The two other books Arnæus tried to find in the papal collections were the Liber Islandorum, containing both genealogies and biographies of kings omitted by Ari in his Icelandic version, and the Breviarium Holense, which, under Jón Arason’s initiative, was the first book printed in Iceland, and which had been laid upon the breast of Master Þorlákur in his grave as far as anyone knew.*
The pope is a great bookman and there is little doubt that he had all of these books in his possession at one time or another, and there is nothing more likely than that he still does. But a great many beautiful old books have been filched from the poor old fellow these days, and because of this he has become, as one might expect, somewhat suspicious of people who arrive from far and wide, wanting to rummage through his scraps of books. For years Arnæus had worked to secure the intercession of potentates: ambassadors, generals, archbishops, and cardinals, who for various reasons required him to be permitted entrance to the dark forest called the Papal Archives. Yet the entire time that he wandered in this earthbound recess of history he was never accorded such trust as to be allowed to search alone; a canon was ordered to stand at his side, with an armed Swiss guard behind him, to ensure that he neither stole a single slip of paper nor took it upon himself to make unauthorized copies of any of the memoranda that the evangelists could most likely put to good use in their ongoing struggles against the servant of the servants of God.
He wandered about for so long in this catacomb of the ages that the contemporary world turned into a remote dream. Many of the satchels containing deeds and schedulae* that here filled the halls, the narrow passageways, and the earthen tunnels had grown dusty in repose and had been chewed by termites throughout the march of time; from some of them crept worms and other vermin. Again and again the searcher was afflicted with a catarrh like some farmer out in Iceland who for years has had to pitch moldy hay out in the haymow; there were even times when he had to remain bedridden due to the obstruction in his lungs. In this place his hands uncovered as much important as unimportant evidence concerning every tiny detail ever mentioned in all of Christendom since its history began, everything except for the Liber Islandorum, the Breviarium Holense, and the memoirs of the woman Gurid from Hislant terra. The leave of absence granted to him by His Gracious Sire the King of the Danes for the undertaking of his journey had long since expired. In the end he became absolutely convinced that even if he were to search for the rest of his days, no matter how many he had left, he would remain equidistant from his goal until the hour of his death. And yet he was as certain that the books were there as an insane tramp he recalled seeing in his youth was certain that treasure was to be found hidden under stones. In his own case, however, the solace inherent in God’s promise that all who seek shall also find seemed to have deserted him completely.
“You found nothing at all?” asked Snæfríður. She had placed her needlework on her lap and was staring at him. “Not a single thing?”
“I know,” he said, directing his gaze at the bishop’s wife, “that it is a sin, when studying Scripture, to extrapolate or to interpolate, but original sin, that abominable burden, always reveals itself. For a long time I have been plagued by the suspicion that the passage I cited just now originally read something like this: seek and you shall find— something entirely different from whatever it is you were searching for. But now I must apologize for my prattle—I feel I really have said quite enough for today.”
He made a move as if to stand up and leave.
“But you have forgotten to tell us of Rome,” said Snæfríður. “We chose this city and now you intend to neglect your duty to us.”
The bishop’s wife also pleaded that for the sake of courtesy he be less hasty in his departure.
He remained seated. In truth he was in no hurry—it was quite possible that he had never had any thoughts of leaving. They allowed him to examine their cloths, and he unfolded them and expressed his admiration for them, displaying his knowledge of women’s needlework. His hands were delicate, with slightly declining fingertips, his wrists slender, the backs of his hands smooth and covered with fine dark hair. Afterward he leaned back again in his easy-chair, but he still had not put his feet up on the footstool.
“Rome,” he said, and he smiled distractedly, looking out into the distance somewhere. “I saw two men there and one woman; of course I saw several others, but always these two men and this one woman; morning and evening these three, two Icelandic men, one Icelandic woman.”
The women’s eyes opened wide—“Icelandic men, an Icelandic woman?”
