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Authors: Halldór Laxness
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had to resort to the unfortunate expedient of referring to “the Man who is above Björn of Brekkukot”. Nor did he know the name of the land he lived in, except that it was dry.
Before I end my description of Runólfur Jónsson’s qualities, I must not forget the feat that is the most likely to immortalize his name in history: namely, that this worthy night-companion and foster-brother of mine was one of the first men to be run over by a motor car; he was then almost eighty years old. This came about because, when he was drinking, he invariably walked in the middle of the road, waving a bottle, singing, holding forth and laughing, all at the same time; and he was always followed by a motley collection of drinking companions, idlers, stray dogs, ponies, and cyclists (who were then just beginning to appear, and were Danish). He paid no more attention to motor-cars than to any other tin-cans rolling along the gutter.
So if by some ill chance it should happen that Runólfur Jónsson, that descendant of Chief Justices, should one fine day vanish from this book and that I forget to mark the moment of his disappearance, it is because my foster-brother has been run over by the first motor-car that ever came to Iceland.
9
THE AUTHORITIES
Visitors to Brekkukot sometimes talked about “the authorities” and “the gentry”. But there was not much come and go, exactly, between Brekkukot and the doors of the authorities. “The authorities” – for long enough I had no idea what kind of foreign company this was. It is strange to have lived in the selfsame capital in which the authorities of the country sat (for that’s what all authorities did – they
sat
), and yet not know with any certaintymore about them than about the angels that flew upright with a garland of flowers in our picture. But when a man in a frock-coat with a velvet collar, a half-keg, a come-to-Jesus collar and lorgnettes came over to grandfather’s wheelbarrow on a bright summer’s day and raised his hat and asked with dignity and courtesy, “Did you have a good catch this morning, Björn?” while my grandfather laid a medium-sized cod on the scales for him and the man paid with a newly minted silver coin, and was given wire through the cod’s head while others had to make do with sticking a forefinger through its gills, and then raised his hat again, and held the fish at arm’s length as he walked away – that man was one of the authorities. But it happened more often that my grandfather would wheel his barrow to the kitchen doors of the authorities’ houses and sell the fish to the maid. I myself, on the other hand, had no dealings with the authorities until I had grown important enough to enter their presence on New Year’s Day with the late Captain Hogensen.
I am not actually going to describe all the New Year’s Day expeditions I made to the authorities with Captain Hogensen in my childhood days, but only to touch lightly upon the first one we made, for it was somewhat the same as all the later expeditions on the same errand, and had the added interest of novelty.
I must have been about six when I was first appointed to guide Captain Hogensen into the presence of these gentlemen to wish them a good New Year. I want to make it clear that this expedition to the authorities was not memorable to me because of any revelation of the world’s glory that occurred during the visit; rather, I am describing it because I believe it added an unexpected tone to the tale I am now telling.
I take up the story at the point when Captain Hogensen engaged a good man said to be skilled in such crafts to trim his hair and then shave the point of his chin to make him resemble King Kristian IX of Denmark as closely as possible. The Captain woke up about seven o’clock on New Year’s Day, rose from his bed and began to dress himself, slowly and carefully, in the darkness the Saviour had bestowed on him, which neither candlelight, nor oil-lamp, nor the sunrise
Before I end my description of Runólfur Jónsson’s qualities, I must not forget the feat that is the most likely to immortalize his name in history: namely, that this worthy night-companion and foster-brother of mine was one of the first men to be run over by a motor car; he was then almost eighty years old. This came about because, when he was drinking, he invariably walked in the middle of the road, waving a bottle, singing, holding forth and laughing, all at the same time; and he was always followed by a motley collection of drinking companions, idlers, stray dogs, ponies, and cyclists (who were then just beginning to appear, and were Danish). He paid no more attention to motor-cars than to any other tin-cans rolling along the gutter.
So if by some ill chance it should happen that Runólfur Jónsson, that descendant of Chief Justices, should one fine day vanish from this book and that I forget to mark the moment of his disappearance, it is because my foster-brother has been run over by the first motor-car that ever came to Iceland.
9
THE AUTHORITIES
Visitors to Brekkukot sometimes talked about “the authorities” and “the gentry”. But there was not much come and go, exactly, between Brekkukot and the doors of the authorities. “The authorities” – for long enough I had no idea what kind of foreign company this was. It is strange to have lived in the selfsame capital in which the authorities of the country sat (for that’s what all authorities did – they
sat
), and yet not know with any certaintymore about them than about the angels that flew upright with a garland of flowers in our picture. But when a man in a frock-coat with a velvet collar, a half-keg, a come-to-Jesus collar and lorgnettes came over to grandfather’s wheelbarrow on a bright summer’s day and raised his hat and asked with dignity and courtesy, “Did you have a good catch this morning, Björn?” while my grandfather laid a medium-sized cod on the scales for him and the man paid with a newly minted silver coin, and was given wire through the cod’s head while others had to make do with sticking a forefinger through its gills, and then raised his hat again, and held the fish at arm’s length as he walked away – that man was one of the authorities. But it happened more often that my grandfather would wheel his barrow to the kitchen doors of the authorities’ houses and sell the fish to the maid. I myself, on the other hand, had no dealings with the authorities until I had grown important enough to enter their presence on New Year’s Day with the late Captain Hogensen.
I am not actually going to describe all the New Year’s Day expeditions I made to the authorities with Captain Hogensen in my childhood days, but only to touch lightly upon the first one we made, for it was somewhat the same as all the later expeditions on the same errand, and had the added interest of novelty.
I must have been about six when I was first appointed to guide Captain Hogensen into the presence of these gentlemen to wish them a good New Year. I want to make it clear that this expedition to the authorities was not memorable to me because of any revelation of the world’s glory that occurred during the visit; rather, I am describing it because I believe it added an unexpected tone to the tale I am now telling.
I take up the story at the point when Captain Hogensen engaged a good man said to be skilled in such crafts to trim his hair and then shave the point of his chin to make him resemble King Kristian IX of Denmark as closely as possible. The Captain woke up about seven o’clock on New Year’s Day, rose from his bed and began to dress himself, slowly and carefully, in the darkness the Saviour had bestowed on him, which neither candlelight, nor oil-lamp, nor the sunrise
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