World Light by Halldór Laxness Read Free Book Online

the table and kept a close watch on him; she made sure that he looked neither to right nor left, neither up nor down, but absolutely straight at the text. If he tried to stretch his neck a little for relief or to shake away his headache when he felt faint, that was called “letting his eyes rove in all directions,” or “gaping into the blue like an idiot,” or else “Just look at him goggling away like that—he’s useless at everything he turns his hand or mind to!”
    The God of the catechism was not the God of ecstasy and revelation; this was the old acquaintance from the
Book of Sermons,
and the boy had difficulty in understanding Him and caring for Him. Magnína was given the task of supervising his lessons. The text had to be learned by heart: there was a danger that some vital part of God would be lost if one missed a single word. Nor could one ask any questions about God, because God had no time for idle chatter: “I am your God,” He says. “What more do you want?”
    Among other things, the catechism said: “Ill treatment of animals bears witness to a cruel and godless heart.”
    The boy recited, “A hundred and eleven treatment of animals bears witness to a cruel and godless heart.”
    “Carry on,” she said. “What next?”
    “Shouldn’t it be ‘the hundred and eleventh treatment of animals’?” he asked.
    “Yes,” said Magnína, “the hundred and eleventh treatment of animals; you’ve done that bit. Go on.”
    “What is the hundred and eleventh treatment of animals?” he asked.
    “What?” she said. “Haven’t you been told over and over again that you mustn’t ask questions about godly matters? Only simpletons do that. The hundred and eleventh treatment of animals—now then, go on.”
    Nevertheless she thought there was something a bit dubious about this; she frowned and began to peer at the book and was not quite satisfied, but paid no attention when he carried on reciting; she even interrupted him.
    “The hundred and eleventh treatment is obviously cruel and godless treatment,” she said. “You should have known that without being told.”
    “What kind of treatment is that?” he asked.
    “I’m not obliged to tell you that,” she said. “Go on.”
    He went on reciting, and recited for a long time, but she paid no attention to what he was saying; finally she interrupted him again.
    “The hundred and eleventh treatment of animals is, for instance, forgetting to feed the dog,” she said.
    The church stood farther out, down the fjord, and in the spring the children attended at the pastor’s from both directions, out from the valley and in from the headland.
    The boy often had pains in the stomach, in addition to the headaches; he was pale and dull-witted, and when people around him were talking, he did not know what they were talking about. There were other children as stupid as he was, and those who were quick on the uptake often laughed out loud at those who were slow; it was like a stab, quick and searing. Those who were quick-witted formed a group and understood one another; those who were pale and dull-witted and ill and slow did not form a group and did not understand one another. Some were big and strong and ruddy faced and knew a lot and talked a lot; he did not know how to talk. When they laughed, it frightened him. He did not know how to play games and could not perform any tricks; they could perform tricks. When he was alone he felt he could do everything they could do, and more besides; but when he was with others, everything was befogged for him. It was never clear around him except when he was alone.
    He was examined in the passage about the ill treatment of animals.
    “The hundred and eleventh treatment of animals bears witness to a cruel and godless heart,” he said.
    “Eh?” said the pastor. “What’s that?”
    “It’s forgetting to feed the dog,” he replied.
    The pastor laughed, and then all the children began to laugh as well. They went on