CHAPTER X
Jon Hallsson was standing deep in thought when Ørlygur dashed out of the kitchen, snatched the reins out of his hands, and galloped off without a word or look in farewell.
“He’s in a hurry to go off and break his neck,” he thought, and added: “I wonder he doesn’t give up that mad idea. With a girl like that....”
Then he went indoors, hoping that he might remain undisturbed that night.
When Jon Hallsson had settled down to drink in the evening, he did not like to be called out. But his drinking had never interfered with his work; some people even went so far as to say that they would rather have him slightly drunk than perfectly sober. Strangely enough, despite his weakness in respect of drink and women, he had never lost the respect of those about him. He was a clever doctor, and kind to the poor; he talked straight out, like a man—at times a little too much so. And so people liked him. After all, it was no concern of theirs how he lived or what he made of his life. There was only one man who detested him, and that was the priest. But the latter was not so popular among his flock that he could venture to give vent to his feelings beyond an occasional remark.
Jon Hallsson was from another part of the country, but had held his present post for fifteen years. When he had first come to the place, he had been unmarried, and the district at Hofsfjordur was regarded as merely a stepping-stone to a better. He was looked on by his colleagues as a man who would certainly rise in his profession.
Shortly after his arrival, he had married a beautiful young girl, the daughter of a farmer in the neighbourhood. She died in childbirth within the year, and the child immediately after.
The blow had crushed him utterly, leaving only a shadow of his former self. He filled the house with pictures of his dead wife, and dwelt on them, clinging to memories as a stricken bird to its nest. But his physical cravings would not be denied. And he was not strong enough to master them. Little by little he gave way, and though at times he realized that he was sinking, he had not power to check himself. Other young men in his profession rose beyond him, while he grew more and more hopeless of ever advancing at all. He was like a pebble in the river of life; once it had come to a stop, the stream flowed over and past it, wearing away every projecting corner that could give a hold, until gradually it became surrounded by other stones, and the way for further progress was blocked and it sank down to insignificance in the lowest of the mass.
Jon Hallsson lit the lamp and sat down to drink. He could hear Snebiorg busy in the dining-room, and in a little while she came in to tell him that his tea was ready.
“Thanks,” he said, and did not move. As she went to the door, he added: “You need not wait to clear away the things. Go to bed when you like. Good-night.”
For a long time he sat in silence. Then, as was his way when he had been drinking for some time, he began talking to himself. It was as if the silence became unendurable.
“Nonni,” he said, using the pet name by which his wife had always called him—“Nonni, my boy, it’s time for bed. Getting late, and the lamp will want filling soon. And you don’t like sitting in the dark, do you? And the oil’s down in the cellar, and you’d go headlong to the bottom if you tried them. Much as you can do to stand on your legs now. But there’s a candle....”
He emptied his glass and filled it again.
“My friend, you drink like a fish. Drink a lot too much. No earthly need for that last glass. Too much whisky ’s a bad thing anyway. And there’s no need to empty the bottle each time. There’s a deal left now, but if I’m not mistaken you’ll finish it before you turn in tonight. And then, my boy, you will be drunk. And do all sorts of mad things. But kindly remember—the door where that girl sleeps is not to be touched. Not even touch the handle. No.”
He rose with difficulty and took down a large photograph of his wife.
“Best to do it now,” he said. “While you’ve some sense left. There’s a hammer in the surgery.”
He stumbled out of the room, and nailed up the picture of his wife on the door at the foot of the stairs that led to Snebiorg’s room.
“Ragna,” he said, “keep guard over that door for me, will you? You know what I am when I’ve had too much. Do all sorts of mad things. But mustn’t go up there. Not up there—no. You guard the door, Ragna. Yes.”
Then he stumbled back to his arm-chair and his glass.
“There you are, my boy; now you can carry on for a bit. Couldn’t get to sleep now anyhow. Not eleven yet. And there’s lots of things to think of yet.”
He took a long drink and laughed.
“Fount of youth—serves up the same old thoughts as if they were new. Night after night—chewing the cud of old thoughts. Nonni, my boy, you’re a ruminating animal. Sad, isn’t it? Well, what does it matter? Heaps of people do the same. Chew the cud of their sorrows and joys, and their trifles, and their love—yes, ha ha, love, of course. Nice word for something else.... There, now you’re being a beast. And if you are, you needn’t make out all the world’s the same. You knew something about love yourself, once ... blubbering, Nonni—whisky going to your eyes, what? Dry up, do; it won’t make things any better. Can’t stand one bottle—you’re getting out of form. Well, well, here’s the last glass for tonight. Not too much soda this time—stiff one to make you sleep. Only think, if one could drop off to sleep and out of it all. Well, well, that’ll come too before long, never fear. Nuisance that you can’t take a light with you when you go. Nasty to wake up in the dark when you’re dead. What nonsense—you don’t wake up when you’re dead.... Anyhow, it’s nothing to be afraid of, Nonni, my boy. Well, off we go—walk steady, now. Those stairs ... but we weren’t going up those stairs.... And why not, I should like to know? Fine girl there waiting ... and the other young fool, he’ll break his neck ... finest girl I’ve set eyes on for many a long day.”
He staggered from the room, and out to the staircase door, where his wife’s picture hung.
“What the—good Lord, it’s Ragna! I’m sorry, Ragna—first time you’ve.... Oh, I remember now. Well, well, there’s no going that way. No, I shouldn’t have ... no.... Good-night, Ragna.”
He turned towards his own room next to the surgery. “That’s right, Nonni, boy—that’s the way. Leave the girl alone. Heart? Never mind your heart—nothing to do with the heart really, you know. Not that sort of thing.... This way, boy. That’s right.”
He went into his own room, and stumbled into bed. For a long time he lay awake, muttering to himself. At last, when the candle had burnt down and the room was in darkness, he gradually lapsed into sleep.