THE NORWEGIAN BIBLE
an analysis
The writer begins her story—as classical authors of this genre—with an upbeat expression of the motivating power of the whole story in one sentence. "The discovery of the marvellous world of languages is the great experience of my life."
This idea runs through the story and motivates the climax of the story, an attempt to steal the bilingual Bible.
The plot is very simple, the writer (the story is written in the first person singular) finds a Bible, reads it, becomes attached to it, wants to steal it—but in the end she resists the temptation.
The story is only the superficial message of the story. The real message is hidden between the lines. The storyline is less important. What is important is the frame of mind of the writer, the way she narrates the story.
One of the characteristic features of the genre of the short story is that there must be a culminating point. The way to this point of this story is shown by explaining how important the bilingual Bible becomes for the writer. Although grandfathers hobbies, memories, religious childhood, and his love of languages are mirrored in the story, the description of all this foreshadows the climax.
…………
The next three or four pages of this analysis were lost. This loss too became a mirror. One of my professors at the Teachers Training College was introduced in this mirror. But I will write about this event later on!
There was a big family meeting on the second day of Christmas in my mothers flat in Budapest. I gave my present to my mother, sister, four brothers, an uncle, my husband, my two daughters and my son.
Some of the reactions:
> My mother, daughter of a theology professor, wife of my minister father, mother of six children, grandmother of sixteen grandchildren and two great grandchildren, whose great aim, perhaps whose only task in her old age is to lead her relatives back to the church, to a religious life, to God. She organises religious summer camps for her grandchildren, summons everybody to church on Sunday mornings and always presents us with Protestant hymn books and psalms. Her opinion: "I liked your English, the theme was interesting, I liked meeting my fathers—your grandfathers spirit in it. But if you confess you havent learned the Bible in your last 30 years, please read it now and live on the basis of it in your next thirty years."
> Younger brother, a former speed skating trainer, who is now a businessman, living in Vienna with his third wife and third and fourth children. He is the small Benjamin of the family, the youngest child—who likes other brothers and sisters, our mother, his former wives and children, but does everything for his own good rather than that of others. Having read my short story very quickly—(he had not much time, he was running after his next business!),—he began to laugh at me, "Gee, Ilus (my nickname in the family), you are a fool, arent you? Why did you leave the Bible there? I have got about fourteen or sixteen Bibles from different hotel rooms in the different countries that I visited when I took part in skating competitions, the Olympics, and the world championships. Not to read them but to possess them."
> Other brother, husband of a rich business-woman. She is full of ideas and plans and has got the money for her good deeds. She promotes a young Russian painter, an infant prodigy and helped to found an English theatre in Budapest. She has a chain of clothing shops. My brother asked me: "Dont you need a publisher? We have just founded a publishing house."
> My elder daughter, a student (her majors are: American Studies and Physical Education) happily showed everyone her copy with my dedication in it: "To my schoolmate with love—your mummy".
> A sixty-six year old uncle, a retired lawyer, very religious, who finished studying Protestant theology two years ago. "Now that you have met the Bible again wont you think of continuing this friendship at home in your life?" The same thought as my mothers. They are cousins and have a common great-grandfather, a bishop and psalm writer. An inherited way of thinking, perhaps?
Three or four weeks after mailing the forty or fifty bilingual "Norwegian Bibles" as my Christmas cards this year, my everyday post has grown. I got two or three letters weekly and a Bible every month.
> I begin with the last one. On the 11th March I got a postcard from a Japanese penfriend of mine, an otolaryngologist. He has written: "Thank you for your nice short story. I enjoyed The Norwegian Bible very much. I now understand you have inherited your multilingual ability from your ancestors, your grandparents. Please write another version of this story. Suppose you steal the Bible. I am sure Christ will be pleased. Anyway, I think you have a great talent for story telling. Please continue to write!" Nice words, arent they?
> A librarian colleague in the Hungarian National Library: "Its a new fresh librarian writer. Dont you want to join our new founded International Reading Association? Our first meeting will be on March 29th."
> An old English speaking uncle from the U.S.A. He emigrated there seventy years ago with his parents. After getting my Christmas card he posted an English Bible: a copy of the Revised English Bible (Oxford, 1989) immediately by courier post. I got it in three days time. I think he thought: "My poor niece, she has no Bible to read, thats why she has to steal one."
> Perhaps the same idea occurred to one of our Finnish friends, an otolaryngologist, because he sent me a tri-lingual (Finnish-Swedish-English) New Testament.
