When the studiosus antiquitatum saw what sort of thing it was standing there he hissed through the doorway and against the wind:
“Abi, scurra.”*
“Copenhagen’s burning,” mumbled the visitor, and the wind carried his words away. The house’s occupant was just about to start in on a Latin jingle he kept handy for moments such as this, and had even opened his mouth to begin, when the brim of a wind-squall snuck in through the doorway, bearing a shred of the visitor’s words to his ears. Once again Jón Marteinsson succeeded in taking Jón Guðmundsson completely by surprise.
“What? What did you say?” said the latter.
“Nothing,” said the visitor. “Except when I said that Copenhagen’s burning. There’s a fire in Copenhagen.”
“In that case I know you’re lying, you wicked fiend, unless you yourself started it,” said the Grindavíkian.
“Deliver my message to Árni and tell him I want a piece of a saga.”
“First tell us where the Skálda is, which you doubtlessly sold to the Swedes for brennivín.”
At that moment the air glimmered: the fire could not have been far away.
“No brennivín,” said Jón Marteinsson. “And I got so cold standing out by the wall watching it. It’s past midnight. I went down to the Golden Lion to ask about Árni, but the girls said he’d be drinking at home tonight since his carriage left there this morning, with him in it sleeping.”
“If you dare once more to connect the name of my lord and master with that whores’ den I’ll call for the master of the watch,” said the studiosus antiquitatum.
“The place isn’t that bad—just now the king himself was riding down there on all fours. But you wouldn’t be used to anything better, coming from Grindavík,” said Jón Marteinsson.
“The king does not ride on all fours—he rides in a four-horse carriage,” said the man from Grindavík. “He who slanders the king shall be flogged with eighty strokes of the rod.”
The glimmer continued to play about the vault of heaven. To the west one could see the roofs of nearby mansions and the tower of Our Lady’s Church silhouetted against the dull red glow of embers in the darkness of the night.
The Grindavíkian shut the door carefully and turned the key. He didn’t go straight to his master to report the news; instead he went to where Jón Hreggviðsson was lying, woke him, ordered him to get up immediately and go out into the garden and stand guard over Jón Marteinsson, who had set the city of Copenhagen on fire and who was now planning to take advantage of a good opportunity, when everything was in confusion, to steal books from the householder and chickens from the madam. He told the farmer that the flames loomed over the tower of Our Lady’s Church.
Then the Grindavíkian went back into the house and up the stairway, stopping outside the assessor’s bedroom. The door was locked. He knocked several times, and when he received no answer he called in through the keyhole:
“My lord, my lord! Jón Marteinsson has come! Flames are looming over Our Lady’s Church. Copenhagen is ablaze!”
Finally the sound of a key turning in the keyhole came from within, and the door opened. A dim light burned in the bedroom. Arnæus stood in the doorway drunk with sleep, still wearing yesterday’s clothing. He was unshaven and wore no wig. The bedroom reeked of the stenches of alcohol and settled tobacco smoke. He stared out at the man in the doorway, his gaze strangely aloof, giving the appearance at first as if he had neither heard what the Grindavíkian had said nor understood its significance.
“My lord,” said his famulus once again, “Jón Marteinsson has set the city on fire.”
“What does it matter to me?” said Arnas Arnæus in his dusky bass.
“Copenhagen is on fire,” said the Grindavíkian.
“Don’t you suppose that that’s one of Jón Marteinsson’s lies?” said Arnas Arnæus.
The Grindavíkian answered, without giving himself any time to think: “My lord himself knows full well that Jón Marteinsson never lies.”
“Is that so,” said Arnas Arnæus.
“On the other hand, I am absolutely convinced that it was he who set the city on fire,” said the man from Grindavík. “I myself saw the red glow behind Our Lady’s Church. I woke Jón Hreggviðsson and told him to keep an eye on Jón Marteinsson.”
“Take your drivel about Jón Marteinsson and get out,” said the assessor, and he started to shut the door.
“The books, the books,” stammered the man from Grindavík. His voice had gone falsetto and tears flowed from his eyes. “For God’s sake and in Jesus’ name: the precious membrana, Iceland’s life!”