He described for them a small, brisk woman, rather lean, traveling with a group of German pilgrims to Rome, an unremarkable individual in a group of gray folk, who appeared even grayer than usual in contrast to the residents of the city and who, to the natives, were as deserving of notice as a flock of migrant birds; even the beggars and thieves of Rome were like grandees compared to them. And alone amongst this drab company is, namely, this everyday, unattractive woman in a torn black smock of wadmal, with a cap tied to her head, barefooted like all of Europe at the dawn of the eleventh century, when Christians, due to indigence, were still little more than cannibals. But in a little scrip that this barefoot commoner carried under one arm she kept shoes that looked new, though she had had them for a very long time. They were made of colored, tanned hide, wondrously soft, with stubby toes and soles sewn up around the outside of the foot, the stitching covered over with delicate leaf-shaped cuttings and the vamps set with beautifully colored leather beads. Such shoes had never been seen in Christendom, nor in ancient Rome, nor during the days of any other distinguished nation of ages past; another such pair of shoes shall never be seen again in the world for the next four hundred years. These seldom-seen shoes, a token of a path longer than any other in the world, she had brought south to present to the pope in recompense for the sins she had committed in the land where she had acquired them, Vínland the Good. I tried to look into the eyes of this woman, who alone of all earthly women had discovered the new world, but they were only the eyes of a tired traveler; when I strained my ears I could hear clearly that she spoke to her fellow travelers in a Low German dialect, the language of pilgrims at that time. This woman was Gurid from Hislant terra, Guðríður Þorbjarnardóttir, from Glaumbær in Skagafjörður in Iceland; she had worked a farm in Vínland the Good for close to a year, and had there given birth to a son from whom generations of Icelanders are descended, Snorri the son of Þorfinnur Karlsefni.*
Next he told them the story of the two other Icelanders he had seen in Rome. One of them had traveled south upon a kingly steed, as noblemen do, in the company of other noblemen carrying silver and gold, accompanied by a troop of soldiers hired to protect them from brigands. He was a handsome and vigorous man, with wide but somewhat deep-set eyes; his countenance was like that of a curious child, yet nothing in his bearing indicated that he considered himself less than any other man in the inhabited world. Here come to Rome was the incarnation of the man who had as a merchant escaped from Constantinople and traveled to the land of the caliph while Europe lay in the grip of barbarianism; here was the man who had besieged Paris and Seville, set up kingdoms in France and Italy, brought his ship to the coast of Straumfjörður in Vínland—and composed the Völuspá. Now he had slaughtered his kinsmen in Iceland and brought his country to the brink of Ragnarök, as described in the poem, and he had come to Rome to receive shrift from the pope. Penance was ordered: he was led barefoot before the churches of Rome and chastised before most of the cathedrals, as the populace lingered in the streets and watched in amazement, lamenting that such a distinguished man should be so deplorably treated. The man’s name was Sturla Sighvatsson.*
The other man had of course never visited Rome, but he had received a letter from the pope, a letter reminding him of his duty to defend with point and edge Iceland’s church and its possessions against the Lutheran kings. And at that time, just as today, very few people gave a second thought to the p
assage of arms. It was Rome that lay before the eyes of this last remaining Icelander of antiquity, until he was led to the block. Arnas Arnæus said that he had often seen the image of this man as if in a vision, but in Rome he had beheld this presbyter as a kind of lucent mirage, the sort which transforms reality into shadows of doubt. It is night here in Skálholt. He stands vigil with his two sons. They appear older, more infirm than their father the elder, because they are more like average men. Misfortune, however, had made his shoulders so strong that they could never be overburdened, no matter how heavy the load, and his neck so stocky that it would never bend. Now it is morning: the seventh of November. Snow has turned the mountains gray overnight. Rime rests on the grassblades.
“These were the people I saw.”
“And then no one else?” asked Snæfríður.
“Ah, yes,” he said softly, and he looked at her and smiled: “Then the entire world.”
