; she was alone in a great solitude, herself a solitary speck of misery in an endless expanse.
They reached the vicarage. Alma was now in a state of dull indifference. She had, however, carefully dried the tears from her face, and drawn down her veil.
The vicarage servants, about a score in all, had gathered in front of the house to welcome the new master and his wife. Ketill was abrupt and reserved as hitherto; he shook hands with them all, as was the custom of the country, but his greeting was cold and formal.
Somewhat unwillingly, Alma laid her slight, warm hand in the first hand outstretched towards her; but the evident respect and kindly feeling with which it was taken touched her at once, and she grasped it with sincere feeling. And the ice once broken, she was able to greet each of the simple, silent folk with unfeigned heartiness. She could not understand their stammered words, but her own manner spoke for itself, and one old woman, the last to come forward, was so touched by the natural kindliness of the fine lady from foreign parts, that she forgot herself so far as to put one arm around her shoulder and kiss her on the cheek.
Alma felt herself trembling, and could hardly restrain her tears. Leaning on the old woman’s arm, she passed into the house.
Ketill gave some brief orders, and the servants dispersed. But even this first encounter had been enough to plant in the heart of each of them a seed of ill-will towards their master, and affection towards the Danish lady he had brought with him as his wife.
The old woman led Alma into the low-ceilinged sitting-room and left her. Neither could understand the other’s speech, and she had judged it best to retire.
Alma sat down on a chair just inside the door, still wearing her riding-habit and veil, and looked round the room. It was painted white, with four heavy beams across the ceiling. The two windows at one end of the room were already hung with heavy winter curtains above the white. The furniture was of polished mahogany. The floor was carpeted, and a heavy old-fashioned stove was built into the centre of one wall. A big upright clock ticked monotonously, with a beat as cold and devoid of feeling as the utterance of a philosopher whom nothing on earth could move. There was a sense of comfort about the general atmosphere of the room, yet it had, as is often the case with rooms antiquely furnished, a touch of aloofness, forbidding the introduction of any other tone, or at least dominating others by its own.
Close to one of the windows Alma noticed a large writing-table and a bookshelf; that seemed familiar. And suddenly she realized that the room was to be not hers alone, but her husband’s also. Probably he had no study of his own in the house. And a feeling of bitterness crept into her heart; the room seemed less inviting now.
She rose, and crossed to the window farthest from the writing-desk, where there stood a small work-table. Here she sat down in an easy-chair, still without taking off her things, and looked out of the window. Outside was a small plot of potatoes and turnips, hedged in with the remains of a rhubarb bed, against the high bank which sheltered the garden on the north. The windows faced south-west, looking on to the bleak, high field beyond the enclosure. Behind the vicarage towered the Hof Mountains, hanging threateningly, as it were, above the place; farther in the distance were blue-grey peaks and ridges. It was all so strange to her that now, looking at it calmly, it seemed unreal, incredible.
Alma turned cold at heart as she looked. She remembered her first survey of the landscape earlier in the day, from Borg; she had found nothing green in it all save the sea. All the meadows and pastures round the house seemed withered and grey; the autumn green of the fields in Denmark was nowhere to be seen. All things seemed barren and decayed, with a grey pallor, as it were, of something nearing death, that she had seen before only in aged humanity. Here, she perceived, autumn was a reality, and not merely a passing phase to be taken lightly. Most of the houses, small and low, were built of turf and stone together. And the separate buildings of each homestead seemed to creep in close to one another, keeping as close to the ground as possible, like a flock of animals cowering before an approaching storm.
The impression it made on her then, of impending disaster, of something evil lying in wait, had vanished as quickly as it had come; she had not had time to dwell on it. But now it recurred to her mind, and she felt herself surrounded by coldness and enmity on all sides—until she remembered the greetings of the servants, and the old woman who had ushered her in to the house. The kindness they had shown to her, alone and helpless as she was, seemed like a protecting circle round her. And easier in mind for the thought, she fell to pondering how she could best learn their language quickly, that she might at least find some kind words for them in return.
While she was thus engaged, her husband entered.
She glanced at his face; anxious first of all to learn if he were still in the same ill-humour as before. The light was fading, but she could see that his expression was cold and hard, that of a stranger. Her heart beat violently; she sat without a word.
Ketill hardly gave her so much as a glance; he walked up and down the room once or twice, as if in thought, then stood by the window farthest from her, looking out. After a while, he drew a deep breath, and came towards her. His brow was lined, and his face stern, but there appeared nevertheless to be some attempt at friendliness in his bearing—as if to show that she at least was not the cause of his ill-temper.
“Well here we are, at home!”
“Yes.”
Alma’s heart throbbed painfully, but he did not notice her emotion—only that she had not taken off her riding things.
“Haven’t you got your things off yet?”
