Þorskhaus merkir, svo sem kunnugt er, annars vegar höfuðið á fiski þeim er þorskur
nefnist, hins vegar heimskan mann, asna, aulabárð … Öll meðferð þjóðarinnar á þorskhausunum
og hugarþel til þeirra ber séreðli hennar og menningu óræk vitni. (Finnbogason 191, emphasis added)
[The term cods’ head, as we know, refers on the one hand to the head of the fish known as a cod, and on
the other to a stupid man, an ass, a blockhead. … The nation’s whole approach to,
and use of, cods’ heads is an incontrovertible demonstration of her idiosyncratic cultural identity.]
Such were the words of a nationalistic Icelandic academic in the fifth decade of the
last century, followed by speculation on whether consumption of cods’ heads had had
an invigorating effect on the nation’s intelligence and poetic talent. Cods’ heads
were in fact up for discussion in Icelandic papers and journals of the time; in 1950,
for instance, it was reported that many complaints had arisen as to the fact that
cods’ heads, for centuries a staple of the Icelandic diet, particularly in the countryside,
were no longer available in Icelandic shops (“Af hverju fást ekki hausar og lifur?”
7). Two years later Halldór Laxness’s novel Gerpla was published, recounting amongst other things the story of the early eleventh century
heroes and sworn brothers Þorgeir Hávarsson and Þormóður Bersason, characters who
feature in medieval Icelandic sagas, particularly Fóstbræðra saga. Gerpla brings a sharp social analysis to parts of the story, including a particular critique
of militarism. At the same time the novel exposes various odd aspects of the reception
accorded to ancient Icelandic literature during the first half of the twentieth century,
by the Nazis no less than by Icelanders themselves: in Icelandic schoolbooks it was
predominantly interpreted in the spirit of romantic nationalism (e.g. Jónsson 34–73).
In
Gerpla, we encounter cods’ heads again when Þorgeir and Þormóður descend on a poor farmer
after one of their “Viking raids” on an outlying Icelandic district, and demand shelter
for the night. They are served
with hard cods’ heads:
Þeim þótti lítil matarfurða í þorskahöfðunum og tók Þormóður að kveða vísur blautlegar
meðan hann reif en Þorgeir kastaði af afli höfuðbeinum og tálknum í gólfið svo að
hrukku upp um veggi og rjáfur. (163)
[They saw little sustenance in the cods’ heads. Þormóður sang lewd verses as he picked
at them while Þorgeir flung the head-bones and gills violently to the floor so they
bespattered the walls and the rafters.]
The next day Þorgeir comes upon the farmer’s son, a young boy, setting his dogs on
the heroes’ horses, which were busy stripping the farmer’s small hayfield. The champion
chases the unarmed boy and challenges him to a duel, finally hewing him repeatedly
with his axe until he dies of “fjölda sára” [many wounds] (163). Subsequently Þorgeir
gives notice of the manslaughter, adding the following surprising
explanation:
Og er þeir voru stignir á bak hestum sínum lýsir Þorgeir vígi bóndasonar á hendur
sér fyrir bæardurum, kvað fylgjufogla kappa, hrafn og örn, hafa fengið örgáta sinn,
og var hefnt þess er hetjur og skáld vóru til settir í gærkveldi að rífa þorskahöfuð.
(165)
[When they had mounted their horses Þorgeir turns to the farm door and announces responsibility
for the death of the farmer’s son, declaring that the raven and the eagle, birds that
wait on heroes, had had their fill, and retribution taken for heroes and skalds having
been made to pick last night at heads of cod.]
The episode at the farm with the cods’ heads does not occur in
Fóstbræðra saga, although the description of the farmer’s son is reminiscent of the death of Hækil-Snorri
in the same saga (802–803). The account of these events is one of a number of occasions
in
Gerpla where readers’ minds are directed simultaneously to the past, the present, and to
an interpretation of the past in the present, thus encouraging them to take creative
part in the work. At the same time it bears witness to the level of precision, often
at the single word level, that occurs continuously in the novel. The ambiguity of
the word
þorskhaus [cod’s head] exploited so that the reader is left in no doubt that the real cods’
heads (i.e.
blockheads) are the sworn brothers, as is everyone who practices manslaughter or who
acclaims it as heroism. To drive the point home, a more formal and non-colloquial
term,
þorskhöfuð instead of
þorskhaus, is used to underline the bitter satire: Þorgeir intends to sound stern and imposing
but instead becomes ridiculous.
Although the language of Gerpla is Halldór Laxness’s own innovation, when the novel first appeared it was assumed
by many to be written in the ancient saga language (e.g. Velvakandi 6). In the same
way there were few who recognized the ambitiously innovative agenda of the novel in
its bid to synthesize the structures of traditional Icelandic narrative art and the
techniques of narrative art in the age of “its technological reproducibility”—to draw
on Walter Benjamin (251–83). It was even affirmed that Halldór Laxness had, with
Gerpla, become in some ways “Iceland’s most conservative author” in that he was the only
one who “upheld the art forms that their ancestors” had established (Pétursson 40).
Here I shall describe some of the characteristics of the narrative form and construction
of Gerpla, such as the way language is used to draw the readers’ attention to certain aspects
of the medieval sagas no less than of contemporary reality. I shall touch on the changes
of direction in Halldór’s literary career in the 1940s, when he turned to traditional
Icelandic narrative and at the same time modern cinema. Placing the Gerpla narrative in its contemporary context will reveal striking parallels to several Western
novelists who, in the first half of the twentieth century, turned to the cinema to
enhance their writing. Considering Gerpla as satire and parody—with their concomitant irony and defamiliarization—I shall examine
how certain of its characteristics may be seen as comparable with both the cinema
and the modern novel rather than with medieval Icelandic literature. Finally, I shall
conclude my survey of Gerpla’s narrative features with a few examples of the way in which Halldór works with material
from Fóstbræðra saga and other sagas.
