The Birds E-Book

Tarjei Vesaas

• Herausgeber: Peter Owen Publishers
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

A tale of delicate beauty and deceptive simplicity by one of the greatest Scandinavian writers of the twentieth century.The Birds tells the story of Mattis, who has mental disabilities and lives in a small house near a lake with his sister Hege who ekes out a modest living knitting sweaters. From time to time she encourages her brother to find work to ease their financial burdens, but Mattis's attempts come to nothing. When finally he sets himself up as a ferryman, the only passenger he manages to bring across the lake is a lumberjack, Jørgen. When Jørgen and Hege become lovers, Mattis finds he cannot adjust to this new situation . . .

Leseprobe

Praise for The Birds

‘True visionary power.’ – Sunday Telegraph

‘Beautiful and subtle.’ – Scotsman

‘A spare, icily humane story … The character of Mattis, absurd and boastful, but also sweet, pathetic and even funny is shown with great insight. The translation conveys successfully a concentration of style and feeling that seems to be Vesaas’ characteristic mark as a novelist.’ – Sunday Times

THE BIRDS

A tale of delicate beauty and deceptive simplicity by one of the greatest Scandinavian writers of the twentieth century, The Birds tells the story of Mattis, who is mentally retarded and lives in a small house near a lake with his sister Hege who ekes out a modest living knitting sweaters. From time to time she encourages her brother to find work to ease their financial burdens, but Mattis’s attempts come to nothing. When finally he sets himself up as a ferryman, the only passenger he manages to bring across the lake is a lumberjack, Jørgen. But, when Jørgen and Hege become lovers, Mattis finds he cannot adjust to this new situation and complications abound.

Tarjei Vesaas was born on a farm in the small village of Vinje in Telemark, an isolated mountainous district of southern Norway, in 1897 and, having little taste for travel and an abiding love of his native countryside, died there in 1970 aged seventy-two. A modernist who wrote, against literary convention, in Nynorsk rather than the Danish-influenced literary language Bokmål, he is regarded as one of Norway’s greatest twentieth-century writers. The author of more than twenty-five novels, five books of poetry, plus plays and short stories, he was three times a Nobel Prize candidate, although he never won the laureate. He did, however, receive Scandinavia’s most important literary award, the Nordic Council Literature Prize. He first began writing in the 1920s, but he did not gain international recognition until the mid-1960s when Peter Owen first published his books in translation; since then they have appeared in many languages. Doris Lessing described The Ice Palace as a ‘truly beautiful book . . . poetic, delicate, unique, unforgettable, extraordinary’. The other work of fiction which, together with this novel, is generally regarded as his best is The Birds. At the time of his death he was considered Scandinavia’s leading writer, and to this day coachloads of his fans go on pilgrimage to his old farmhouse home.

Contents

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Part Two

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Part Three

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Copyright

Contacts Page

Some Authors

Part One

1

It was evening. Mattis looked to see if the sky was clear and free of cloud. It was. Then he said to his sister Hege, to cheer her up: ‘You’re like lightning’.

The word sent a cold shiver down his spine, but he felt safe all the same, seeing the sky was so perfect.

‘With those knitting needles of yours, I mean,’ he added.

Hege nodded unconcerned and went on with the large sweater she was making. Her knitting needles were flashing. She was working on an enormous eight-petalled rose which some man would soon be wearing.

‘Yes, I know,’ she said simply.

‘But then I’m really grateful for all you do, Hege.’

He was slowly tapping his knee with his middle finger—the way he always did when he was thinking. Up and down, up and down. Hege had long since grown tired of asking him to give up this irritating habit.

Mattis went on: ‘But you’re not only like lightning with eight-petalled roses, it’s the same with everything you do.’

She waved him aside: ‘Yes, yes, I know.’

Mattis was satisfied and said no more.

It was using the word lightning he found so tempting. Strange lines seemed to form inside his head when he used it, and he felt himself drawn towards it. He was terrified of the lightning in the sky—and he never used the word in hot summer weather when there were heavy clouds. But tonight he was safe. They had had two storms already this spring, with real crashing thunder. As usual, when the storm was at its height Mattis had hidden himself in the privy; for someone had once told him that lightning had never struck such buildings. Mattis wasn’t sure whether this applied to the whole world, but where he was at least it had proved blissfully true so far.

