16 False security
Well, back we went to Winnipeg, to a colourless existence bounded by narrow enclosing walls; back to the drab streets with their ugly unimaginative houses and the dreary procession of plodding humanity bent upon its furtive scramble for bread—back to a leaden backwash of life where the one touch of beauty was the remote, incorruptible sky. For the time being papa was hopelessly beaten, outwardly humble and apologetic. However, no rebuff of circumstances could quite obliterate the wanderlust in his soul. His was not a circumspect heart. Never for its own sake would he prize security. When he held forth upon the merits of country existence he was merely arguing for a happier compromise with the evils of material necessity. What he wanted was leisure to develop his social instincts, for he had a genuine interest in human affairs and a natural gift for friendly intercourse. Like every other frustrated dreamer since time began, he longed for the kind of life which permitted of individual expression and the full enjoyment of beauty.
That he should have associated such a happy state with the country was not surprising. By now he had come to idealize the easy-going life his own father had led at Ferry-Cot, wilfully setting aside the prods of less sweet memory. Upon which point mamma was sometimes moved to elaborate with unflattering inference. She, at least, had not forgotten those early years in Iceland where the exercise of even a fragment of this new-blown zeal for the land would have yielded reasonable fruit—nor had she forgotten Dakota, where the wolves were left to gobble up the lambs while papa exchanged courtesies and wisdom with some addle-pated neighbour. Not infrequently she drove home the shaft by adding: ‘I’ve not the least doubt you’d make a capital farmer, dear Lars—if whist and toddy were the tricks of the trade.’
Yes, for the time being poor papa seemed utterly defeated. The old life was resumed, in a house that was perhaps, a bit shabbier, but otherwise not unlike the one we had left. Brother Minty, like so many other immigrant boys, although highly sensitive and eager for learning, was forced to leave school and find some sort of job to help out with the growing expenses. It was not merely a struggle but a genuine miracle that kept our humble home intact. How mamma managed to feed us even one satisfactory meal a day, let alone finding clothes which were always clean and reasonably neat, is an abiding mystery. She was, of course, an expert needle-woman and an indefatigable worker. Our garments were not only made and re-made, but turned and so often dyed that the Lord Himself would have been puzzled to know their original status. Skirts turned into jackets, jackets into pants, pants into bed-quilts, and bed-quilts into braided mats for the floor. All our mitts, socks, and stockings she knitted by hand; so, too, scarfs and mufflers. These were her pleasant pastimes! At such occupations she was not only a wizard of speed, but supremely happy. For thus engaged she might sit and spin a yarn for eager youngsters, or read a tattered book without the least guilt upon her conscience. Many were the tales she told to the lonely immigrant youngsters who adopted our open house for want of better pleasure. But then mamma was past-mistress in that ancient Viking art. Her yarning was not a haphazard narration of disjointed incidents but a colourful recital of vital events that progressed by logical stages to a fitting end. Nor were there any forgotten strands which she must arrest the tale to recapture. Mamma would have blushed for shame at such a stupid exhibition of muddle-headedness; ‘Oh, I forgot, I should have mentioned so-and-so’ did not occur in mamma’s storytelling. Her memory was keen and unclouded and her sense of the dramatic almost perfect. She not so much told her tale as lived it, and she could imitate voices and emulate moods as expertly as an actress.
These sagas were our chief entertainment—usually topped off with hot pancakes (which mamma tossed together quick as a wink when the last tear was shed) and lots of coffee. These pancakes, made with flour and water, one egg and a dash of nutmeg, were, like the knitting, a source of joy and pride to mamma. They were thin as tissue paper and must be fried on a special griddle—to touch which for lesser purposes was a heinous crime in our house. They were greaseless, sprinkled with sugar, rolled into golden sheaves, and eaten red hot. They were justly famous, for after thirty years of prayerful attempt to create anything like them I acknowledge utter defeat! Other Icelandic housewives made excellent pancakes, with the help of several eggs and milk, but only mamma, to my knowledge, had the knack of creating this trickiest of titbits with water and one egg. ‘Oh, well, you see,’ she used to say, ‘there is nothing to boast of in cooking a fine dish with everything to hand. A fool could do that!’ The inference was plain. To this day I look with suspicion upon a two-egg recipe and with pity upon any one who succumbs to such a snare and delusion.
So these were our delicacies. The staple fare consisted of flatbread, soup, rice, and porridge. Since there was never enough money for more than one substantial meal this had to be the soup. For as you may guess, then the pot boasted a joint of beef as well as turnips, potatoes, and an onion! Sometimes the stock was thickened with a dash of oatmeal—which seemed to me a crime against the soul of soup, but mamma held more with nourishment than aesthetic vapours. Except for prunes and dried figs, which at that time had not come into the popular cuisine and were therefore cheap, and might be indulged in on state occasions, I had not seen a bit of fruit in our house since the winter when dear Dr. Chown used to leave an apple or orange in my sick hands. Well, with one memorable exception: I was bribed with an enormous orange to submit to vaccination. If I were good and didn’t cry I should have this prize of the gods. But, alas, when the ordeal ended I found I was honourably bound to share my bribe with the unwounded members of the family!
