CHAPTER V
It was a bright wintry day when Ormarr, watching from the captain’s bridge, saw his native land rise snow-clad from the blue-green sea against a high, clear sky. The captain noticed that the fur-clad man who had been up on the bridge since early that morning to get the first glimpse of land, seemed strangely moved at the sight of it. Well, it was none of his business....
Never before had Ormarr seen Iceland rising thus out of the sea; he had but a dim notion of the grandeur of the sight. Unconsciously, he had always thought of Iceland in the green of spring or summer, and had looked forward to seeing it so on his return. Being winter, of course, there would be snow. But he had never thought to see it all so white and clean and brilliant as now.
A vague joy filled him as he looked; he felt that his soul was come of the race of those great mountains, as of a line of kings.
Iceland—his country! Like a cathedral, a consecrated pile of granite, pure and holy in the seas of the far north. And the snow—how he loved it! And the rocks, the hills and valleys ... the brooks and streams, sleeping their winter sleep now, under the ice. And fire too, the marvellous, merciless fire, smouldering quietly in its lava bed, yet strong enough to melt the ice of a hundred years in less than a minute and hurl it in huge floods of boiling water and redhot rocks and lava down the mountain-side, through the valleys, out into the sea. What did it care for men, or their goods or their lives! All had to die. And better to die by fire or ice than on a bed of sickness. Far better to die young in some mighty upheaval than to drag palsied bones through a dreary wilderness of old age.
Ormarr smoothed his brow.
Why think of dying now? He was still young, and fit for action. Yet if Mother Iceland should think fit to crush him to his death in her embrace, well, he was ready. Well for him, perhaps, to find death on her icebound, fiery heart, if the road of life proved too wearisome.
Strange thoughts—was he mad, after all? He was thinking now as he had done so often when a child. But his dreams had changed. Then, Iceland had been the starting-point of his imaginings; it had been as a weight at his heel, keeping him in bondage, holding him back from all that he thought made life worth living. Now it was changed—now all his dreams turned towards it, centred round it—Iceland now was his home. Home? No, he had no home anywhere on earth. Yet he felt drawn towards it none the less; longing for his country....
But what was this—Iceland—hovering above him, looking down at him—would she no longer receive him? Was he her child no more? Had the world worn away the marks by which his mother had known him?
Foolishness—his brain was running wild. And yet—how was it with him, after all? Was it not true that he was unworthy of love—a failure, self-condemned?
Iceland, towering in shining armour, in glittering floes and spotless mantle of snow. And one coming to her from the outer world, with the dirt of alien countries on his feet, and the pain and weariness of the world in his heart. Her sacred places were no longer open to him now; closed, locked; the keys hidden far away, not there. Perhaps in the place whence he had come, perhaps far distant, on some other continent. Or hidden, maybe, on the other side of life.
Iceland! As he watched the land rise from the cold blue waves, he felt that he, who once had been her child, was no longer worthy to be so. He had sinned in coming back at all. And he vowed in his heart to set out once more in quest of the key that might unlock its holy places to him once more. Whatever happened, he must go away again. And if he could not find what he sought, then there could be no return. Only let him first breathe the air here for a little while, tread the soil that had been his father’s—men who had never shamed their native land.
Again he smoothed his forehead—the movement had become a habit with him whenever he wished to check or change a train of thought. And he laughed harshly.
“Well, Ormarr Ørlygsson, my friend and brother,” he thought to himself, “this time you are certainly mad ... mad beyond cure ... caught in the act—hysteria pure and simple.”
He sighed deeply—there was an ache at his heart.
“What is it?” he thought. “If I go on like this ... if I let my thoughts and fancies play at will like this, I shall end as a lunatic: lose all control over myself, and be shut up somewhere—a pleasant prospect! Or at best, be allowed to go about at home in a living death: a beast with instincts and no soul, on the place I was born to rule. And father—to see his son an object of pity or contempt.... No: I must get away now, before something happens. Better perhaps not to land at all, but go on round the coast, and back with the steamer to Copenhagen.
“Well, we shall see. Most likely it would be the wisest thing to do. On the other hand, it would be cruel to father....
“Wait and see. Let me at least feel the soil of my own country under my feet: touch the snow, drink its water, and breathe its air—satisfy myself that it is not a vision merely, no fairy tale, but a reality.”