“Books,” said Arnæus, “what do you intend to do with them? The precious membrana—let them be.”
“They’ll burn,” said the Grindavíkian.
“Not tonight,” said Arnas Arnæus. “Didn’t you say that the fire was on the other side of Our Lady’s Church?”
“But the wind is from the west, my lord. Shouldn’t I try to bring the most valuable ones over the canal immediately, just to be on the safe side?”
Arnas Arnæus said: “The Skálda is in the hands of thieves. And I left the good magistrate’s book behind, though it had been given to me as a gift. Now it’s best to let the gods decide. I’m tired.”
“If the fire reaches Our Lady’s Church, it’s just a stone’s throw from us,” said his famulus, refusing to give in.
“We’ll let Our Lady’s Church burn,” said Arnas Arnæus. “Go on up to your bedcloset and sleep.”
15
The fire started at approximately nine o’clock on Wednesday evening down below Vesterport, its cause thought to be a child’s carelessness with a candle flame. The fire brigade arrived quickly on the scene, but because of strong winds the fire spread so rapidly that nothing could be done; the conflagration leaped from house to house along the narrow streets. At first the fire pursued a northward course along the wall and cut slantwise into the city. Around ten o’clock the wind shifted direction, driving the fire across the city along Vestergade and Studiestraede; it was now so ferocious that no mortal power could control it. For no apparent reason other fires started springing up in various places in the neighborhood, for instance in a brewery on Nørregade later that night; this new blaze also spread quickly in both directions, making the work of the firemen ever more difficult. On Thursday morning, around dawn, the houses on both sides of Nør-regade were burning; the wind now blew from the northwest and drove the firestorm further down into the city. The branch of the fire burning in Vestergade had by then laid waste to the entire street and the neighborhood all the way down to Gammeltorv. At about the same time the fire reached the bishop’s residence and from there moved to Saint Peter’s Church—unfortunately many city residents thought that the Lord would spare the churches and brought all of their belongings there, filling the churches with flammable material and thereby fueling the fire. Around ten in the morning both the city hall and the orphanage burned down together—the children from the latter were brought down to the king’s stables, while the horses were driven out to Frederiksberg. At around eleven the fire reached Our Lady’s Church. Before those gathered there knew it a cloud of smoke gushed from the church’s high tower, followed immediately by massive flames; a little later the tower and the spire collapsed together. At the same time both the academy and Our Lady’s School burned to the ground, and thus the fire arrived at the neighborhood where the scholars had their homes. At three in the afternoon one could watch the capital’s diverse exalted and age-old buildings and mansions being devoured by the flames, and the same went for the students’ dormitory and the collegia. The fire continued to burn throughout the rest of the day. Near midevening Holy Trinity Church caught fire and shortly afterward the academy’s magnificent and irreplaceable library did the same, followed by the Church of the Holy Spirit and its exalted organ. All the next night the fire burned in Købmagergade and then throughout the lower parts of the city all the way down to Gammelstrand, where it was
finally extinguished with water from the canal.
The inhabitants of the city rushed panic-stricken out into the streets, much as in Iceland when loads of worms crawl out of rotten lumpfish when it’s grilled over the embers to give to the shepherd boys. Some people cuddled children, some carried bags of various belongings, others were naked and ashamed, hungry and thirsty, or else had lost their senses, emitting shrieks and howls of grief. One woman was unable to save anything but her fire-poker, and she stood in the street buck-naked; many were lying like sheep on and around the walls, as well as in the king’s park, in the driving rain and wind. Many of them might never have gotten up again had not His Kingly Majesty taken pity on his poor people’s torment and need. His Most Gracious Heart rode out in person to where folk lay weeping upon the ground, and had bread and beer distributed to them wherever he went.