“There is no doubt,” said the bishop’s wife, “that Jón Arason was a great champion, a true Icelander like the men of antiquity, but doesn’t it make your blood run cold to think upon what might have happened if that ribald had won, and with him the popish heretics? May my Redeemer help me.”
“During my stay in Rome the city celebrated a jubilee for all of Christendom,” said Arnas Arnæus. “I was strolling along the river one day. The truth is, I was heavy-hearted, as happens to those who come to realize that a long chapter in their short lives has been squandered in idle labor, in the expenditure of effort and wealth, their health placed in jeopardy, the friendship of good men forfeit due to obstinacy. I was thinking about what sort of excuses I could make to my king and lord for having neglected my duties for too long. There I wandered, filled with misgiving, and before I knew it I met a huge crowd of people inching forward, heading for the bridge over the river. Neither before nor since have I seen such a throng of people: the lanes and highways were so packed that it was difficult to distinguish the bystanders from the procession’s participants, and all of them were singing. I stopped in the midst of a group of Roman citizens to watch the stream pass by. They were pilgrims from different nations, come south to receive absolution for their sins during that special Christian year of grace. Within the throng were gathered a great many smaller groups, each group walking in procession, its members wearing badges emblazoned with the image of its shire’s protective saint, or else carrying either the bones of its district’s steward of God in a little shrine or a replica of its cathedral’s holy statue. The images of Maria were distinctive to each place, for throughout the papal realms there are as many different Marias as there are cities and towns—some are associated with flowers, others with stones, still others with health-giving springs, several with the Virgin’s seat, the particular configuration of the Christ child, or the color of the Virgin’s mantle. It was remarkable to see representatives of so many different shires marching together over one bridge for the sake of their souls. When I was young and walked along Breiðafjörður I never would have thought that such a wide variety of people inhabited the world. Here were folk from the numerous city-states and counties of Italy: Milanese, Napolese and Sicilians, Sardinians, Savoyards, Venetians and Tuscans, along with the Romans themselves; here one could see the peoples of the six Spanish kingdoms: the Castilians, Aragonese, Catalans, Valencians, Majorcans, and Navarrans; gathered here were envoys from the different nations of the Empire, even from the nations that had adopted Luther’s reforms: Bavarians, Germans and Croatians, Franconians, Westphalians, Rhinelanders, Saxons, Burgundians, Franks, Walloons, Austrians, and Styrians. But why am I reeling off the names of all these peoples? And yet, it was so: I watched them all going by, and many more. I saw people from nations I knew nothing about, their countenances, the textures of their clothing, their grimy faces and their eyes filled with passion and tenacity. Most often, however, I found myself thinking about their countless feet, bare or in shoes, most certainly tired, yet somehow lively and hopeful; and the old crusade-dance that resounded through their musica,* whether they struck the strings of the lyre or any other instrument, or blew into their folkish homeland-pipes: ‘Fair are the fields, cloudless God’s sky.’ And suddenly I realized that Guðríður Þorbjarnardóttir was gone. Not a single Icelander remained.”
The bishop’s wife had also laid aside her handiwork; she too was staring at the storyteller.
“Thank God there were no Icelanders present,” she said. “Or perhaps you didn’t find it grievous to think upon all those ignorant heretics whom the pope prevents from hearing the message of Christ, denying them the privilege of salvation through faith?”
“When a man sees so many feet walking by, my lady, he unavoidably asks: ‘Where are you going?’ They march over the Tiber and stop in the square in front of St. Peter’s Basilica, and the moment the pope walks out onto the balcony of his palace, Te Deum Laudamus begins while all the bells of Rome ring out. Is it right, is it wrong, my lady? I don’t know. Well-informed auctores* tell us that the wealthy Giovanni de Medici, otherwise known as Leo the Tenth, was a wise aristocrat and student of the Epicurean school, and that it never once occurred to him to believe in the soul even though he sold indulgences for its redemption. Perhaps that’s the very reason he did these things. Sometimes one gets the impression that Martin Luther was a peculiar sort of rustic, trying to dispute the liberty of the soul with such a man.”