“You have not bidden me welcome yet, Ketill.”
“Oh, I forgot. Never mind, don’t worry about that.”
“No, no.... Forgotten, did you say? Ketill, I hardly know you again.”
“Whatever do you mean by that? One can’t always be in the best of tempers, I suppose?”
“No, perhaps not. But—it seems a strange homecoming, that’s all.”
Ketill was silent. He had no reply to offer, and the conversation bored him. He was curiously indifferent to Alma’s feeling of well-being or the reverse. What was she, after all? A child, thoughtless, ignorant, like all women—and most men too, for that matter. She was out of sorts just now—never mind, she would have forgotten it by tomorrow. At any rate, he could make it all right again then; perhaps he might feel more in the mood for paying attention to her troubles. Ketill was thinking in this strain when Alma spoke again.
“It is strange that you should be so different now, all at once. It almost seems as if our marriage had separated us rather than brought us together.”
Ketill had no time now to bother about whether there were any truth in this or not: no, the only thing to do was to smile in a superior fashion and not let himself be put out. And he smiled accordingly, the self-satisfied smile of a priest and a model husband, setting aside his bad temper for the moment, and said:
“There, there, little philosopher—let us put off the quarrel till another day.”
“Quarrel? Oh, I had never thought to quarrel. I’m only unhappy, that’s all.”
“Well, don’t you think it might be reasonable to imagine that I had some reason for being—well, not in the best of tempers today—what?”
“Yes, indeed, Ketill. But you have told me nothing; I know nothing of what could have upset you.”
“Well, hardly. Women don’t understand men’s troubles as a rule.”
“That seems a new sort of thing for you to say.”
“Possibly. We’ve hardly known each other long enough for me to have told you everything I think.”
“True, we have not known each other so very long. I only hope we may not find we knew too little of each other.”
Ketill laughed; to his mind, the question was not worth taking so seriously.
“Well, you’ve certainly grown less of a child and more of a woman—more of a married woman—than you were.”
But Alma found it utterly impossible to fall in with his tone.
“I am tired, Ketill. I should like to go to bed.”
“Already! Well, well, perhaps it’s the best thing you could do.”
He walked to the door, opened it, and called down the passage: “Kata!”
The old woman who had first shown Alma in, answered his call, and Ketill charged her briefly to show her mistress upstairs; she was unwell, and would go to bed at once.
Old Kata led her mistress to the bedroom above. She could not overcome the awkwardness caused by the impossibility of speech, but did her best to make up for it by kindly looks and gestures.
She would have withdrawn again at once, but Alma held her back, made her sit down on a chair by the bed, and tried to talk to her, repeating little phrases again and again till they were understood. Kata seemed willing enough, and did her best to understand; she would have liked to explain that she and all the others had already taken to their new mistress, and were anxious to do all they could for her. It was a marvel to Kata that a fine lady could be so natural and sweet and condescending. All that she had seen before of that sort had been proud and stiff and disdainful towards humble folk.
She tried to relate a dream she had had the night before about a burning light washed up by the waves, on the shore just below. Old Kata was a poor enough creature to look at, but by no means poor in spirit. She had her own world of visions and dreams, and was mistress there. And she would not speak to all and sundry of her dreams; but folk knew she had the gift, and could see what she would and learn what she pleased.
Kata was sure that the light she had seen was the fylgje, the attendant spirit, of the young Danish lady. Kata always saw a person’s fylgje before she encountered the person in reality, and she had rarely seen so beautiful a fylgje as this. For what could be more beautiful than a burning light? A burning light in the darkness. And she was accustomed also to interpret and say what such things meant. But here she could not. A burning light in the darkness—what could that mean? Something good, something beautiful it must be. And the person it followed must be a good and lovable soul.
Later that evening, the servants sat talking things over together before going to bed. They spoke of their Danish mistress, and gathered round old Kata, who, of course, had first claim to speak with authority here.
“Anyway, she’s a good heart,” said one of the men.
“And not too proud to take humble folks’ hand—as she did my very own.”
Old Kata let them talk; she could afford to be silent. Her turn would surely come. She had had most to do with their mistress up to now, and, moreover, she was recognized as the wisest head in the place—not excepting any priest. She sat now with her knitting, considering it beneath her dignity to take notice of all that was said.
Moreover, she had already expressed her opinion, in the most favourable terms, and as the others likewise had nothing but praise to utter, there was no call for her to take further part.
“Anyway, I’m certain she won’t be as hard and cruel as the last one was, with her scolding and words,” said one of the maids. “What say you, Kata?”
“She’s the blessedest light I’ve met in all my days,” answered Kata quietly, and a trifle slowly, as was her way. “There’s never an evil thought in her soul, nor a hard word in her mouth. And that’s the truth.”