At daybreak he roused the folk at Galtarholt and asked for Seigneur Bendix. He was much the worse for his wanderings, muddy and wet and with chattering teeth. He was riding the hangman’s horse and had the hangman’s cap on his head. Bendix helped the man off the horse, dragged him back to the farm, undressed him, and put him to bed. The farmer was exhausted and he lay facedown because of the swelling on his back, but he slept immediately.
When he awoke around nine o’clock he asked Bendix to go with him to the mire, because he’d lost his hat and his gloves, his horsewhip, his line and sinker, and his mare.
The mare was standing in a group of horses a short distance away with its saddlecloth hanging at its belly. The mire wasn’t as large as it had been during the night. They spent some time searching for the lost items near a narrow stream where Jón Hreggviðsson seemed to remember that he’d been lying. He happened to be correct—they found his belongings on the bank of the stream, the horsewhip lying in the grip of one of his gloves, the line and sinker nearby. A few steps away they found the hangman, dead. He was on his knees, propped upright between the banks of the stream, which was so narrow there that the man’s body was enough to stop it up. The stream had filled in somewhat above the body, so that the water, which was otherwise not much more than knee-deep, was at that point up to the armpits. The corpse’s eyes and mouth were closed. Bendix looked at it for a moment, looked next at Jón Hreggviðsson, and asked:
“Why is his cap on your head?”
“I woke up bareheaded,” said Jón Hreggviðsson. “And after I’d gone a few steps I found this cover. Then I shouted, ‘Ho, ho!’ but no one answered, so I put it on.”
“Why are his eyes and mouth closed?” asked Seigneur Bendix.
“Only the devil knows,” said Jón Hreggviðsson. “I’m not his undertaker.”
He moved to pick up his whip, gloves, and line and sinker, but Bendix stopped him and said:
“If I were in your shoes I would first call upon six witnesses to come and examine the evidence.”
This was on a Sunday. It was decided that Jón Hreggviðsson should ride to Saurbær, where he could ask some churchgoers to come and examine the body of the hangman Sigurður Snorrason as it had been found in the stream. A large group of people rode back with him out of sheer curiosity to see the dead hangman, and six said that they would be willing to swear oaths that no wounds could be seen upon the body, nor any evidence indicating that hands had been laid upon the man, except that the eyes, nostrils, and mouth were closed.
The hangman’s body was dragged back to Galtarholt, and afterward they all rode back to their own homes.
3
The next day’s weather was bright and still and people were at their various tasks on land and sea, but Jón Hreggviðsson lay prone in bed, cursing his wife and begging the Lord with painful moans to give him tobacco and brennivín and three mistresses. The half-wit sat on the floor and laughed fervently as he pulled apart pieces of wool. The obtrusive stench of the lepers prevailed over the other stenches in the room.
Suddenly the dog starts howling from the rooftop, and a low thundering of horses’ hooves rolls in from outside. Presently bridle bits rattle and men’s voices murmur just beyond the door; a commanding voice orders the grooms to their work. Jón Hreggviðsson didn’t move a muscle. His wife came running into the room, gasping and panting, saying:
“Lord Jesus have mercy on me, the gentry have come.”
“The gentry,” said Jón Hreggviðsson. “Haven’t they finished flaying off my skin? What more do they want?”
But space for long-winded conversation soon vanished as the sounds of footsteps, voices, and the rustling of clothing swept in from the corridor. The visitors had invited themselves in.
First to step over Jón Hreggviðsson’s threshold was a thickly set, ruddy nobleman in a wide mantle, with a hat tied under his chin, a heavy golden ring, a silver cross on a chain, and a costly riding crop. After him came a woman wearing a yellow chimney-hat, a red silk scarf, and a dark, full-length riding frock. The woman had not yet reached middle age and had rosy cheeks, though her bearing suggested a slackening of youthful tension; she was beginning to put on some weight, and an air of worldliness marked her countenance. Following her came another woman, very young. She was, with respect to her youth, a lyrical image of the first, having experienced less of the things that make a woman. She wore no hat, and her head shone with disheveled hair. Her slender body was childishly supple, her eyes as unworldly as the blue of heaven. Her comprehension was still limited to only the beauty of things, rather than to their usefulness, and thus the smile she displayed as she stepped into this house had nothing to do with human life. Her gown was high-waisted and indigo blue, with a spangle of silver at the neckline. She held up the hem with dainty fingers, revealing red ribbed stockings over her shoes.
Last in this outstanding entourage came a nobleman whose bearing was composed, attentive, and self-assured. The man was in good condition, and it was difficult to determine his age; his face was smooth and his nose straight, the appearance of his mouth both supple and sad, almost feminine, yet lacking fickleness. His measured movements testified to years of self-discipline. His glance was tranquil and determined, yet his eyes were fully sympathetic, large and lucid, giving the impression that their field of vision was wider than that of other men and that therefore less could be concealed before them. These eyes assessed everything more by nature than curiosity, faculty than effort, reminding one of the calm surface of a lake. They were the hallmark of the man. In actuality, the visitor would have more closely resembled a wise commoner rather than an aristocrat, had not his attire made the difference. Most aristocrats could be distinguished by their bearing, acting as if they ruled the world, but this one expressed himself through his careful but unpretentious taste. The aesthete in him spoke out from every seam, each pleat, every proportion in the cut of his clothing; his boots were of fine English leather. His wig, which he wore under his brimmed hat even amongst boors and beggars, was exquisitely fashioned, and was as smartly coiffured as if he were going to meet the king.