In his early years of writing, Halldór was not greatly enamoured of medieval Icelandic
literature; during the twenties he was mainly preoccupied by the psychological novel.
In Heiman eg fór: sjálfsmynd æskumanns (written in 1924, published in 1952), he declared that he had nothing to learn from
authors like Snorri Sturluson and described medieval sagas such that their style was
“sem hiksti bút[að]i sundur frásögnina” [as if a hiccup had chopped the narration
into parts] (65–66). But two decades down the line his tone had changed. Íslandsklukkan [Icelandʼs Bell] was published in the years 1943–1946, or around the time Iceland gained independence
(1944). It is a historical novel set in the eighteenth century when Iceland was ruled
by the Danes, although it alludes to contemporary reality and evokes, among other
things, questions about the oppressor and oppressed, colonies and colonial powers,
contemporary superpowers and the responses they provoke from small nations. In Íslandsklukkan, the narrator follows the example of his various ancient predecessors in narrating
characters and events from a distance and generally avoiding personal involvement.
This narration is fundamentally different from that to which readers of Halldór’s
previous novel were accustomed.
Political developments in Europe, including both the rise of fascism and the resistance
to it, play a role in directing Halldór’s attention to Icelandic history and narrative
tradition, not to mention the impending independence of the Icelandic nation. In the forties, however, when Icelandic society took the final steps to technological
capitalism, the question inevitably arose as to how the novel could appeal to readers
in the new order where cinema appeared to be the medium of the future. It was then
hardly surprising that Halldór’s focus was not solely on the Icelandic narrative tradition
but also on the works of foreign authors, both contemporary authors and innovators
in novel writing. In 1941, for example, both his translation of A Farewell to Arms [Vopnin kvödd] by Ernest Hemingway and his edition of Laxdæla Saga [The Saga of the People of Laxardal] were published, as were his translation of Voltaire’s Candide ou lʼOptimisme [Birtíngur], and his edition of Brennu-Njáls Saga [Njal’s saga] in 1945.
Hemingway belonged to a group of writers—e.g. John Dos Passos, Alfred Döblin, and
Bertolt Brecht—who employed cinematic techniques in their narration in the first half
of the twentieth century (Vondrak 257–79). When Atómstöðin [The Atom Station] was published—a contemporary story in the first person that Halldór wrote immediately
after Íslandsklukkan, dealing among other things with the reaction of the Icelandic authorities to a request
from the USA to establish a military base in Iceland—it was also said that “its technique
[is] cinematic in nature” (Benediktsson 77). One can concur with this view, not least
since the Atómstöðin narration is characterized by frequent changes of scene.
However, while Halldór was writing Gerpla he informed his readers himself that he “owed a great debt of gratitude” to the
German author Bertolt Brecht, who had been “an organic part” of his thoughts for many
years, adding that he had been unable to repay this debt
in any way other than by translating the poem “Von der Kindesmörderin Marie Farrar”
as “Barnamorðínginn María Farrar” some twenty years previously (1955, 23–24). Those
who are in some way familiar with Brecht’s work and have read Gerpla will be hardly surprised that Halldór saw the need to particularly mention the German
author while writing Gerpla. Since around 1930 both had the objective of writing works that would change the
world (Wizila 7; Guðmundsson 247–49). In Gerpla, Halldór endeavours among other things to set up parallels with medieval history,
with events leading up to the Second World War, and with the War itself and its consequences;
in this way he is already grappling with a theme often used by Brecht. In his renovation of narrative, the Icelandic author also treads similar paths to
those followed by Brecht in his novels, such as in the satire and “crime novel” (Benjamin
8–9) Der Dreigrosschenroman [The Threepenny Novel] and in the historical novel Die Geschäfte des Herrn Julius Caesar [The Business Affairs of Mr Julius Caesar]—not to mention his short stories and plays. In these stories Brecht endeavours to
adapt cinematic techniques to the aesthetic demands of literature and uses the montage
technique, as he considers this to be the principal characteristic of modern literature
in contrast to traditional literature of the nineteenth century (Mueller 473).
At the same time as Halldór deals with narrative innovations in Gerpla, he embarks on a review of specific aspects of the “context in Icelandic literature”
and history—to use the words of a nationalistic and in some ways conservative essay
by Professor Sigurður Nordal (ix-xxxi), which became the final word on Icelandic
literature until well beyond the middle
of the twentieth century. The new language created by Halldór Laxness in his novel
and the ancient texture with which he endows the narrative are among the characteristics
that reveal how innovative his approach is—and how different it became from Brecht’s.
Gerpla can be classified as complex satire, openly borrowing structures from various sources,
not least from well-known works of fiction and historical writing. The novel recreates
such structures in a new context and merges them into a new whole, presenting its
criticism of society and culture with irony as a weapon. The meaning of the irony
is mainly decided by two criteria: on the one hand by the interaction between the
said and the unsaid and on the other hand by the relationship between the satirist,
the interpreter, and the target of the satire. The impact of the irony is rooted in
the fact that it is both what it says and also something quite different. It is variously
good-natured and teasing, or cutting and offensive (cf. Hutcheon 1994, 57–66). Units
are furthermore organized in Gerpla in such a manner that the same unit can be ironic or not, depending on the context
in which it is viewed. This results in the meaning of the irony being multiple, fluid,
and to some degree dependent on the reader (Griffin 64–70). But the key issue is
of course that the irony is particularly suitable in social
criticism as “the opposite to common sense” (Rorty 74).
