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Translated from Icelandic by G. M. Gathorne‐Hardy
First published in Icelandic 1941
p. 82The second play in our collection, The Golden Gate (Gullna hliðið, 1941), is also built upon an Icelandic folktale, but the treatment is vastly different. Davið Stefánsson, who was fond of adding the designation “frá Fagraskógi” (from Fairwoods) to his name, was one of the foremost representatives of the national romanticism that dominated Icelandic literature in the interwar years. In Iceland these were the years of home rule, granted by Denmark in 1918, crowned in 1944 by a complete independence which was only briefly marred by the wartime presence of English and American troops after 1940. Icelandic authors no longer looked to Denmark for their audience, and writers like Davið Stefánsson won themselves a great reputation as exponents of this first blossoming of a free nation. Even would‐be realists and radicals like Thórbergur Thórðarson and Halldór Laxness, who scourged their countrymen, did so in the name of a passionate love for their country. Both of them delved deeply into the folk life of Iceland, and Laxness in his Íslandslukkan (Bell of Iceland, 1943) produced a truly national saga.
Davið Stefánsson’s patriotism was of an entirely different but no less real sort. In words and forms of the utmost simplicity he succeeded in giving voice to a lyricism which struck a new note in the often harsh atmosphere of Icelandic literature. His first collection of poems, Svartar fjaðrir (Black Feathers, 1919), expressed a tenderness, a warmth, and a humor which immediately won him tremendous popularity. His love poemsp. 84 are memorable, with a lilting quality reminiscent of the ballad, and at the same time a jesting tone that keeps them from becoming sentimental. He is particularly successful in his lullabies, melodious poems written for children and adults alike. His poetry deals with people and is close to people, appealing to their emotions through a combination of sound and mood. In many of his poems there is a deep symbolic concern with the great problems of human life, love and hate, life and death.
In a series of collections he established himself as the “national poet” of his generation. His lyric descriptions of Icelandic scenery, his espousal of the simple virtues of life, and his whimsical drolleries endeared him to a public which was rapidly moving off the farms and into the cities. He expressed perfectly their nostalgia for the old and simple virtues, the faith and the hope of the past, while also suggesting a new and romantic view of life that gave hope for the future. His political views were mildly socialistic, but he always preserved a deep sense of solidarity with the soil from which his ancestors had sprung. His father was a farmer in the northern region of Eyjafjörður able and prominent enough to be elected to the Althing; his uncle, Ólafur Daviðsson, was a folklorist from whom he learned a great deal, and to whose memory he was later to pen a vigorous tribute.1 Born at Fagraskógur in 1895, a graduate of the gymnasium in Reykjavík in 1919, a great traveler and lover of books, Davið was librarian at Akureyri from 1925–52. He remained unmarried to his death in 1964.
The Golden Gate was not his only venture into the dramatic field. In Munkarnir á Möðruvöllum (The Monks at Möðruvellir, 1926) he tried his hand quite unsuccessfully at recreating the Middle Ages. After his success with The Goldenp. 85 Gate in 1941 he tried again in Vopn guðanna (The Weapons of the Gods, 1944), based on the oriental tale of Josaphat and Barlaam, and in Landið gleymda (The Forgotten Land, 1953), on the rediscovery of Greenland by the Norwegian missionary, Hans Egede. Somehow neither of these had the dramatic qualities that would ensure them life on the stage. His one novel was more successful, Sólon Islandus (1940), the symbolic narrative of a nineteenth‐century Icelandic vagabond. In the words of Stefán Einarsson, “it is a truly Icelandic tragedy, the life of an ambitious, artistic dreamer with no means to realize his ambition, or to develop his talents which might have borne fruit in a bigger nation.”2 It is understandable that Davið with all his own success, nevertheless could feel a deep kinship with this Icelandic Peer Gynt. He was basically a dreamer, and most of his writing builds on dreams.
The folktale on which The Golden Gate is based was written down by the nineteenth century national poet of Iceland, Matthías Jochumsson, in his student days, and printed in the previously mentioned collection by Jón Arnason.3 The title of it is “Sálin hans Jóns mins,” a phrase weakly translated as “The Soul of My Own John.” It is a short and salty tale about a woman who is married to a good‐for‐nothing husband, but who nevertheless loves him enough to make a quite extraordinary effort to save his soul. Just as he dies, she holds a leather bag to his mouth and ties the soul up in the bag before it can escape. She hides the bag under her apron and starts off for heaven. On her knock, Saint Peter comes out and she begs him to admit her husband; when he rather curtly dismisses her, she reminds him of the time he denied his master, and he bangs thep. 86 door in her face. She knocks again, and has a similar encounter with Saint Paul; she reminds him that he had persecuted Christians. The third person to come is the Virgin Mary, and she has the nerve to remind her that she had had an illegitimate child. When finally Christ himself comes out, she sees her chance and throws the bag into heaven before he can close the door. Similar stories are known from other countries, but the Icelandic one has its special twist in the woman’s outspokenness.4
The story amused Davið sufficiently for him to make a narrative poem out of it, with the same title as the folktale, which appeared in his collection Í Byggðum (In the Valleys, 1933).5 The spirit of his poem is far removed from that of the folktale, in spite of the common plot. The angry dialogue with celestial persons is dropped: the only one she meets is St. Peter, and their conversation is quite harmonious. The body of the poem consists of the long journey from her home to the door of heaven, described in great detail as a laborious mountain climbing operation. Once she has reached the top, however, the descriptions of heaven are a whimsical reflection of the peasant’s conception of bliss: tall grass, fat cows, sleek horses, woolly sheep. This is just the place for her John, though she is not quite sure he is the man to manage such glorious possessions.
In a conversation reported by his journalist brother, Valtýrr Stefánsson, Davið said that he was not satisfied with his treatment of the theme in the poem.6 So he delved into the religious world of his own past, studying the hymnbooks, devotionalp. 87 writings, and sermons of preceding centuries, steeping himself in the conceptions of the hereafter which had been entertained by the common people of his country. He found that these conceptions were of a singularly robust and tangible quality, sometimes so precisely expressed that an architect could have built the hall of heaven and a housewife prepared the meals described! In an essay Á leið til Gullna hliðsins (On the Way to the Golden Gate), Davið wrote, “In heaven there was never frost, never storm nor hail, now and then a gentle rain for pleasure’s sake, otherwise fair weather, eternal Icelandic summer. . . . There were neither taxes nor Danish merchants; all were masters of their own labor and their lives, and yet united in the spirit of God’s love and wisdom. No one doubted the omnipotence of the Lord, but His mercy was so great and His views so noble that He reminded one rather of a graybearded, respected parish official and father than of the King’s representatives.”7
If we are entitled to regard The Wish as an Icelandic Faust, this play qualifies as an Icelandic Divine Comedy. Mutatis mutandis, Dante’s conception of the hereafter was not greatly different from that which the Old Woman of Davið’s play harbors. In both works we find the conception of the other world as a high mountain up which mankind must struggle, at the risk of losing his footing and falling into a bottomless pit. While these views have ample scriptural basis, they come with special appropriateness in mountainous and volcanic Italy and Iceland. In the play Davið spun this theme even further than in his poem, and got a chance to introduce the Devil and his followers, among whom were some of his favorite antipathies (as in Dante’s poem). The authorities of this world, the rich and the rulers, even the ministers, do not come off well. Only the simple of heart are destined for heaven, and all of Jón’s sins are not sufficient to outweigh the love of his wife. He goes to heaven in spite of himself.
p. 88The most important innovation in the play is the author’s introduction of Jón as a major character. In the tale and the poem his chief function had been to die and be transported to heaven. In the play he furnishes dramatic contrast to his patient, long‐suffering wife, and his blustering, colorful speech offers a welcome relief from her pious, loving manner. As the wife grows more saintly, Jón gets testier and more unwilling to be raised to glory. He retains his earthiness, even his hellishness, almost to the end. Matthías Johannessen, in a study of the play, points out that while her world has virtually vanished from Icelandic folk life, her husband’s is still alive: “I feel as if I have often spoken with this fellow, chatted with him on the kelp‐covered beach, while he takes his snuff sitting on the moss‐grown rocks, or under a tumble‐down farm wall.”8 Jón has taken over from the folktale some of the woman’s saucy answers to the celestial authorities, here seen as the underdog’s privilege of barking at the Almighty and carrying on the peasant’s grumble at his circumstances in this life.
The play was first performed by the Reykjavík Dramatic Society on December 26, 1941 under the direction of Lárus Pálsson assisted by the author. The main roles were played by the well‐known actors Brynjolf Jóhannesson and Arndís Björnsdóttir, while the author read the prologue. The performance was a tremendous hit; it attracted full houses throughout the season and received ecstatic reviews. Music composed for the four songs by Páll Ísólfsson added notably to the performance, wrought as they were in the spirit of old hymns and folktunes.9 Immediately after the war the play was produced in Norwegian at Det Norske Teatret in Oslo (March 5, 1946) and in Finnish in Finland, with great success. The present translation by G. M. Gathorne‐Hardy, which we are privileged to include, was performed in the Christmas season,p. 89 1948, in Edinburgh, and again at the Edinburgh Festival, August 20–25, 1949. Students mounted a performance at Oxford University in 1949. The Icelandic troupe has presented guest performances in Denmark, Finland, and Norway.10
Everywhere audiences were impressed by the spirit of religious humanism which breathes through the play. Davið Stefánsson has here preached a powerful sermon against all forms of hypocrisy, while exalting the power of love to overcome evil. His folk parable is a charming and ingenious picture of an Iceland that will soon be gone.
Sources: Popular folk‐tale and old hymns.
A small cottage in a remote valley. Turf walls, earth floor. A pallet bed under a weatherboard roof, and above it a small window closed with a membrane. Opposite is a door, and a hearth with a pot on it. Firewood and cooking utensils. Against the gable wall is an old chest, and on it a carved wooden bowl and a couple of devotional books. Above the chest is a lighted train‐oil lamp, fastened to the wall. There is a glimmer of firelight from the hearth. An evening in early winter.
Jon lies dying on the bed. He is in a red homespun shirt, and is old and bearded. His breathing is labored. The old woman (his wife) is sitting by him, knitting. Vilborg is busy at the hearth.
Jon dear, Jon.
It’s a fair caution how he can sleep.
Aye, ’twas real strong, the last dose he had. It’s no use giving that Jon of yours extract of yarrow or thyme tea. I know the stuff for him. He’s not the first I’ve treated when they’re mortal bad with sickness.
That’s something to thank God for—being able to ease the sufferings of others.
There’s all sorts of herbs. I’ve learnt by experience to tell them apart and know what’s best in each case.
No one doubts your knowledge, Vilborg, or people wouldn’t come to you when it matters most.
There’s some herbs as does away with unwholesome fluids and poisons in the body; others strengthens the blood and does good to the nerves as well. And then there’s herbs just helps to get rid of wind from the belly. Some you have to boil on a slow fire, others over a roaring flame. And often a lot depends on your using the proper sort of fuel. One herb you must allus cook just with scrub or heather, others with bits of mahogany that drives ashore at spring tide, and a third sort with droppings of well‐fatted ewe lambs. And then there’s mixing the brew, with a drop of all sorts in one and the same dose.