Early in the morning on the second day of the fire a number of Icelanders gathered at the home of Arnas Arnæus. These included both gentlemen’s sons studying at the university and several poor yeoman apprentices, as well as one penniless sailor. They sent for the assessor, announced that the fire was swiftly approaching Our Lady’s Church, and offered their help in rescuing the renowned Icelandic books. But Arnas refused their help, claiming that the fire would soon be extinguished; he would rather offer them beer. The men were restless and didn’t want to drink, but they lacked the determination to pressure the erudite nobleman and walked dejectedly away. They didn’t go far, however, but rather loitered in the vicinity of the assessor’s residence, feeling the heat from the conflagration and watching as the fire spread from house to house, coming ever nearer. Finally when flames shot up from the tower of Our Lady’s Church and started to flow over its roof, the men went back to Arnæus’s home, and, abandoning modesty, rushed into the house through the back entrance and past the horrified kitchen wenches, not stopping until they reached the library, where they found Jón Guðmundsson from Grindavík, tearfully singing from a Latin hymnbook. One of the men searched for the householder and found him in his room, standing on a dais at the window, watching the fire. The man said that he and his companions had come to the rescue. By this time the housemistress and the servants were in a rush to save the furniture. Finally Arnæus came to his senses and told the men to save whatever they wanted and whatever they could.
The bookshelves in the library reached from the floor to the ceiling on all four walls, and besides this there were books stored in two side compartments. The Icelanders made a rush for these, since everyone knew that the library’s treasures were stored in locked cabinets in these two corners. But now they were faced with disaster, as always happens in nightmares: the keys to the cabinets were not at hand. Arnæus himself went to search for them. By then the heat from the firestorm had started to leak through the walls of the house, and since the men feared that the house would be engulfed in flames before the assessor could find his keys they took to the cabinets with whatever they could find as cudgels. When they had smashed open the cabinets they made the assessor’s secretary show them which of the books were most valuable, then they grabbed up handfuls of these most famous manuscripts containing the handwritten stories of the ancient Icelanders and the kings of Norway and carried them out. They didn’t make more than one trip. When they turned to go in and fetch more books the fire entered the house. Blue smoke gushed from the two side compartments and soon a dull red tongue of flame licked out from the smoke. The men wanted to try and grab whatever they could get their hands on from the shelves of the main reading room before it was consumed, but Arnas Arnæus, who had returned with the keys to the cabinets that now stood unimpressively awash in flames, stopped in the doorway of his library and waved his hands at the men, preventing them entrance. Just as the surf crashes against sheer cliffs, or as the plant called parmelia quickly fastens its roots and spreads with speed in all directions, but withers in the place where it was first sown, so too did the fire spread over the precious bookspines covering the walls of the hall. Arnas Arnæus stood in the doorway staring in, the Icelanders helpless in the foyer behind him. Then he turned to them, pointed in through the doorway at the flaming bookshelves and smiled as he said:
“Never again shall such books be found, anywhere, even unto Doomsday.”
16
Night. Two Icelandic Jóns stagger waywardly through a burning city. The learned Grindavíkian is bawling like a child. The farmer from Rein plods silently behind. The fire of Copenhagen is at their heels, driving them on in the direction of Nørreport. The sea of flames turns terrified folk into frantic silhouettes, fleshly phantoms.
“What are you whining about?” said the man from Skagi, completely neglecting to address his learned namesake respectfully. “You could hardly be mourning for Copenhagen.”
“No,” said the scholar. “This city, built with the blood of my destitute people, is bound to perish. For God is just.”
“Well, then I think you’d better start praising him,” said Jón Hreggviðsson.
“I would give much to be illiterate like you, Hreggviðsson,” said the scholar.
“I think there’ll probably be enough old books left in the world even if your rubbish burns, if that’s what you’re crying about,” said the farmer.
“Even if my life’s work were to perish,” said the studiosus antiquitatum, “even if the flames were to consume all those texts that I diligently compiled for four decades, mostly by night after I’d completed my day’s work, I would still eternally weep for a poor man’s poor books. I weep for my lord’s books. His books, which burn even as we speak, contain the life and soul of the Nordic peoples, who spoke the Danish tongue ever since the Flood and all the way up until the time when they abandoned their origins and adopted a Germanic mien. I weep because now there will no longer exist any books written in the Danish tongue. The Nordic countries no longer have a soul. I weep for my master’s sorrow.”