Following a few steps behind this elegant company came Jón Hreggviðsson’s pastor, the parish priest at Garðar, along with his curly-tailed sheepdog, sniffing. It quickly became too crowded having so many magnates in the sitting room at once, so Jón Hreggviðsson’s wife dragged the half-wit up onto the bed to allow the gentry more room.
“Well, my dear Jón Hreggviðsson from Rein, look at what fate has handed you,” said the priest. “Here is the bishop of Skálholt himself, with the daughters of Magistrate Eydalín: the bishop’s wife, Madam Jórunn, and her sister Lady Snæfríður, the flower of maidens. And finally, who else but Arnas Arnæus himself, the right-hand man of our Most Gracious Sire and Hereditary King, Assessor and Professor at the University of Copenhagen—all gathered here in your sitting room.”
Jón Hreggviðsson gave a tiny snort, nothing more.
“Is the farmer ill?” asked the bishop, who was the only one of the visitors to extend him his hand, with its heavy golden ring.
“I would hardly call it that,” said Jón Hreggviðsson. “I was flogged yesterday.”
“He’s lying—he was flogged the day before yesterday. Yesterday he killed someone, the poor wretch,” said his wife quickly and sharply, and she slipped as swiftly as she could out the door behind the visitors.
Jón Hreggviðsson said: “I beg my venerable excellencies to pay no attention to this she-creature, for just who she is can best be seen by that little puke of hers up there on the bed—and slink yourself off, you idiot!—don’t let decent folk see you. Little Gunna, Gunna! Where’s my dear Gunna, who at least has my eyes?”
The girl ignored his calls, and the bishop turned to the priest and asked whether any beneficium* had reached these poor souls. He was told that they had never asked for such a thing. The bishop’s wife clasped her husband’s arm and leaned toward him. Snæfríður Eydalín glanced at her serene companion and her involuntary smile dwindled into a look of panic.
The bishop bade Reverend Þorsteinn announce the assessor’s business and then call upon all of the house’s occupants to come and receive his blessing.
Reverend Þorsteinn began his speech by reiterating what a great distinction it was for this household to receive the erudite scholar from the great capital of Copenhagen, Arnas Arnæus, friend of the king, comrade-in-arms of counts and barons, and the true pride of this our poor land amongst the nations. He desired to purchase any and all ancient tatters of writing, whether on parchment or paper: old scrolls, scraps, anything resembling a letter or a book that was decaying now in all haste in the keeping of the destitute and wretched inhabitants of this miserable land. These people, he said, no longer had any understanding of such things, due to the ill-effects of starvation and other types of divine punishment suffered by impenitent folk and those who are ungrateful to Christ. The assessor, said the priest, would find for these poor scraps of books a place of refuge in his own great mansion in the city of Copenhagen, to be stored for all eternity so that the learned men of the world could be sure that once upon a time there had lived in Iceland folk to be reckoned men, such as Gunnar of Hlíðarendi and the farmer Njáll and his sons.* Next Reverend Þorsteinn explained that it had come to his master’s knowledge, through the power of prophecy possessed only by learned witnesses to divine wisdom, that the simpleton Jón Hreggviðsson from Rein had in his keeping several ancient pieces of vellum containing writings from the Catholic era, and thus had this lofty company, which was traveling to Skálholt from Eydalur in the west, detoured and made its way hither to Akranes, to discuss the matter with the wretched tenant of Christ who here napped, freshly flogged, upon his bed. The assessor was very interested in seeing these tatters if they were still in existence, in borrowing them if they were available for loan, or in buying them if they were for sale.