At the first port Ormarr went ashore. He felt happy as a child, and laughed and joked with the crew. And when the boat neared the pier, he waved his hand to the crowd there, though he did not know a soul among them. They shrank back a little at the gay familiarity on the part of a stranger—but Ormarr did not care.
He set out on foot to explore the neighbourhood, a poor enough place it was. It was only with an effort that he restrained himself from walking up to the windows of the little houses and looking in, or knocking at the doors, just to breathe the atmosphere of a home in his own country.
On an open space some boys were racing about playing snowballs. This was too much for Ormarr; before he knew it, he was in the thick of the fight, and in a moment he had all the lads on top of him. With shouts and laughter they pelted him from all sides, and ended by fairly burying him in the loose snow.
The boys stood around laughing heartily when at last, gasping for breath, he emerged; this was a first-rate playmate that had suddenly appeared from nowhere. Eager queries were hurled at him.
A tall, freckled peasant lad came up and asked his name, others equally inquisitive put their questions without giving him time to reply to the first. Was he from the steamer just come in? Where had he come from? From Copenhagen? What had he been doing there? Was he going on with the steamer again? If so, he would have to hurry; the second whistle had already gone.
And the whole crowd followed him down to the harbour, two of the smaller boys taking each a hand. When he gave them some small coin, they decided that he must be the new Governor at the very least, and felt some tremors at the disrespectful manner in which they had treated such a personage.
As the boat rowed off to the steamer, they stood on the pier waving their caps, and stayed there, waving and shouting as the vessel moved off.
Ormarr felt unspeakably grateful for this welcome from his country—a welcome of smiles, and snow, and youth; the glowing warmth that was in its element amid the biting cold. He felt himself akin to these lads, with their hands and faces warm and wet from perspiration and melting snow; who rolled about in the snowdrifts despite their clothing, braved the cold and the roughness of the elements, enjoying themselves in the depth of an arctic winter as well as in any tropical summer heat. They had no idea of modern precautions against climate.
There they stood, waving to him, acknowledging him as one of their own, never dreaming that he had been about to drift away into an artificial life that nursed the frailties of the body regardless of health, until the body became a thing to loathe, unless the soul itself were cynically hardened.
This was the moment for action, the time to pull oneself together and decide; here was the way to follow—follow it!
But first of all, to find the right way.
Ormarr felt now that he could go back to his father. Could tell him all, confess that he had chosen a wrong path, a way whereby his body might have passed unscathed, but his soul never—it was never meant that the two should be divided. He must rest and think for a while and find a new road.
Once more Ormarr had climbed to the bridge, and remained there till the steamer touched at the next port. It would be a couple of days before he could reach home.
The day wore away, and night came down, but it was still quite light. The moon was high, right over the land, its white glow hovering over the landscape and giving it an air of unreality, like a spell that held all things in the bonds of sleep. The ship itself, chained to a silver beam, was the captive of this enchanted country, for all that it kept on its course; sooner or later, it seemed, the time would come when it must crash on a rocky coast.
Ormarr turned from the moon, forgetting the base designs which he had just attributed to its dull red bridge of rays. He looked at the stars—and suddenly he remembered the summer nights at home, when he had lain out among the hay in the fields, unable to draw his eyes from the twinkling golden points of light.
The northern lights flickered and faded, and showed up anew; like fiery clouds, appearing suddenly on one horizon, to vanish in a flaming trail behind another. Ormarr loved them—their restlessness, their capricious, fantastic shapes, the play of mood through every imaginable shade of colour—it was a silent musical display of heavenly fire.
Next day, the captain and Ormarr were alone on the bridge. Each was occupied with his own thoughts, and both were gazing towards the shore.
The captain broke the silence.
“See there, Hr. Ørlygsson—that ring of mist there round the peak. Now, mist, I should say, is white as a rule, but looking at it there, against the snow, it looks just grey.”
Ormarr made some brief reply; he was studying the face of the little Danish captain.
The latter spoke again:
“I don’t know if you know this part of the country at all. When we round that point just ahead, you will see one of the strangest fjords all round the coast, though that’s saying a good deal. Rocks sticking up out of the sea, sharp as needles some of them, and some all tumbled about in groups; some look like houses, and there are a few that make gateways, as it were, real arches, that you can take a ship through if you like.”