As is the case with a number of satires, Gerpla shows that the object of its satire is dangerous, or at least has the potential to
become so (Guilhamet 7–9). To this end, Gerpla more often than not uses parody (cf. Guilhamet 13–14; Griffin 102–109). The parody
has been called “repetition with difference,” as one can describe it as one text imitating
another with the “imitation characterized by an ironic inversion, not always at the
expense of the parodied
text” (Hutcheon 1985, 6). It has also been pointed out that there are three main variations
of parody: banging,
binding, and blending—depending on whether the differing materials brought together
seem at odds with each other, whether they are locked together despite the contrasts,
or whether they are smoothly married despite their obvious differences (Chambers
7). The companion of parody is defamiliarization, which shows common things or situations
in a new light, thus making them strange and remarkable.
The narrator of Gerpla is a nameless twentieth-century man who speaks like a medieval author or scribe when
he appears at the beginning of the story. He uses the first person plural, known as the majestic plural; his language is tailored
to the style of the old sagas; and he has a prologue to his story, just as Ari fróði
to Íslendingabók and Snorri Sturluson to Heimskringla. The narrator says in the prologue that he wishes to relate the story of the sworn
brothers Þormóður Bessason and Þorgeir Hávarsson, as many interesting tales about
them have not yet been written down. He also itemizes a number of his sources, including
Fóstbræðrasaga hin meiri—i.e. one of a number of main versions of the Fóstbræðra saga that is preserved in the manuscript of Flateyjarbók (Kristjánsson 1–16)—thus following
the practice of medieval men who wished to enhance the credibility
of their stories. The narrator never speaks of the story as a modern novel but rather
uses the wording of those who did not know the concept of the author as used in later
centuries; he says he wishes to “revise” accounts, assemble them in “one place,” and
suchlike (7). This medieval tone is consistent through to the end of the story and
contributes
to its being a parody.
Among other important aspects that recall narrative practices from previous centuries,
one could mention references to sources—cf. various poems in medieval sagas that serve
the function of confirming the “veracity” of the narration, as well as references
to other sagas—and the two kinds of status of Gerpla’s narrator. On the one hand, he narrates using the general practice in the Icelandic
sagas of letting the story mostly explain itself. Here he is unobtrusive, describing
characters and events as if at a distance and adducing common knowledge of foreign
and local books when providing information. On the other hand, he is a most important
character in the novel. He not only links various parts of the narration together
and bridges gaps in time but also provides explanations of circumstances and situations
at the story time. His comments cast light on characters, draw political parallels
between narrated time and narrating time, and he even makes long speeches. In this
respect he is reminiscent of narrators in the riddarasögur [Chivalric Sagas], though mostly of his predecessor, the effusive narrator of Fóstbræðra saga in the Flateyjarbók manuscript.
It has been maintained that Fóstbræðra saga parodies the Sagas of Icelanders (cf. Kress 1987, and in this volume). If one assumes
this to be the case, the style in Gerpla, and some aspects of the narrator’s stance regarding the content of the novel, not
only indicates a link to medieval methods but also in part to the parody itself, i.e.
to the extent to which the parody is directed at medieval sagas and their world view.
In fact, one could say similar things about the montage technique. It constitutes,
in its simplest form, the organization of narrative units—each with its own specific
meaning—in such a manner that a new meaning emerges, the meaning of the whole. Each
unit states to some extent a specific truth, although the whole truth does not appear
until there is an understanding of which units belong together and how they are connected
to form a whole—which they can do in a variety of ways. The film director Sergei Eisenstein
traced visual montage techniques back through the ages and was, for example, particularly
impressed by them in the works of Leonardo da Vinci (Eisenstein 2010, 305–309). His
ideas have been followed up, e.g. in discussion on myths, montage, and visuality
in late medieval manuscript culture (Desmond and Sheingorn). The Flateyjarbók version
of Fóstbræða saga contains what are called “clauses,” short passages that were long thought to be additions
to the “original” Fóstbræða saga (Kristjánsson 82–87). Some of the clauses are characterized by metaphors and are
thus figurative, marking
breaks in the narration. They are therefore candidates for interpretation in the manner
of Eisenstein as montage technique—and the same also actually applies to a number
of other aspects of the story. Shock effects that have been linked to montage (e.g.
Eisenstein 1969, 230–31; Benjamin 267) may also be included. It is indeed not difficult
to indicate examples in the Flateyjarbók
version of Fóstbræðra saga that can be said to perform the function of shocking, for example when Þorgeir kills
the shepherd “af því að hann stendur vel til höggsins” [because he stood so well poised
for the blow] (793; The Saga of the Sworn Brothers 347).
Halldór Laxness first establishes in his own mind what might reasonably be seen as
similarities between medieval times and the twentieth century, and uses them in Gerpla to draw parallels between the past and present and furnish the story with the corresponding
atmosphere. By using the Sagas of the Icelanders and the King’s Sagas, seen as the
canon in what is often called the Icelandic School of saga research, he not only goads
readers into feeling themselves in the world of medieval narration but also parodies
prevailing ideas on medieval sagas and the Age of Commonwealth. Simultaneously he
positions himself firmly against various ideas Icelanders have of themselves and their
society. Yet despite its medieval style, Gerpla has most characteristics of novels that have been designated, rightly or wrongly,
filmic or cinematic (cf. Kellman). Three characteristics of Gerpla that can be linked to the cinema will be discussed here.