You want godfearing honest folk to handle these blessed herbs.
Ah, but ’tain’t allus enough to say prayers right, seemingly. You have to suit your thoughts according to the nature and badness of the illness. Those herbs I gave your Jon a brew of just now is rare and hard to find, and they only grows where there’s fire in the soil, close to hot springs and brimstone pools.
Lord ’a mercy on us!
What’s bad takes bad to drive it out. Supposing anything’s to save him, it’ll be that last dose, or another a trifle stronger.
Seems to me he’s terrible low.
Seemed to me he could use his tongue all right just now.
Ah, that’s only old habits from when he was a boy, God bless him! I’m ashamed to say I scarcely notices his bad language; you get used to that sort of thing quicker than in forty years of wedlock. At first I did all I could to wean him from this continual nastiness, but there as in other things I didn’t get very far.
You’re not the only one that tries and fails.
Many’s the time it’s been difficult, living with him, and yet it allus seems to me there’s something fine about my Jon. But he might at times have been harder working at home, bless his heart!
Those as is lazy and idle has got seven devils in their lap, and is scratching the back of the eighth.
That’s why it went as it did. It wasn’t the way he was brought up as a lad, either. You might put it that he came into this sinful world without father or mother, so you needn’t ask about his upbringing. Thrashed he was, plenty of that, and starved into the bargain. So was it to be wondered at if the lad couldn’t keep his hands still?
It’s a wicked world.
I think there’s other folk to be blamed for the way things went with him. But God in heaven above us knows I tried everything I could to keep him out of mischief.
No one as knows about it can doubt that!
It may well be that I’ve grown as bad as him, but I had to try to share his burdens as long as I could. But God knows all the same that I refused for a long time to cook what he brought into the house, when I knew it was come by wrong and dishonestly.
Such ways didn’t come to him by nature.
Many’s the one as has said that.
Many’s the wiles of the Devil.
And my Jon gives way, like lots of others. What was I to do? Of course I shielded him. Wasn’t I his wife, as had sworn before God’s holy altar to be true to him for ever?
Some people has a heavy cross to bear.
And then we lost the children. God called three of them to him the same week, the others have flown off to the ends of the earth. It’s often I’ve missed them, specially when I was left alone in the cottage.
It’s a marvel what’s left of you. You can’t have been badly put together at the start.
What do you think ought to be said of my Jon, then? Life’s treated him harder still. Up to now his heart’s never been known to fail, though I know he’s never had his full health since they pinched him. It wasn’t human, the way they treated him.
What else could you expect?
He was mocked and scourged like our blessed Saviour. And it was as if each trouble seemed to harden him more. When I wanted to scold him, or opened the scriptures, he told me to shut my mouth, and at times he’d snatch the book from me and throw it into the corner.
It’s as sure as anything that some folks are possessed by evil spirits. Didn’t you ever look up someone who knew a thing or two?
Oh no, Vilborg, dear. I’ve set my trust in the Lord and his word, and so I do still.
I don’t know as it would have done any harm to read one of those exorcisms over him, if those had done it as understood about it.
Oh, do you think so?
God help you, Jon dear.—He’s dropped off again, same as before.
I’m inclined to think something foul is after him.
I should think it might be the old lot, the sheriff or his underlings. They’ve been here before, and always on the same errand. God knows if they haven’t got something fresh on my Jon. It’s as if he couldn’t leave that sort of thing alone. But they’d never take him away from me, sick to death as he is.
It’s to be hoped not.
Perhaps God’ll release him from human punishment. And if he’d got rest coming to him, I’d be easy. But God is just as stern a judge.
(Vilborg rakes the fire.)
My last hope is that Jon will repent his sins before he goes, whenever that may be.
I’m inclined to think that sickness and pain of body may sometimes purge a hard heart, same as fire clears the dross from gold.
Don’t mention fire or brimstone, Vilborg dear!
(Jon stirs, with a deep groan.)
Are you feeling terrible bad, Jon dear?
Do you Want to go on sleeping? Better try to wake up and pray, though there mayn’t be much time.—There, he’s dropped off again as usual.
It’s easy to see he’s had the proper dose. It’s a good thing he’s sweating, ’cause sweat’s nothing but poisonous fluids in the blood, as have got to find their way out, if things are to be better.
It looks as if he was a scrap easier just now. Don’t you think so, dear?
I don’t like his breathing. Even if the dose was strong and good, it’s a question how it’ll turn out. He’s an old man, and worn out.
I’m ready for anything, Vilborg dear.
Well, there’s nothing else to do but to bide and see how things go.
I asked him this morning if he wouldn’t like the priest to come and give him the holy sacrament, but that didn’t suit him. He’s never been wishful to go to God’s table.
Last communion Sunday, two ravens were seen flying in a cross over the church.
That’s always been held a bad sign.
At the north end of the churchyard was an open grave. While the service was going on, there was rain fell on the soil.
After that, I can expect anything!
Well, it’s the way of life! You’re too reasonable and steady a woman not to take things quietly as they come.
We’ve all got to die. But, as you know, there’s lots of places in God’s holy word where it says that them as dies in their sins, without repenting, are in for a bad time.
I understand.
My Jon, worse luck, has always been careless and hasn’t got ready for death as a Christian should. That’s why he mustn’t just slip away in his sleep. He must repent, ’cause all his salvation depends on it.
Jon, Jon darling!
Sing this hymn with me, Vilborg dear. He must wake up, if it’s possible.
Don’t you need to see the words too?
I should think I knew this hymn by heart—“Lord be thou mine only peace.” And the tune as well.
What’s all this howling?
(The Old Woman nudges Vilborg; they go on singing.)
What a devilish row!
God forgive you. We were singing a hymn.
No peace to sleep as usual. Suppose you want me to suffer as much as possible?
I think you’re an abominable brute to your wife. I suppose she ought to have slaved for you a bit more! You should be ashamed of the way you’ve behaved to her before, sooner than chuck abuse at her!
There, there, Vilborg dear. He can’t help it.
I know what I’m doing. This isn’t the first time I’ve stood by a sickbed.
Each of you’s as crazy as the other.
He’s not fast asleep this time.
Confess your sins to God, Jon darling, and pray the blessed Savior of souls to have mercy on you. That’s the only true remedy.
(Jon groans heavily.)
He needs a fresh dose.
Brandy!
You know there ain’t any. Try now to forget all earthly pleasures, and turn your thoughts on high. We’re all sinful creatures. If you confess and make amends, you’ll share the glory of the angels.
(Jon gives a cry.)
He’s in dreadful pain.
I know what’s wrong with him. It’s not always the one that cries loudest that’s the most hurt.
He’ll soon get his dose. It’s no good hurrying in a matter of life or death.
Eh, what are you muttering, Vilborg dear?
Leave that to me.
Wouldn’t you rather I sent for the priest, so that you could receive the last unction and the bread and wine, like a repentant Christian child of God? It’ll give you peace.
Baccy‐brandy!
(Wife looks at Vilborg in despair.)
What’s up?
Here now, Jon, it’s best for you to swallow this down.
He’s done for, anyhow.
Get it all down. That’s real stuff. It’s got a kick in it.
Damned muck!
I’m beginning to think there’s something unnatural about his illness.
I saw at once, from the way the first dose acted on him, that the sickness was more than a bit queer. Don’t you notice an odd smell in here?
Like rancid butter?
I’m not so sure it ain’t the smell of coming death. It’s the stink of brimstone, no less!
God help my Jon!
The air’s stiff with foul spirits.
(The light grows dim.)
Hey! Devils!
He’s calling them.
He’s out of his senses.
Why? Why is he out of his senses? . . . They’ve drunk the oil out of the lamp.
(The light goes out. The Old Woman screams, grabs the lamp in panic and goes with it into the corner to attend to it. In the glow from the hearth four imps are seen dancing round the bed.)
Drunkard!
(Jon laughs, rises half up and reaches for the keg, but falls back screaming on the pillow. His wife strides to the bed, takes one of the religious books from the chest, lays it on Jon’s breast and bends over him.)
Sheep‐stealer!
Adulterer!
Heathen!
God have mercy on you!
Lie quiet as the grave and still as a stone. The croft’s full of devils. Let me talk to them.
With the burning torch of light I make the blessed sign of the cross over this sick man. In the name of Holy Trinity, in the name of the archangels of heaven, the blessed Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael, I conjure from him venomous vermin and evil spirits, who have been sent out by the Devil top. 104 possess his soul and drag him to the abode of the damned.
Come, come, come, come!
In the name of the Crucified, who gave sight to the blind and healed those possessed of devils, in the name of all healing herbs that grow on the earth, I conjure away venomous snakes and the generation of vipers which gnaw the life and lungs of this sick man, fill his blood with poisonous fluids and thus would destroy his heart and bowels, his gall, spleen, and all his entrails.
Yield to the holy and almighty sign of the cross; depart to the confines of the realm of your black master, who awaits you in the lowest depths of fiery rain, with his glowing trident, ready to strike it into your coal‐black bellies and plunge you in the seething brimstone cauldron of hell.
To the sick man let help come from the earth, victory from the sun, sustenance from the stars, and strength from the angels of God!
In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.
In His blessed name, Amen. Aren’t you feeling better now, Jon?
You’ve crossed the outer doors too, Vilborg dear?
I should think so! I know what suits them. We’ll say no more about that.
Blessing be with you, wherever you go!
Ain’t you a bit easier now? Everything’s quite pure around you now.
Don’t you notice it, Jon dear?
(Jon is silent, his eyes staring. His wife looks questioningly at Vilborg.)
It’s easy to see the way things are going.
That’s likely to be his last act this side of the grave.
Perhaps he wants me to read him something.
Are you going to go on reading? He’s unconscious, and his time’s coming very quick. Oughtn’t I to open the window?
No, for God’s sake don’t do that!
I’ll not leave go of Jon’s soul before it’s in heaven!
Are you gone clean crazy, woman?
I durstn’t be sure St. Peter’ll open the door for him, if he comes by himself.
And Jon’s got nobody but me.
So—your faithfulness won’t stop at nothing! You’ve got a bit of string to tie up the bag, when it’s wanted?
That ain’t none too good for him, though it’s woven in checks and with my initials.
There doesn’t happen to be any ptarmigan feathers in his bedding?
No, none, Vilborg.
Then he should be all right this way. Didn’t he often put his socks under the pillow at night?
Yes, often.
As I thought. Put his socks at the head of the bed. That’ll do no harm.
(Wife takes a pair of blue woolen socks from the chest and puts them under the pillow.)
These are his best pair.
Seems to me he’s taking a rare long time to breathe his last. Stick the psalter right under the pillow—since we haven’t a priest’s vestment handy, or the names of the Seven Sleepers on a bit of writing.
With God’s help, that ought to do. There’s power in the psalter.
