The road leads from Old Iceland to New Iceland. It is the way of men
from the old to the new in the hope that the new will be better than
the old. So Torfi Torfason has sold his sheep and his cows and his
horses, torn himself away from his land, and journeyed to America--
where the raisins grow all over the place and where a much brighter
future awaits us and our children. And he took his ewes by the horn
for the last time, led them to the highest bidder, and said: Now
this one is my good Goldbrow who brings back her two lambs from
Mulata every fall. And what do you say to the coat of wool on Bobbin
here? She's a fine sturdy lass, Bobbin, isn't she?
And thus he sold them one after another, holding them himself by the
horn. And he pressed their horns against the callouses on his palm
for the last time. These were his ewes, who had crowded around the
manger in the dead of winter and stuck their noses into the fragrant
hay. And when he came home from the long trip to the market town
after having wrangled with some of the rascals there, he marvelled
at how snow-white they were in the fleece. They were like a special
kind of people and yet better than people in general. And yonder
were his cows being led off the place like large and foolish women,
who are nevertheless kindness itself, and you are fond of them
because you have known them since you were young. They were led out
through the lanes, and strange boys urged them on with bits of
strap. And he patted his horses on the rump for the last time and
sold them to the highest bidder, these fine old fellows who were
perhaps the only beings in the world that understood him and knew
him and esteemed him. He had known them since they were boys full of
pomp and show. Now he sold them for money because the way of man
leads from the old to the new, from Old Iceland to New Iceland, and,
the evening after this sale, he no more thought of saying his
prayers than would a man who had taken God Almighty by the horn,
patted Him on the rump, and sold Him, and let some strange boy urge
Him on with a bit of strap. He felt that he was an evil man, a
downright ungodly man, and he asked his wife what the devil she was
sniffling about.
In the middle of July a new settler put up a log cabin on a grassy
plot in the swamps along Icelandic River, a short distance from what
is now called Riverton in New Iceland. Torfi hung the picture of Jon
Sigurdsson on one wall, and on another his wife hung a calendar with
a picture of a girl in a wide-brimmed hat. The neighbours were
helpful to them in building their cabin, making ditches, and in
other ways. All that summer Torfi stood up to his hips in mud
digging ditches, and when the bottom was worn out of his shoes and
the soles of his feet began to get sore from the shovel, he hit on a
plan: he cut the bottom out of a tin can and stuck his toe into the
cylinder. And the first evening when he came home from the ditch-
digging. and was struggling to remove from himself that sticky clay
which is peculiar to the soil of Manitoba, he could not help saying
to his wife: It's really remarkable how filthy the mud is here in
New Iceland.
But that summer there was an epidemic among the children, and Torfi
Torfason lost two of his four, a six-year old girl and a three-year
old boy. Their names were Jon and Maria. The neighbours helped him
to make a coffin. A clergyman was brought from a distance, and he
buried Jon and Maria, and Torfi Torfason paid what was asked. A few
not very well washed Icelanders, their old hats in their toil-worn
hands, stood over the grave and droned sadly. Torfi Torfason had
seen to it that every body would get coffee and fritters and
Christmas cakes. But when autumn came, the weather grew cold and the
snow fell, and then his wife had a new baby who filled the log cabin
with fresh crying. This was a Canadian Icelander. After that came
Indian Summer with the multi-coloured forests.
And the Indians came down from the North by their winding trails
along the river and wanted to buy themselves mittens. They took
things very calmly and did not fuss about trifles, but bought a
single pair of mittens for a whole haunch of venison together with
the shoulder. Then they bought a scarf and socks for a whole
carcass. After that they trudged off again with their mittens and
scarfs like any other improvident wretches.
Then came the winter, and what was to be done now? Torfi christened
his farm Riverbank. There was only one cow at Riverbank, three
children, and very little in the cupboard. The cow's name was
Mulley, in spite of the fact that she had very long horns, and she
was known as Riverbank Mulley. And she had big eyes and stared like
a foreigner at the farmer's wife and mooed every time anybody walked
past the door.
I don't think poor Mulley will be able to feed us all this winter,
said Torfi Torfason.
Have you thought of anything? asked Torfi Torfason's wife.
Nothing unless to go north and fish in the lake. It's said that
those who go there often do well for themselves.
I was thinking that if you went somewhere, I might just as well go
somewhere too for the winter. Sigridur of New Farm says there's lots
of work for washerwomen in Winnipeg in the winter. Some of the women
from this district are going south the beginning of next week. I
could pack up my old clothes on a sled like them and go too. I'd
just leave little Tota here with the youngsters. She's going on
fourteen now, Tota is.
I could perhaps manage to send home a mess of fish once in a while,
said Torfi Torfason.
This was an evening early in November, snow had fallen on the woods,
the swamps were frozen over. They spoke no more of their parting.
Jon Sigurdsson grinned out into the room, and the calendar girl with
the wide-brimmed hat laid her blessing upon the sleeping children.
The tiny kerosene lamp burned in the window, but the frost flowers
bloomed on the window-panes.