First is the technique of external descriptions—a kind of narration that has been
simply characterized as camera eye. In Gerpla the narration attests to opposition to the psychological novel; it is directed at
maintaining a certain distance between the readers and the characters so that they
do not become lost in “tómum einkamálaskáldskap” [pure private affairs’ fiction] (Laxness
1955, 90), but rather look at everything in the context of the whole and learn lessons
from
it.
Second, the Gerpla narrator continuously knits sources into the text and names them explicitly, a technique
that, in addition to the medieval sagas, can be related to the view that movies and
photographs have a “documentary quality” which enables them to depict the truth more
successfully than literature (Kracauer 302, 306). The variety of quotations—without quotation marks!—and references to sources in Gerpla tend especially to widen the scope of the novel. Readers are steered away from experiencing
the world into which they have entered as a closed unit without connections to the
outside world. At the same time the fiction is brought home to them. Around the time
Gerpla was published, Halldór had serious concerns that a deep rift had opened between ordinary
people and Western authors, many of whom had become self-centred and had turned their
backs on life and whatever could be called “alþýðlegt, blátt áfram og áþreifanlegt” [popular,
unaffected, and tangible] (Laxness 1955, 199). Various comments from the Gerpla narrator on the situation and circumstances in the eleventh and twentieth centuries,
which at first sight seem to be simply an endeavour to achieve the style of medieval
sagas, often prove to be based on medieval chronicles, or on the writings of anthropologists
or historians on the Middle Ages. The same can most often be said about his references
to various books, though there are instances where such references serve the parody
and are clearly comic devices to draw attention to some of the issues that conflict
with the reader’s prior experience. In addition, references are often woven into the
text in places other than the narrator’s comments and in those instances modern history
is no less predominant, particularly the history of fascism and the Cold War. Yet,
the references to various books and sources often serve the parody more overtly, comically
drawing attention to the issues that conflict with the readers’ prior assumptions.
The third and most significant characteristic that can be linked to the cinema is
the montage technique. It characterizes the construction of Gerpla to such an extent that one might call it a montage novel, in the words of Walter
Allen on cinematic texts during the fourth decade of the last century (cf. Feigel
3). Defamiliarization accompanies the montage technique no less than parody does,
but
the technique aims more than anything at making the readers active participants in
the process of creation of the fiction. The arrangement of the material means that
they themselves need to connect the units, to consider interactions between them,
and to draw conclusions. The creation of meaning, in other words, stands or falls
with them.
Montage occurs in several forms in Gerpla. Rather than only attributing the aforementioned two roles of the narrator to medieval
sagas, one can also say that two domains of narrative have been cut together, i.e.
the actual events on the one hand and the comments and explanations of the narrator
on the other. In addition there is the fact that the narrator is dialectic, enjoys
contradictions, and mediates a socialist worldview—which one can hardly say are the
primary characteristics of medieval Icelandic sagas.
Many stories take place concurrently in the book, and the narrative switches between
them with frequent cuts. This characterizes the plot as a whole no less than small
narrative units. Small sections sometimes prove to be structured in such a manner
that each sentence or paragraph is carefully thought out within a unit, which is in
turn also a well-thought unit in a larger whole.
Use of the montage technique makes the construction of Gerpla quite different from the structures of narratives where only one story takes place,
where events follow one after the other with clear causal relationships, and where
one or a few characters are in focus until the end. The novel is not first and foremost
about certain characters, but rather an illusion is created such that each person
is allocated similar space to that which they would have in the world we call reality.
However, Gerpla makes greater demands on readers, particularly for readers to actively seek continuity
themselves, than Icelandic novels generally did around the middle of the twentieth
century. The widely varying interpretations of Gerpla during the decades following its publication may doubtless be attributed to how unaccustomed
readers were to a novel of this kind (cf. Hughes in this volume).
There is also the fact that the novel is “crime fiction” no less than Brecht’s Dreigroschenroman. It shows that Halldór, just as in Alþýðubókin, is still preoccupied with the relationship between crime and the nature of the society.
In Alþýðubókin he says: “Hið borgaralega þjóðfélag, með ójöfnuði sínum, lögvernd ranglætisins og
hervernd,
er ekki aðeins móðir allra glæpa, heldur skorar það á menn til allra glæpa” [The bourgeois
society, with its inequality, legal protection of injustice and military
protection, is not only the mother of all crimes, but also challenges men to commit
all crimes] (Laxness 1929, 255). There were many who found such a stance difficult
to tolerate—not least when it
was related to the Icelandic Sagas and Kings’ Sagas (e.g. Haraldsson 8).
Halldór himself later (1965) suggested that we should not interpret Gerpla as a socialist novel, but rather as a settling of accounts with Stalinism and Nazism
as well as a criticism of militarism and the arms race (cf. Hallberg 1975, 136). In
what follows, I shall examine some prior interpretations of the novel and adduce
examples.
One can read
Fóstbræðra saga in such a way that it constitutes a parody of a specific literary tradition where
the targets of the parody are not least heroic ideas about the obligation for revenge
and Icelanders’ dreams of being honoured by foreign dignitaries. The saga, for example,
shows that on the strength of family connections with chieftains, scoundrels get away
with more than the common people (e.g. 786), but doubt is not cast on the fabric of
the society itself. In
Gerpla, however, the society is the base cause of those events that take place. Some believe
that the parties in conflict in the novel are not the common people and the property
owners but rather the nation and those ruling the country. In support of this view,
it has been mentioned that some prosperous farmers in the story were spokesmen of
peace. The farmer most often mentioned as the messenger for peace is Þorgils Arason
(Pétursson 40; Hallberg 1956, 502) but there are also examples of Vermundur in Vatnsfjörður
being included in this group
(Sønderholm 249–50). Both chieftains are introduced immediately at the beginning of
the story, and this
presents an excellent example of sections that are carefully planned montage constructions.
