After this little experience of life, man will be careful how far he allows local custom to modify his comfort and his convenience.
CHAPTER V.
VISITS—CONVIVIALITIES—THE CATHOLIC VIEW OF THE “REFORMATION”—SURTAR-BRAND—THE HOME-RULE PARTY.
The Reykjavikers may be distributed into four classes: the official, ecclesiastic, and civil; the merchants; the fishing-class; and the paupers. The visiting hour begins with noon. You open the outer door of the diminutive hall and rap at either side-entrance: but generally the left, otherwise the gynæceum may be sorely disturbed. The rapping possibly lasts for five minutes; the servant hears you or not, and if she condescends to open she usually stares, backs, and leaves you on the threshold. This class in Iceland appears to me the worst in the world—practical communists with the rude equality of the negro, worse even than the Irish help in the United States, or the servitor at Trieste, where the men are either louts or rogues, and the women are cheats, bacchanalians, or something worse. The domestic agrees to live with his employer for a certain sum, finds little to do, will do nothing but drink and be dissolute, refers frequently to the contract, tells the master, with true northern candour, to serve himself, and finally retires to the house of his brother’s wife’s third cousin. So the Greenlander gives warning by “Kasuonga” (I am tired of you). Throughout the country it appears a dishonour to do household work. Most of the farms, even when in debt, have some article of the kind, but generally it is an aged and feminine body, perhaps connected with the family and liable to starve when turned off.
On the other hand, if after knocking you enter, there is probably a startled rise and rustle of petticoats, like a flushed covey of partridges, the home-toilette, as in the nearer “East,” being the one all-sufficient cause. At this season well-to-do Reykjavikers rise at eight A.M.; breakfast substantially at nine or ten, and sally forth after noon to walk, ride, or call upon friends. The islanders dine at two P.M.; the Danes at four, and sometimes, when parties are given, at five—already an approach to civilised hours. A supper, mostly cold like the breakfast, is taken at eight P.M.; and thus, as in the homely parts of Austria and Italy, the evening visit is impossible. There is no better contrivance for cutting up society.
As on the Continent of Europe, the stranger makes the first call, and of course he begins with the governor. H. E. Hilmar Finsen, despite his Danised name, Finsen for Finnsson, is an Icelander of old and well-known stock, and he worthily keeps up the hospitalities of the late Count Trampe, whom so many English travellers have cause to remember with the liveliest gratitude. The family is a little hurt by the Napoleon book, which gives (p. 160) the genealogy of Vilhjalmr Finsen, in 1857 “magistratus” (mayor) “Reykjavicæ,” through Adam, Noah, Saturn, Jupiter, Priam, and “Odinn, rex Asarum.” The table was sent to the prince as a specimen of an Icelandic tree, and French sense of humour could not let pass the opportunity of taking it au sérieux and printing it in extenso. After all there is a fine Old World flavour in it: so a Greek eupatrid found in his genealogy, either paternal or maternal, all his country’s gods both of Olympus and of the other place. Governor Finsen’s great-great-grandfather was the celebrated Bishop of Skálholt (1754) and editor of the Landnámabók, Finn Jónsson, who loved to latinise himself into Finnus Johannæus; his “Historia Ecclesiastica Islandiæ,” though much decried by Catholics, continues to be a standard work. The portrait of this worthy, in ruff and gown, is found everywhere; and the fine oval face, straight features, and serene blue eyes have not left the family.[382] His son Hannes Finsson was the last Bishop of Skálholt, when shortly before 1800, Danes, for motives of economy, fused together the two sees, in the person of Geir Vidalin, first primate of Iceland. About this time the patronymic began to be exchanged for the family name; the son of Bishop Finsson was called Ólafr (Olave) Finsson, and, he being a Danish official, a judge in Jutland who never saw Iceland, Finsson became Finsen.
The present governor’s title, Stiftamtmand (Icel. Stiptamtmaðr), has been lately changed to Landshöfðingsi (Danish), a higher grade without extra rank or salary; and the mayor (Bæarfógeti) has similarly been advanced to Landsskrifari, or official secretary. Hr Finsen is a civilian—admirals and naval officers are no longer the privileged ruling caste, and Iceland has gained by the loss. He speaks French, but prefers Danish; whilst his very young looking wife, whose six stalwart boys and girls suggest brothers and sisters, knows only her native tongue. We talked of the mysterious volcano in the depths of the Vatnajökull, whose flames were first seen about the end of August 1867: he advised me strongly to attempt the south-eastern corner of the island viâ Berufjörð; Professor Gunnlaugsson did the same, and the only dissentient voice was Hr Procurator Jón Guðmundsson. The governor was, I shall show, right.
The second call should be paid to Bishop Pèter Pètursson, who is also agent for the Bible Society.[383] This dignitary was most obliging in giving me information, and he presented me with a copy of his work, alluded to in the Introduction. He was then (1841) licentiate of theology, “toparchiæ Snæfellensis et Hnappadalensis Præpositus” and “Pastor Stadastadensis.” I asked him why he did not bring it up to the present day, and he replied, with excellent sense, that to write contemporary annals is a hard task; and that De vivis nil nisi bonum, though a fine Christian precept, is a prescription for composing history of very dubious value.
The approaching departure of “Le Cher,” and the presence of a Danish cruiser, and the mail-steamer, officered by the Royal Navy, caused an unusual outburst of hospitality. The first dinner where I “met the surly Dane,” and found him an uncommonly good fellow, was at the house of the good M. Randrŭp, Consul de France, a Continental, whose devotion to the interests of his native country has considerably “exercised” the political section of the islandry. I cannot refrain from expressing my gratitude to this gentleman and his family; he was ever ready to assist me and, indeed, all travellers; whilst madame and mademoiselle made visits peculiarly pleasant. A Danish house is always known by pictures and engravings of Copenhagen and other home scenes, in addition to family photos and loyal portraits of King Christian IX. and his queen; of King Frederick VII., who travelled in Iceland and left there the best of names; of the Prince of Wales and the Princess Alexandra, who has warmed every heart; and, perhaps, of the battle of “Schleswig-Holstein meer-umschlungen.” One enjoys even the artificial presence of trees, which look like the portentous growths of the Brazil or Central Africa, after the stunted vegetation in and around Reykjavik. The Icelanders sing or are supposed to sing:
“From the midst of Copenhagen’s smoke,
We all yearn for home;
Long, dearest, again to behold thee.
The noisy din irks us;
Revelry tempts us in vain;
And the fool grins contemptuously at us
In the streets of Copenhagen.”