We’ll see.
I think that ought to do the trick. The ends of his limbs has got cold.
God forgive your hands, Jon dear.
Now his soul’s being released from the bonds of ungodly clay. Come here with the bag.
That was the first!
In the name of God the Father—
That was the second!
And the Son—. Ready with the garter.
Third! and the last.
And God’s Holy Ghost.
His earthly strife is over.
God give your soul peace. Amen.
“Dew falls at last, when day is past.”
I’d sacrifice my own salvation, if that’d give him a share in the bliss of God’s children.
That’ll be them, no doubt.
I make so bold as to step in. Good evening all.
Good day, officer.
Isn’t Jon at home? Ah yes, he’s on the bed. I have come here by the sheriff’s orders. You have been charged, Jon, with a fresh theft, and the sheriff has instructed me to take you in custody and remove you to the place of trial. I have to obey his orders.
Who doubts it? Everyone knows the way you do your duty.
Won’t you sit down, officer?
I mustn’t sit. Jon, you heard what I said. Show a leg, I’ve no time to wait. Are you deaf and dumb, or pretending to be asleep? Do you think that’ll do your case any good?
You might try shaking him.
There then, dress yourself at once, Jon, and come along.
He’s not got much to say for himself. But this time he’s got a lawful excuse.
Lawful excuse?
He’s dead.
Dead?
Aye, he’s taken the liberty, though it might interfere with the sheriff’s arrangements.
And you let me address a dead man, and summon him to court!
It never struck me that the servants of the lawp. 108 wouldn’t be sharp‐sighted enough to tell a live man from a corpse.
Peace be with you.
You can punish his body, but his soul you’ll never get!
I’ll report Jon’s death to the sheriff.
I’ve no doubt you’ll both pray for him. But if you think he’s for the bad place, that hope of yours’ll never come off. In at the Golden Gate he shall go!
Good‐bye.
Good‐bye.
Waking or sleeping, my prayers and thoughts shall carry him there—since I trust in thy mercy, O Lord, to lead me and remove me to thy holy mountain and to thy dwelling.
Now I must sit down at once and take a breather. I’m fagged out.
You’re not getting on, woman. Do you think I want to lie for all eternity in this damned bag?
Now, you must have a scrap of patience, Jon dear. As if I wasn’t doing all I could to struggle on, and it’s no good my breaking down half way. This ain’t no highway, far from it. It’s even steeper than the slope at home, and you probably remember what that’s like. And you know too that I’m only an old worn‐out creature that’s been mother to ten kids; you ought to know something about that, Jon dear.
I’ve a dim recollection of it.
And then you ask me to run up hill! Do you think I can keep it up for ever, same as a fox? And it’s not as if I could be quite free and limber with your soul to drag along. It doesn’t take much to burden the traveller.
Well, you shouldn’t have been in such a hurry to start on this trip—I’m stifled.
It says in God’s holy scripture—the body’s mortal, but the soul lives for ever. You must have known before we set off that the road to heaven is long and hard.
Anyhow, I’m sure most of what’s in the scriptures is nothing but a pack of lies.
I might have known it! It’s a sin to listen to you. Surely you forget you’re dead and on the way to the great judge. Try now to mend your ways a bit, or all this trouble will have been taken for nothing.
If you grudge taking this bit of a stroll with me, I bloody well won’t accept your help. Do you hear?
Just like you! You’re always the same.
You’d much better open the bag, so I can go my own way.
Let me settle that. If you want to shorten the trip, then say what few prayers you know and call your misdeeds to mind. The bag’ll get lighter for every sin you repent.
God help you, Jon.
No fear! When has he ever helped me?
You’re never tired of blaspheming. Where do you think you’d be without the Lord’s help and assistance? And then you mean to cap your shame by blaming him for the trouble you’ve brought on yourself. You took up with dishonest folks and let yourself be caught by the wiles of the Devil. I know there’s forgiveness for them as is born weak. But you’ve gone on and despised the strength that’s given by trust in God and by praying.
Oh, dry up!
All the same you might bear in mind the difference between living with angels and the chosen in heaven and wading breast high in fire and smoke with the hardened sinners.
I’m stone‐dead of thirst.
What do you think then you’ll be later on, if you’ve got to lie up to the waist in flame?
Don’t you see a brook or a spring?
No. There’s nothing here but mist and stone, stone everywhere, hoarfrost on the rocks and slippery at every step.
Open the bag at once, so I can lick the frost. It’ll cool me.
I can’t do that. You must put off cooling yourself while we’re on the road. Say your prayers. They’re the cooling water of life. Try that, Jon dear.
I’ll get nothing by that. That’s no good.
God Almighty hears in heaven, as soon as you pray hard enough.
Maybe. But wouldn’t it be a good idea to get a trifle higher first? In fact, are you sure you’re on the right track? It’s likely you’re quite astray.
Leave that to me.
You was always a damn fool in mist. You’d better have let me get out of the window.
Oh, I’m sick of your grumbling! Nice reception you’d have out there in the dark, to be sure.
I wish my soul was back in my body.
Yes, so you say now, Jon my boy. But that can’t be done now, till the last day, when the dead rise.
Don’t you think my carcass will get pretty high by then? Don’t you see any tracks in the frost?
You needn’t worry. I’m on the right track. It says in the hymn—
No one goes astray, who follows God’s holy word.
The worst of it is—you can’t be sure. Well then, try to get a move on.
Yes, yes. Don’t behave as if you was out of your senses. Just let me tuck up my skirts. It won’t mend matters, to get to heaven with my petticoat all ragged and torn.
Don’t you see any signs of people?
The hymn says—
But I shouldn’t be surprised if we happened to meet some old acquaintances from our country.
God be with us!
What was that?
Somebody falling.
Hold the bag tight, so they don’t take me with them in their fall.
Oh, so that’s it! You can trust me, Jon dear. But don’t let on to anybody.
Do I generally talk out of fun? . . . But we might just ask them the way, even if they are damned.
(A Man and Woman fall onto the stage, and lie moaning.)
You must have hurt yourselves, poor things!
We’re all black and blue.
Why, you’re the couple that starved and thrashed my Jon when he was a boy.
It may be my man gave him a belting now and then, but he always got enough to eat, the young rascal.
That’s a lie.
What was that?
The voice of truth, I fancy. You’re the last people I expected to meet here. If I rightly recollect, it’s a good thirty years since you passed away.
Thirty thousand years, more like, I should think.
What, wouldn’t they open the Golden Gate? But I suppose you counted up all your good deeds?
We wouldn’t have been here otherwise.
So I should have thought.
We were driven away like curs.
What devil’s laughter is that?
Oh, it came from somewhere down below.
That laugh sounded to me like your Jon’s. He can’t be far off.
Why, whenever did you hear him laugh? It’s likely he’d think of laughing, when he came home with the milking ewes, with his face all blue with the cold, and then got hard words and beating for his pains.
There was a mean streak in that good‐for‐nothing puppy.
We meant him nothing but good.
So you think thrashings and starvation gave the child a better disposition? They generally does! The blessed heavenly Father don’t treat nobody more severe than them as mishandles defenseless kids. And nobody does it but rogues, my good woman. But now the bruises on the child’s body have got onto your own carcasses.
As you sow, so must you reap. But it ain’t no pleasure to me to see you treated like this. I’d willingly help you if I could.
We must be getting on.
Down the hill. There’s no other lodging to turn to.
“Great is the misery of man.”
(The Enemy peeps out from behind a rock, sneering. He is black and scorched, with two horns projecting from a shining skull. He waves his hand, pointing downward. He appears, without the Old Woman being aware of him, each time when new arrivals leave her and continue their journey. The Man, the Woman, and the Enemy disappear.)
They’ve got the punishment they deserve.
Can you laugh at those poor creatures of another world, who’ve got nothing before them but suffering? You should be ashamed of yourself, Jon. You’ll sing a different tune if the gate ain’t opened for you.
We’ll take things as they come. Now then, are you going to make a move?
I’m sure it’s all the same, even if the journey takes a long time. You’re none too quick at mending your ways.
(The Thief falls onto the stage, screaming.)
So it’s you, you swine, the chap who got Jon to pinch his first leg of mutton?
I never heard but that you liked the taste of it all right.
There wasn’t a morsel of it passed my lips, nor the children’s either, I can tell you, though it was a tight fit at home. I knew how it was come by. You’d have done better to have warned him of the risk, sooner than shove him over the brink.
’Twasn’t me taught him to steal. It came more by nature than by schooling.
After the first mishap, it was as if all my Jon’s finer feelings had given way.
Finer feelings, ha, ha! I reckon folks don’t care much about that sort of thing on earth, they mostly tries to look after themselves and their belongings as best they can. Is itp. 114 better to die of hunger and poverty? All proper chaps is thieves. They pinches each other’s time and job, their food, their characters, their money, their sheep, horses, and women.
And women!
Dead right, dead right, old man!
Hullo! Is Jon here?
I can’t see him.
There’s plenty worse than me gets off all punishment in their lifetime, and yet slips into heaven after death. I think the same damned injustice applies there as on earth. The weaker gets turned away. Others is received with open arms.
It’s most likely you’ve read your lesson upside down and backwards—same as the Devil reads the Bible.
But it never was so bloody bad where I came from that folks had to hunt over hill and dale to find a lodging.
Ah, but there’s a bit of difference between putting a chap up for one night and taking him in for ever and ever, amen. No, you scallywag. You’ve deserved to be shown out. Worse luck!
That’s a lie!
You’ve no call to quarrel with me about it. I’ve got no say in what happens to you. You settled it yourself, while you was alive, by your own faults. You paid no heed to God’s word and the advice of good men.
Blast the whole lot!
You was always out of luck. It’s awful to see you. Brand of a thief on your cheeks and both your ears bleeding.
They’ve been cut to bits on the sharp rocks.
It’s the right marking. “Cropped and punched through.” That was the mark on the first sheep my Jon pinched.
There’s a queer echo among these rocks. What do you think me and the kids had to put up with, on account of what you whispered in Jon’s ear, when you was showing him the way to thieve and rob? But all thep. 115 same, I’d pray God to help you, if I thought it’d do a bit of good.
(The Jailer falls onto the stage; stops by the Thief, groans.)
You had no pity on me nor Jon neither, when you was giving us the cat, you damned hangman!
That’s straight out of the hymnbook.
Who was that speaking?
Oh, it was only old Jon’s wife.
I’m in agony. I’m smarting all over.
You’re being paid for what you did on earth.
Just look at my hands!
That’s how it is with everyone that uses the cat.
I caught them in a crack in the rocks, and couldn’t get them free except by tearing off three fingers from each hand.
Was that Jon? Lucky for him I can’t get at him!
Don’t you think that may have been an echo of your own brutal laugh? You didn’t think it enough—thirty or forty stripes on the bare flesh, for quite a small offense.
It was the sheriff’s orders.
Who asked you to take on the job, but your own hard heart? Why, no one could stop you from laying it on. You could have stopped, though, without losing your job. This was no way to treat my Jon.