‘Yes, lightning,’ he mumbled, half to himself, half to Hege, who was tired of this sudden bragging tonight. But Mattis hadn’t finished.

‘I mean at thinking, too,’ he said.

At this she looked up quickly, as if frightened; something dangerous had been mentioned.

‘That’ll do for now,’ she said and closed the matter abruptly.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

‘Nothing. Just you sit quiet.’

Hege managed to suppress whatever was trying to come out. The fact was that the tragedy of her simple brother had haunted her for so long now that whenever Mattis used the word ‘think’ she jumped as if she’d been stung.

Mattis knew something was wrong, but he associated it with the bad conscience he always had because he didn’t work like other people. He rattled off his set piece: ‘You must find me some work tomorrow. Things can’t go on like this.’

‘Yes,’ she said, not thinking.

‘I can’t allow this to go on. I haven’t earned anything for—’

‘No, it’s a long time since you last came home with anything,’ she blurted out, a little carelessly, a little sharply. She regretted it the moment it was said; Mattis was very sensitive to criticism on this point, unless he was doing the criticizing himself.

‘You shouldn’t say things like that to me,’ he told her, and there was an odd expression on his face.

She blushed and bent her head. But Mattis went on: ‘Why don’t you talk to me as you would to anyone else?’

Yes, all right.’

Hege kept her head down. Whatever could she do with things as they were? Sometimes she couldn’t control herself and it was then her words hurt.

2

Brother and sister were sitting on the front steps outside the simple cottage where they lived by themselves. It was a fine, warm June evening, and the old woodwork gave off a lazy smell after a day of sunshine.

They had been sitting there for a long time without saying a word—until they began talking about lightning, and about earning money. Just sitting there, side by side. Mattis sat looking at the treetops with a steady gaze. This sitting of his was a familiar sight to his sister too. She knew he couldn’t help it, or she’d no doubt have asked him to stop it.

The two of them lived here by themselves—there were no other houses—but there was a road and a large cluster of farms just beyond the line of spruces. In the other direction sparkles of light were coming from a broad lake, with distant shores beyond. The lake came right up to the slope below the cottage, and here Hege and Mattis kept their boat. The small clearing round the house was fenced in and belonged to them, but beyond the fence brother and sister had no say.

Mattis thought: She doesn’t know what I’m looking at He felt tempted to tell her.

Mattis and Hege—they’ve got doubles! Hege doesn’t know that.

He didn’t tell her.

Just beyond the fence stood two withered aspen trees, their bare, white tops jutting up among the green spruces. They stood close to each other, and among people in the village they were called Mattis-and-Hege, though not openly. It was only by accident that Mattis had got to hear the names. They were almost contracted into one word: Mattis-and-Hege. They must have been in use a long time before Mattis heard them.

Two withered aspen trees side by side, in among the green growing spruces.

He felt a stirring of protest against the names and couldn’t stop looking at the trees. But Hege must never get to know the secret, he decided, every time they sat there like this. She’ll only fly into a rage and get angry—and the tree’s got its name now anyway.

At the same time the very fact that the two trees remained there gave Mattis a quiet sense of protection. Admittedly they were nothing but a nuisance, and did damage where they stood, but the owner didn’t come and cut them down in front of your very eyes and throw them on to his fire. That would have been too awful somehow, here, in front of the people who were smarting under the names—almost like murder. And that’s why he doesn’t do it. I should like to meet that man some day, thought Mattis. But then he never comes here.

Mattis went on thinking:

I wonder what he’s like inside, the man who found such pleasure in inventing those names for the tree-tops? Impossible to say. All you could do was sit and think about it during summer evenings here on the steps. But it was a man who’d done it Mattis refused to think it had been done by a woman; his feelings towards women were friendly. He was angry, too, that Hege had been compared to a withered tree-top, it was nothing like her! Surely anyone could see that. Hege, who was so clever and wise.

What is it that hurts so much?

