The comely middle-aged dame, who speaks a few words of English, has no children except those whom, after popular Icelandic fashion, she has adopted. An aged Cinderella, a bundle of waste dry-goods, hardly human, haunts the kitchen, whilst Christiana, an artificial daughter of the house, is the Kellnerin. She is a good-looking lass with the fresh complexion and the blond cendré hair, one of Iceland’s charms, which are here the rule; her dress is fine Wadmal of dark colour; and her large feet, which terminate solid supporters, are encased in the island slippers, giving a peculiarly lumping tread: a bright plaid apron and a grey woollen shawl for visiting, complete her toilette. She never knocks at the door and she slams it with a hideous noise—the neat-handed Phyllis and the light fantastic toe have not yet come so far north. When serving us she ejaculates mechanically “Værsgu,” the Danish “Vær saa god”—be so kind—extensively used throughout Scandinavia, and now imported into Iceland. Mightily dull of apprehension she appears, especially after the sharp-witted Syrians, and the dialogue with us Anglo-Indians is frequently as follows:
“Here you, Kitty, heitt vatn.... Why, you don’t know your own language! Water hot!”
Answer passive and stolid: “Hvað?”
“Oh what a girl you are! Samajtá? You almost deserve to have a vote. I say, ‘water hot!’”
“Hvað segið” (what say ye)?
“Will you have a drink, Kitty? Where’s mamma? Hot water, I tell you.”
“Hvað segið thèr” (what do you say)?
And so forth, ad infinitum. Yet in Iceland Jomfru (Icel. Jungfrú) Christiana is the gem of a waiteress, and in her leisure moments she will act bacheliere ès lettres—in fact, she readily adapts herself to our little bachelor ways.
Frú Jonassen agrees to lodge and find us in “small breakfast” or early coffee, and big breakfast at ten A.M., for $1, 3m. 0sk. (say 3s. 5d.) per diem, and for an equally reasonable sum to house our spare goods when travelling. “Washing is of course cheap where there are so many feminine spare hands.[374] The tea is vile, having been drunk at least once. Water is almost throughout Iceland excellent, cold, clear, and slightly flavoured with iron, like the sparkling produce of the Haurán and other basaltic lands. Coffee and brennivín (schnapps) may be called the national drink, and the people pride themselves upon the former: after our senna-like potions farther south it is admirable, but it must not be compared with that of the nearer East. The bean is never good, even England cannot afford the true Mocha monopolised by the United States: still it is never stinted,[375] and it lacks the odious chicorée so popular across the Channel. It is burnt black instead of brown as in Arabia; it is milled in lieu of being pounded, and the brew is made in a venerable flannel strainer-bag placed where the kettle’s lid should be. The consumption is even more extensive than in Germany: large cups and sometimes bowls are served strong and hot several times a day, and are always offered to the stranger guest. Some find fault with the excess, but they forget that coffee prevents waste of tissue, and that a heating drink is necessary in cold, damp climates where the diet is poor. The sugar is white loaf, and the cream thick as curds, we never see such luxury in England; sheep’s milk is kept for cheese, and Reykjavik ignores the national Skýr.
At seven A.M. we have café au lait, rusks, white bread and brown, or rye loaf, which we all prefer. Breakfast is substantial as in northern Scotland. The staple is fish, notably cod, boiled or grilled, but all poor, small, and watery: a “head and shoulders” equal in size or flavour to those of our own country is rare as the Spatium admirabile rhombi farther south. “Tout ce qui vous plait—mais pas de poisson” is the frame of mind which soon follows pure ichthyophagy. Meat is always mutton, the liver and kidneys being apparently preferred; “Carnero no es carne,” says the Gaucho, and at last we sigh for the Murghí (fowl) at which the Anglo-Indian turns up his sybaritical nose. Hens’ eggs are equally uncommon; those of the eider-duck, boiled hard, are rarely wanting at this season. They are about as large as turkeys’, with dirty-green shells, and very white albumen; the stranger enjoys them at first, but, like the Pallo fish of Sind and the “palm-oil chop” of Guinea, they are too rich; they pall upon the palate, and they are pronounced to be rancid and gluants; besides which they are rarely quite fresh, the one virtue of an egg. Potatoes are not always to be had; those grown in the island are waxy and taste like soap; the best are imported from Denmark and even these cannot be praised.