He bloody well deserved it!
You’re a liar!
What was that?
A spirit, giving evidence against you.
Let me go, blast you.
Ah, you’re poor wretched creatures. But there’s no saving you.
(Jailer and Thief disappear.)
Pleasant journey. Happy homecoming!
I’m ashamed to listen to you. As if it was any good to you, those curs getting a bad time.—We may meet more before it’s over. If you want to get to heaven, you’ll have to forgive them all, and pray for them with all your heart.
Those blackguards? Not much!
No one can tell whether they’re a bit worse than you.
It’s just as it always was. You excuse me in one sentence, and abuse me in the next.
That’s quite true. But it’s a bit of an uphill job trying to find excuses for you. That’ll be proved when the time comes, Jon.
Well, start toddling on now.
(A noise from the rocks.)
“Great is the misery of man.”
(The Drunkard falls onto the stage, moaning.)
My head’s done for. My head’s quite done for!
Well, no wonder. The brandy you’ve took down is more than a drop.
I’m blind and muzzy, but I do know that voice.
That didn’t hinder you, when you was giving my Jon the taste for it. You both drank yourselves to damnation.
’Twasn’t me as beat you and pulled your hair.
Oh, shut up!
We won’t quarrel about that. You’ve got a pretty heavy load anyhow.
It’s the devil to have no brandy.
Same here.
Have I started to hear things?
You may have a little glimmer of conscience left.
I’m just dying of thirst.
Me too.
Poor chap. Wouldn’t they open the Golden Gate to you?
The truth is I didn’t exactly grovel to them. I was never given to licking the boots of the gentry.
No one’s without some saving grace.
It’s all the same to me where I am, if only I’ve got enough liquor.
(Jon laughs.)
How did the blessed St. Peter take it?
Oh, he started some drivel about reason and intelligence and the behavior of God’s Christian children. Maybe the old billygoat was afraid I would tweak the apostles’ beards or seduce one of those angel hermaphrodites.
What an expression! There ain’t much risk of the blessed little angel bodies being like that.
Wait for me. I’m coming.
You know the voice. And unless I’m much mistaken, so does Jon.
That’s the wife of that—that—. How should I remember, with my head splitting?
Where’s Jon?
Where’s Jon? I heard him laughing.
It’s an echo of him still in your ears. Time was when it wasn’t only your ears he tickled.
It’s hardly a laughing matter. Suppose you’re laughing at your own sin?
I’m sure that was my Jon’s laugh.
Not a scrap of him was ever yours, you creature. But everyone knows you didn’t mind being false to your own husband on the sly, and setting your traps for Jon, evenp. 118 though he was mine in the sight of God and man, and the father of my children.
He was the father of a couple of my children too.
Oh?
What was that?
You’re hearing things. Echo. Nothing else.
And you dare say that to my face! Do you glory in your kids being bastards? Then why didn’t you get Jon to acknowledge them?
Because of you and the law. But up at the Golden Gate they knew it all.
Was that why they wouldn’t let you in?
I was called a kept woman, a whore, a barefaced sinner—and so they slammed the gate.
You had only yourself to blame. That was no way to live.
I liked forbidden fruit best. The greater the sin, the greater the pleasure.
And the greater the suffering. I think there was some poison in your body, poor thing. We’re all weak, but some of us controls ourselves better than others. You was loose in everything.
Yes, I was a sinner.
And couldn’t repent before you died?
No, I couldn’t repent.
My Jon would never have been led astray, if his will hadn’t been crippled by drink and trouble of all sorts. Drink makes beasts of everyone.
(The Drunkard laughs.)
Jon was a lovely man—a lovely beast.
Yes, he certainly could be that—the darling. But all the same you did wrong to tempt him.
I couldn’t help it.
No, you couldn’t. I quite believe that. My Jon could be quite irresistible.
I love—love—
But they wouldn’t open the gate to you?
I love my sin.
Come along.
Even if sinless Almighty God can’t forgive you, I can all the same.
So do I.
They knows everything in heaven. They can even tell from the looks of the children who was their father.
I’d nothing to do with them, not a drop of blood.
Do you mean now to tell lies to the Father of Heaven himself? You’re a dreadful creature. It’s surely not worth our carrying on any further.
Are you losing your courage?
Small wonder if I did. Hush, hush!
Wait now, and keep quiet as a stone.
(The Rich Man falls on the stage.)
It says so in the blessed hymn.
What are you mumbling, woman? Who are you?
We’ve only lived a generation in the same parish, so it’s hardly to be hoped as you’d know me. But perhaps you remember my Jon?
Yes, yes. Now I remember you. Where are you going?
I’m on my way up to the Golden Gate.
You can save yourself that trouble.
I trust in the mercy of the Heavenly Father. It says in the Bible that in his house them as was poorest on earth will find refuge and shelter.
Nice people there must be then inside the gate! Tramps, paupers, thieves, and other criminal riffraff. Now I begin to see why I wasn’t welcomed.
They can hardly have turned you away without a reason. And of course you had your pockets stuffed full of gold and silver. Didn’t they ask how you came by the money?
How I came by it? What do you mean? All doors were open to me before, even the house of the sheriff himself, and he wasn’t generally free with invitations.
Of course the sheriff and the Heavenly Father would be likely to have the same standards on human beings. Couldn’t you soften the people that looked after the gate?
I offered them handfuls of silver.
And what did they do then?
Do? Why, they spat on my hand.
(Jon gives a low laugh.)
I thought you might have tried to bribe the servants of the Heavenly Father. But they’re not that sort, I’m told. I wonder though if they didn’t find one or two of Judas’s pieces of silver in your fist.
Why do you think so?
They’re said to be still in steady circulation on earth, so it struck me in my simplicity that they might have got into your pocket some time or other. Wealth goes where wealth is.
How dare you make such insinuations against a gentleman, you old hag?
“Inasmuch as ye did it to one of the least of these my brethren, ye did it unto me.” You remember who said that? And perhaps you remember too how the richest gentleman in the country charged the poorest of the cotters with stealing three of his sheep?
That was my duty. Sheep thieves are outlaws.
What was you yourself? A skinflint, a criminal, a rascal.
Wha—what was that?
This is where the stones cry out. It’s not for me to judge if you or Jon was the bigger thief. But I know this—that he never took anything from the poor. He neverp. 121 grabbed the holdings of cotters and turned them into penniless slaves. And he never had your riches, nor your blood money. But what good is all your wealth to you now?
What business is that of yours?
Bitter is the tears of a woman, whose husband’s in jail, with ten kids to feed and clothe at home. But now things have changed, so that you, my fine gentleman, are more to be pitied than she is. I’d help you if I could, though you’d probably be ashamed to receive my help.
Your help!
Why, it’s the sheriff.
How are you, Mr. Sheriff?
How d’ye do? Did you wish to speak to me? If I remember rightly, there was a small matter of an unsettled tax assessment. We can discuss that later.
I’m afraid your memory has managed to play you false, Mr. Sheriff.
We can go into that later, I said. Was there anything else—a complaint, a boundary dispute, or a case of larceny?
Excuse me, Mr. Sheriff—
Yes, yes, yes, yes—. Good day.
What are you doing, wandering here?
Is this place in thy jurisdiction?
A cotter’s wife doesn’t say “thou” to the Sheriff.
O well, I’ve never learned fine manners, and if I can say “thou” to God Almighty, the Sheriff oughtn’t to be more particular.13
Who is this woman?
She’s the wife of that Jon Jonsson.
I never served her with any summons to report here. What do you want? You should have applied to the Sheriff’s Officer.
You seem to think your authority extends beyond death and the grave.
What do you mean?
Excuse me, Mr. Sheriff, but—
But what?
You’re both dead as mutton.
Yes but—yes but—
That’s quite correct, Mr. Sheriff.
But am I not bound to maintain law and order everywhere?
You might think a man of your sort would be wanted in heaven. But I think the laws there is different.
Those laws which are not signed and ratified by His Majesty the King are neither law nor justice. Do you realize that? Do you know who I am?
It’d take less to make me see that.
Do you think it is seemly to insult a royal officer and a judge, who has spent a full thirty years in the public service? What sort of justice is this?
It’s the judgment of God.
This is a penal offense, under the law of Christian V.
I entirely agree with you, Mr. Sheriff.
Much obliged! Vox regis, vox legis.
And all the same they must have been able to see you was in gold braid and gold buttons.
Do you suppose that they were all stone‐blind? They might as well have been.
No doubt they’d have opened the gate to you if they had been. But they’ll have seen something through the uniform, as wasn’t to their liking. What about that sentence you passed on Jon?
Wasn’t that sentence pronounced in accordance with the appropriate section of the relevant law? Do you mean to teach me law and jurisprudence? Do you know to what you are liable for insulting a judge by royal warrant, a person in authority?
If my Jon had been rich, you’d have stopped the case. But that wasn’t the way of it, so you sentenced him without mercy.
Do you dare to bandy words with the Sheriff?
Do you consider that I do not know how to deal with a delinquent of that kind? Are you taking the liberty of impugning my judgments?
I’m not afraid of either of you any more, now.
(Jon laughs.)
I summon you for contempt of court.
You are a witness. Such persons should be arrested.
But you’re not a royal official anymore, only a lost soul what falls down the great mountain, lonely and despised. Even them as suffered worst from the rod of your authority pities you, and is sorry for you.
Do you know whom you are addressing?
May I accompany you, Mr. Sheriff?
As you please. But come at once then. I am very busy.
It is certain, Mr. Sheriff, that I was absolutely free from liability at my death.
I know that the King’s law is not God’s law, nor the judgments of men the judgments of God.
(The Devil has peeped out from the rock.)
There’s a rush of them down at the Old Boy’s place today. But what’s become now of the blood of the Lamb, and all this salvation they preach about?
There’s some folks is past saving, and it’s likelyp. 124 you’re one of them. The soul can be so black that it mayn’t be easy to wash it clean, not even in the blood of the Lamb. It’d be a sight better for you to cry over your wretchedness and the misery of mankind, than to laugh and please the Devil.
What’s up now?
That’s God’s to settle.
Be quiet, Jon.
(Thunder and lightning.)
(Laughs.)
Pray hard, Jon dear.
Then open the bag, so as I can get a look at him.
You’re a damned good‐for‐nothing rascal, but I’ll never let you fall into his clutches. God be with us!
(Michael, the Archangel, appears on a high crag. Beams of light from him shine on the Old Woman, who falls on her knees.)
What’s up now?
The Archangel Michael.
Amen.
Well, I thought that stuff of his was pretty feeble.
How can you say such things, Jon, about our escort and guardian, the blessed messenger of light!
(Thunder and lightning. Howling from the depths below.)
Now I’m really enjoying myself.
Are you losing the glimmer of sense that God gave you? It’s a fearful disgrace to listen to you. If the lightning was to strike me, where’d you be then? Don’t you hear the howling from down below?
It shall never be said that Jon Jonsson went to heaven with his mouth shut and without a word to say for himself.
Do you mean to stick here forever, or what?