You know very well, came the reply, somehow meaningless, yet straight to the point

I ought to turn away and not look—instead I sit staring at them, first thing in the morning and last thing at night. Nothing could be crazier than that.

‘Mattis?’

He was jerked out of his thoughts.

‘What is it you can see?’ she asked.

He knew these questions of hers so well. He mustn’t sit like that, mustn’t do this and mustn’t do that, he ought to be like other people, not Simple Simon as they called him, the laughing stock wherever he went and tried to work or do anything else. Quickly he turned his eyes on his sister. Strange eyes. Always helpless, shy like birds.

‘I can’t see anyone,’ he said.

‘Oh.’

‘You are strange,’ he said. ‘If I saw something every time I looked around—what would it be like here? The whole place would be crowded.’

Hege just nodded. She had somehow brought him back and could go on working. She never sat idle on the steps like Mattis, her hands were busy knitting, as they had to be.

Mattis looked at her work with respect, this was what kept their home going, going as best it could. He himself earned nothing. Nobody wanted him. They called him Simple Simon and laughed whenever his name was mentioned in connection with work. The two things just didn’t go together. There were probably dozens of stories going round among their busy neighbours in the village about what happened when Simple Simon tried to work—everything always went wrong.

You my beak against rock he suddenly thought as he sat there—and gave a start.

What?

But it was gone.

The image and the words shot through him. And were gone again just as quickly—instead he seemed to be staring at a blank wall. He flung a quick glance at his sister but she hadn’t noticed anything. She sat there small and neat, but no girl any more, she was forty years old.

Suppose he mentioned things like that to her? Beak against—she wouldn’t understand.

Hege was sitting close to him, so he had a good view of her straight, dark brown hair. Suddenly he noticed a grey hair here and there among the brown ones. Long silvery threads.

Have I the eyes of a hawk today? he thought in a flash of happy wonder, I’ve never noticed this before. Impulsively he exclaimed: ‘But Hege!’

She looked up quickly, reassured by the tone of his voice. Ready to join in: ‘What is it?’

‘You’re starting to go grey!’

She bent her head.

‘Am I?’

‘Very grey,’ he said. ‘I never noticed it until today. Did you know about it?’

There was no reply.

‘It’s jolly early,’ he said. ‘After all, you’re only forty, and so grey.’

Suddenly he felt somebody looking at him from somewhere. Not Hege. From somewhere. A cutting glance. Perhaps it was coming from Hege after all. He felt frightened and realized he had done something wrong, yet without really being aware of it; after all he had only been observant.

‘Hege.’

At last she looked up.

‘What’s the matter now, then?’

No, what he wanted to say had gone. No more glances either.

‘It’s nothing really,’ he said. ‘Just get on with your knitting.’

She smiled and said: ‘All right then, Mattis.’

‘Yes, and you don’t mind, do you?’ he asked gently. ‘My talking about your grey hairs?’

She just tossed her hair as if in a kind of half-merry obstinacy: ‘Not really. I knew about it already, you see.’

Her flashing knitting needles had been busy the whole time. They seemed to work automatically all day long.

‘Yes, you’re sharp-witted, you really are,’ he said, to make up for what he shouldn’t have said.

This gave him another opportunity to use one of those words that hung before him, shining and alluring. Far away in the distance there were more of them, dangerously sharp. Words that were not for him, but which he used all the same on the sly, and which had an exciting flavour and gave him a tingling feeling in the head. They were a little dangerous, all of them.

‘Do you hear, Hege?’

She sighed: ‘Yes.’

Nothing more. Oh well, that was how she was. Perhaps he praised her too much?

But really, that’s too early to be going grey, he mumbled softly so she didn’t hear it. What about me, I wonder? I must have a look before I forget.

‘Are you going to bed, Mattis?’

‘No, I’m only—’ going to take a look in the mirror, he nearly blurted out, but stopped himself and went indoors.

3

It was only as Mattis entered the house that he noticed what a lovely evening it was. The big lake was as calm as a mill-pond. Beyond it, the ridges to the west were covered in haze—they usually were. There was a smell of early summer. On the road, which was hidden behind the trees, the cars seemed to be humming just for the fun of it. The sky was clear, there would be no thunder during the night.