It seems to me it can get cold here, no less than at home, said
Torfi Torfason presently.
Do you remember what fun it often was when guests came in the
evening? There would be sure to be talk about the sheep at this time
of the autumn on our farm.
Oh, it's not much of a sheep country here in the west, said Torfi
Torfason. But there's fishing in the lake ... And if you have
decided to go south and get yourself a 'job', as they say here, then
...
If you write to Iceland, be sure to ask about our old cow Skjalda,
how she is getting along. Our old Skjalda. Good old cow.
Silence.
Then Torfi Torfason's wife spoke again:
By the way, what do you think of the cows here in America, Torfi?
Don't you think they're awfully poor milkers? Somehow or other I
feel as if I could never get fond of Mulley. It seems to me as if it
would be impossible to let yourself get fond of a foreign cow.
Oh, that's just a notion, said Torfi Torfason, spitting through his
teeth, although he had long since given up chewing. Why shouldn't
the cows here be up and down just the same as other cows? But
there's one thing sure. I'll never get so attached to another horse
again, since I sold my Skjoni ... There was a fine fellow.
They never referred in any other way than this to what they had
owned or what they had lost, but sat long silent, and the tiny lamp
cast a glow on the frost flowers like a garden--two poor Icelanders,
man and wife, who put out their light and go to sleep. Then begins
the great, soundless, Canadian winter night.--
The women started off for Winnipeg a few days later, walking through
the snow-white woods, over the frozen fields, a good three days'
journey. They tied their belongings on to sleds. Each one drew her
own sled. This was known as going washing in Winnipeg. Torfi
Torfason remained at home one night longer.
He stood in the front yard outside of the cabin and looked after the
women as they disappeared into the woods with their sleds. The
November forests listened in the frost to the speech of these
foreign women, echoed it, without understanding it. Ahead of them,
walked an old man to lead the way. They wore Icelandic homespun
skirts, and had them tucked up at the waist. Around their heads,
they had tied Icelandic woollen shawls. They say they are such good
walkers. They intend to take lodging somewhere for the night for
their pennies.
When the women had disappeared, Torfi Torfason looked into the cabin
where they had drunk their last drop of coffee, and the mugs were
still standing unwashed on the ledge. Tota was taking care of the
little boy, but little Imba was sitting silent beside the stove.
Mamma had gone away. Torfi Torfason patched up the door, patched up
the walls, all that day, and carried in wood. In the evening, the
little girls bring him porridge, bread, and a slice of meat. The
little boy frets and cries. And his sister, big Tota with her big
red hands, takes him up in her arms and rocks him: Little brother
must be good, little brother mustn't cry, little brother's going to
get a drop of milk from his good old Mulley.--But the boy keeps on
crying.
My Mulley cow, moo, moo, moo
Mulley in the byre,
What great big horns she has.
What great big eyes she has!
Blessings on my Mulley cow, my good old
Mulley cow.
Our Mamma went away, 'way, 'way,
Away went our Mamma.
Our Mamma's gone but where, where, where.
Where has she gone, our Mamma?
She'll come back after Christmas and
Christmas and Christmas,
Back with a new dress for me, a new dress,
a new dress.
We mustn't be a-crying, a-crying, a-crying,
For surely she'll be coming, our Mamma,
our Mamma,
For she is our good Mamma, our Mamma,
our Mamma.
God bless our Mamma and our little brother's
Mamma.
But the boy still kept on crying. And Torfi Torfason ate his meal
like a man who is trying to eat something in a hurry at a concert.
The day after, Torfi Torfason started off. A Canadian winter day,
blue, vast, and calm, with ravens hovering over the snow-covered
woods. He threaded his way along the trails northward to the lake,
carrying his pack on his back. This was through unsettled country,
nowhere a soul, nowhere the smoke from a cabin mile after mile, only
those ravens, flying above the white woods and alighting on the
branches as on a clay statue of Pallas. 'Nevermore.' And Torfi
Torfason thinks of his ewes and his cows and his horses and all that
he has lost.
Then all of a sudden a wretched bitch waddled out from the woods
into his path. It was a vagrant bitch, as thin as a skeleton, and so
big in the belly that she walked with difficulty. Her dugs dragged
along the snow, for she was in pup. They came from opposite
directions, two lonely creatures, who are paddling their own canoes
in America, and meet one cold winter day out in the snow. At first
she pricked up her ears and stared at the man with brown mistrustful
eyes. Then she crouched down in the snow and began to tremble, and
he understood that she was telling him she wasn't feeling well, that
she had lost her master, that she had often been beaten, beaten,
beaten, and never in her life had enough to eat, and that nobody had
ever been kind to her, never; nobody knew, she was sure, how all
this would end for her. She was very poor, she said.
Well, it takes all kinds to make a world, said Torfi Torfason. And
he took off his pack and sat down in the snow with his legs
stretched out in front of him. In the mouth of the pack there was
something that little Tota had scraped together for her papa on the
trip. And then the bitch began to wag her tail back and forth in the
snow and gaze with lustful eyes at the mouth of the pack.