Do you think it’s weather for climbing slippery cliffs?
Well, didn’t he say he was going to look after you in front and behind, that there ambassador of heaven?
Well, all right then, in God’s name!
(Laughs.)
The gall of the man!
It wouldn’t hurt if I was to say the old traveller’s prayer that my poor old granny taught me, blessed be her memory! That prayer’s always brought a lucky trip.
Then be quick and cough it up.
Amen and hallelujah. And let’s be getting on.
(The Old Woman gets up and starts climbing.)
Lord God and Heavenly Father! How glorious! I must say, Jon, this is a land of plenty.
So?
Yes, don’t you know we’ve crossed the border of the Heavenly Father’s estate in heaven?
Oh, have we?
This is what I can see—and more: trees in full leaf on both sides, green fields stretching on and away, pasture for I dunno how many hundreds of horses, and far away the light from the Heavenly Jerusalem and the Golden Gate.
Oh, really?
It’s as if you didn’t care about it. You’re so dull and sluggish.
It’s not as if I could see anything.
No, poor boy, I know. But you must feel that there’s perfect calm and sunshine here, none of them storms. and lightning we had going up the mountain.
Blowed if I notice a bit of change.
You just doze away in your bag, and if you open your mouth it’s only to curse and swear—just as if you really wanted to get into trouble.
Ain’t you pitching it pretty strong?
Well, is it strange if I’m hurt? Why do you think I took on this trip?
You wanted it. I never asked you.
I might have known it. You get more and more ungrateful as time goes on. How do you think you’d be now, if I’d let you go into the monster’s open jaws, as you wanted yourself?
Do you think I’d have been any worse off?
Ain’t you afeared for your soul’s salvation, Jon?
I’ve never been afeared of anything.
Maybe. You get cheekier and cheekier as we get near the gate. Do you think that’s the best way to save your soul? No, Jon, now you must look to yourself. Now or never. And in this heavenly spot. How lovely all round!
Open the bag.
No, I daren’t. The Enemy may very well be close by—you’re never tired of harping on his name. He can change himself into the shape of every living thing, the wretch, beasts or men or even angels. Are you feeling bad?
Need you ask?
You’d better call to mind your schooling a bit, before we get to the gate. You’ll have to confess there, and there’s no hope if St. Peter doesn’t feel that everything you say is steeped in burning remorse and penitence.
I think I can do quite well without confessing to him, the old billy goat.
You can’t get out of it. Anyhow he knows all about every mortal thing folks have done on earth.
You don’t say! I’ll bet he knows!
You’ll find out before the end. I mean to tidy myself up a bit, before we come to meet anyone.
Are you expecting all the hosts of heaven to come and meet you?
Who knows but that the blessed Archangel Michael may have told them I’m on the way. I may be of little account on earth and still less up here in heaven, but it don’t follow that everyone will have forgotten me.
I’m going to wash off most of the sweat in this here spring.
Hi! Shove the bag down into the spring in the meantime, to cool me a bit.
Are you dreadfully hot?
Hot? What do you think?
All right, then.
Are you more comfy now?
Ah—h, that was good!
There you have a foretaste of heaven. Say your prayers now, Jon dear.
I’ll say them quietly to myself. That will do just as well.
Do so, dear.
I see myself in the spring as if it was the finest looking glass.
Must be a sight to see your ugly mug.
Is that how you says your prayers?
Don’t interrupt me.
I feel I’ve grown many years younger by washing myself in this holy well of heaven.
That’s quite likely. You haven’t got your virginity back?
There’s someone moving in the woods. If they was to come here, then mind and don’t say a single word unless you’re spoke to.
Anything that comes from you will be clever enough.
You’re not funny.
(Enter the Priest and the Old Woman’s Parents. They are dressed in white and hold palm branches, with their hands crossed on their breasts—very solemn.)
We greet thee in the name of the Eternal Trinity.
God be with you.
She doesn’t recognize us.
It is not to be hoped that thou shouldst perceive from our countenances who we are, seeing that it is long since we, by the Lord’s mercy, were called forth from the great vale of sorrow, where men walk clad in curses as with a garment, and the teeth of sin are as the teeth of lions whose bite is mortal. I am a servant of God and thine ancient spiritual counsellor, and these are thine earthly parents.
(The Mother takes a step nearer to the Old Woman and spreads out her arms. The Old Woman kisses her.)
A hearty welcome to you, my child.
The Lord bless your coming.
I knowed you at once—but you’ve grown so white and fine. But how nice of you to come and meet me.
Submit thyself in all things to God’s will, and thank, above all, thine intercessors, thy Redeemer and Comforter, who offered Himself to death and paid with His precious blood for the sins of mankind.
Oh, you’re still the same blessed light.
I rejoice unspeakably to see once more the children of my former congregation, within the bounds of eternal life.
Well, what can you tell me about my boys?
They were given wings at once, like everyone who dies in childhood, and now they flutter round the sky, singing with the angel children.
You needn’t be the least uneasy about them, my daughter.
Bless their little hearts. I’m terribly anxious to see them.
But no doubt I don’t deserve that mercy.
As it is necessary for thee to comprehend, and as I have ofttimes declared unto thee aforetime in the house of God, it is here, in the land of the living, that the scriptures are fulfilled, which declare that the mortal children of earth shall meet again and be welcomed by their beloved ones, so soon as they are called away from the realm of the world, provided that they have been pure and devout and submissive to the power of the Lord in their daily lives, and behaved themselves prudently and in accordance with his word, as is purely and clearly set down in his holy book. If thou hast so done, here is neither room nor occasion for sorrow, seeing that thou shalt then shortly be allotted a lasting dwelling place within the Golden Portal and partake of the habitation of the angels and the elect.
He talks just like a prayer‐book.
What was that?
The rejoicing of the redeemed can be heard all the way here. They must be wonderful happy.
You should know that quite well, my daughter. We, who live in the heavenly Jerusalem, have received the highest prize of victory.
Even as thou seest, we have put off the earthly rags of our sin, washed in the regenerating fountains of the Holy Spirit, put on the white robes of innocence, and thus, bearing branches of palm, we sing and dance around the throne of the Lamb in an ever‐shining choir of glory. There is no poverty there, nor wrath nor adversity, but absolute plenty and health, thoughts of peace and a most blessed welcome. There we are satisfied with the love and mercy of the Lord.
That’s just what it said in the revival hymns you gave me.
We believed God’s word and acted accordingly. It’s always been our one wish and prayer that you’d do the same.
As if our daughter hadn’t done that! Hasn’t she shown the fullest faith, and Christian patience in word and deed?
Obedience to parents is one of the highest duties of God’s children. You broke that obligation, my daughter, when you went and married Jon, who by his ungodly life disgraced the word of the Lord, you yourself, your parents, and all the family.
You’d have been more at home in the place down below, old man.
(The Mother catches hold of her husband.)
We are saved. No harm can come to us.
I won’t argue with you, father. But I thought that you and everyone else that lives in heaven ought to be able to forgive my Jon his trespasses. Isn’t it written somewhere—love your enemies, bless them that curse you?
Justice will judge him, when the time comes.
Though Jon has too long hearkened to the ungodly, whose fellowship is as fuel of fire, and thus by his behavior and course of life and pride run the way of destruction, even as bloodthirsty and false traitors, who betray their Lord and Master, as did the traitor Judas, yet may he be enabled mercifully to excape from the claws of the Enemy, but only if tears run down his cheeks, and his prayers are even as those of the penitent robber on the cross.
Whatever’s in store for him, we wish with all our hearts that you may not have to pay for your fault, since you must have repented it bitterly.
No, father, I haven’t.
God help you, my dear child.
I loved my Jon. And it says in God’s word that those who love a lot shall be forgiven a lot.
In the last moments before a human creature comes to the great portal, it serves him best to tarry alone and confer with his God and his conscience. Wherefore we will walk ap. 135 little longer in the wood, but soon after return. God be merciful to us all. Amen.
I will pray the holy mother of God to pity you.
Nay, I’d rather you prayed for my Jon.
Damned if I care for their prayers. It’s like you to demean yourself to these spirits out of the hymnbook, this precious trio!
It’s a shame to listen to you.
Have you no self‐respect —or what is it?
(The Enemy, disguised as an angel, peeps out from among the trees close to the spring, and reaches for the bag. He has a fiery red shock of hair, which hides his horns.)
Pick me out at once from this poisonous hole. Do you want me to catch my death of cold?
(The Old Woman sees the Enemy, and snatches the bag in a panic.)
Get thee behind me, Satan!
That’s a nice way to address him.
(The Enemy disappears.)
Oh, his looks suits his talk, even if he is got up as an angel. Trust me to spot him!
But what are you dawdling here for? Ain’t you done titivating yourself enough?
p. 136(Enter the Farmer and Helga, dressed in white. He is elderly, she is young and sprightly.)
Can I believe my eyes? Is it you, darling?
(They kiss one another repeatedly, pat one another on the shoulders, and both talk at the same time, while greeting one another.)
How are you, darling. Welcome, Welcome!
Bless you, bless you, and thanks from my heart for all the good old times.
And thank you ever so much more.
But What fun to see you again!
What ought I to say, then?
How do you do, old friend.
Good day and welcome. So you know me, even though I’m not in my old duds?
Do you think I don’t know your face?
I wanted to be the very first to meet you on this side. But I came after your parents and the priest, after all.
Yes, they were with me for a little while and have just gone off into the wood. But I couldn’t help it: I felt somehow so unworthy compared with them.
I think they’ve been much too godfearing while they were on earth. But aren’t you tired after your journey? I should almost think so. But now it’s pretty well over.
Just like you. You’re just as young and pretty as ever, and your nature’s not altered. But what a pretty dress you’ve got, and how it suits you!
That’s the sort they weave now in Heaven.
I’m sure that not even the storekeeper’s wife ever had such a fine frock, nor of course the priest’s wife when she was alive, neither.
I should think this was good wearing stuff—even though it may be thin—and stands washing? But does it give you any cover, dear?
Here you could easily go stark naked all the year round.
Now you’re at your old jokes. But ain’t they terrible strict here—about morals and such?
Bless you, don’t ask me that! Here they’re all saints—much too saintly. At least the lads at home in our parish had some life in them.
Yes. Reckon they was not too good to kick over the traces a bit.
Some folks are shocked at everything. But a lot of what men call sin is no more than fun, innocent fun.
That’s what I’ve always said too.
Was the cattle in middling good condition down there, when you left home?
He was bound to get onto that. He’ll never talk about anything but cattle.
Thanks. I should say they’d done pretty moderate. It turned wintry early in the autumn, and though really there wasn’t much snow, the frost as you might say killed all the grazing for the sheep.
Any losses from disease?
Well, it hit them here and there.
That’s bad. Folks must have started folding them at the first gathering. But the horses are still at grass?
Oh yes, they’re left to God and the frost.
I remember when the village lads used to saddle the ponies and gallop about the farm, like princes in a fairytale. Many’s the horse whose flanks I’ve patted. I gave some of them milk to drink, when I left them.