“Then we shall be in very soon, I suppose—and up to time for once.”
The little Dane drew himself up stiffly, glanced coldly at Ormarr, and said:
“Begging your pardon, sir, my ship is always up to time.”
“Why, then, it is I who must ask your pardon, Captain Jantzen.”
“Always excepting pack ice and being hung up by a gale,” added the captain in a milder tone. “Otherwise, I admit you’re right about being up to time generally—my ship’s an exception, that’s all. I put it plainly to the owners: either give me a time-table that I can keep to, or find another skipper. It’s a point of honour with me, as you might say. As a matter of fact, there was another Iceland boat once came into port on the day fixed—only it was just a month late.”
The captain laughed at his own jest, and Ormarr joined in. Then Captain Jantzen went on:
“Really, you know, it is a shame that there should be such a wretched service of steamers in these waters. There are several companies, I know, but they simply agree that there’s no sense in competition, so they keep up freights, and run their ships as they please. You may often have to wait weeks for a boat, and then find the sailing’s cancelled for some reason or other. Yes, there’s a chance for a man with energy and capital, that’s certain.”
Ormarr started at the other’s words; it was as if a mist faded from before his eyes; here before him was a chance to redeem himself.
He turned to the captain and looked at him searchingly; a good man, by the look of him, and with determination in his face. Suddenly he noticed that the man lacked one finger on his left hand—strange, Abel Grahl too had lost a finger. The coincidence seemed to form a bond between himself and the captain. Fate, perhaps—why not?
He shook his head, smiling at himself for the superstition. Nevertheless, he asked the captain:
“Ever taken a turn with Fate, Captain Jantzen?”
The captain smiled, a mirthless smile that might have been a setting of his teeth.
“I should think so,” he said, with an air of definite certainty, as if answering question about a harbour he knew blindfolded. “And if you haven’t, I’ll give you a bit of advice: take it by the horns straight away; don’t wait on the defensive, attack at once. There’s this about it: when luck favours a man, and he’s sound enough not to get spoiled by it at once, sure enough, Fate will try to get a foot on his neck.”
He stretched out his left hand towards Ormarr, showing the index finger missing, and went on:
“It cost me that. I was a deck hand on a fishing-boat at the time, though I knew the sea, and had many a rough turn with it, and saved more than one from drowning. And that’s a thing the sea won’t forgive. One day I was alone on the foredeck, getting the anchor ready, when there was a hitch in the cable. And then a thing happened that I’ve never known before or since—my feet slipped sheer away from under me, as if some one had pulled them. I came down headlong, and the anchor tore away to the bottom of the sea, taking me with it. My finger was caught between two links of the cable—there was no getting it free. I thought to myself, ‘Not this time, anyway,’ and managed to get at my knife, and hacked it off. It didn’t seem to hurt much while I was in the water—but when I came up—the men—believe me or not, as you will, but they started back when they saw my face. I hurried down below—I had a sort of feeling what it was. And I tell you, sir, there was the mark of death in my face when I looked; the mark Fate puts on a man before handing him over. And it was twenty-four hours before it passed off.”
Captain Jantzen laughed.
“Since then, Fate’s left me alone. Maybe she never found out how I’d cheated her. And if she has forgotten, why, maybe I shall live to be an old man after all.” And as if repenting his levity, the little captain became serious once more.
“All the same, it’s not right to joke about that sort of thing.”
Ormarr had listened with interest to the captain’s story. When he had finished, he was silent for a moment, then asked:
“How long have you been captain of ‘Bjørnen,’ Captain Jantzen?”
“Why, it’ll be twelve years this spring.” And in a tone of some resignation he went on:
“It’s not likely I’ll have her for another dozen years. Though I’d like to. She’s a fine boat, and somehow we sort of belong to one another. But the owner’s getting on now, and his health’s not what it might be. And no sons. I fancy the other shareholders are not quite pleased with things as it is.”
Ormarr walked up to the captain, and looking straight at him, asked abruptly:
“What about buying them out?”
Jantzen started, and looked inquiringly at Ormarr.
“I mean it.”
“Well—yes, I dare say. It’s a limited company. The biggest shareholder is the owner—and if any one were to buy up all the other shares on the quiet, well, there’s no saying....”