Passersby could hear by their speech that they were foreigners, and thinking that they were Swedish spies were eager to string them up without delay.
Suddenly they ran straight into a man wearing a dress coat and a top hat, carrying a bag upon his back. Jón Hreggviðsson greeted him warmly, but the scholar from Grindavík pretended not to notice the man and tearfully continued on his way.
“Hey you Grindavík dimwit!” called Jón Marteinsson after him. “Don’t you want beer and bread?”
The third Jón who now joined their company was as crafty as ever no matter where he went. Even here at the Nørrevold he knew of a woman who could provide a man with beer and bread.
“But I’ll tell you this right now,” he said, “if you don’t stare up at me like beaten dogs while you’re drinking the beer that I’m going to get for you, then I’ll take it right back.”
He led them to this particular wench’s kitchen and told them to take a seat. Jón Hreggviðsson sneered and grimaced in a variety of ways, but the man from Grindavík did not look up.
The woman was terribly affected by the fire in Copenhagen and wailed and begged God for mercy, but Jón Marteinsson grabbed hold of her, gave her a quick tweak in a spot just above her hams, and said:
“Give these old farmers here flat beer in poor mugs and brennivín in tin goblets; but give me fresh Rostocker beer in an enameled stone pitcher, preferably with a silver lid and inscribed with one of Luther’s bawdy lyrics; and brennivín in a silver goblet.”
The woman gave the man a clout, but cheered up slightly.
“Cheers lads and tell us a lie,” said Jón Marteinsson. “And bring us bread and sausages, my good woman.”
They gulped down the beer.
“It’s horrendous to think,” said the woman as she smeared the bread, “what trials God sets before our blessed king.”
“Screw the king,” said Jón Marteinsson.
“You Icelanders are heartless,” said the woman.
“Make sure you put a lot of smoked blubber on that,” said Jón Marteinsson.
After
they had slaked the worst of their thirst he continued:
“Well now, old Árni’s gone and gotten all of Iceland’s books burned—”
The scholar from Grindavík looked with tear-filled eyes directly into his enemy’s face and said only one word: “Satan.”
“—except for the ones I managed to rescue in time and bring to the Swedish count du Bertelskiold and his brothers,” said Jón Marteinsson.
“You’ve conducted business with men who call Iceland’s books West Gotlandic,” said the Grindavíkian.
“Yet here in the bottom of my bag is something that will ensure that the name of Jón Marteinsson will never be forgotten as long as the world exists,” said the other.
They ate and drank for a short time, saying nothing, except for Jón Marteinsson, who directed flirtatious comments at the woman in between mouthfuls. The scholar from Grindavík had stopped crying, and he had a spot of jam on his nose. By the time they were well into their third pitcher Jón Hreggviðsson had become adequately drunk, and he started reciting a stanza from the Elder Ballad of Pontus at the top of his lungs.
As they finished the food and drink and the festivities started winding down, Jón Marteinsson, the party’s host, started peeking quickly and furtively beneath the table in order to take stock of his guests’ shoes. Typically Icelandic, as he might have guessed. He also examined the buttons on their jackets: neither brass nor silver, just bits of bone. Jón Marteinsson asked the woman to loan them cards or dice. Both of the guests declined their host’s invitation to a game of craps, but Jón Hreggviðsson said he wouldn’t mind a bit of arm wrestling. He said that even though he might be an old geezer, he’d still be able to fend off each and every man whom Jón Marteinsson sent to remove him from his shoes. The blubbery woman, flat-footed and knock-kneed, her face swollen from crying, stood at the stove and watched the three men. She soon gathered what sort of people these were, then stopped lamenting the king’s misfortune and said that these insane Icelanders would always be more akin to themselves than to human beings, and that anyone who did as much as extend his little finger to them would regret it, even if the city were burning around him and the pit of Hell gaped open beneath his feet—even if the inhabited world were destroyed, she said, their lies and trickery would remain. Jón Marteinsson tried pinching her again but she would not be appeased and instead announced that she was going to send for the master of the watch.
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