Jón Hreggviðsson, unfortunately, could not recall having in his possession any skin-patches, tatters, or scraps that preserved the memory of men of ancient times, and thought it sad that such a noble company should have come so far on such a hopeless quest. In this household there were no books to be found but for a shred of the
Graduale
and a copy of the half-rhymed
Kross School Hymns
written by Reverend Halldór from Presthólar.* Gunnar of Hlíðarendi, he said, would never have composed such hymns. There was no one on the farm able to read fluently except for Jón Hreggviðsson’s mother: she had attained to this art because her father had been a bookbinder for the late Reverend Guðmundur in Holt out west and had worked on old books until the day he died. Jón Hreggviðsson said that he himself never read except when he was forced to do so, though he had learned from his mother all the necessary sagas, ballads, and old genealogies, and he claimed to be descended from Haraldur Hilditönn, the Danish king, on his father’s side. He said that he would never forget such excellent ancients as Gunnar of Hlíðarendi, King Pontus, and Örvar-Oddur,* who were twelve ells high and could have lived to be three hundred years old if they hadn’t run into any trouble, and that if he had such a book he would send it immediately and for free to the king and his counts, to prove to them that there had indeed once been real men in Iceland. On the other hand, he reckoned, it was hardly due to impenitence that the Icelanders were now fallen into misery, because when had Gunnar of Hlíðarendi ever done penance? Never. He said that his mother had never grown tired of singing the penitential hymns of Reverend Halldór from Presthólar, but she had very little to show for it. On the contrary, he said, lack of fishing tackle had done far more harm to the Icelanders than lack of penitence, and his own misfortune had originated when he let himself be tempted by a piece of cord. But no one should think, least of all his dear lord bishop, that he was ungrateful to Christ, or that he would ever squander Christ’s property; quite the opposite, he said—he thought that this landowner and heavenly farmer had always been lenient and forgiving toward his poor tenant, and that they’d always gotten along quite well.
As the householder was talking the others came in to receive the blessing of the bishop of Skálholt. The nodous aunt with exposed fingerbones and the ulcerous sister whose face had been eaten away would not be still until they had pushed themselves up into the visitors’ faces, eye to eye with the finery of the world. Few disfigured folk are as quick as lepers to use any opportunity they can to display their sores, especially to those in authority, often doing so with a certain provocative pride that can disarm even the most valiant man and make the most handsome ludicrous in his own eyes: Look, this is what the Lord in his mercy has granted me, this is my deserved reward from the Lord, say these images of men, and at the same time they ask: Where’s your reward, how has the Lord honored you? Or even: The Lord has stricken me with these sores for your sake.
The half-wit had always been jealous of the two lepers and took it badly that they were closer to the action now that such a great event was taking place, so he teased and harassed them as much as he could by kicking, pinching, and spitting at them, forcing Jón Hreggviðsson to yell at him several times to clear off. Reverend Þorsteinn’s dog put its tail between its legs and ran out. The bishop’s wife tried to smile cordially at the two lepers who lifted their black faces toward her, but the damsel Snæfríður turned herself with a cry away from this sight, raised her hands involuntarily to the shoulders of Arnæus, who stood at her side, curled herself suddenly and tremblingly up to his breast, tore herself away from him again and tried to regain her composure, and then said in a restrained, somewhat melancholy voice:
“My friend, why have you brought me into this dreadful house?”
The remainder of the occupants, the mother, the daughter, and the wife, had now arrived to receive the bishop’s blessing. The old mother kneeled before the bishop and kissed his ring according to ancient custom, and His Excellency helped her to her feet. The dark, frightened eyes of the girl, convex and shining, were the house’s finest ornament. The wife stood behind in the doorway, sharp-nosed and shrill-voiced, ready to disappear if something should happen.
“It would seem, as I have told my lord many times, that there is no great treasure to be found here,” said Reverend Þorsteinn. “Even the mercy of the Lord is entirely more distant from this house than from the others in the parish.”
There was only one man in this stately company who was not affected by anything sinister, whose aristocratic tranquillity could not be displaced, and to whom nothing came by surprise, neither here nor elsewhere. Nothing in the countenance of Arnas Arnæus indicated that he was anything other than completely satisfied in this house. He had now struck up a conversation with the old woman, slow in his speech, humble and unpretentious like a rustic who has contemplated many things in his solitude. There was a softness to his deep voice, more like velvet than eiderdown. It turned out, extraordinarily so, that he, the king’s confidant, the table-companion of counts, and the pride of our people amongst the nations, this far-traveled cosmopolitan who could scarcely be considered an Icelander except according to dreams and fables, knew thoroughly the descent and origins of this paltry old woman and could name all of her relatives in the western part of the country, and he said with a gentle smile that he had more than once held in his hands small books that her father had bound for a certain Reverend Guðmundur who had died over a hundred years ago.
“It is unfortunate,” he added, looking toward the bishop, “—it is unfortunate that the late Reverend Guðmundur from Holt was in the habit of having ancient manuscripts of famous sagas torn apart, when every single page, or even half-page, or even one tiny shred of these manuscripts was auro carior*—it would not have been too much to trade landed estates for some of them. Afterward he would have the parchment leaves used for covers or involucra* for the prayer books and hymnbooks that he received unbound from the printshop in Hólar, and he would give them to his parishioners in exchange for fish.”
He turned back to the old woman and said:
“I thought it might be pleasurable to ask whether my dear old mother might not want to show me to the places where scraps of patched-up skin-breeches or worn-out old shoes are sometimes left and forgotten in corners: under the bed, in the kitchen, out in the storehouse, or up in the storehouse loft; or else in the wall-slats of the outer shed, where sometimes during the winters useless patches are packed into the gaps to keep the snow from drifting in. Or perhaps she might have an old bag or box of rubbish in which I might rummage around a bit, just in the hope of finding something, even if it were nothing but a miserable shred of a book cover from the days of Reverend Guðmundur from Holt.”