Blessed creatures. It was always a poor soil at home, the hay crop was scrappy and the grazing mostly bad.
But I feel at times I’d almost like to swap heaven for my old parish.
Lord, fancy that now! Why the soil there is nothing like what it is here.
It was wonderful what the lambs was like this autumn. But how did the farmers do on the whole?
Oh, it seems as if some can’t never make endsp. 138 meet, even though they scrapes every penny and breaks their backs.
That’s true as day, but still farming’s the best way to live. How was your Jon, when you passed on?
Damn bad!
Did you hear anything?
I wouldn’t say no.
You was the best and truest friends to Jon and me, while you was on earth. Private‐like to you, I’ve got a little something with me on the trip.
Now I’m getting curious.
You see that bag there. What do you think’s in it?
Me.
How in the world—?
Say howdyedo to the folks, Jon dear. You know that namesake of yours, that was always so helpful and kind to us?
Good day, namesake.
That’s his voice.
Now the lady too. You know who she is.
Good day to you.
Am I to believe it’s you, Jon?
Oh yes, it’s me all right, worse luck.
It’s his soul, bless it.
Well, I’m clean flummoxed. How are you, namesake?
I suppose you’ve grown so proud from living in heaven that you didn’t mean to speak to me, you damned old scoundrel.
Don’t he sound still like his old self?
It’s refreshing to hear old Jon talking our blessed mother tongue. How did you manage to pack your husband into this bag?
She shoved it in front of my lips just as I popped off, and so I spat my rotten soul into the bag.
However did you think of it?
Oh, don’t ask me that.
She thought I’d have to go to hell, like all the great sinners.
But you’re not a great sinner, Jon.
Listen to that now, old gal.
Of course you’re a sin‐afflicted soul.
That’s a whopping lie. Open the bag directly, and let me out of this hell. I’m not a great sinner.
Have a little patience, dearie. It won’t be long now.
I’m not a great sinner!
Well, it don’t matter. I’ll not let you out of my hands till we’re at the gate.
I can’t make head nor tail of all this.
That’s what I’d expect you to say. I hardly know myself whether I’m dead or alive, but I do know that that’s my Jon’s soul, in that there bag. However things go, I intends to bring it safe to the gate.
I always knew, namesake, that you had a good wife.
Rot!
You mustn’t talk like that, namesake.
I had ought to be used to them kind words of his.
In Heaven we have to mind our speech, like steady respectable farmers, and keep up the reputation of our old parishes.
This is a damned dog‐kennel!
Well, in spite of everything, it was often good to be on the earth. When do you think you’ve enjoyed yourself most, Jon dear?
When I had enough booze and baccy.
And I, when I carried the fresh hay to my sheep.
Though I’m ashamed to say so, I never enjoyed myself better than in the arms of my Jon.
Ah, it’s something that you should think that!
Happiness came to me like a lovely song that you can’t ever forget.
Well, it wasn’t altogether such a damn bad place—our dirty old world! And to tell you the truth, I’ve never had a slavish belief in this everlasting bliss of the hymnbook.
You’d talk different if you saw what we see.
Oh, do you think so?
Here there’s unlimited land and masses of grass.
You get a tidy crop of hay, then?
No, we never puts a scythe to the ground here.
What’s that you say? Don’t you never make no hay?
What, are you all so bone‐lazy, or haven’t you any livestock?
Need you ask that? Don’t you remember how I told you on the way, when I was passing the blessed cattle: first the flocks of sheep with silver fleeces, and then the stud of horses—but you must have managed to hear them whinnying, they neighed quite a lot—and then the herds of cows, and they was something like cows, Jon. And the bulls, sleek as a mass‐cope.
All this stock must take a tidy bit of feeding.
All the stock finds its own grazing here, all the year round.
Now you’re pulling my leg, namesake.
No, he’s telling nothing but the truth, Jon dear. All the same, at first folks can get bored with all these joys of Heaven. Never a storm, always flat calm—as you might say.
Aye, it was always refreshing to come from the fire out into the cold.
That’s why I sometimes feel too well off, and long to be back on earth, with all its toiling and moiling.
Oh, my dear!
I miss most of all never seeing snow. I never forget how lovely the mountains were, with their white peaks gleamingp. 141 in the sunshine. At times I’ve even wished to be out in an Iceland blizzard.
I can easy believe it may be dreadful wearisome, this eternal mild calm, this never‐ending heavenly weather.
To say nothing of the dark. What fun it was, and often how handy!
But here we have sunshine all the year round—glaring bright, everlasting day.
Damned if I believe what you say. But, tell me, namesake, are there any cattle that live out all the time?
I’d never have believed there were any such sheep. They never falls off. It’s a sheer pleasure to take a look at them.
Them fat‐bellied ones can’t be bad eating?
But the cows—I suppose they don’t stay dry long? Ain’t they all wonderful milkers?
They’re first rate.
But the horses? Do they ride them?
It’s just like sitting on your bed—it feels just like a bird in flight. And as to the build of them—there’s simply no describing it in words.
I can hardly believe that you can’t describe them in Icelandic.
These are heavenly animals. You have to mind that, Jon dear.
Even if they are heavenly, as far as I remember, folks used sometimes to describe the Lord himself. So I should think it ought to be easy to describe his cattle. But tell me, namesake, do you own many sheep?
I can’t exactly answer that.
Eh?
He owns all the livestock in heaven—and so do I. And soon you’ll own them all—every single one.
Now I can’t understand anymore.
In heaven no one is poor and no one is rich. Everyone owns everything there.
Now you’re at your jokes again
Are you laughing at it, Jon dear?
You must think that I’ll believe everything you stuff me With. Hasn’t each farmer got his own house?
Nobody cares about that.
Indeed. Then don’t people marry up here, in this heavenly village?
No. No one marries here.
I like that! What do the women say to those regulations? Can the men take them altogether without ceremony, so to speak?
It’s you that’s joking now, Jon dear.
Perhaps it’s not quite as mad an arrangement here in some ways as I thought.
Mayn’t Jon and I be together, if both of us is allowed to get in?
Yes, yes, bless your innocence, if you want to yourself.
Oh, but mightn’t a man now get himself someone younger and slimmer than you, old gal?
You’ll be glad to have your old grievance, if I knows you right.
Then do people lie out of doors at night on all the crofts?
It’s nice to sleep in the grass.
In the grass? No thanks! But since all the stock fends for itself—what do you really do? Nothing?
I can hardly tell about that.
Now you’re telling me a lie, namesake.
There’s some goes round the stock for pleasure.
Some pick fruit from the trees, others make garlands of flowers.
Make garlands of flowers? Is that a job, now? No one can live on that damned nonsense.
Some play with little birds.
(Jon shrieks with laughter.)
Pretty thoughts you’ve got now!
Some listen to the singing of the heavenly choir.
I shouldn’t think that howling would be edifying. Do you eat at all, namesake? You surely don’t live on garlands and the songs of angels.
We’re fed on heavenly food.
The Lord’s everlasting love and mercy, as the priest used to say.
He can eat his eternal love himself, the poisonous old glutton. I want something more solid.
You remember what it says in the hymn—“clear wine, with marrow and fatness too shall there be freely given.”
Is that true, namesake?
Here there is all that the heart can desire.
Do you hear that, Jon dear?
I believe you’re all lying about this, but I believe my namesake more than the priest.
Wouldn’t you like to ask now how you ought to behave to get into all this happiness?
Do you think you won’t be able to save me?
Please tell me, dear, how I ought to behave at the gate.
That’s quite simple. You knock three times. St. Peter comes out, and you tell him all the truth.
I know he must be quite straightforward and simple. But—I suppose no one needs to try hiding anything?
It’s best to make a clean breast of everything.
Oh, is it?
And oughtn’t the soul to be full of remorse and penitence?
Yes, there’s no denying that.
You hear, Jon. And if now he should get in, which is quite uncertain, what happens then?
Then he’s washed in the water of regeneration, and dressed in white robes. It’s all done in a flash.
Really? They must be damned spry.
Do I have to tell my parents about Jon?
That makes no difference.
(Enter Priest and Parents.)
Now the great hour is swiftly approaching when thou shalt stand trembling before thy Lord and Judge, and beseech Him with prayers and humble supplications; since it is my hope that thou hast gained that blessed humility, likewise that gracious state of penitence, as also the one true faith: for thou hast been taught as a child of God and frequented constantly his Holy Church.
Certainly I couldn’t count the times I’ve been to church. But it did me good—no stones for bread. Oh them sermons of yours, what a help and consolation!
Ofttimes didst thou make thy way thither by hard roads and in foul weather, whilst others rested at home in their sins, who had a shorter road and were in every wise stronger in body and constitution.
Some of us couldn’t leave home. If I knew the beasts was short of food, I paid no attention to nothing, not even to God’s word.
You certainly had your sheep as much to thank for your salvation as our blessed priest.
It is good for us to be here. And I can still pray my old prayer for the children of my congregation, both those who are here and those who are dwelling yet in the world below, in the weakness of the flesh and the hurts and perils of the temptations of the Devil.
O thou most mighty Lord of Glory, thou who alone art crowned, spotless and innocent, bless thou all our counsel and condition, our aspirations and intentions, our going out and our coming in, and make all thy handiwork to prosper. Grant good fortune to our fishermen, and fruitfulness to our cattle, protect us from pestilence and famine, flood and tempest, lightning and thunderstorms, and impending perilsp. 145 of the elements. Defend us from spirits of the air, wild beasts, venomous serpents, and all the assaults of the Devil, from mortal peril and from extinction. Grant us that we may make ready in time and fill our lamps with olive oil and, endued with the breastplate of faith and the helm of hope and the sword of charity, may meet our beloved bridegroom and go in unto thy wedding feast, before the door of mercy has been shut. And when thou dividest the sheep from the goats, let thy blessed right hand lead us, thy spirit control us, thy seraphim guard us—and sweeten all our adversity with a foretaste of the heavenly joy.
Amen.
Amen.
Amen.
If the precious gift of mercy is vouchsafed me, it’ll be thanks not least to my old minister.
While I was on earth, I never thought about death, I very often forgot to say my prayers, and very seldom went to church—and yet they let me in. If I’ve managed to deserve that, in spite of everything, I think everyone ought to deserve it straight away.
I think so too.
If you had your way, my Jon wouldn’t need to worry.
Your Jon?
God knows, he’s deserved many times over to live in heaven for all eternity. If I had my way, I’d forgive everybody everything.
It’s always been a sort of heavenly joy to be in your company.
As one having the cure of souls, I take leave to ask: Has your Jon done anything wrong since last time?
That’s not for me to judge.
Is he still in the cottage?
If he ain’t on his way up to the Golden Gate.
On the way here?
Oh yes. Did you think I was immortal? Put that in your pipe and smoke it!
(The Parents look at one another.)
We will all accompany you home, but at the Golden Gate you, like others, are obliged to stand alone. We will also pray for you fervently in the meantime, and when you enter into glory we will sing Hosanna in our hearts.
