by Jules Verne
I had scarcely finished this reasoning when we left Reykjavik behind.
Hans moved on steadily, keeping ahead of us at an even, smooth, and rapid pace. The two pack horses followed him without needing any directions. Then came my uncle and myself, looking not too bad on our small but hardy animals.
Iceland is one of the largest islands in Europe. Its surface is 14,000 square miles, and it has only 60,000 inhabitants. Geographers have divided it into four quarters, and we were traveling almost diagonally across the south-west quarter, called the ‘Sudvestr Fjordùngr.’
On leaving Reykjavik Hans took us along the seashore. We crossed lean pastures trying very hard to look green; they succeeded better at yellow. The rugged peaks of the trachytic rocks blurred in the mists on the eastern horizon; at times a few patches of snow, attracting the vague light, glittered on the slopes of the distant mountains; certain peaks, rising up boldly, pierced the grey clouds, and reappeared above the moving mists, like reefs emerging in the sky.
Often these chains of barren rocks reached all the way to the sea, and encroached on the pasture: but there was always enough room to pass. Besides, our horses instinctively chose the proper places without ever slackening their pace. My uncle did not even have the satisfaction of stirring on his beast with voice or whip. He had no reason to be impatient. I could not help smiling to see so tall a man on so small a horse, and as his long legs nearly touched the ground he looked like a six-legged centaur.
“Good animal! good animal!” he kept saying. “You’ll see, Axel, that there is no more intelligent animal than the Icelandic horse. Snow, storm, impassable roads, rocks, glaciers, nothing stops it. It’s courageous, sober, and reliable. Never a false step, never an adverse reaction. If there is a river or fjord to cross—and we’ll encounter them—you’ll see it plunge in at once, just as if it were amphibious, and reach the opposite bank. But let’s not interfere with it, let’s let it have its way, and we’ll cover ten miles a day, one carrying the other.”
“Undoubtedly we might,” I answered, “but how about our guide?”
“Oh, never mind him. People like him walk without even being aware of it. This one moves so little that he’ll never get tired. Besides, if necessary, I’ll let him have my horse. I’ll soon get cramped if I don’t move a little. The arms are all right, but I have to think of the legs.”
We advanced at a rapid pace. The country was already almost a desert. Here and there an isolated farm, a solitary boërag made of wood, mud, or pieces of lava, appeared like a poor beggar by the way-side. These run-down huts seemed to solicit charity from passersby, and one was almost tempted to give them alms. In this country there were not even roads or paths, and the vegetation, however slow, quickly effaced the rare travelers’ footsteps.
Yet this part of the province, at a short distance from the capital, is considered to be among the inhabited and cultivated portions of Iceland. What, then, must other areas look like, more desolate than this desert? In the first half mile we had not yet seen even one farmer standing at his cabin door, nor one shepherd tending a flock less wild than himself, nothing but a few cows and sheep left to themselves. What would the regions look like that were convulsed, turned upside down by eruptive phenomena, sprung from volcanic explosions and subterranean movements?
We would get to know them before long, but when I consulted Olsen’s map, I saw that we avoided them by following the sinuous edge of the shore. Indeed, the great underground movement is confined to the central portion of the island; there, horizontal layers of superimposed rocks called ‘trapps’ in Scandinavian, trachytic strips, eruptions of basalt, tuff and all the volcanic mixtures, streams of lava and molten porphyry have created a land of supernatural horror. I had no idea yet of the spectacle which was awaiting us on the Snaefells peninsula, where these residues of a fiery nature create a frightful chaos.
Two hours after leaving Reykjavik we arrived at the town of Gufunes, called ‘aoalkirkja,’ or principal church. There was nothing remarkable here. Just a few houses. Scarcely enough for a hamlet in Germany.
Hans stopped here for half an hour. He shared our frugal breakfast, answered my uncle’s questions about the road with yes and no, and when he was asked where he planned for us to spend the night, he only said, “Gardär.”
