The Great Weaver From Kashmir Read Online Free
Author: Halldór Laxness
her nature, since the time she had entered this world, to look up and smile? And hadnât he composed a poem about the girl who looks up and smiles? Had she changed and become someone else?
He waited. From the beginning he had always been accustomedto her sitting and standing whenever he wanted. Wasnât she going to behave normally? He glowered at her silently.
But the longer this went on, the more difficult it became for her to look up. What did he think he could get from her when all he did was carry on with his ridiculous gladness? Why hadnât he gone to sleep? She had nothing left to say to him! Those who looked forward to leaving should leave quietly! He shouldnât expect that she would ever look at him again! She should get a lump in her throat; she should start crying, yes, start wailing and sit here all night and get a sore throat and a cold; but look at him, no, that she should never do.
Finally she jumped up and walked curtly over to the road and stopped there. She looked westward toward Ãingvellir, then started walking again after a momentâs thought, weaving her way along the path like a drunkard, slow, downcast, kicking with her toes at the gravel. All of her behavior came as a complete surprise to him. Finally he couldnât contain his resentment. He walked over to the road and called out after her, sharply and gruffly:
âDiljá!â
The voice that now tore through the still of the night and startled the girl was the old domineering, unreasonable one that had struck fear into the hearts of the other children with whom Steinn had once played. He jogged after her and caught up with her in the blink of an eye; she took one last wavering step, and then dared no more. He came up close to her, grabbed her by one arm, and tried to look into her eyes, but she bowed her head lower and lower.
âDiljá, what has become of you? You didnât act like this when we walked to Laugarnes last Sunday night! Have I offended you? Orhave you heard something about me? How am I to interpret this behavior?â
He was no longer her childhood friend and playmate; that was the one thing she noticed. He was something different and something more; she could feel so clearly that he was a man, a young man. And he was the only man she knew, the only one she wanted to know, the only one she had ever planned to get to know. And he was leaving and might never come back. She had grown up since yesterday, grown and become a woman at the thought that she might never see him again; she was a daisy sprung up overnight. It terrified her to feel his strong hand upon her arm; her whole body trembled. And she hid her face with her free hand, bowed her head and cried; the tears fell down her hand as if from the sepals when a stem bends under the weight of the dew on a flower.
âIâm so sad that youâre leaving!â she moaned in desperation.
He let go of her arm and looked at her indecisively, as if he didnât believe her. Finally he pronounced her name in a voice that blended pity and reproach.
âDiljá!â
But she continued to sob into the hollows of her hands, and the tears continued to trickle down them and fall onto the road.
âIâm in anguish,â she sobbed again. âI know that itâs terribly ugly of me to cry, Iâm sorry that I should have started to cry, but I get so sad when someone leaves; Iâm just seventeen.â
He put his arm loosely around her waist and directed her with manly confidence off the road, since otherwise she would have stood there and cried until morning. She had no further will; she just let herself be directed, crying, wherever it might be. They wound upin a brake alongside the road; he pulled the scrubby birch branches apart, but still they hooked onto her dress; he let her walk ahead. They came to a flat mossy area. He pushed more than led her, sorrowful and stooping with her scarf covering her nose and mouth, until
He waited. From the beginning he had always been accustomedto her sitting and standing whenever he wanted. Wasnât she going to behave normally? He glowered at her silently.
But the longer this went on, the more difficult it became for her to look up. What did he think he could get from her when all he did was carry on with his ridiculous gladness? Why hadnât he gone to sleep? She had nothing left to say to him! Those who looked forward to leaving should leave quietly! He shouldnât expect that she would ever look at him again! She should get a lump in her throat; she should start crying, yes, start wailing and sit here all night and get a sore throat and a cold; but look at him, no, that she should never do.
Finally she jumped up and walked curtly over to the road and stopped there. She looked westward toward Ãingvellir, then started walking again after a momentâs thought, weaving her way along the path like a drunkard, slow, downcast, kicking with her toes at the gravel. All of her behavior came as a complete surprise to him. Finally he couldnât contain his resentment. He walked over to the road and called out after her, sharply and gruffly:
âDiljá!â
The voice that now tore through the still of the night and startled the girl was the old domineering, unreasonable one that had struck fear into the hearts of the other children with whom Steinn had once played. He jogged after her and caught up with her in the blink of an eye; she took one last wavering step, and then dared no more. He came up close to her, grabbed her by one arm, and tried to look into her eyes, but she bowed her head lower and lower.
âDiljá, what has become of you? You didnât act like this when we walked to Laugarnes last Sunday night! Have I offended you? Orhave you heard something about me? How am I to interpret this behavior?â
He was no longer her childhood friend and playmate; that was the one thing she noticed. He was something different and something more; she could feel so clearly that he was a man, a young man. And he was the only man she knew, the only one she wanted to know, the only one she had ever planned to get to know. And he was leaving and might never come back. She had grown up since yesterday, grown and become a woman at the thought that she might never see him again; she was a daisy sprung up overnight. It terrified her to feel his strong hand upon her arm; her whole body trembled. And she hid her face with her free hand, bowed her head and cried; the tears fell down her hand as if from the sepals when a stem bends under the weight of the dew on a flower.
âIâm so sad that youâre leaving!â she moaned in desperation.
He let go of her arm and looked at her indecisively, as if he didnât believe her. Finally he pronounced her name in a voice that blended pity and reproach.
âDiljá!â
But she continued to sob into the hollows of her hands, and the tears continued to trickle down them and fall onto the road.
âIâm in anguish,â she sobbed again. âI know that itâs terribly ugly of me to cry, Iâm sorry that I should have started to cry, but I get so sad when someone leaves; Iâm just seventeen.â
He put his arm loosely around her waist and directed her with manly confidence off the road, since otherwise she would have stood there and cried until morning. She had no further will; she just let herself be directed, crying, wherever it might be. They wound upin a brake alongside the road; he pulled the scrubby birch branches apart, but still they hooked onto her dress; he let her walk ahead. They came to a flat mossy area. He pushed more than led her, sorrowful and stooping with her scarf covering her nose and mouth, until
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