Lögberg-Heimskringla - 01.06.1967, Síða 6

6
LÖGBERG-HEIMSKRINGLA, FIMMTUDAGINN 1. JÚNÍ 1967
AFTER THE LAST CURTAIN
STORY BY GUDRUN FINNSDOTTIR
Through a web of its own
lights, the Walker Theatre
glowed like an enchanted
castle in the dusk of evening,
and people poured toward it
from all directions. With im-
perious shrieks of their shrill
horns, automobiles cut briefly
into the human ranks, edging
close to the sidewalk before
the main entrance to pour
more people into the throng.
Here they merged like
streams that have reached a
river. Fine silks and shabby
homespuns rubbed shoulders
as the rich and poor of Win-
nipeg forged ahead with a
common purpose — to be set-
tled in their seats before the
curtain rose. Tonight they
were to feel the spell of
Wagner’s Lohengrin, that
wondrous union of drama and
music that more completely
than any other opera carries
an audience into the magic
realm of folklore.
But social equality stopped
at the doors. Classed by the
price of admission, one stream
disappeared through the main
entrance into a marble hall
and moved on over cushioned
carpets to the main-floor
theatre, there to be ushered
individually to plush-uphol-
stered chairs. On a higher
plane were the boxes, where
the cream of society generous-
ly placed itself on open view
for the masses.
The masses took the side
door and climbed countless
steps to the top balcony,
where the floors were bare
and the seats hard, and where
they paid dearly in over-
wrought patience, bruised toes
and sides elbowed to soreness.
But these small grievances
were drowned in the waves
of music, which rose to the
heights, as is the nature of
music.
The house was packed and
hushed voices rose like a
heavy blanket of sound — like
the low, weighted murmur of
a distant sea — for the variety
of languages spoken divided
the vast crowd into small
groups. Together they waited
for the curtain to rise, these
many nations of the world,
this Winnipeg.
In the front row of the
highest balcony sat an Ice-
landic woman who had come
early and alone. She seemed
oblivious to the excitement
around her, but many kept
glancing her way, for there
was beauty and haunting
charm in her features and
bearing, in the large grey eyes
and mass of light brown hair,
and there was about her an
air of serenity.
With an elbow on the rail-
ing, she leaned forward with
a hand under one cheek, her
eyes fastened on the curtain
and its motto — Shakespeare’s
famous words: “Sermons in
stones and good in every-
thing.” The first time she en-
tered this theatre the words
had captured her imagination
and she had thought them
beautiful. She had been
charmed, too, by the magic of
poetry and music, for she was
young and in love with life.
Through the years her eyes
had been drawn to the motto
whenever she entered this
theatre. There were times
when she had stared at them,
quarrelling with the truth of
them, but never had she van-
quished their haunting power.
In this theatre she had first
met Elvar, not suspecting
then that he was to become
an undying part of her being.
The orchestra played the
prelude and the sound flowed
through the theatre and be-
yond — great, heavy, powerful
tones like the heartbeats of
an ocean — living, trembling,
swelling with depth and ma-
jesty. A magic world seemed
to open up to human view and
out of the glory swelled the
music.
Bergljot drank in the mu-
sic. It twined around her
heart and became one with
her spirit, for music is the uni-
versal language. Other poetry
knows its barriers, but music
enters the crooks and crannies
of the being and takes hold
wherever responsive love
bears the mark of kinship
with it. “All is music,” Berg-
ljot thought, “Its in the storm
and the sound of the sea; in
the soft breath of the breeze,
the chatter of a small brook
and the ominous roll of thun-
der. The northern lights are
music. So are the shaded color-
ings of summer blooms and
the smile of a child.”
A voice of harmony is mu-
sic, though marked with the
colors of contrast, for it is the
heartbeat of humanity, with
its many undertones of moods
and temperament. Even in the
lilting notes of light laughter
are heard the undertones of
tear-laden sobs.
And Bergljot had been
haunted by the undertones for
many years — ever since she
and Elvar last sat together in
this theatre.
The lights dimmed and the
curtain rose. As if to the touch
of a magic wand, a door open-
ed into centuries long past.
Out of the silence and the
dusk came distant strains and
far-off spirits clad in flesh
and blood. Living presences
they were, enhanced with the
majesty of music, costly ele-
gance of stage and dress and
subtle artistry in song and
acting.
But the story! This ancient
folk tale was the story of
mankind from its beginning
to the present. Hate, envy,
thirst for power, greed — and
rights of the weak trampled
underfoot. Lohengrin, the god-
like hero sent to rescue Elsa
and her brother from their
monstrous captors, is reward-
ed with suspicion and ingrati-
tude. Not even Elsa trusts
him entirely.

Guðrún Finnsdótlir
Gradually the stage and
glittering orchestra faded be-
fore Bergljot’s eyes and the
years rolled back to that first
chance meeting with Elvar.
Just as tonight, there was
an opera at the Walker she
longed to see and she intended
to get a seat in the balcony.
But they were sold out and
only a few expensive ones on
the first floor were available.
She took one rather than
return home and smiling in
full enjoyment of the unac-
customed luxury, she sank
into her chair just as an elder-
ly woman arrived with a
young man, obviously her son.