I consulted the map to see where Gardär was. I saw a small town of that name on the banks of the Hvalfjord, four miles from Reykjavik. I showed it to my uncle.
“Only four miles!” he said. “Four miles out of twenty-two! Now that’s a pretty stroll!”
He was about to make an observation to the guide, who without answering resumed his place in front of the horses, and started to walk.
Three hours later, still treading on the discolored grass of the pastures, we had to work around the Kollafjord, an easier and shorter route than crossing it. We soon entered into a ‘pingstaœr’ or communal gathering place called Ejulberg, from whose steeple twelve o’clock would have struck, if Icelandic churches were rich enough to possess clocks; but they are like the parishioners, who have no watches and do without.
There our horses were fed; then they took a narrow path between a chain of hills and the sea and carried us directly to the aolkirkja of Brantar and one mile farther on, to Saurboër ‘Annexia,’ a church annex on the south shore of the Hvalfjord.
It was now four o’clock, and we had gone four miles.ah
In that place the fjord was at least half a mile wide; the waves broke noisily on the pointed rocks; this bay opened out between walls of rock, a sort of sharp-edged precipice 3,000 feet high, and remarkable for the brown layers which separated beds of reddish tuff. Whatever the intelligence of our horses might be, I hardly cared to put it to the test by crossing a real estuary on the back of quadruped.
If they’re intelligent, I thought, they won’t try to cross. In any case, I’ll be intelligent in their stead.”
But my uncle did not want to wait. He spurred his horse on to the shore. His mount sniffed at the waves and stopped. My uncle, who had an instinct of his own, applied more pressure. Renewed refusal by the animal, which shook its head. Then, cussing, and a lashing of the whip; but kicks from the animal, who began to throw off his rider. At last the little horse, bending his knees, crawled out from under the professor’s legs, and simply left him standing on two boulders on the shore, like the Colossus of Rhodes.ai
“Ah! Damned brute!” exclaimed the horseman suddenly turned pedestrian, as ashamed as a cavalry officer demoted to foot soldier.
“Färja,” said the guide, touching his shoulder.
“What! a boat?”
“Der,” replied Hans, pointing to a boat.
“Yes,” I exclaimed; “there’s a boat.”
“Why didn’t you say so? Let’s go!”
“Tidvatten,” said the guide.
“What’s he saying?”
“He says tide,” replied my uncle, translating the Danish word.
“No doubt we must wait for the tide?”
“Förbida?” asked my uncle.
“Ja,” replied Hans.
My uncle stamped his foot, while the horses walked toward the boat.
I perfectly understood the necessity to wait for a particular moment of the tide to undertake the crossing of the fjord, when the sea has reached its greatest height and there is no current. Then the ebb and flow have no perceptible effect, and the boat does not risk being carried either to the bottom or out to sea.
The little horse, bending his knees, crawled out from under the professor’s legs.
That favorable moment arrived only at six o’clock; my uncle, myself, the guide, two ferrymen and the four horses had embarked on a somewhat fragile sort of raft. Accustomed as I was to the steamships on the Elbe, I found the oars of the rowers rather a dismal mechanical device. It took us more than an hour to cross the fjord; but the passage concluded without any mishap. A half hour later, we reached the aolkirkja of Gardär.
XIII
IT SHOULD HAV
E BEEN dark, but at the 65th parallel there was nothing surprising about the nocturnal light of the polar regions. In Iceland, during the months of June and July, the sun does not set.
Nevertheless the temperature had gone down. I was cold and above all hungry. Welcome was the “boër” that was hospitably opened to receive us.
It was a peasant’s house, but in hospitality it was equal to a king’s. On our arrival the master greeted us with outstretched hands, and without ceremony he signaled to us to follow him.
Follow him, indeed, for accompanying him would have been impossible. A long, narrow, dark hallway led into this house made of roughly squared timbers, and gave access to each of the rooms; those were four in number: the kitchen, the weaving room, the ‘badstofa’ or family bedroom, and the guest bedroom, which was the best of all. My uncle, whose height had not been thought of in building the house, could not avoid hitting his head several times against the beams that projected from the ceilings.