Well, well, poor doggie, so you have lost your master and have had
nothing to eat since God knows when, and I've just chased out my
wife, yes, yes, and she went away yesterday. Yes, yes, she's going
to try to shift for herself as a washerwoman down in Winnipeg this
winter, yes, yes, that's how it is now. Yes, yes, we packed up and
left a fairly decent living there at home and came here into this
damnable log-cabin existence, yes, yes. ... Well, try that in your
chops, you miserable cur, you can gobble that up, I tell you. Oh,
this is nothing but damned scraps and hardly fit to offer a dog, not
even a stray dog, oh, no. Well, I can't bring myself to chase you
away, poor wretch--we're all stray dogs in the eyes of the Lord in
any case, that's what we all are....
Time passed on and Torfi Torfason fished in the lake and lived in a
hut on some outlying island with his boss, a red-bearded man, who
made money out of his fishing fleet as well as by selling other
fishermen tobacco, liquor, and twine. The fisherman vehemently
disliked the dog and said every day that that damned bitch ought to
be killed. He had built this cabin on the island himself. It was
divided into two parts, a hall and a room. They slept in the room,
and in the hall they kept fishing tackle, food, and other supplies,
but the bitch slept on the step outside the cabin door. The
fisherman was not a generous man and gave Torfi the smaller share of
the food. He absolutely forbade giving the dog the tiniest morsel
and said that bitch ought to be killed. To this Torfi made no
answer, but always stole a bite for the dog when the fisherman had
gone to bed. Now the time came when the bitch was to pup. The bitch
pupped. And when she had finished pupping, he gave her a fine chunk
of meat, which he stole from the fisherman, for he knew that bitter
is the hunger of the woman in child-bed, and let her lie on an old
sack in the hall, directly against the will of the fisherman. Then
he lay down to sleep.
But he had not lain long when he is aroused by someone walking about
and he cannot figure out why. But it turns out to be the fisherman,
who gets up out of bed, walks out into the hall. lights the lamp,
takes the bitch by the scruff of the neck, and throws her out in the
snow. Then he closes the outer door, puts out the light, and lies
down on his bunk. Now it is quiet for a while, until the bitch
begins to howl outside and the pups to whine piteously in the hall.
Then Torfi Torfason gets up, gropes his way out through the hall,
lets the bitch in, and she crawls at once over her pups. After that
he lies down to sleep. But he has not lain long when he is aroused
by somebody walking about and he can not figure out why. But it
turns out to be the fisherman, who gets up out of bed, walks out
into the hall, lights the lamp, takes the bitch by the scruff of her
neck for the second time and throws her out into the snow. Then he
lies down to sleep again. Again the bitch begins to howl outside and
the pups to whine, and Torfi Torfason gets up out of bed, lets the
bitch in to the pups again, and again lies down. After a little
while the fisherman gets up again, lights the lantern, and fares
forth. But even soft iron can be whetted sharp, and now Torfi
Torfason springs out of bed a third time and out into the hall after
the fisherman.
Either you leave the dog alone or both of us will go, I and the dog,
says Torfi Torfason, and it was only a matter of seconds till he
laid hands on his master. A hard scuffle began and the cabin shook
with it, and everything fell over and broke that was in the way.
They gave each other many and heavy blows, but the fisherman was the
more warlike, until Torfi tackled low, grasped him round the waist,
and did not let up in the attack until he had the fisherman doubled
up with his chin against his knees. Then he opened the door of the
cabin and threw him out somewhere into the wide world.
Outside, the weather was calm, the stars were shining, it was
extremely cold, and there was snow over everything. Torfi was all
black and blue and bleeding, hot and panting after the struggle. So
this was what had to happen to Torfi Torfason, renowned as a man of
peace, who had never harmed a living creature--to throw a man out of
his own house, hurl him out on the frozen ground in the middle of
the night, and all for one she-dog. Perhaps I have even killed him,
Torfi thought, but that's the end of that--that's how it had to be.
To think that I ever moved to New Iceland!
And he sauntered out of the cabin, coatless as he stood, sauntered
out on to the icy ground and headed for the woods. And he had hardly
walked twenty feet when he had forgotten both his rage and the
fisherman and started to think about what he had owned and what he
had lost. Nobody knows what he has owned until he has lost it. He
began to think about his sheep, which were as white as snow in the
fleece, about his horses, fine old fellows, who were the only ones
who understood him and knew him and esteemed him, and about his
cows, which were led out the lanes one evening last spring and
strange boys ran after them with bits of strap. And he began to
think about Jon and Maria, whom God Almighty had taken to Himself up
in yon great, foreign heaven, which vaults over New Iceland and is
something altogether different from the heaven at home. And he saw
still in his mind those Icelandic pioneers who had stood over the
grave with their old hats in their sorely tired hands and droned.
And he threw himself down on the frozen ground among the trees and
cried bitterly in the frosty night--this big strong man who had gone
all the way from Old Iceland to New Iceland--this proletarian who
had brought his children as a sacrifice to the hope of a much
worthier future, a more perfect life. His tears fell on the ice.