Ormarr and the captain seemed suddenly to have become remarkably intimate with each other—so, at least, it seemed to the others on board.
They remained for a long time in the captain’s cabin, bending over a map of Iceland, discussing routes, tariffs, and traffic in a half-whisper. They talked of nothing but how many vessels and what size would be needed if one company were to take over the whole of the goods and passenger traffic between Iceland-Denmark, Iceland-Norway, and Iceland-Great Britain.
It was late when Ormarr shook hands with the captain and went to his bunk, with the parting words:
“Then the first thing you have to do is to buy up all the shares on the market. After that, get the old man to sell his holding—but to me and no one else!”
The following morning, Ørlygur à Borg was standing on the borders of his land, deep in thought. He had dreamed a strange dream the night before, and was trying hard to remember the details. One thing only stood out plainly in his memory. He had been standing on this very spot, a little hill just outside Borg, one day towards the end of summer. And there he had fought—with what, he could not say. But it was against something stronger than himself, something which would overpower him unless Ormarr, his son, came to his aid. Then suddenly he had seen a viking ship rounding the point, steering straight up the fjord. The sight of the vessel gave him new strength; he knew that Ormarr was coming to help him, and the ship was sailing faster than any he had ever seen.... Here the dream had ended abruptly.
Ørlygur stood on the hill, trying hard to recall more of the vision. As if to aid his memory, he looked out in the direction of the fjord....
A steamer was rounding the point.
Ørlygur à Borg lost no time; he ran to the stables, and saddled his horse. He was about to saddle another in addition, but checked himself—possibly it was only an important message. Anyhow, instead of mounting, he had a sleigh brought out, and drove off towards the snow-covered valley at full speed, reaching the trading station just before “Bjørnen” came in.
Ormarr was not a little surprised to find his father among the crowd of people gathered on the shore. Most of those present had recognized Ormarr where he stood on the bridge, and there was a general surprise at his appearance. No one had expected him. Only his father seemed to regard his homecoming as natural, and showed no sign of astonishment.
Ormarr was in high spirits and full of pleasant anticipation; he shook hands right and left. Ørlygur found it hard to conceal his emotion at the meeting.
Ormarr introduced Captain Jantzen to his father, but the latter spoke only a few words to the captain; he seemed intent on getting home without delay, where he could have his son to himself.
Before taking his seat in the sleigh, Ormarr took the captain aside:
“Remember,” he said, “you must get everything ready beforehand. First of all, a detailed scheme and tariff rates, for our calculations. I shall be here all winter. After that, I am going to England and France, to get the money. I shall get it, never fear. Anyhow, I shall see you next summer in Copenhagen. And then we can set to work in earnest. Be ready for a struggle when the time comes—it will take some doing, but we can do it. Au revoir.”
On the way out to Borg, the horse was allowed to choose its own pace; father and son were too engrossed in their talk to trouble about anything else.
Ørlygur could not quite understand his son’s attitude towards music and fame—possibly because Ormarr himself was loth to lay bare all the trouble of his mind. Moreover, he felt a different man already, far healthier in mind and body, after the last few days, as if separated by a wide gulf from the Ormarr who had left Copenhagen after the scandal at the Concert Hall, a broken man, to seek rest and idleness in his own country.
Ørlygur could not altogether grasp his son’s changed attitude towards the question of his musical career, which had cost ten years of his life and several thousand pounds. But he thoroughly understood and approved of his new plan for a better and cheaper and more reliable service of steamers between Iceland and abroad.
Ormarr pointed out the advantage of having an independent national steamship service, and Ørlygur at once perceived the possibilities of the scheme for furthering the development of Iceland commerce and industry. The idea of excluding other countries from participating here appealed to him, and gained his entire support for the scheme. The very thought thrilled the old chieftain’s heart. Ay, they deserved no better, those slack-minded, selfish traders—they would only be reaping the results of their own shortcomings. They should no longer be allowed to monopolize trade, send up prices, make unreasonable profits, and do what they liked generally. There would be an end of their ill-found, ramshackle vessels, coming and going at their own convenience without the slightest regard for the public or their own advertised times. It was war—and he rejoiced at it. No question but that the people of Borg must win in the end.