Oh, I’d rather you prayed for my Jon.
We will do that also.
I suppose the Lamb’s food has made you keen on praying.
(Violin music and singing of angels.)
What was that?
The angels—oh, how prettily they sing!
You cannot really have heard them.
I heard too.
You’re just the same damned bootlicker.
My darling boys!
Yes, that’s who we are, mummy.
I can’t hardly believe them’s the sons of Jon and me—such divine creatures! And yet I recognize them, my blessed little goldilocks.
I reckon he hadn’t much to be grateful to me for, poor lad.
You remember him, then?
I’ve never forgotten. I told you you two would meet again, and yet he was only a bird of passage, same as a wild swan from the hills.
(The Fiddler and Helga look into each other’s faces with sparkling eyes.)
Sing some more, my dear. Sing that old song of yours about love.
(Helga throws herself upon the Fiddler’s neck and kisses him. Dance with music.)
Oh the blessed angels!
Do you hear, darling?
Do you think I’ve gone deaf? Have the kids got wings?
Angels’ wings.
Eia, eia!
We await you inside the gate.
Amen. In his blessed name, amen.
Then the time has come.
So we two are alone outside the Golden Gate.
At last!
Have you repented your sins now, as humble sinners should?
I’ll hardly change for the better from this.
Remember then to mind your speech like a Christian.
Haven’t I always?
If you’re asked to speak, then tell the truth honestly. St. Peter knows everything.
You think so?
And try now to talk a bit gentler like, Jon dear. That’ll make a better impression on strangers than this continual offhandedness.
Oh?
If, by God’s help, you should be let in, then you must give my best love to our boys. And so I wish you everlasting—
Look here, just go and knock.
Are you ready now to meet your judge?
Oh yes, just as I’ve always been.
Then I’ll knock in the Lord’s name.
Looks as if they wasn’t in any hurry to come to the door.
In the realm of heavenly peace, there ain’t no hurry about anything.
Perhaps they thinks it’s good manners to keep folks waiting. Knock again, woman.
Take it easy, Jon dear, and mind you don’t speak till you’re spoke to.
God bless you, holy guardian of heaven, servant of the Lord and blessed apostle.
So you are from Iceland? Peace be with you, my good woman.
I’d humbly beg your pardon for giving you this trouble, poor wretched creature that I am.
It’s never been exactly restful, having charge of the keys here in heaven. But so far I’ve tried to do my duty, and as far as I know the Holy Trinity haven’t yet wanted to find anyone else for the job.
Well, and it’s certainly most unlikely that they’d hit on anyone else who was better and more trustworthy. I knows that much about you from my reading of the holy scripture. But what a grace it is—to stand face to face with you.
No one who has read the scriptures wonders who I am.p. 151 But isn’t there a widespread neglect of that study? So I have gathered anyhow, from some of those who have come here.
I’ve often seen pictures of you in religious books and on altar‐pieces, and I must say that you looks and behaves even grander in reality. But in the pictures there was always a ring of light round your head—of course you only wears that on special occasions, though. But it suits you uncommon well, blessed man of God.
That’s enough now, my good woman.
Oh naturally you’ve got other things to attend to but listening to me. But, as you see, I’ve come here, and it’s a long way from Iceland to heaven. I must say it’s a long and weary way. And in fact, I hardly knows myself whether I’ve got here awake or asleep, alive or dead. But I’ve trusted all the time that you’d have mercy on me when I came.
Everyone trusts Peter, old as he may be. And it may not seem much, at first glance, to turn a key in a lock, but when it’s this one
it’s not all the same who holds it. It looks as if some people thought it was no more than a trifling favor to open the door for them, but it’s really no small matter to grant men everlasting happiness.
Well, it wasn’t really on my own account that I came to take this on. I just wanted to have a talk with you and find out if it’d be quite impossible for you to have pity on my Jon.
I like nothing better than to take in those who have deserved it, and it was never my habit to turn innocent folks away. On the other hand people must understand that heaven is an old and respectable establishment, which will not have a stain put on its reputation. It ought to be enough if we settle about your husband when he gets here.
He died a little while back, and isn’t far off. He’s had his share of trouble—plenty of it—on earth, poor chap, and seeing as how I’m his wedded wife and have had tenp. 152 children by him, it was my duty to come with him from our cottage, since he hadn’t many to lend him a hand, barring me and the children. But you see it’d be a great relief to me to know Jon was comfortably housed, with kind and real quality people.
Well, we shouldn’t think of lodging him just in a shack here in heaven.
If I know anything of my Jon, he’d be ready to take on a job of work to pay for his board and some old rags to wear. He was always a bit demanding, but they surely won’t skimp the daily bread here in heaven. I can safely say that he was clever with his hands and especially good with animals.
That won’t hurt any. But it often seems as if people don’t realize till too late what is agreeable to God. Men rush through life and trust to mercy, but things can sometimes turn out differently from what they expected. We make a practice of examining all their papers here at the gate.
I know that heaven won’t be mocked. But no one expects anything special for my Jon; he’d do better in some job like minding cattle, or looking after a dairy in the summer pastures, than making up wreaths of flowers, or fiddly little chores like that.
We’ve never had any trouble with our folks, once they were inside the gate.
I’ve no doubt Jon would get on all right with sensible folk, even though he may have had his little faults, same as all us children of men. I’ve had no reason to complain of him, that much is sure. And our kids wasn’t no weaklings. Three of them came to meet me just now—my little lads. They’ve been well treated with you, and we their parents can be very thankful to you and the Heavenly Father.
Yes, they’re in the best of health, the young things.
If Jon could be father to such nice children, it’sp. 153 hardly likely but he was good himself at bottom. Oh, he could be a real gentleman, if it comes to that, and that was exactly his real true nature.
If that’s so, there oughtn’t to be any difficulty about him. But sometimes things turn up when I look at this.
It’s not everyone who takes care to guard against it.
Well, you couldn’t really say that my Jon was a regular churchgoer, if I’m to be quite honest, but he often read his Bible, so it didn’t make much difference. He wasn’t the sort of man to show off before others.
I’ll have to take a look at his record. Oh, dear, dear, I remember. It isn’t good.
But he was a godfearing man all the same, in his own way.
You wish Jon well. That is nice of you and will be borne in mind. But I have to answer for all I do to the Holy Trinity.
I once read that there would be more joy here over one sinner that repented than over ninety and nine just persons.
Quite correct. But always provided he repents.
I hope too that my Jon has done that—with God’s help.
I’ve never been a great sinner.
You mustn’t imagine that I meant to keep it from you that I’d got Jon’s soul with me. It’s for his sake I’ve come here.
Best that I talk to the lad himself.
Of course. And no offense.
It’d be awful nice of you if you’d be lenient with his faults. Isn’t it best for him to stay in the bag meanwhile, or should I untie it?
Untie it, untie it directly!
The soul must appear naked before its judge.
But the soul is perhaps just a mere vapor, drifting out in the wind?
In your eyes it will have the appearance of Jon, just as he was in his lifetime.
Oh then you’ll let him keep his shirt and underpants. They’re snow‐white homespun, white as ivory. I’m so afraid he’ll catch cold, if he’s stripped for long. Well, I don’t think I shall ever get this untied. I don’t like cutting my garter.
Rise up, farmer Jon, and give an account of your deeds.
I’m glad of this. How d’ye do, Peter, old boy.
Good day, my man.
That’s the worst that has ever happened to me—to be rolled up in that rotten bag. But it’s all owing to my old woman.
Talk like a Christian, Jon dear.
I should think I can talk exactly as I please—just like every other Icelander. I’ve never heard they had occasion to be ashamed of their mother tongue, so far. The clergy thinks that prayerbook language is what you talk here in the heavenly village, but—
By their fruits ye shall know them.
You talk pretty good Icelandic yourself.
What do you suppose, man? Him, what speaks with the tongues of men and angels. But he knows, bless him, that we’re simple common folks what only knows their mother tongue.
Hold your tongue, woman. Of course Icelandic is spoke in heaven—and nothing else. Do you think they talk some kind of Latin up here?
I speak the languages of all Christian peoples.
Have you talked to Luther?
Why do you ask?
Have you talked to the Pope? You’d hardly care to waste words on that old scoundrel. Are there any Danes here in Heaven?
Why shouldn’t I take them in?
Are they here too, then? Well, it’s all the same.
You’re plainspoken people, you Icelanders.
Yes, Peter old boy, we’re used to speaking plain, so it can be heard through the roar of surf and the rumble of volcanoes. You know that Iceland’s way out at sea, and that it’s powered by fire and glaciers. It hasn’t its like in the wide world.
True, it’s a beautiful country. But somebody who came here told me that the people very soon lost their freedom, because of the quarrels and tricks of the inhabitants.
Don’t speak of it, it’s a sad story. Such a thing would never have happened, if I’d been alive in those days.
It might have been expected that the men would have changed for the better, when the church was encouraged and her ministers increased.
Not at all. It was more the other way. That was when the Devil got into the game.
But the blessed priests, they bring us the gospel of salvation.
They have a go at it. Much help for the soul I’d say it was, to see them yawning before the altar and slobbering in their pulpits.
Mind what you’re saying, Jon dear.
We’ve often had trouble with this little people, and the Prince of Darkness expects much of it. But the fight’s not over yet.
Ah, but ain’t a lot of these here transgressions more pranks than real crimes? But it’s nothing but the truth—we makes a very bad use of God’s gifts.
Perhaps you have met some of your acquaintances who were on the way down?
(The Old Woman sighs.)
I hope you’re not going to compare me to that damned riffraff. Do you happen to know who I am and what my stock is, Peter old chap?
I’m pretty well informed of it, Jon Jonsson.
Certainly my name’s Jon, son of Jon Jonsson the rich, son of Svein the hymn‐writer, son of Grim the lawman, son of Klaeng, son of Kari, son of Bishop Brand. I come in the direct male line from the kings of Norway.
You Icelanders don’t exactly lack family pride.
Do you know anything about family history?
I know this much, that some of your ancestors went straight to hell.
Who told you that lie? But on the other hand, the Norse vikings didn’t ever spend their time torturing sticklebacks and minnows to death, like your countrymen in Galilee. When you put to sea and had a tiny bit of a tossing, you fell to praying, shaking in your shoes and in a blue funk!
You should be ashamed of that kind of talk to this holy man.
But seeing as he was born with this taint in his blood, and bad instincts in his body, you should make more allowances for him.
He was granted full intelligence.
And plenty of it.
He was given sense to choose or reject.
And I’ve done it too, proper.
Now that I know your reason for coming, I will, in accordance with my official duty, and for the further revision of your record, as it is set down in the protocol of heaven, put a few questions of conscience to you, Jon Jonsson, which I ask you to answer directly and definitely.
Remember you’re standing before your judge.
Do you acknowledge that you have received in your youth the ten commandments of God, and have also had a Christian education?
Yes. And for every commandment I learnt, I got ten whacks from my masters.
That was all the Christianity he had.
