small, actually.”
“Where are you going now, if I may ask?”
“I’m on my way to the Vestmannaeyjar. The people there used to be the worst rogues in Iceland, but now they are the best of the lot. The Latter-Day Saints are given sanctuary there.”
“Did you get hold of the king?” asked Steinar.
“What business is that of yours? Who are you?”
“My name is Steinar Steinsson, from Steinahlíðar. I am the man who was looking for a spot to bed down at Þingvellir the other night.”
“My goodness, hallo there, friend!” said the Mormon, and kissed him. “I had a vague feeling I recognized you. Thanks for the last time. No, I did not meet the king—the Icelanders saw to that, all right. But he sent me his greetings, and said that Joseph Smith was certainly not banned in the Danish kingdom.”
“Are you getting your pamphlets back?” asked Steinar.
“Not from the Icelanders,” said the Mormon. “But one of those gold-braided Danes put my case to the king, who is a decent German. He came back and said that I could have all my stuff back if I cared to go to Copenhagen for it. That’s the Germans all over. And if the Danes have lost them, the king promised that I could have as many pamphlets printed in Copenhagen as I wanted and then take them to Iceland and give them away or sell them just as I wished—it had been unlawful of the Icelanders to take them off me in the first place. I knew that already, for that matter; and also that the Icelanders were a much more insignificant race than the Danes—although the Germans, of course, are much better than both.”
“You are perhaps on your way to Copenhagen now to have the new pamphlets printed?” asked Steinar.
“Books don’t make themselves, my friend,” said the Mormon. “The printing isn’t the whole of it, by any means. It’s a fearful prospect for an uneducated farmhand from the Landeyjar (Land-Isles) to have to start composing books to convert a nation like the Icelanders. The only consolation is that the Lord is Almighty.”
“Indeed He is,” said Steinar of Hlíðar. “And perhaps we are still in time for the second benediction even though it is on the late side now.”
“I have already tried to go to church once today, and I am not trying again,” said the Mormon. “It is unnecessary to get oneself thrown out of chapels like these more than once a day. You go yourself, brother. And give my regards to God. What we humans have to put up with from God is as nothing to what God has to put up with from humans in this country.”
“Farewell then, friend, and may God be with you,” said Steinar of Hlíðar.
But when the Mormon had gone a little way across the field he turned towards Steinar again; he had forgotten to thank him. Steinar had not yet gone into the church, but was picking his way carefully through the dogs at the lich-gate.
“Thanks for setting me free!” shouted the Mormon.
“Hold on a minute,” said Steinar. “I forgot something.”
He picked up his saddle and hoisted it on his back, then walked across the field to the Mormon again. “I think it is rather too late to go to church in any case,” he said. “Perhaps we can keep each other company for a step or two.”
“Hallo again,” said the Mormon.
They walked away from the church together. When they reached the edge of the field the Mormon leaned down and pulled his hat out of a niche in the wall; it was carefully wrapped in grease-proof paper as before. There was also a bundle nearby containing the Mormon’s change of underclothing. He smoothed his hair into place with his hand and placed the hat neatly on his head in the sunshine.
“I forgot to ask you your name,” said Steinar.
“So you did,” said the Mormon. “My name is Bishop Þjóðrekur.”
“Well I never,” said Steinar. “That’s quite a thought. As I was going to say: that’s a great country you come from.”
“Isn’t that just what I was telling you? What of it?”
“I
“Where are you going now, if I may ask?”
“I’m on my way to the Vestmannaeyjar. The people there used to be the worst rogues in Iceland, but now they are the best of the lot. The Latter-Day Saints are given sanctuary there.”
“Did you get hold of the king?” asked Steinar.
“What business is that of yours? Who are you?”
“My name is Steinar Steinsson, from Steinahlíðar. I am the man who was looking for a spot to bed down at Þingvellir the other night.”
“My goodness, hallo there, friend!” said the Mormon, and kissed him. “I had a vague feeling I recognized you. Thanks for the last time. No, I did not meet the king—the Icelanders saw to that, all right. But he sent me his greetings, and said that Joseph Smith was certainly not banned in the Danish kingdom.”
“Are you getting your pamphlets back?” asked Steinar.
“Not from the Icelanders,” said the Mormon. “But one of those gold-braided Danes put my case to the king, who is a decent German. He came back and said that I could have all my stuff back if I cared to go to Copenhagen for it. That’s the Germans all over. And if the Danes have lost them, the king promised that I could have as many pamphlets printed in Copenhagen as I wanted and then take them to Iceland and give them away or sell them just as I wished—it had been unlawful of the Icelanders to take them off me in the first place. I knew that already, for that matter; and also that the Icelanders were a much more insignificant race than the Danes—although the Germans, of course, are much better than both.”
“You are perhaps on your way to Copenhagen now to have the new pamphlets printed?” asked Steinar.
“Books don’t make themselves, my friend,” said the Mormon. “The printing isn’t the whole of it, by any means. It’s a fearful prospect for an uneducated farmhand from the Landeyjar (Land-Isles) to have to start composing books to convert a nation like the Icelanders. The only consolation is that the Lord is Almighty.”
“Indeed He is,” said Steinar of Hlíðar. “And perhaps we are still in time for the second benediction even though it is on the late side now.”
“I have already tried to go to church once today, and I am not trying again,” said the Mormon. “It is unnecessary to get oneself thrown out of chapels like these more than once a day. You go yourself, brother. And give my regards to God. What we humans have to put up with from God is as nothing to what God has to put up with from humans in this country.”
“Farewell then, friend, and may God be with you,” said Steinar of Hlíðar.
But when the Mormon had gone a little way across the field he turned towards Steinar again; he had forgotten to thank him. Steinar had not yet gone into the church, but was picking his way carefully through the dogs at the lich-gate.
“Thanks for setting me free!” shouted the Mormon.
“Hold on a minute,” said Steinar. “I forgot something.”
He picked up his saddle and hoisted it on his back, then walked across the field to the Mormon again. “I think it is rather too late to go to church in any case,” he said. “Perhaps we can keep each other company for a step or two.”
“Hallo again,” said the Mormon.
They walked away from the church together. When they reached the edge of the field the Mormon leaned down and pulled his hat out of a niche in the wall; it was carefully wrapped in grease-proof paper as before. There was also a bundle nearby containing the Mormon’s change of underclothing. He smoothed his hair into place with his hand and placed the hat neatly on his head in the sunshine.
“I forgot to ask you your name,” said Steinar.
“So you did,” said the Mormon. “My name is Bishop Þjóðrekur.”
“Well I never,” said Steinar. “That’s quite a thought. As I was going to say: that’s a great country you come from.”
“Isn’t that just what I was telling you? What of it?”
“I
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