Free World Light by Halldór Laxness

suddenly he realized what it was she smelled of—it was verdigris. But when she tried to raise him up and give him a drink of cold water, he began to see terrible faces in front of him: savage dogs, bloodshot eyes, fangs. They were going to tear him to pieces and kill him. Then they tore him to pieces and killed him.
    He came round like that, time and again, and lost consciousness at once. At last he managed to remember who he was and where he was: the farm was Fótur-undir-Fótarfæti, the loft was such-and-such a size, Magnína was Magnína, and so on. In short, this was the world. But unfortunately he had once again forgotten what it was she smelled of.
    If the pains in his head ever happened to ease for a spell, it was only to give place to other ailments in his body—a stitch in his side, gripes, pains in the back; he never had a moment of well-being. But the womenfolk on the whole did their best for him, and Magnína once even gave him hot scones. The two men in command, Jónas and Júst, left him in peace for most of the time, because he would be dying soon anyway. Instead of having to toil for eighteen hours a day, he now lay brooding over the cross he had to bear. Whenever the pains gave him any respite, he tried to compose a poem or some verses, mostly of a religious nature, but sometimes in the style of the old ditties that everyone knew. Otherwise he just lay there, the very embodiment of human helplessness, and stared up at the sloping ceiling.
    But as the autumn passed, people’s respect for his afflictions began to dwindle; their Christian attitude gradually gave way to talk of “the parish” in his presence. He was given to understand that the parish council at Sviðinsvík had been informed that he had taken to his bed and that they would have to start paying maintenance for him.
    During those dreary autumn days when the only prospect facing the crossbearer was to be on the parish for life, he found consolation in remembering Guðrún of Grænhóll in the green glory of spring, standing like a vision beside a broad, calm river, with the top button of her cardigan undone; and he was determined to compose a poem about her so that the unborn generations should never forget her. He searched for a model in all the poetry he knew, and tried out various different verse forms, but thought her too exalted for any of them, either psalms or ballads. In the end he came to the conclusion that she belonged in folktales; and when he at last discovered this, he was able to compose something in a style worthy of her, and he scrawled his poem on a scrap of paper that evening.
    An evening rare beyond compare,

The river glistened;

And standing there a maiden fair,

Her dress at the top unfastened.

Let mine be thine, and live with me forever;

Mankind’s sorrows will afflict thee never.

Her fresh young gaze and winsome ways

Charmed each meeting;

With kindly phrase to him she pays

A tender greeting.

Let mine be thine, and live with me forever;

Mankind’s sorrows shall afflict thee never.

Her shining eyes and fond replies

Will leave him never,

Until he dies and buried lies

Alone forever.

Let mine be thine, and live with me forever;

Mankind’s sorrows shall afflict thee never.
     
    Next day he could not find the poem anywhere, even though he was sure he had put it under his pillow the night before. But when the younger members of the family were eating their breakfast in the loft, through the bedclothes he sensed from their conversation that some grave misfortune had befallen the house.
    “Yes, they’re a charming lot, these wretches who lie groaning in their beds at the expense of impoverished far-off parishes. And I’d be extremely interested to learn who the wench was in this valley who’s supposed to have unbuttoned her dress in front of him.”
    “If you ask me, Jónas, I think that all smut and lecherous talk is beneath me and therefore no concern of mine,” said Magnína. “I think the most