Do you admit the validity of the ten commandments?
What do you think? Need you ask?
Do you claim to have acted in accordance with these commandments and lived your life as befits a child of God?
Yes, you can put that down.
Do you remember any sins which you have committed and need to confess?
Oh no. I don’t think I remember anything of the sort. Though I might perhaps admit that I’ve sometimes happened to make a little slip, like everyone else. But I’m sure you’re not smallminded enough to take account of that sort of thing.
Do you call it a little slip to take God’s name in vain?
Have I done that? Besides, I’ve always thought the Creator was above eavesdropping.
Do you call it a little slip to covet the goods of another?
Everyone in the world does that—every man jack of them. I’ve never had anything of my own—not a brass farthing.
There you’re telling the truth, Jon dear. We lived on starvation level.
What are the words of the eighth commandment?
The eighth? Is there anything special about it?
Do you remember having broken that holy commandment?
Oh no.
What about that leg of mutton, Jon?
Who cares about one leg of mutton? Do you think the Heavenly Father is some kind of miser?
But what about the sheep?
What damned sheep? Do you mean when I mistook the earmarks of those two or three scraggy sheep? That’s all done with now!
Are you ready of your own will to confess your principal sins to me?
I’ll get along without admitting sins I never committed.
But perhaps you might remember a few trifles, Jon dear.
Shut up, woman.
Do you remember no sins which you committed with a woman?
With a woman? Now you’re joking, Peter old boy. Do you mean with my old gal?
With the wife of another man.
That’s the way! You sniff out everything. Do you suppose I’ve got no natural instincts? I can tell you, Peter Johannesson old boy, that every single man on earth is intimate with more than one woman. Fellows that had no leanings that way would be damned feeble creatures—more like. It’s not the will they lack. You can write that down.
That’s true what you say, Jon dear. There’s not many that don’t have plenty of trouble with their bodies.
And I asks myself—ought you to count against us as sins those instincts we’ve had put in our blood on purpose to keep life going in heaven and earth? Why, no child comes of itself. Is it wrong for a man to give in to a law of nature?
(The Enemy appears on the watch, dressed as before.)
Do you consider that is serving God, Jon Jonsson?
And you can talk like that, you who denied your Saviour three times while the bloody cock crowed twice!
O Lord, have mercy on him. Draw, in thy mercy, a bloodred stroke through the record of his sins, and bathe him in the gracious fountain of salvation!
In the name of the Holy Trinity, I close the Golden Gate.
Oh, Jon dear!
I thought he wanted taking down a peg.
You talked just like a raving lunatic. You might have known it don’t pay to quarrel with the judge.
There was nothing else for me to do, if I wasn’t to let him get the best of me. I couldn’t see any different but that he was a man, same as myself.
Have you given up all hope, then?
I dunno as I’ve ever had any hope.
It’s Master!
Oh God, have pity!
(Tearing off the angel disguise.)
(The Old Woman crosses herself and Jon.)
(Tries to tear himself from his Old Woman.)
(Old Woman draws Jon toward the gate.)
(The Old Woman knocks three times on the gate.)
I trust you to talk like a Christian, if anyone should come out.
It’s no use knocking.
Why, it looks just as if you was desperate to get down into the brimstone. There’s someone coming.
(The gate opens. Paul the Apostle comes out and shuts the gate. He is in a long red robe, and has a grey beard and a heroic appearance.)
Paul the apostle greets you in the Lord.
(The Enemy hides.)
God be with you, great preacher to the heathens, rock of help to all that’s in trouble. I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me.
On the earth I dwelt among heathens. I journeyed from land to land, to save them who dwell in the habitation of unrighteousness which is their heart, and preached faith to infidels. Many I drew up from wallowing in the mire and abomination of their sins and made them the finest of God’s creatures. But what was my reward? On behalf of these sinful worms of earth, I had to endure scorn and torments,p. 161 and finally I was beheaded by the Roman axe. Though many gave ear to my words, yet more have refused my message, and have hidden their infirmity in the darkness instead of being clothed in the armor of light.
If the clergy spoke up like you do, the faith wouldn’t be all smothered by the coughing in church. I’ll stand by that. You’re a fine speaker.
My speech and my preaching were not with enticing words of man’s wisdom, but in demonstration of the Spirit and of power, that your faith should not stand in the wisdom of men, but in the power of God.
Where should we be without Him? We have Him to thank—and His apostles—that the world ain’t like a whited sepulchre.
Do men believe those who preach the truth better than false prophets? Far from it. Where is the wise? Where is the scribe? Where is the disputer of this world? Hath not God made foolish the wisdom of this world?
Yes, that’s for certain. Everyone on earth is a damned ass.
We’re ignorant folks. But didn’t you say once: He that is weak in the faith should be cared for and not shaken in his conscience?
That is so.
And in your Epistle to the Romans it says: Be not wise in your own conceits. Recompense to no man evil for evil. And—as much as lieth in you, live peaceably with all men.
That is true likewise. Hath God cast away his people? God forbid.
Well, but it takes two to make friends.
I have heard your discourse with the apostle Peter, my fellow‐worker and brother, and know your business in coming hither. Wherefore I ask you, Jon Jonsson: Do you not yet know that the all‐seeing God is a searcher of the hearts and reins, while we are his servants? Have you not yet beenp. 162 convinced that you are unworthy to enter and consort with the elect?
Not in the least. Certainly not.
I implores you, sir. Show mercy to my husband, and open the Golden Gate to him.
Wherefore should I transgress the laws of heaven? Wherefore should I despise the decision and act of my fellow‐worker? Know you not that the unrighteous shall not inherit the kingdom of God? Be not deceived: neither fornicators, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor the effeminate, nor abusers of themselves with mankind, nor thieves, nor the covetous, nor drunkards, nor revilers nor extortioners shall inherit the kingdom of God.
(The Enemy, on the watch, chuckles with delight.)
You’re a proof of that, or rather the opposite. It can’t hardly be so. To the best of my knowledge you was yourself an idolater and a reviler. Wasn’t you pleased, when the martyr Stephen was stoned to death? Didn’t you persecute Christian folks and want to wipe out the gospel of Christ from the earth? Perhaps that’s not reckoned as sin?
You’re behaving like a brute and not a man.
You knows my thoughts, sir. This is my last wish.
(Old Woman crouches down in front of Jon with the open bag. Paul raises his hand. Jon, covered by his wife, sinks down into the bag with a cry.)
This is the best place to keep you, you bundle of rubbish!
Open, open at once!
You hear my words, Jon Jonsson. By no means would I contend with you, but if you had altogether turned from your way of life instead of becoming hardened, had preferred truth to lies and purged your heart, then these mercifulp. 163 doors of salvation would stand open to you. Let no one deceive himself. Those who defile the temple of God, them shall God destroy.
To this my conscience in the Holy Spirit bears me witness.
Open the bag, you devil of a woman!
Be quiet, you brute.
God must have forsaken you, Jon dear.
Open the bag! It’s all the same to me, damn it!
Now he’s stretching out his claws. This is what I came here for, to save you from everlasting damnation.
Nice sort of saving I call it! Now then, open the bag, I tell you.
I don’t believe as how Mary the mother of God won’t take pity on you, if I can manage to get a word with her.
Surely you’re not going to knock for the third time?
Don’t you say a single word, and hold your breath.
(Soft music and ringing of bells)
Jon, Jon.
Now, be humble, like a child.
(The gate opens of its own accord. The Virgin Mary comes out before the end of the song. She is in a snow‐white silk robe, with her hair hanging down and a wreath of flowers on her head. Accompanying her are angels and saints, who arrange themselves behind her in the gateway.)
Holy Queen of Heaven! Merciful mother!
I heard thy sighing.
You wept by the cross. Have pity on me!
All shall be well with those who love most fervently.
I would sacrifice my salvation for him—will you speak to your blessed Son, and ask his help?
I will speak to my Son. God bless thy love and care, and give thee peace.
I’ve never seen a more godlike face.
It was like a sweet breath of spring playing round me.
Who asks you to wait?
So you’re still here, my good woman.
Mary the mother of God was going to plead my cause with her beloved Son.
You can trust my verdict. It will not be changed.
(The Enemy gesticulates exultantly to the Old Woman.)
Ah well, them as lives by the land has plenty of troubles, in heaven as well as on earth. But its not your fault that things went wrong. I mustn’t think how grand it would have been for my Jon, to come to live in bliss among the angels. Isn’t the glory inside the gate quite unspeakable? I guess I needn’t ask. And is every soul, what gets in, allowed to live there for ever?
World without end.
And it’ll never be thrown into the fire, no matter what it does, and whatever happens?
No, never.
I suppose it’d be sinfully forward of me, if I was to ask you just to let me peep in through ever so little a chink?
Why should I refuse you that?
I’d like so dreadfully to have a look in.
(Peter opens the door slightly. Music in the distance.)
Oh! Oh! Are the flowers of gold? I’m thinking what a joy it would have been to my Jon to be here. And then of course, as I see, it must be many times more lovely the nearer you get to the Lamb’s throne and the shining choir of glory.
Do you think my eyes would be dazzled too much, if you was to open it just a tiny bit more?
The light of heaven heals all the ills of Christian people.
(In the beams Of light are seen many‐colored flowers and shrubs. Angels and other beings in white move to and fro.)
My Lord and my God! There I see my blessed little lads!
And there’s my father and mother, and the priest, and the farmer, and my friend Helga, and the Wild Swan, and—
and in you shall go too, my Jon—and may God have mercy upon you!
(Cries of welcome. Peter is thunderstruck.)
(Disappears.)
Do you know what you have done, woman?
Good‐bye, Peter dear, and give my love to my Jon!
(Exit. Music begins at this point, and lasts to the end of the play.)
Great things have been happening here.
—which will probably cost me my post and my job?
God forbid. Love suffereth long, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things. To Him be the power and the glory.
Amen, Hallelujah!
(The apostles stand one on each side of the gate.)
What, has my old gal gone, dear old bird?
So here you are, you men of God?
(The apostles say nothing. Jon flourishes his palm branch, and goes quickly into heaven. The Angels and Saints dance round Jon, singing “Eia! eia!”)
Why have I now become as white as driven snow?
Thou art a child at heart, and all of us are so. Eia, eia!
Why have I now been given this palm‐branch, fair and green?
This is to testify thy conscience now is clean.
Why do the flowers I see appear like burnished gold?
Because the soil is rich with mercies manifold.
Who in those homes reside, whose gables this way face?
This is the city of heaven, the Godhead’s dwelling‐place.
Come they from stars or sun—these ever‐dazzling beams?
From the Lamb’s glorious throne this holy radiance streams.
What, like a snowcapped isle, is yonder lofty tower?
That is our Mary’s home, the blessed Virgin’s bower.
(The music grows louder. Ringing of bells. Jon is resplendent.)
With joy the vault of heaven is trembling, as you see.
“’Tis blithe beneath the birches that grow by Greenwood Lea!”
Eia! Eia!
(As the singing ends, the apostles close the gate slowly and quietly.)