“Yes, but, my dear lord Commissarius, isn’t it sinful to think such a thing about our master Luther?” asked the bishop’s wife.
“I don’t know, my lady,” said Arnas Arnæus. “It may very well be. But one thing is certain: those learned and inspired reformatores* were quite suddenly situated far to the north of me. After I had been watching these immense numbers of feet for some time, I suddenly found myself thinking: ‘You will follow this procession wherever it leads.’ Then the only Icelander in the crowd walked over the Tiber River. We took our place before Sancti Petri Basilica and the bells of Rome rang and the pope, wearing his miter and holding his crosier, walked out onto his balcony while we all sang the Te Deum. I had been searching for old Icelandic books, and sorrow had gotten the better of me when I was unable to find them. Suddenly I realized that it did not matter at all that I had not found those old books. I had found something in their place. I left Rome the very next day.”
The ladies thanked the assessor cordially for his stories about the chief city of Guðríður Þorbjarnardóttir, Sturla Sighvatsson, and Jón Arason. But since there were visitors awaiting him downstairs, folk who had traveled great distances to meet him, he could not take the time, just now, to describe more cities for them, and the bishop’s wife, who was a fierce Protestant and therefore slightly less than content with the papacy, asked whether the assessor would allow her to choose her city at some later time. He granted them the right to choose any city they liked, at any other time they liked, then bade them farewell and walked to the door.
“Before I forget,” said Snæfríður, springing up from her chair as he opened the door. “I have something to discuss with you, Assessor. In fact I’d almost completely forgotten about it. But I must point out that it has to do with something else.”
“Does it have to do with a book?” he asked, and he turned on the threshold and looked at her in earnest.
“No, a man,” she said.
He said that her fondest wish was most welcome to him.
Then he was gone.
10
He asked her to sit down.
She sat down opposite him, clasped her hands in her lap, and looked at him aloofly; her bearing was restrained.
“I didn’t want to come even though the old man begged me to do so,” she said. “I told the old man that it wasn’t my concern. All the same, I’ve come to you because of him. You mustn’t think that I’ve come for any other reason.”
“Welcome, Snæfríður,” he said for the second or third time.
“Yes,” she said, “I know that you’re an expert in worldly comp
laisance. But there’s really no avoiding it: this old man whom I don’t know and who doesn’t concern me, it’s as if I’ve always known him and he does concern me. His name is Jón Hreggviðsson.”
“Yes, old Jón Hreggviðsson,” said Arnæus. “It was his mother who had in her keeping the single most precious treasure to be found in all the Nordic lands.”
“Yes,” said Snæfríður. “Her heart—”
“No, some old vellum leaves,” interrupted Arnas Arnæus.
“I beg your pardon.”
“We all owe a great debt of gratitude to Jón Hreggviðsson— because of his mother,” said Arnas Arnæus. “This is why, Snæfríður, when he brought me the ring I gave it back to him, so that he could do himself some good.”
“Oh, enough with your vanity now, after fifteen years,” said Snæfríður. “It’s both ludicrous and embarrassing to recall one’s youth.”
He leaned back against his desk. Behind him were thick books and bundles of papers, some bound and some opened. He was wearing a wide, black dress coat and white gloves. He hooked his index fingers together and spoke again.
“When I left and did not return despite my promised vow, because fate is stronger than a man’s will as it says in the sagas, I consoled myself with the thought that the next time I beheld the fair maiden she would be a different woman: her youth vanished along with her beauty, youth’s innate gift. The ancient philosophers taught that faithlessness in love is the only kind of betrayal that the gods look upon with clemency: ‘Venus hac perjuria ridet.’* Last evening when you walked into the dining room after all these years I saw that there was no need for Lofn* to smile clemently upon me.”
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