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.”