Read Online Paradise Reclaimed by Halldór Laxness - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Halldór Laxness
Tags: Fiction
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keeper of the royal purse had been instructed to defray the costs of his passage and all the expenses of his sojourn in the royal city of Copenhagen. The king wished to receive Steinar in person at whichever of his palaces he happened to be residing when Steinar arrived. This royal invitation was inspired by gratitude for the pony which the king had been given by this man in Iceland, and which was now called Pussy; Pussy was a great favourite in the palace, particularly with the children in the royal household. He was stabled at the Bernstorff Palace, the king’s summer residence outside the city.
It was not considered proper for sheriff’s messengers to accept hospitality from ordinary farmers when they were on official business: “We royal officials don’t have time to sit down.” But curiosity kept this one lingering on the paving while Steinar read the letter.
“This is a good letter, to be sure, and of great importance,” said Steinar when he had finished reading it. “You deserve to be given a gold piece for it—not that there is one available here, nor likely to be, either. Indeed, my dear wife says that gold is the source of all ill-fortune in men’s lives. Convey my respects to the king. Say that I shall come to visit him at the earliest opportunity. And would you remind the master of the royal household that I forgot to remove the bridle when I handed the horse over in the summer; I would be glad to have it back whenever possible.”
It was mentioned earlier in this book that Steinar of Hlíðar had the reputation of being a skilled and ingenious craftsman; his neighbours always brought their broken implements and household utensils to him for repair, and he would make them all as good as new. And now as winter approached he was more and more to be found away from his family, sitting in his workshed and tinkering with bits of wood. But it was all rather trifling and did not appear to be anything special, and he would toss his carvings aside like any other idle pastime. But if he were ever passing near the shore he would always pick up a few likely-looking bits of wood from the littoral farmers who collected driftwood. He pottered about like this all winter. He was always reciting an old stanza to himself while he was busy with the wood, one from an old ballad involving the hero Þórður hreda (Menace);* he never recited the whole verse at a time, but always in snatches, a line at a time. This is how it went:
She gave food for hungry hound,
She gave bed for sleeping sound;
She was merry above all,
She was very liberal.
But however much he carved and whittled, the wood was never the right size, it was either too long or too short, too thick or too thin. And so winter passed and the bustle of spring began; and one day Steinar came into the kitchen with all his winter’s work in his arms and thrust it on the fire under the kettle. Then he began to clear his hayfield of all the stones which had spilled down off the mountain during the winter, and to touch up the wall around it.
During the summer, people asked him if it were true that he were going to visit the king soon, but he always changed the subject. When the hay was safely stacked, however, and the approach of autumn brought ease from toil, he once more had to make a journey along the coast and then, as he had so often done before, he asked leave to poke around in the farmers’ woodpiles; but he could find nothing to his taste in most places, and almost before he realized it he had gone all the way down to Leirur.
Old Björn of Leirur was his usual genial self; he kissed Steinar affectionately and ushered him into the house, and asked what he could do for him. Steinar said he needed a few good pieces of wood, a spot of mahogany, preferably, even though it were no more than half a puppy-load: “And I beg you now, dearest friend, not to hold against me my boldness a year or two back when you offered me gold and I refused it.”
“You’ve
It was not considered proper for sheriff’s messengers to accept hospitality from ordinary farmers when they were on official business: “We royal officials don’t have time to sit down.” But curiosity kept this one lingering on the paving while Steinar read the letter.
“This is a good letter, to be sure, and of great importance,” said Steinar when he had finished reading it. “You deserve to be given a gold piece for it—not that there is one available here, nor likely to be, either. Indeed, my dear wife says that gold is the source of all ill-fortune in men’s lives. Convey my respects to the king. Say that I shall come to visit him at the earliest opportunity. And would you remind the master of the royal household that I forgot to remove the bridle when I handed the horse over in the summer; I would be glad to have it back whenever possible.”
It was mentioned earlier in this book that Steinar of Hlíðar had the reputation of being a skilled and ingenious craftsman; his neighbours always brought their broken implements and household utensils to him for repair, and he would make them all as good as new. And now as winter approached he was more and more to be found away from his family, sitting in his workshed and tinkering with bits of wood. But it was all rather trifling and did not appear to be anything special, and he would toss his carvings aside like any other idle pastime. But if he were ever passing near the shore he would always pick up a few likely-looking bits of wood from the littoral farmers who collected driftwood. He pottered about like this all winter. He was always reciting an old stanza to himself while he was busy with the wood, one from an old ballad involving the hero Þórður hreda (Menace);* he never recited the whole verse at a time, but always in snatches, a line at a time. This is how it went:
She gave food for hungry hound,
She gave bed for sleeping sound;
She was merry above all,
She was very liberal.
But however much he carved and whittled, the wood was never the right size, it was either too long or too short, too thick or too thin. And so winter passed and the bustle of spring began; and one day Steinar came into the kitchen with all his winter’s work in his arms and thrust it on the fire under the kettle. Then he began to clear his hayfield of all the stones which had spilled down off the mountain during the winter, and to touch up the wall around it.
During the summer, people asked him if it were true that he were going to visit the king soon, but he always changed the subject. When the hay was safely stacked, however, and the approach of autumn brought ease from toil, he once more had to make a journey along the coast and then, as he had so often done before, he asked leave to poke around in the farmers’ woodpiles; but he could find nothing to his taste in most places, and almost before he realized it he had gone all the way down to Leirur.
Old Björn of Leirur was his usual genial self; he kissed Steinar affectionately and ushered him into the house, and asked what he could do for him. Steinar said he needed a few good pieces of wood, a spot of mahogany, preferably, even though it were no more than half a puppy-load: “And I beg you now, dearest friend, not to hold against me my boldness a year or two back when you offered me gold and I refused it.”
“You’ve
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