Straight through lightning, he thought, and shuddered.

Straight through straight, he thought.

If only one could.

He remained standing deep in thought by the bench that opened up and became his bed at night.

From an early age Mattis had slept in the bench in the sitting-room—so he really knew it well. He’d decided he’d go on doing it for the rest of his life. There were scratches in the bench from the time when Mattis was a boy and had been given a knife. There were also thick, faded pencil marks on the unpainted wood, from the time when he had been given a pencil. These lines and strange figures lay underneath the lid, and he looked at them every night before he went to sleep, and liked them because they never changed. They were what they were supposed to be. You could rely on them.

The little room at the back was Hege’s. Mattis tore himself away and went into it, for that was where the only mirror in the house hung.

He entered her room. There was a clean smell there, but little else, apart from the mirror he needed.

‘Hm!’ he exclaimed as he caught sight of himself in the glass.

It really was a long time since he had looked at himself in the mirror in this way. Now and then he came in here to fetch the mirror when he was going to shave. But then he concentrated on shaving, and even so he didn’t get the stubble off properly.

Now he was looking at Mattis, sort of.

Oh gosh! said a voice inside him. A silent litde cry he couldn’t really explain.

‘Not much to look at,’ he mumbled.

‘Not much fat,’ he added.

‘Not much flesh either.’

‘Badly shaven,’ he said.

It sounded depressing.

‘But there’s something though,’ he said quickly and went on looking.

The mirror was not particularly good either, it distorted the image—but both he and Hege had got used to this over the years.

Mattis hadn’t been in there long before his thoughts began to wander, standing as he was in this clean-smelling, feminine room.

I’m standing looking at myself in the mirror like a girl, he thought, and felt a sense of well-being creeping over him.

I’m sure many a girl has stood looking at herself in the worn glass of this mirror before putting on her clothes.

He conjured up many beautiful, alluring pictures.

Let me think of them.

But he stopped himself.

No, mustn’t think of girls in the middle of the week. That’s not allowed. Nobody does that.

He felt uncertain: I’m afraid I do, now and then, he admitted.

But nobody knows.

He looked himself in the face. Caught his glance. It was immediately filled with defiance. Surely I can, as long as I don’t tell anybody.

It’s just the way I am.

He caught his glance again. His eyes widened and opened out, full of expectation.

What’s this?

Well I never, said a voice inside him, full of wonder, yet addressed to no one in particular. Sometimes you had to say things like this, almost for no reason, for far less reason than he had now.

‘But this isn’t much to look at,’ he said aloud. He had to brush aside all the things which had taken possession of him, but which didn’t belong to the moment.

The face opposite him was thin and full of thought. Pale, but a pair of eyes pulled at him and wouldn’t let go.

He felt like saying to the person in front of him: Where on earth do you come from!

Why did you come?

There would be no reply.

But it was to be found in those eyes—eyes which were not his, but came from far off and had looked through night and day. It came nearer, it lit up. Then it was gone again and all was black.

He thought quickly: Mattis the Simpleton.

Simple Simon.

How they’d have laughed if they’d seen me standing here, looking at myself in the mirror.

At last he remembered what he’d really come into Hege’s room for. He’d come to look for grey hairs.

None in front. He bent his head, and in his search for grey hairs on top his eyes rolled upwards under the lock of hair that fell over his forehead. Not a single one. After wards he peered as far back behind each ear as he could. Not a single grey hair anywhere. And he was only three years younger than Hege after all, and she was forty.

No, here’s a fellow with hair that’ll last him for some time, he thought.

But in three years I’ll have caught up with Hege.

Not a single grey hair. My word, I’m going to tell Hege about this and give her a real fright, he thought, forgetting that she hadn’t liked this topic of conversation.

He strode out again. Hege was bound to be sitting on the steps with her knitting still.

There she was right enough. The sweater seemed to grow of its own accord in her quick hands. They were performing a kind of silent dance, while the sweater took shape, unaided.

‘Well?’ she said, seeing him come out in such a hurry.

Mattis pointed to his mop of hair:

‘Not a single grey hair on me, Hege. I’ve been inside and looked in the mirror.’

