The Great Weaver From Kashmir Read Free

your wife if your brother hadn’t already spoken for me twenty years ago. You should get yourself a darling young wife and a comfortable home; you obviously have your choice of women both here and abroad,’ said I; ‘. . . a beautiful and loving wife, yes, a devoted wife, dear Örnólfur, who waits impatiently for you to come home from your office at three and serves you your afternoon coffee; receives you with both hands wheneveryou return from a trip abroad, throws her arms around your neck, kisses your eyes and mouth, and runs her hands through your hair. Just like that,’ said I, ‘that’s what you need, my boy.’ There’s nothing like a wife. Nothing can keep a man in line but a wife. A wife’s the best elixir of life there is if you pick the right one.”
    â€œAnd what was his reply?” asked Madam Valgerður in a low voice.
    â€œOh, it was completely useless! He smiled and said, ‘Mmhmm; first we’ll wait and see how the new markets are doing in Portugal and Sicily.’”
    â€œOh, yes, I’ve heard such answers before; Lord knows how I’ve been put to the test by Örnólfur’s eccentricities!” said Madam Valgerður.
    Both of them shook their heads and looked sadly into the distance. Grímúlfur was still sitting pensively, waiting for both his cigar to burn out and the moment when it would suit the women to get up and his mother to invite him to coffee. No more music came from the parlor. The clock in the house struck eleven.

5.
    He had greeted her as cheerfully as ever. But, truth to tell, there had been no joy in their parting. It was night; he had come to say goodbye; in the morning he was gone.
    He said he had come to speak to her, but he ended up saying nothing. All he did was ask her to play the grand piano; he would accompany her. But it hadn’t worked – neither of them was inany mood to play or sing. They couldn’t even laugh at their own awkwardness.
    She stood up and walked across the room, although on no particular errand, and he went to the piano and closed it; the curtains in the parlor were thick and shadows filled the room. She leaned up against the windowsill and watched him attend to the piano; night closed over her face.
    â€œAre you leaving tomorrow morning?” she asked, abruptly and dully.
    â€œThe ship leaves just before noon,” he said. “It’s been nothing but parties since the voyage was announced. Tonight we were supposed to have gone to yet another party, but Mother chose to come out to Þingvellir and visit Grandmother, instead of sitting up until midnight in the company of potbellied misers. I myself went to a party that started at five today – there were young poets and artists, schoolmates and a few girls, toasts and good-byes, a bit of dancing. At eight-thirty the car honked outside; there was silence in the hall, a moment’s sadness, then the shouting of good-byes: ‘Farewell, Steinn Elliði!’ said my friends. ‘Hail, ye who put to sea in your golden magical swift-sailing vessels, to search for new lands, explore new worlds, new philosophies, new mythic worlds of the living arts! And sail home again hale, arrow of southern fire, laden with holy power, the bearer of the new arts to your people in the north, Icelandic ambassador to the new dawn in the culture of a youthful Europe!’”
    She didn’t care a whit for the clever words of his friends’ farewells, and instead asked in a faraway voice:
    â€œWhy do you have to go, Steinn? You’re not going to sell fish?!”
    â€œI go because I want to go! Of course I will go, go, go! What furtherbusiness do I have among these rustics, surrounded by barbaric boors and avaricious fisherfolk in this land of plebeian wisdom, where the vanguard of culture is composed of beggars, grannies, fortune-tellers, and retired bailiffs? I’ll never be the main character in a romance