We were led to our bedroom, a large room with an earthen floor, and a window whose panes were made of rather opaque sheep skins. The sleeping accommodation consisted of dry litter, thrown into two wooden frames that were painted red, and decorated with Icelandic proverbs. I did not expect much comfort; but the house was pervaded by a strong smell of dried fish, marinated meat, and sour milk, which caused quite a bit of suffering for my nose.
When we had taken off our traveling clothes, the voice of the host could be heard inviting us to the kitchen, the only room where a fire was lit even in the severest cold.
My uncle hurried to obey the friendly call. I followed him.
The kitchen chimney was of an ancient design: in the middle of the room, a stone for a hearth; in the roof above it, a hole to let the smoke escape. The kitchen also served as dining-room.
When we entered, the host, as if he had not seen us before, greeted us with the word “Sællvertu,” which means “be happy,” and came and kissed us on the cheek.
After him his wife pronounced the same words, accompanied by the same ritual; then the two placed their hands on their hearts and bowed deeply.
I hasten to mention that this Icelandic woman was the mother of nineteen children, all of them, big and small, swarming in the midst of the dense wreaths of smoke with which the fire on the hearth filled the room. Every moment I noticed a blond and somewhat melancholy face peeping out of this fog. They seemed like a garland of unwashed angels.
My uncle and I treated this ‘brood’ kindly; and soon we each had three or four of these brats on our shoulders, as many on our laps, and the rest between our knees. Those who could speak kept repeating “Sællvertu.” in every conceivable tone. Those who could not speak made up for it with crying.
This concert was brought to a close by the announcement of the meal. At that moment our hunter returned, who had just fed the horses, that is to say, he had economically let them loose in the fields; the poor beasts had to content themselves with grazing on the scanty moss on the rocks and some seaweeds that offered little nourishment, and yet the next day they would not fail to come back by themselves and resume the labors of the previous day.
“Sællvertu,” said Hans.
Then calmly, automatically, he kissed the host, the hostess, and their nineteen children, without giving one kiss more emphasis than the next.
This ceremony over, we sat down at the table, twenty-four in number, and therefore one on top of the other, in the most literal sense of the phrase. The luckiest had only two urchins on their knees.
But silence fell in this little world with the arrival of the soup, and the taciturnity that comes naturally even to Icelandic children imposed itself once again. The host served us a lichen soup that was not at all unpleasant, then an enormous serving of dried fish that was floating in butter aged for twenty years, and therefore much preferable to fresh butter, according to Icelandic concepts of gastronomy. Along with this, we had ‘skye,’ a sort of soured milk, with biscuits, and a liquid prepared from juniper berries; for beverage we had a thin milk mixed with water, called in this country ‘blanda.’ It is not for me to judge whether this peculiar diet is wholesome or not; I was hungry, and at dessert I swallowed down to the last mouthful of a thick buckwheat broth.
After the meal, the children disappeared; the adults gathered round the hearth which burned peat, briars, cow-dung, and dried fish bones. After this “warm-up,” the different groups retired to their respective rooms. Our hostess offered us her assistance in taking off our stockings and pants, according to custom; but as we most gracefully declined, she did not insist, and I was able at last to sink into my bed of hay.
At five the next morning we bade the Icelandic peasant farewell; my uncle had great difficulty persuading him to accept a proper remuneration; and Hans gave the signal for departure.
At a hundred yards from Gardär the soil began to change in appearance; it became swampy and less suitable for walking. On our right, the chain of mountains extended indefinitely like an immense system of natural fortifications, whose counterscarp we followed: often we encountered streams that we had to cross with great care and without getting our luggage too wet.
The desert became more and more desolate; yet from time to time a human shadow seemed to flee in the distance; when a turn in the road unexpectedly brought us close to one of these ghosts, I felt a sudden disgust at the sight of a swollen head with shining and hairless skin, and repulsive sores visible through the rips in the miserable rags.
