Tímarit Þjóðræknisfélags Íslendinga - 01.01.1962, Síða 78

GUÐRÚN H. FINNSDÓTTIR:
J
On The Ebbing Tide
Translaied by Mekkin S. Perkins
To all of us the day comes, sooner
or later, when we must give an
accounting of our lives, of ourselves,
and of our achievements. That day
had come to Ofeigur of Lundi. That
night he was balancing the debits
and credits of a lifetime of a little
more than fifty years. Seated com-
fortably in the sleigh, he allowed
his horse to amble slowly along the
smooth roadway. The weather was
mild, with little frost. Not a breeze
stirred. The moon shed its white
light over the earth. As far as the
eye could see the pure newly fallen
snow covered everything except the
thickets, which stood, silent and
dark, like detachments of black
elves on sentry duty.
Ofeigur was tall and broad-shoul-
dered, a fine figure of a man. His
hair was dark, his eyes were keen,
his features sharp. In his youth he
had been a handsome chap, manly
and full of fun. Many a girl in the
neighborhood had felt her heart beat
faster in his presence. It was thus
with everything that concerned Ofei-
gur. Good fortune seemed to chase
him, people said. He grew richer
and more popular year by year. But
he did not owe his good fortune
entirely to Fate. He had worked like
a viking, had never spared himseK,
that is, until recently when he had
been forced to take it easy because
of ill health. He was now on his way
home from a visit to the doctor. An
old friend, the doctor had told Ofei-
gur the truth: he did not have long
to live.
Ofeigur said very little when he
got the bad news. It was not his
nature to fuss about anything, but
his thoughts, as he drove homeward,
were unusually solemn. Only now
that there was so little time left did
he first realize how little he had
accomplished, how poor his life had
been in everything but hard work.
The mere struggle for existence and
the care of the family and farm had
taken all his energy. True, he had
made money, he had gained prestige,
and he had earned the respect of his
fellow citizens. But while the outer
man had grown and gained in power,
the inner man, his better self, the
spiritual man, had shrunken and
dried up. Yes, there were debts he
owed here and there, particularly
to Solveig, his wife. He had cheated
her in all his accounts, cheated her
who had loved and cared for him,
her who had given him lovely, gifted
children, her who had labored and
worked side by side with him all
these years. He couldn’t understand
how he and Solveig had gradually
drifted apart; he didn’t know why
it had happened or when it began.
They were both concerned about the
management of the household and