> Another otolaryngologist, an excellent professor, very intelligent, who has got a good sense of humour, sent a message. I like him very much. He falls too into the circle with whom I cultivate friendships through exchanging greeting cards on Feasts of Tabernacles. He operated on my ear: he did an ear drum transplant on my left ear. During my operation he sang a Protestant psalm for me that I could hear through the veil of the partial sedation of the anesthesia. He cured my ear, so it became waterproof again. I wrote him a grateful card after finishing the Lake Balaton cross-swimming competition where I could cover the five kilometer without a swimming cap and earplugs. His remark on my book was the following: "Why didnt you steal it? It is not a sin to steal flowers, kisses and books."
> An old country woman, our godsons grandmother. Her name is Pap Lászlóné Pap Emma. "Pap" means minister in Hungarian and both her maiden name and husbands name is "Pap". She wrote me: "Dear Iluska, although I am the daughter of a minister and the wife of a minister at the same time, I can not write such a nice short story. Congratulations."
> The last one in this list, another otolaryngologist, the fourth laryngologist, but the most important among them for me was my husband, a fifty-four year old marathon runner. He never praises me. The red bunch of roses, mentioned later, was the only one, the only time he presented me with flowers in my life. After eating my Sunday dinner, which I cooked first of all for his taste, he never says: "it was marvellous", but he says: "it was edible". But he inspires me with his negative approval. His opinion about the short story: "Dont believe yourself to be a writer. It is the second novel or short story which makes the writer a real writer, because the first book is on his or her life—and everyone has a life. To discover the second story is the art. So I am waiting for your second short story."
At the end of my essay I would like to write about a lost Norwegian
Bible and one that was never sent.
As I mentioned before, it was our assignment in the second year Russian teachers retraining course to write a short story then to write a literary analysis on our own work. It is nice, interesting homework, isnt it?
All of the students in our group wrote interesting stories, then we read them aloud during the next lesson. We had to hand in the stories and the analyses to our professor who promised to correct them and give us a mark for them at the end of the semester. And besides all of these to give the stories to a jury consisting of teachers who were native speakers. The best three would be published in a library bulletin of the Teachers Training College. At the last lesson of the semester she gave all of us the best marks and said, "Good bye". At that time we thought she had not even read our work and was not interested in our analyses and that nothing would come of the short-story-writing competition.
In February I found an essay-writing competition in England, so I thought I needed my analysis because I wanted to collect materials connected with "The Norwegian Bible". I admit I am very untidy and disorderly. I found only the first page of my manuscript among my papers in the drawer. So I went to this professor to ask for my analysis if she did not need it. She told me that she had needed it because she gave it to one of the foreign professors but she did not remember to whom. I asked her to get it back so that I would be able to copy it. The week after, she said perhaps she had not given my papers to anybody as they did not remember it. The next week after that, I asked her again, but she said she was very busy. Suddenly, it was clear to me that the journey of our short stories and analyses was very simple. After being collected in the classroom their final destination was the first waste-basket.
Yes, I could understand her. She was bored with our assignments. She was busy. But why did she promise? Why did she not tell the truth? Because it was her character? I believed the reflection I saw in the mirror.
And now the last story: something about an unposted "The Norwegian Bible". There was a young man in my life. We were classmates in an English course many years ago. After each lesson we went out of the school together and almost every time we met my then boyfriend—(today he is my husband). He attended a German course in the same school, just after our lesson. We greeted each other every time and everyone continued on his or her own way. My future husband went to his class, and we, my classmate and I walked along the street. We talked about the English lesson, about my studies, about family, about childhood, about religion. He was very religious. He was very curious about my being a daughter of a minister and living without the daily reading of the Bible. He gave me a Bible with a dedication note in it. This inscription was a nine line "poem", a clever introduction to me. The first letters of the lines read vertically formed my name ILONKÁNAK (to Ilona). The nine letters were written in different colours, the rest of the text in blue ink. I still have his present, this Bible. I preserved it in the same way Mrs. Morel preserved John Fields Bible in D.H. Lawrences novel "Sons and Lovers". But it is not a relic for me: it is used by my younger daughter in her everyday life at the convent school she attends.
This classmate once invited me to ski and visit his family in a mountain village. I hesitated a little bit, but at last I refused the invitation. I had my boyfriend at that time whom I loved very much and did not want to give him up for another man. It was a little unpleasant for my boyfriend to meet me every Monday and Wednesday while I was chatting with this other man in a very friendly manner. I did not want to hurt my boyfriend nor did I want to lose him, so I refused the invitation, although I loved skiing. My boyfriend felt my hesitation because he knew how much I liked to ski. One evening he came to me with a big bunch of red roses and asked me not to go skiing. So I remained with him and we are still together, in love and in harmony. I thought about sending my former classmate a copy of "The Norwegian Bible", but I do not want to disturb this harmony, so I have not sent him one.
So this is the story of the small short story up to now. And it will be going on I hope. Perhaps the other twenty or thirty friends will answer my Christmas card as well. I can say "thank you" to my absent-minded, unreliable professor, who gave us the assignment idea to write a short story.