They also jointly show varying interests of property owners, both in saga times and
at the time of narration, but for the sake of brevity, only Halldór’s introduction
of Þorgils will be dealt with here. With the montage technique in mind, one can interpret
his introduction such that it constitutes six montage units as follows:
- Í þann tíð réð fyrir Vestfjörðum breiðafjarðarmegin Þorgils Arason; hann sat á höfuðbóli
á Reykjahólum.
[At that time Þorgils Arason ruled the West Fjords on the Breiðafjörður side; he lived
at his estate at Reykjahólar.]
- Þorgils hafði á úngum aldri stundað farmensku og kaupskap og æxlað fé úr öreigð;
[As a young man Þorgils worked as a seafarer and in commerce and went from rags to
riches;]
- þótti honum friður ábatavænlegri en hernaður;
[he believed that peace was more profitable than war;]
- hafði hann keypta við silfri staðfestu sína og svo mannaforráð.
[he had paid for his position and his authority with silver.]
- Lítill var hann blótmaður, sem títt er um þá menn er fjöld hafa farið og kynst við
mart guða;
[He was not a stickler for heathen sacrifice, which is common with men who have travelled
widely and encountered many gods;]
- en þá er kristni kom á land tók hann fram tvo gripi úr kistum sínum, kross góðan með
Kristi hinum kórónaða áföstum, vini kaupmanna, og svo líkneski móður hans, en hún
er stjarna mikil farmönnum.
[when Christianity came to the country he took two statues from his chest, a good
cross
with a crowned Christ, the friend of merchants, and the other of the mother of Christ,
who is a splendid guiding star for sailors.]
(8–9)
The first unit describes only the area controlled by Þorgils and where he lived. The
second unit tells how he became prosperous, and one can expect readers to have very
differing perceptions about “self-made men.” The third unit observes, in an insinuating
manner, that Þorgils considered his interests
to be better served by peace than war, which can have a positive impact in isolation. The fourth
unit names his currency and how he gained his current position. This is a logical
progression from the third unit, regardless of how readers have understood it. Those
reasonably acquainted with general history will probably have been struck by the fact
that it is specifically mentioned that Þorgils’s currency is metal. He is a representative
of the merchants who are coming to power side-by-side with incumbent rulers such as
Vermundur, who traces “kyn sitt til norrænna höfðíngjaætta” [his lineage to Nordic
nobility] (9). Þorgils is a man of new times in trading—silver instead of barter (cf.
Gullbekk)—and thus he represents important changes in society. The fifth unit appears
at first
sight to indicate indifference or impartiality in religious matters, but when the
sixth unit is added it gains a new dimension. This perfectly “mundane” personal characteristic,
indifference to religion, becomes instantaneously very special:
Þorgils proves to have little interest in heathen traditions not only because of tolerance
or indifference, but also because he values everything in terms of money; he is heathen
when society and profit require, but is ready with a Christian statue in his chest
the minute that Christianity is enshrined in law. It is clear that this unit is placed
at the end to defamiliarize all that precedes it so that it now appears in a new light.
The pursuit of profit is made Þorgils’s most salient characteristic. He uses wealth
equally as a measure of war, peace, and religion, and sees everything as a source
of profit. By comparison, one should note that in Fóstbræðra saga he is deemed “mikill höfðingi, vitur og vinsæll, ríkur og ráðvandur” [a great chieftain—powerful,
honest, wise and well-liked] (776; The Saga of the Sworn Brothers 331) and nowhere is he connected with seafaring, while his brother Illugi is the
merchant.
Neither is Þorgils described in the saga as “ættlaus” [without kin], as in Gerpla, for his kin is traced back through settlers to Sigurður Fáfnisbani.
The montage technique in
Gerpla not only manifests itself in carefully structured sections, it also provides information
in fragments, so that readers must be constantly on their toes. Later in
Gerpla, Þorgils reveals his own position on wealth and human life when he says “eg hefi
auðgast
mest af hinu, að drepa eigi menn” [I have prospered
most from the practice of not killing people] (324). These words relate to comments previously
made by the narrator in the story. He
reveals that Þorgils owns a share in a ship with merchants and sees reason to add:
Þeir vóru svo kaupmenn að þá keyptu þeir við menn ef þess var kostur, en ræntu að
norrænum sið þar sem eigi vóru menn fyrir líklegir að verja eigur sínar. (171)
[They were such merchants as traded with people where possible, but robbed in Nordic
fashion where there were no men likely to fight for their property.]
The irony is cutting in these words and refers both forwards and backwards in time.
The reader who knows Egils Saga [Egilʼs Saga] can smile at how they echo the description of Þórólfur, Egill, and their companions
when they waited in their boats outside Lund to decide if they should raid, since
they might expect “viðtaka er bæjarmenn væru” [resistance from the townspeople] (425;
87). If the reader is interested in history, it is more than likely that the imperialism
of the last century—and contemporary globalization (cf. Petras and Veltmeyer)—will
spring to mind, and consequently the manifold relationships between commerce and violence
(Findlay and OʼRourke xx, 330–45). Here one should also consider the description of
Vermundur, who represents the old
bartering society in Gerpla—taking his wealth in kind from tenancies and thus having a well-stocked larder (10).
Taking this into account, the description of Þorgils gives readers reason to deliberate
on those wealthy Icelanders who profited in trading during World War II. With their
advent it became easier to see two distinct factions among wealthy Icelanders, who
sometimes had—and still have—distinct interests. In the twentieth century and up to
the present day they have been linked to commerce and fisheries. The owners of the
fisheries were also merchants until World War II and sometimes paid their seamen with
credit in the shops. In this light, the silver and butter of the Icelandic chieftains
in Gerpla becomes quite amusing.
