Free The Atom Station by Halldór Laxness Page A

breast of posterity the secret sensitivity of the elf instead of heroism and Saga, while he himself lived in loneliness and died uncomforted in a far metropolis, overpowered by the apathy of this degenerate nation which he had touched with the wand of life, crushed by the hostility of degraded men towards things concerning the spirit, and culture, and art: again and again I had heard his name bandied about in unlikely places in Reykjavik, and always associated with the most ridiculous matters; first at the singing atom poet’s; then, because of the sale of the country, at a cell meeting; and now here. A country person in the city lets much go in one ear and out the other because he fails to understand the connection between things, cannot reconcile unrelated concepts.
    â€œMy friend the Darling has confirmed in your wife’s hearing …”
    The household bondwoman, her face hot, pondered these words while she waited in her room for the master and Madam to go upstairs to bed so that she could tidy up the rooms for the night.
    And at the same time another image came to my mind, the one that visits me in every difficulty and is the answer for me to many a question, not because I have ever understood it but most likely because it is so close to my own self, the marrow of my bones, the very substance of my blood: my father. And when I say his image, I do not mean that haggard face that once was full in the cheeks, the stringy body that once was strong, the hand long-ruined by primitive tools, nor the puckered weather-wise eye; I mean rather his spiritual image, the Saga, the one thing he acknowledged unreservedly with a sword in place of a scythe, ocean in place of land, a hero in place of a farmer—but yet softened by a century-old modern era, the era of the first volume of Fjolnir , * wrapping in silent bear-warmth the late-born elves who taught us to appreciate buttercup, bird, and star. And after having seen the pale necromancers who in that room with its many forgeries of Nature had talked long-windedly about mildewed bones to him who dwells inaccessible in the mountain tops, that fairy person deepest in our own breasts, I was refreshed and comforted by the memory of this rugged image of my origin.
    THE WOMAN LIES DOWN ON THE FLOOR
    And I was roused from my trance by a strange noise from below, a tear-laden cry, a scream. Was there murder in the house? Or childbirth in the next house? I opened my windows and there was silence all around, windows all dark: so it had to be here in the house. In a flash I was down the two staircases in my stockinged soles, and standing on the bottom step. Both the doors that were open earlier were still ajar, open into the street and open into the study.
    â€œI hate you, hate you, hate you”—there was no trace of human sound in this hoarse screeching, nor in the mixture of inarticulate noises and coarse oaths which accompanied this inverted declaration of love. Then—“I will, I will, I will go to America.”
    In the middle of the floor of the study this beautiful sleek woman lay on her back, her skirt up round her waist, wearing nylon stockings, silk panties and gilt shoes, belabouring the floor with her heels and fists and screaming, her bracelets jingling with the blows and one gilt shoe flying across the room.
    Her husband stood at a distance, watching, wearing a surprised and helpless look; yet I suspected he had seen such a performance before and was not particularly amazed. But it would have been more than ordinary discourtesy towards such an excellent wife to behave as if nothing were happening when she went berserk. I say for myself that I stood as if nailed to the stop, dumbfounded at this unbelievable spectacle. When I had looked on for a while the man straightened himself slowly, walked to the door, and closed it with an apologetic smile. I closed the outside door and then went back up to my room, for it was not yet time to tidy up for the