As they were nearing home, Ormarr said:
“I am going to stay here this winter, father, before I set out again—Heaven knows how long it may be before I come back after that. I should like to live to enjoy one more spring here in Iceland. But after that, I must go abroad; work, work. It will take best part of the summer, I reckon, to raise the money—it will need a lot of money.”
Ørlygur gazed thoughtfully at the landscape, and answered:
“Well, well—I suppose you are right.”
For a while no sound was heard but the beat of the horse’s hoofs and the creaking of the sleigh. Then Ørlygur said in a half-whisper:
“But—we have some money here, you know, ourselves.”
Ormarr looked at his father keenly, and after a moment’s thought he said:
“Look here, father, I will tell you what I have thought of doing about the money part of the business. I want to get the money without offering shares. It will be difficult, I dare say. But I must be independent here; I cannot bear to be bound by considerations of credit, or other men’s interests, and that sort of thing. It would spoil the whole thing. The business must be my property; I will not have a thing that can be ruined by others after I have built it up. But if I should be unable to get the capital in the way I want it—why, then, I may come to you. Provided, of course, I can be sure of running no risk in the investment. I owe you too much already.—My inheritance, you say? I have not come into the property yet. But suppose we put it that way; that I owe so much to the estate. Anyhow, I owe it; it is money that must be paid, if things do not go altogether against us. For the present, I must fall back on you. But I shall not want much—nothing like what I have been drawing up to now. And I am proud that you are willing to help me, when I know I must have disappointed you by what I have done up to now.”
“I trust you, Ormarr,” his father said. “I do not quite understand, but I feel sure you were obliged to act as you did. The rest does not concern me. I know that you are honest and sincere, and I know that your aim now is not a selfish one.”
For a time no more was said; both men seemed anxious to let it appear that their minds were occupied with anything rather than with each other. But for all his apparent calmness, Ormarr was overwhelmed with gratitude to his father; to the fate that had given him such a father; given him Borg for his inheritance, and suffered him to be born a son of this little nation. Ørlygur, on his part, concealed beneath an expression of indifference a feeling of pride and love for his son.
As the sleigh drove up in front of the house, all the servants came out to welcome Ormarr, with a heartiness that showed plainly enough for all their quiet manner. A tall girl of about thirteen, with lovely flaxen hair flowing loose about her shoulders, appeared; this was Gudrun, a daughter of Pall à Seyru, now adopted by Ørlygur. Ketill was nowhere to be seen; Ormarr asked where his brother was.
Ørlygur smiled.
“Have you forgotten already? I wrote you in my last letter that I had sent him to the school at Rejkjavik. He wants to enter the Church, I understand. And I have been thinking that it would not be a bad idea later on, if he took over the living here. If, then, you decide to live abroad, as seems likely, and give up the estate here, then he could manage that as well. For the present, I have my health and strength, and hope to look after it myself for many years. We shall see.”
Of Ormarr’s stay at Borg that winter there is little to be said. Every Sunday the people of the parish came up to hear him play the violin. He was delighted to play to them, and touched at their grateful, almost devotional, reception of his playing.
Spring came. The snow melted, and the rivers sent floods of muddy water and blue ice towards the sea. A great unrest came over Ormarr, and he left earlier than he had planned. So, after all, he missed the soft purity of the Iceland spring, the beautiful white nights with the glow of light on the fields and ridges pearled with dew. He missed the sight of the butterflies fluttering in gaudy flocks, and the birds among the little hillocks where their nests lay hid.
He had already felt the grip of spring at his heart when he saw the wild swans and other fowl heading for the still frozen heights farther inland, driving their wedges through the air, and crying aloud in joy of life. And that same viking spirit which had driven his fathers before him came on him now and drove him abroad in haste.
As he left Iceland for the second time, his father stood on the pier with moist eyes. Ørlygur remained there, watching till nothing was to be seen of the vessel but a few grey wisps of smoke. Then he tore himself away, mounted his horse, and rode home, deep in thought.
If his blessing carried any weight, then surely matters would go well with his son.
He slept but ill that night; he was sorry he had not prevailed upon Ormarr to accept the money from him. It would have saved much trouble, and, at any rate, a certain amount of time.
If only Ormarr had come to him, rather than procure the funds he needed from others, and upon doubtful terms....