Accounts of common people in
Gerpla reveal the structure of society no less than the depiction of chieftains. A key example
is the account of Hávar, the father of the hero Þorgeir Hávarsson, which functions
as an Icelandic miniature version of major events that are later related as taking
place in southern Europe. In
Fóstbræðra saga Hávar is said to be “mikill vígamaður og hávaðamaður og ódæll” [a great warrior,
raucous and unruly] (776), and we are told that he had been driven out of Akranes
to the West Fjords for killing.
There Vermundur, the local Godi (chieftain), tells him: “Ertu, Hávar, utanhéraðsmaður
… og hefir sest hér niður að engis manns leyfi” [You are not a local person, Hávar
… and you have settled here, with no one’s permission] (777). Vermundur later drives
Hávar out because he feels that his son Þorgeir emanated
“órói og stormur” [disruption and storm] (777).
Gerpla differs in this account. Hávar comes from Viking raids without money and fame and
becomes a tenant of Vermundur. The story also explicitly demonstrates that his is
a world of heroic literature and that he feels that working in the soil and at sea
is menial compared to “vega menn” [killing men] (10). His dealings with his neighbours
are described as follows:
Hávar bóndi þótti snemma óeirinn í nábýli, sló í rot ágángspeníng fyrir mönnum og
hjó hænsn þeirra eða gögl ef því um náði, en hafði á lofti kylfu sína er menn andæfðu
honum; runnu þá flestir undan og forðuðu svo lífi sínu, en margir leituðu á fund Vermundar
og báru sig upp við hann. (11)
[Hávar the farmer was quickly deemed a troublemaking neighbour, clubbing people’s
stray
cattle and killing their hens, or geese if he could catch them, and raising his club
aloft if objections were raised; most ran off to save their lives but many went to
Vermundur and lodged complaints.]
Readers have ample opportunity to smirk and come to their own conclusions when faced
with binding and blending of the ancient and the new in this passage. An instant parallel
can be drawn between the slaying of the geese and
Grettis saga [
The Saga of Grettir the Strong] (968; 64). It is also obvious that the description of neighbours encountering Hávar’s
club is tailored to descriptions of battles in the Sagas of the Icelanders. However
other references to medieval sagas or quotes from them do not as clearly indicate
a specific place or places. The term “óeirinn” [troublemaking] may for example be
found in
Gísla saga Súrssonar [
Gisli Surssonʼs saga] in the description of Snorri the Godi (871). In
Laxdæla saga [
The Saga of the People of Laxardal] there is also an account of the killing of Þorgils Hölluson (1637-38; 103). Thus
the collision between the ancient and the new can become more severe in readers’
minds if they envisage, side-by-side with beheaded hens and geese, the body of Þorgils
Hölluson—whose head has been severed at the instigation of Snorri the Godi.
In the account of Hávar, much fun is made of the prevailing attitudes toward various
primary characteristics of society as manifested in general language use, and references
are made no less to medieval sagas than to the years in which Gerpla was written. When Hávar is introduced, the narrator makes, for example, the following
comment on Viking raids: “eigi urðu slíkar ferðir flestum mönnum févænleg atvinna
um þær mundir” [for most, such trips showed no profit at that time] (10; emphasis added). In Gerpla Vikings play a comparable role to the criminal gangs in many of Brecht’s works, such
as the aforementioned Dreigrosschenroman and Die Geschichte vom Herrn Julius Caesar, as well as the play Der aufhaltsame Aufstieg des Arturo Ui [The Resistible Rise of Arturo Ui]. Both thugs and Vikings are presented as parallel actors to the ruling propertied
class, thus warning against the extortive nature of a particular social order. We
could therefore assume that in the middle of the last century the comment on Viking
raids would have a broad implication in the novel’s historical context: its readers
might either have thought of the many Icelanders who profited from the war, talking
of the “blessed war” and worrying about peace (cf. “Útrýming atvinuuleysisins,” 1945,
3)—or turned their minds to conflict in distant countries such as Korea.
Few who have written about Hávar in
Gerpla have dealt to any significant degree with the social revelations of the narration.
They discuss his dream of being a hero and sometimes the formative influence his life
has on his son Þorgeir. But they seldom note that by killing poultry and cattle Hávar
breaches an important social precept: Thou shalt not steal. This is in fact a key
issue. Hávar’s neighbours complain so much to Vermundur that he later recommends to
Þorgils Arason that he find a place for Hávar to live outside the West Fjords, as
Hávar is related by marriage to Þorgils. On that occasion the Godi from Vatnsfjörður
says the following words:
Er það mikil óhamíngja, segir hann, er menn koma slyppir úr hernaði og setjast í friðgott
hérað og taka að höggva hænsn manna til að bæta sér þau frægðarverk er þeim varð eigi
auðið að vinna á öðrum löndum. (12)
[It is a great misfortune, he says, that people come empty-handed from war and settle
in a peaceful district and then turn to killing people’s poultry to make up for the
heroic deeds they were not able to perform in other countries.]
The parodic reference here is cutting, as the words “mikil óhamíngja” [great misfortune]
are not least used in the Sagas of the Icelanders, in
Heimskringla and in
Ólafs saga helga in the case of a person being killed. But this is not all. The banging of the parody
occurs when the readers realize that the words “frægðarverk” [heroic deeds] mean killing.
In the Godi’s opinion, it is fine to kill people abroad, but evil to
steal and kill poultry in your own neighbourhood. If it has previously occurred to
readers that Hávar the tenant would probably not get away with subjecting poultry
to the fate that Snorri the Godi afforded Þorgils Hölluson, they can now consider
who stands to gain from the laws and injunctions of society.