On the whole we were rather cheerful, despite our draughty house and meagre fare. The gospel of balanced diet had not as yet been preached. None of us suspected that life owed us grapefruit and tomato juice. When in very bad times papa was too ill to work throughout the week, we did without eggs in the pancakes, turnips in the soup, milk in the coffee, and boasted that, after all, three dollars had done the work of six. Seemingly we were sublimely unaware that when toothache wracked us and colds kept us shivering beside the kitchen stove, a dash of calcium—like the nutmeg in mamma’s pancakes—would have lifted the flat feeling and given us a more lively tang. Of course, we knew that good food was highly enjoyable—we might even have conceded that upon high occasions such as weddings, wakes, and christenings it was really essential—but if you could not have it on a budget of dimes you hid the fact behind a stack of flatbread, so to speak. You stuffed on starches and thanked your stars it was so filling. Besides, to quote mamma: food couldn’t be so extremely important, since most of the human race had to get by on so little of it!
Well, as I said before, we had settled down to the old pennypinch grind, moderately convinced that Winnipeg was our destined battle-ground. Mamma really appeared to think that the ghost of papa’s dream was successfully laid. For weeks not a word had been said about the glorious inspiration of the rural scene or the necessity for man to be in close and loving contact with nature. Why, papa had suddenly developed such a streak of practical good sense that he had gone rummaging in a junk shop and found a sewing-machine which, because of various mechanical defects, he was able to purchase for three dollars—in two equal payments! It was a hopeless-looking object when it landed in the kitchen, but when papa had finished overhauling its insides and varnishing its outsides we all agreed that it gave the entire house a flattering touch of scientific progress. This opinion was strengthened when the old machine went into action; it ate its way through the thickest quilting as easily as the prairie sun eats into a snowbank—even leather was no obstacle. And what a voice it had! At its best, when mamma’s busy feet were racing up and down the paddle, it roared and thundered without ceasing, setting up an awesome reverberation in every crook and cranny. Papa had certainly redeemed himself! What was more, his depressing humility had given place to normal wit and humour. Once more we heard lively bits of gossip from the shop, or sat with wrapt attention while papa read for us some article or essay he had just finished in those precious Sunday hours. Peace, if not plenty, reigned in our house; we began to have the smugly settled feeling which goes with the firm conviction that the skillet hangs on the third hook behind the stove; that one’s Sunday dress hangs in a moth bag in the left-hand corner of the clothes press; that the extra pair of sheets are in the second bureau drawer, and that the bureau itself can be located even in the dark.
Then the thunderbolt struck. Papa had made up his mind again. This time we were going to the United States of America! More specifically, our destination was Duluth, Minnesota, where papa’s sister was successfully established as a midwife, and was already contemplating building a nursing-home. Oh, well, we might have known that our domestic brig would never lie for long in untroubled water. Moreover, we should have sniffed the rising wind when papa turned from serious criticism to lively satire—when, instead of a diatribe on the feebleness of modern poetry and modern poets, he amused himself with a satiric hyperbole on Napoleon’s satin breeches. Indeed, we might have been warned, for satire, contrary to popular belief, springs from a cheerful heart. If papa made scathing fun of his favourite adventurer it was because in his innermost being he was drawing closer to the beacon fire that feeds the quenchless hunger of such avid souls.
As a matter of actual fact my incorrigible papa had been exorcizing his demon by writing passionate epistles to Aunt Haldora. He had poured out his tale of frustration to such good effect that not only was his own heart purged of gloom but that of his sceptical sister filled with resolute pity. It was unthinkable that her dear brother should languish in such a wretched country for ever—especially when Ingiborg was so pig-headed. That’s what came of having knights for ancestors. Thank heaven, the worst she had to live down was a lascivious friar and a musty bishop! Oh, she knew that papa had often acted like a fool, but now he must pull himself together and make a fresh start. He must not show the fleece of a silly ram and continue ba-ba-ing and bleating. There was no earthly reason why he should keep on killing himself in the service of a miserly money grubber! Canada wasn’t much of a country anyhow. So far as she had been able to make out, not even the English thought of it in favourable light. It was nothing but the hapless hunting ground for misbegotten upstarts who dreamt of easy fortunes with which to dazzle other fools back home. Now, in the United States it was altogether different. Even the stupidest foreigner quickly perceived that his ultimate success depended upon a whole-hearted acceptance of American ideals and American citizenship. In other words, wrote my aunt, the United States was a self-respecting country—not just the tail-hair of the British Bulldog! What was more it availed you nothing down there to brag about Trafalgar Square, the Buckingham Palace Guard, and Queen Victoria’s virtue. The United States offered you a chance to prove yourself, not what had impelled your ancestors at the siege of Malta, or in the golden age of the Vikings.
All of which, reduced to its ultimate challenge, implied that if papa had an ounce of initiative left he would at once set about returning to the Great Republic. Not to go mooning about coyotes this time, but to work like a sensible man at his decent craft, where decent wages were paid.
‘And that’s exactly what I mean to do,’ said papa, waving his epistle in mamma’s astonished face. ‘You can say what you like, Ingiborg. Sister is right—I’d be a fool to let my children grow up in a country where the people haven’t any interest in their national destiny—as a matter of fact I have sold the cow.’
Which qualifying statement, and not the national indifference of the so-called Canadians, was, I suspect, the decisive factor in mamma’s swift surrender—or perhaps she had known all along that, cheated of his country paradise, papa must, inevitably, seek some palliative substitute.