The unhappy creature did not approach us and offer his misshapen hand; he fled, on the contrary, but not before Hans had greeted him with the customary “Sællvertu.”
“Spetelsk,” he said.
“A leper!” my uncle repeated.
This word itself had a repulsive effect. The horrible disease of leprosy is fairly common in Iceland; it is not contagious, but hereditary; therefore lepers are forbidden to marry.
These apparitions could not cheer up a landscape that was becoming deeply melancholy. The last tufts of grass had died beneath our feet. Not a tree in sight, unless we except a few tufts of dwarf birch resembling brushwood. Not an animal in sight, except a few horses wandering on the bleak plains, of those whom their master could not feed. Sometimes a hawk glided through the grey clouds, and then darted quickly to the south; I lapsed into the melancholy of this wild nature, and my memories took me back to my home country.
Soon we had to cross several small and insignificant fjords, and at last a genuine bay; the high tide allowed us to cross over without delay, and to reach the hamlet of Alftanes, one mile beyond.
That evening, after having crossed two rivers full of trout and pike, called Alfa and Heta,aj we had to spend the night in an abandoned farmhouse worthy of being haunted by all the elves of Scandinavian mythology. The ghost of cold had certainly taken up residence there, and showed us his powers all night long.
No particular event marked the next day. Still the same swampy soil, the same monotony, the same melancholy appearance. By nightfall we had completed half our journey, and we spent the night at the “church annex” of Krösolbt.
On June 19, lava spread beneath our feet for about a mile; this type of soil is called ‘hraun’ in that country; the wrinkled lava at the surface was shaped like cables, sometimes stretched out, sometimes curled up; an immense stream descended from the nearest mountains, now extinct volcanoes whose past violence was attested by these residues. Yet curls of steam crept along from hot springs here and there.
We had no time to watch these phenomena; we had to proceed on our way. Soon the swampy soil reappeared at the foot of the mountains, intersected by little lakes. Our route now lay westward; we had in fact traveled around the great Bay of Faxa, and the twin peaks of Snaefells rose white into the clouds, less than five miles away.
The horses did their duty well; the difficulties of the soil did not stop them. I myself was getting very tired; my uncle remained as firm and straight as on the first day; I could not help admiring him as
much as the hunter, who considered this expedition a simple stroll.
On Saturday, June 20, at six o’clock in the evening, we reached Büdir, a village on the sea shore, and the guide claimed his agreed-upon wages. My uncle settled with him. It was Hans’ own family, that is, his uncles and cousins, who offered us hospitality; we were kindly received, and without abusing the kindness of these good folks, I would very much have liked to recover from the exhaustion of the journey at their house. But my uncle, who needed no recovery, would not hear of it, and the next morning we had to mount our brave beasts again.
The soil betrayed the closeness of the mountain, whose granite foundations rose up from the earth like the roots of an ancient oak tree. We traveled around the enormous base of the volcano. The professor hardly took his eyes off it; he gesticulated, he seemed to challenge it and say: “Here’s the giant that I’ll tame!” Finally, after about four hours’ walking, the horses stopped of their own accord at the door of the parsonage at Stapi.
XIV
STAPI IS A VILLAGE consisting of about thirty huts, built right on the lava in the sunlight reflected by the volcano. It extends along the back of a small fjord, enclosed by a basaltic wall of the strangest appearance.
It is known that basalt is a brownish rock of igneous origin. It assumes regular forms, the arrangement of which is often very surprising. Here nature does her work geometrically, with square and compass and plummet. Everywhere else her art consists of huge masses together thrown together without order, its cones barely sketched, its pyramids imperfectly formed, with a bizarre arrangement of lines; but here, as if to exhibit an example of regularity, in advance of the earliest architects, she has created a strict order, never surpassed either by the splendors of Babylon or the wonders of Greece.
I had heard of the Giant’s Causeway in Ireland, and Fingal’s Cave in Staffa, one of the Hebrides; but I had never yet laid eyes on a basaltic formation.