Gerpla’s account of the treatment of Hávar by Þorgils (and other chieftains) is particularly
shrewd. When Þorgils gives Hávar livestock and has a house built for him in Borgarfjörður,
it is because he feels “eigi … örugt” [not … safe] having him “í ríki sínu við Breiðafjörð” [in
his domain at Breiðafjörð] (12). As an isolated montage unit, the chieftain’s behaviour
may at first glance appear
to be somewhat noble. Yet this conceals a toxic irony: Þorgils simply wishes to move
the problem away from himself, by expelling Hávar from his territory. The narrator
states that Þorgils placed Hávar precisely in the Borgarfjörður of the saga world,
a “blómganlegt” [flourishing] district where there are, quite notably, “mart ríkismanna” [many
rich men] (13). The wealthy and powerful men of Borgarfjörður, it turns out, also
consider Hávar
a poor addition to their district. The narrator relates:
Höfðu þeir ráðagerð með sér um það hversu bægja mætti frá svo ágætu héraði ódæmum
sem þeim er stefnt var híngað skillitlu fólki eða vændismönnum af öðrum landshlutum.
(13)
[They schemed as to how they could avoid, in such an excellent district, the misdeed
of sending here rogues and worthless rabble from other parts of the country.]
The scheme is not mentioned again. There is, however, a related reference in the text
that strikes an extremely strange note: Hávar’s arrival in Borgarfjörður is called
“ódæmi” [a misdeed]. This word is used among other places in
Grettis saga, about the conduct of the revenant Glámur when he simultaneously breaks the back
of a farm worker and drives a bull crazy in the byre (1007). In addition, the word
“skillítill” [of little worth] is a reference to words spoken by Jón Loftsson in
Íslendinga saga [Sagas of the Icelanders]. The circumstances of the case are that the chieftain Einar
Þorgilsson intends to
steal from a widow and is beaten so thoroughly by her sons that he dies. When Jón
gets the news he says: “þó þykir mér í óvænt efni komið ef það skal eigi rétta er
skillitlir menn drepa niður
höfðingja” [I consider however that a strange situation has arisen if the case is
not brought
when worthless rabble kill chieftains] (182). As before, class distinction is the
target of the parody; moreover, the attitude
of the chieftains toward Hávar is defamiliarized, with unexpected and dismal ironic
connotations.
The irony is not lessened when Jöður Klængsson, who lives in Borgarfjörður, is introduced.
Similar to Hávar, he finds little joy in farming, but his position in the society
is quite different:
Var hann lítill jafnaðarmaður við marga menn, vígamaður góður og bætti menn sjaldan fé en neytti höfðíngjafylgis. Bú átti hann lítið og óduglegt,
og vissu menn eigi gjörla hvaðan honum komu bitlíngar. (13; emphasis added)
[He had little respect for parity with many men, was a good warrior and rarely paid compensation, but enjoyed support of chieftains. His farm was small
and feeble, and people had little notion of where he got his favours.]
The narrator underlines the difference in status between Jöður and Hávar when he mentions
that Jöður owned a “graðhest forkunnlegan” [remarkable stallion] while Hávar had a
“garðjálk … rauðan” [red packhorse] (13). This also prepares for the coming conflict
between them about the horses. When Jöður
is a short distance from Hávar’s farm on his way to Akranes, Hávar shakes his “skellu” [rattle]
(13) in the farmyard, with the result that Jöður’s stallion bolts up the mountain.
In
response Jöður seizes Hávar’s packhorse. Hávar demands the return of the horse when
Jöður is on his way home and cuts him loose from the packhorse train, complete with
harness. Jöður does not stand for this and their altercation ends with him and his
son killing Hávar.
In the account of Jöður and Hávar there is a mocking reference to the law-book
Grágás [Grey Goose]. In the chapter entitled “Of hrossreiðir og hrossarásir” [On horseback
riding and horse racing] it says, among other things:
Ef menn reka hross frá mönnum þar sem þeir hafa áð eða skaka hrossabrest að þeim í
þingför eða brúðkaupsför og tefja hann, varðar það þriggja ára útlegð frá landinu
en fjársekt ef um aðrar farir er að ræða. (179)
[If anyone should drive horses away from others where they are resting, or shake a
rattle at them on the way to parliament or to a wedding and so hinder their journey,
the penalty shall be three years’ exile from the land, or fines in the case of any
other sort of journey.]
It is, however, possible to steal in many ways. If Hávar is guilty of stealing a horse
then Jöður is hardly less guilty.
Grágás says that the penalty for riding another man’s horse past three farms is lifelong
exile, but to have another man’s horse follow him past two farms to the third is three
years’ exile (175, 179).
If one considers Jöður to be a thief, then the comment that he enjoyed “support from
chieftains” may gain new significance. It echoes the continuous egging on by the Organist
in
Atómstöðin [The Atom Station]: “ef þú ætlar að drýgja glæp þá verðurðu fyrst að ná þér í miljónung, annars ertu
hlægileg
persóna” [if you’re going to commit a crime then you must make sure to find yourself
a millionaire,
or otherwise you are ridiculous] (256–57).
Few have recognized such references in the exchanges between Hávar and Jöður: these
references are implicit, among other things, in single words that are inconspicuous,
and some are even mostly decided by syntax. When Hávar demands the packhorse from
Jöður, he says for example:
Nú er að skila aftur hestinum, og eruð þér djarfir menn að taka gripi bónda uppí opin augu þeim bónlaust og án umræðu. Var eg slíku
gamni óvanur þá er eg var vestrí fjörðum. (14; emphasis added)
[Now is the time to return the horse, and you are audacious men to take a farmer’s animals in front of his eyes without leave or deliberation.