They were ushered to seats on
either side of her and con-
sulted their tickets hastily.
Bergljot saw their disappoint-
ment and standing up to
move, offered to change seats
with one of them. Already
seated, the woman smiled at
her pleasantly, but the young
man leaned over to thank her.
At the sound of his voice,
warm and resonant, she look-
ed up at him, and she would
never know if it was at that
moment or later in their re-
lationship that the voice and
eyes of this man became part
of her very being.
To Bergljot’s surprise the
pair started a conversation in
Icelandic, the woman with
perfect ease and fluency, her
son in awkward phrases with
an alien accent. They seemed
to enjoy their little game and
treated it like a familiar pas-
time.
This encounter occasionally
crossed Bergljot’s mind during
the summer. She had never
seen the two in a gathering of
Icelandic Winnipeggers, and
there was about them the ro-
mance of mystery.
Then came a sweltering
July day when people fled
from the heat and dust of the
city to the blessed coolness of
Lake Winnipeg. There was
barely standing room in the
railway coach and Bergljot
was among the latecomers
who could not find a seat. Be-
side her in the crowded corri-
dor Elvar stopped and both
looked up at the same mo-
ment. Their eyes met and
held; there was instant re-
cognition and neither tried to
hide it.
That was the beginning of
romance, sweeping the two
into a land of dreams where
only lovers may enter.
Elvar was an attractive fu-
sion of two distinctive family
trees. Fair and blue-eyed like
his mother, he had inherited
frorn his father the impulsive
temperament of an American
southerner, chivalry and gen-
tlemanly bearing. And under-
neath the charm, a core of
integrity inherent in his
mother’s people. He was chief
owner of a large factory which
he had managed since the
death of his father. Summer
and winter sped toward spring
and their wedding date. Berg-
ljot no longer sat in the hard
seats near the eaves of the
theatre, but in the soft chairs
on the main floor with Elvar
at her side.
One evening shortly before
the wedding was to take place,
Elvar phoned her and asked
her to come to the theatre
with him to see Barrie’s new
Play, Cinderella. Her com-
pany and Barrie’s would cheer
him up, he said. He was hav-
ing labor trouble. Workers and
employers had reached a
stage of violent disagree-
ment; more and more unions
were entering the dispute and
there was fear of a pending
general strike. Discussions
and conferences had accomp-
lished nothing, and it was now
a matter of facing the chal-
lenge to see which side could
hold out longer.
The evening turned into one
of conflict between Elvar and
Bergljot, for the play brought
Winnipeg’s current struggle
into sharp relief and brought
to both minds a problem
neither had mentioned to the
other in recent days — the lot
of the working man.
The gap between the privi-
leged and deprived provided
the theme for Barrie’s play.
Cinderella, the poor working
girl who knew only poverty
and squalor, accepted it as her
lot in life, at the same time
harboring understanding and
compassion for her own kind
and ludicrous notións of her
social superiors.
When in her role as adoptive
mother to four small war or-
phans, Cinderella collapses
from hunger and fatigue, the
author seizes upon her deliri-
um to flash on caricatures of
vainglorious royalty, the pup-
pets of their court and a bish-
op so busy seeing to his dig-
nity that he cannot look to
left nor right.
Silent and separate in mood,
Bergljot and Elvar hurried
out into the gentle spring
evening after the last cur-
tain. As the car moved
smoothly into the traffic,
they became painfully aware
how the city had changed in
space of hours. Normally the
streets were quiet and traffic
light at this time of evening.
Now they saw large assemb-
lies of working men on every
street corner, and the side-
walks so crowded with peo-
ple that it would have been
difficult to get anywhere on
foot. These were not the usual,
light-hearted, dressed up eve-
ning people, out for a walk or
a good time. They were tired,
shabby, worried laborers, and
Bergljot suddenly felt a sharp
stab of surprise that young
Winnipeg should have so large
a family of stepchildren.
Surly and silent, the crowd
moved slowly and stood so
densely that there wasn’t
space to divide them into
groups, and Bergljot felt that
a single small incident could
spark violence. A forboding
chill shot through her. These
were her people, and she felt
deeply involved in their cause,
though for Elvar’s sake she
had tried to at least appear
neutral.
He was in an angry, un-
compromising mood that eve-
ning. She touched his arm
lightly. “Only Barrie would
have thought of making a
prince out of a policeman,”
she said gaily.
“He doesn’t know our police-
men,” he said darkly. “They
surely show their royal blood,
standing idly by, doing noth-
ing and seeing none of all that
goes on. Now, when their sup-
port is badly needed, they let
their hands hang limp by their
sides. They neglect their duty
to support labor.”
“I can understand that,”
Bergljot blurted. “They are
working men themselves, and
you can’t call labor’s demands
unreasonable if you want to
be fair.”
“Reasonable demands! Just
yield to one of them and you
immediately face another.
They’re demanding higher
wages and shorter working
hours at the same time. The
shorter their working hours,
the more they cheat and the
more careless they become in
th^eir work. Conscientiousness,
responsibility, enthusiasm for
the job — these are lost vir-