Hege didn’t want to discuss the subject again.

‘I see,’ she said curtly.

‘Isn’t it splendid?’ he asked.

‘Of course it’s splendid,’ she replied calmly.

‘Yes, just look at you,’ he said, ‘I bet you wish—’

She couldn’t control herself:

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’

He stopped at once. There was something about Hege that pulled him up short.

‘Anything wrong?’ he asked, frightened.

At last she got up.

‘Mattis.’

He looked at her, nervously.

‘Well, go on.’

‘I don’t think it’s much fun, the way you’re going on and on about this tonight.’

‘Fun? What fun do you or I have?’ he replied. What an odd thing for her to say, he thought.

Hege looked at him, helplessly, frightened all of a sudden. Something had to be done quickly, for Mattis was on the point of starting something she couldn’t cope with.

‘We have more fun than you realize,’ she said firmly, driving the point home like a nail. ‘It’s just that you don’t give it a thought. We have fun every single day.’

He bent his head, but asked: ‘When?’

‘When?’ she said, sternly.

She went on again. This had to be stopped.

‘Use your brains, Mattis,’ she said, forgetting the usual sting. Stood above him, insistent, although she was the smaller.

Mattis replied: ‘I’m thinking so hard it’s almost killing me.’

‘Then surely you remember heaps of fun.’

He thought, gave no reply.

Hege persisted. The fact had to be established so firmly that there was no room left for the slightest doubt.

‘We have more fun than other people.’

‘Do we really?’ He started mumbling feebly, almost in-audibly.

‘Yes!’ she said. ‘And you must never forget it.’

She left it at that. Mattis straightened up a little, but dared not protest. Hege was clever and no doubt knew what things were fun. Best not to protest and make a fool of oneself.

She looked at him angrily.

‘I didn’t realize this,’ was all he said.

Then a bright idea suddenly struck him, and he said in a happy voice: ‘It was a good thing you told me.’

‘What?’

‘Seeing I didn’t know.’

He felt happy, laughed a little.

‘Are you going in already?’ he said.

Hege gave him a weary nod instead of answering, and went into the house.

4

Hege went to bed earlier than usual that evening, too. At least she went into her room earlier. Mattis was about to ask why, but before he managed to do so she stopped him with an impatient: ‘Oh wait until tomorrow, Mattis! Please don’t go on any more today.’

Listening to her, he lost the desire to ask any more questions. She was in a bad mood, she could go. He wondered if he’d done anything wrong. This business of her hair, no doubt. Was it so dreadful that her hair was grey while his wasn’t? After all, he couldn’t help it.

But it was Hege who kept him, so she had him well in her grip. Above all she was clever, and that was what he respected most.

Hege left him without saying another word. He stayed behind thinking about it all.

Tomorrow I must take a trip round the farms and see if anybody’s got any work for me, he thought, dreading it already.

Because that’s the root of the trouble. Hege keeps me all the year round. And so she has for forty years, he felt he might as well add. At least he wouldn’t be making it out to be less than it actually was.

Keeps me. Keeps me.

The word had a bitter taste. It was like chewing the bark of an aspen tree. And chew it he had to, year in, year out. Sitting alone as he was now. He had to put it on his tongue and taste it. There was no escape. It was the bitterest of all the words he knew.

Tomorrow I’m going to work.

Provided nothing stops me, he added quickly, to be on the safe side. He had a hazy recollection of the many days when he’d started working for somebody. On a farm or in the fields, or in the forests. There was always something which upset things for him so that he couldn’t finish the job. And after that they didn’t ask him to work there any more. The clever ones, those who owned things and had jobs to offer, they passed him by without noticing him. And so he had to return to Hege with empty hands. She was so used to it now that she just accepted it. But she went on struggling in order to keep him. Wonder what she really thought about it all.

Be tough tomorrow. Face it bravely, go over to the farms and ask for a job.

‘It can’t go on like this for ever,’ he said in a fierce tone into the empty air. ‘I must get some work, Hege’s gone grey.’

He began to realize: It’s me who’s made Hege go grey.

Gradually the whole truth of the matter dawned on him. He felt terribly ashamed of himself.