I was not used to such games when I lived in the West Fjords.]
Hávar speaks as haughtily as Eiríkur blood-axe does to Egill Skallagrímsson at York:
“Hví
varstu svo
djarfur Egill að þú þorðir að fara á fund minn?” [
Why were you so audacious Egill that you dared to present yourself to me?] (456; emphasis added). But Hávar
is also reminiscent of the main hero of
Njáls saga [
Njalʼs Saga], Gunnar á Hlíðarenda, at Rangá: “
Nú er að verja sig. Er hér nú atgeirinn” [
It’s time to defend yourselves. My halberd is here] (189; 65; emphasis added). In other words, Hávar
talks like a king or hero—and reveals the implicit fantasy
with his final sentence which refers to circumstances and events with which readers
should be familiar, namely the hopeless lot of the tenant and his forced removal from
one district to another.
Jöður is no less haughty than Hávar when he responds to his address:
Meir höfum vér þó heyrt að þér væri bægt að vestan fyrir illverka sakar og hænsnaþjófnaðar,
og eru býsn mikil er aðkomumenn í Borgarfirði, slíkir sem þú ert, digrast svo mjög
við oss heimamenn. (14)
[We have however, heard further about how you were driven out of the West for wrongdoing
and theft of poultry and it is intolerable that newcomers to Borgarfjörður, such that
you are, should behave so insolently with us local people.]
Jöður speaks like a ruler and chieftain. He is their mouthpiece and is in reality
the person that Hávar dreamed of becoming when he went on Viking raids. Within the
story, Jöður’s response echoes discussions among the powerful men of Borgarfjörður
about “rogues from other parts of the country”; outside the story, among other things,
it plays on the words of Vermundur in
Fóstbræðra saga: “Ertu, Hávar, utanhéraðsmaður … og hefir sest hér niður að engis manns leyfi” [You
are, Hávar, not a local person … and have settled here, with no one’s permission]
(777). Moreover, the contrast between “locals” and “outsiders” is an almost waggish
allusion to Icelandic reality in the middle of the last century
and up to the present day. One can say that for many decades news of mischief from
the countryside has often been accompanied by the comment that outsiders were responsible.
Many people reacted strongly when Gerpla was published (e.g. Haraldsson 8; Drangsnes 2). When one considers the account of
Hávar, one has a sneaking suspicion that the exposure
of society and culture as manifested in the story—with attendant shock effects—cut
too close to the quick of Icelanders’ self-image. One could for example interpret
the exchanges between Hávar and Jöður such that Icelanders’ image of themselves as
small chieftains is lampooned; two common men imitate that which is most reprehensible
in the wealthy class—each in his own manner. Nor can one come to any other conclusion
than that Icelanders’ parochial thinking, which always allows for evil coming from
the outside, is treated in the same way. The imagined community, to use the words
of Benedict Anderson (1983) to describe Icelanders’ perception of themselves as a
nation, relies on the stories
they have told about themselves for centuries; the myths they have built up about
their characteristics. Yet in Gerpla such myths are, in short, lampooned and ridiculed.
The killing of Hávar can be seen as the
beheading of this self-image—where readers who most resolutely participate in the
exposure in the story can be both in the role of the killer and the killed. With Jöður
and his son they inflict one wound after another on Hávar and even hew him “ótt og
títt” [repeatedly] (15), while he is fallen and unconscious. They themselves then
lie in their last spasms
as the boy Þorgeir takes a look at his father:
Blóð og heili vall út sem grautur þar sem brotinn var hausinn, en öll mynd var af
andlitinu eftir höggin, skrapp til annar armleggur í axlarliðnum um leið og maðurinn
linaðist í andlátinu, og var það kvik hans hinst. (16)
[Blood and brains leaked out like gruel where his skull was broken and his face was
obliterated by the blows, one arm jerked at the shoulder as the man relaxed into death
and this was his last movement.]
Here we might maintain that more than one sense is being played on. Only the head
is in focus—and there is an arm that one can not only see but also hear in its spasm.
This is a direct appeal to people’s conception—at least that of those in the West
(Classen 135–38, e.g.)—of themselves as having a large head, long limbs and small
torso; to the basic
conception manifested in children’s stick-drawings (Ackerman 95–96). In addition
to this the face has gone, the main manifestation of what we feel distinguishes
us from each other. And in an instant the stories of the past that constitute our
identities—stories of heroics and honour and human dignity—all evaporate. Yet perhaps
the most difficult challenge for readers in the middle of the last century was that
Gerpla confronted them with context in Icelandic culture. One example of this must suffice.
Þorgeir Hávarsson is seven years old when his father is killed. He is a teenager when
he avenges him. On this occasion Þorgils Arason says: “Laungu var sæst á það mál og
bætur teknar” [That case was long since settled and compensation taken] (51). The
chieftain chooses his words like modern politicians when they wash their hands
of deeds that the public does not like; he speaks impersonally and uses the passive
voice—as though the settlement and compensation are no business of his. Yet who should
have been responsible for them, if not he? There is every likelihood that Þorgils
set a trap for Hávar and for the men of Borgarfjörður; he had got rid of his relative,
who is “óeirinn í nábýli” [a troublemaking neighbour] (11), under the pretext that
he was helping him; but had trusted that the Borgarfjörður
chieftains would have him killed—and would subsequently have to pay. It is at least
clear that the demise of the poultry-thief and the resulting compensation covered
Þorgils’ prior “outlaid costs” for the small farmhouse and cattle.