The Danes slily remark that a good appointment and the easy temptation of rixdollars greatly modify all this athumia and nostalgia; and there is much truth in what the Napoleon book says, “Chose étonnante! il n’y a pas de patriote islandais, lorsqu’il est de retour dans son pays, ne caresse l’idée de s’en aller vivre dans un pays à végétation sérieuse” (p. 157). In a certain stage of civilisation, there is no place like home; about the end of the last century we find Ireland, that “mild and sedimentary Iceland,” styled the “kingdom of the zephyrs,” and grandiloquently described as a “country particularly dignified by the magnificent hand of Nature, whose liberality has denied it nothing that is necessary to constitute a great and happy nation.” A fallacy lurks in the well-worn quotation:
“So the wild torrent and the whirlwind’s roar
But bind him to his native mountains more.”
The Switzer readily leaves his mère patrie, but ever cherishes the hope of returning, a wealthy man, to lay his bones in the place which gave him birth. The Englishman, whose native mountains are mole-hills and whose wild torrents are mere “cricks,” does exactly the same. The Frenchman, also an inhabitant of the plains, tears out his heartstrings whilst bidding adieu to “beautiful France,” but when comfortably settled abroad seems to care little for seeing her charms again. Perhaps I should speak in the past tense, for railways and steamers are levelling these differences.
All the guests spoke English and French, and all were very charming. They were curious concerning Bláland, the country of the blacks; and they asked about Dr Livingstone, whose name is known in every farm-house which owns a few books. They inquired if I belonged to the “Jökull Klubb” (Alpine Club): apparently in a mountainous country an Englishman must study mountains not mountaineers. The table is always à la Russe; flowers and fruits have been to our “groaning boards” what the cigar and the pipe were to the dessert and “wine;” only those who remember the last generation can appreciate this relief from endless side dishes and the barbarous hospitality which prided itself upon pressing an indigestion upon the conviva satur. The flowers are mostly artificial—I wonder why the tender and beautiful island heaths are not more generally used. The salmon from the Laxá and the sea-trout are undeniably better than ours. The venerable custom of drinking healths is still preserved: it descends directly from the “full,” or tumbler, quaffed in honour of Odin and Njord, Frey and Braga. Christianity converted these toasts to the Father, the Son (Kristsminni), the Angels, especially Michael, and the Saints; and modern conviviality has devoted them to present and absent friends. The habit is to “cap out” after bowing, and then to tilt the wine-glass slightly toward the compotator, with a second bow. When you help your neighbour from a fresh bottle, you first pour, as in the Brazil, a few drops into your own glass; and at a certain stage of the proceedings you do not administer a bumper. The sole toast was to Justisrað Bojesen, the governor’s venerable father-in-law, who was on a visit to the island. After a dessert of the studentenfutter, cold pudding, dates, prunes, and olives, all rise and, whether introduced or not, bow or shake hands, especially with the host and hostess, saying “Velkomme,” not “welcome” but “prosit,” a hearty old Danish, or rather German, practice, not indigenous to this part of Scandinavia. There is no sitting when the smallcoats leave the table; and probably from the scantiness of accommodation only men dine out.
The next banquet, being at the governor’s, was more official, only four black coats appeared, and even the mayor was dressed in uniform, gold-embroidered cuffs and collar of green velvet. Toasts were numerous, beginning with the French and Danish nations, which were duly acknowledged: and the two strangers, a young Englishman and myself, replied in French—not in Latin. After dinner we smoked and drank coffee, whilst the juniors, despising the damp cold, repaired for croquet to the “lawn.” At the bishop’s there was a strong muster of the clergy from the out-stations, in honour of the Rev. Guttormr Vigfusson, who had that day been ordained. Here, and here only, we saw snuff taken at table, and a use of the knife in the matter of peas and gravy, which still lingers amongst the best society in parts of Europe—it would be insidious to specify—but which Beau Brummel and his cloth have completely banished from England. It is only in the “Regimen Mensæ honorabile,” that we still read:
| “Sal cultello capia- | } | tis.” |
| . . . | ||
| Modicum sed crebrò biba- |
The bishop’s wife dined with us, and went through the laborious process of dispensing soup and meat to some two dozen guests; there was no room for the two pleasing daughters, nor for the adopted child—certainly the best looking of maidens at Reykjavik. We separated early, and after the Homeric proportions of the banquet a long walk was judged advisable.
The evening’s conversation taught me how thin-skinned are Icelanders upon all subjects connected with their country and themselves. I could not but think of a canny people farther south, who hold praise to be an impertinence, whilst dispraise, if it were not so truly contemptible, would be the one offence never to be condoned. Madame Ida Pfeiffer’s angry book was duly sat upon, all declared that she has misconstrued almost everything she observed. The fact is, that the poor authoress, when flitting through the country on her “weird visit,” was utterly misunderstood by the people, and showed her resentment by the use of her especial weapon. Even the genial and amiable owner of the yacht “Foam,” who, so far from wishing to hurt the feelings of any reader, has passed over in silence many things which ought to have been told, is not forgiven for the Latin speech beginning with “Pergratum est”—“chaff” is unknown in Iceland, and gives terrible offence to this painfully sensitive race. Chambers is a farceur; Prince Napoleon is harsh-judged for writing anything that might not please Icelandic readers; Forbes never rounded Snæfell; the late Professor Paijkull is a prejudiced foreigner, whose views about the sheep disease are simply ridiculous; and even Baring-Gould is incorrect in his details. For science, we are referred to Sir George Mackenzie; and for geography, manners, and customs, to Dr Henderson. It is only fair, however, to state that sensible Icelanders, who have lived out of this “living and antiquarian museum, recalling, as far as material and practical progress is concerned, the Europe of a century ago,” agree that Henderson praises them beyond all measure, and recommend to all Englishmen Professor Paijkull, as the fairest and the least exaggerated in general statements.
I already felt the growling and the bursting of the storm upon my devoted head. But the traveller who would do his duty to the Public must think as little as possible of blame and praise. The reader, and also the critic, enjoy high spirits, persistent optimism, and especially the “burying of all animosities, and condoning of all offences”—in fact, every tale of travel must be a Chinese picture, all lights and no shades. The end of a journey, like the resignation of a ministry, should cause a general whitewashing. If we tell the truth, we are sure to be assured that our pictures are forbidding or “bilious in tone.” My only reply is, that under certain circumstances they can be nothing else, if, indeed, they are to be portraits, and not fancy sketches for a Book of Beauty. I own to feeling a personal grievance against a writer who spreads before me all the sweets, and who hides under the table all the sours and bitters of his experience.
The next invitation was from Capitaine Alfred Le Timbre, of Saint-Malo, a pleasant, gentlemanly man, who spends his summer in looking forward to September, when the “Cher’s” head will turn south. To an Englishman the most companionable of Frenchmen is generally a sailor, and a Breton is all but a compatriot. Capitaine Le Timbre and his consul have no slight task in controlling some 3000 French fishermen, distributed amongst 250 vessels: the foreigners are bound not to land, and, indeed, not to approach the shore within the normal score of miles. This law is much broken; the men are often obliged to be invalided, and are sometimes wrecked with considerable loss of life: the underwriters after August add 1 per cent., and 0·50 per cent. for every subsequent fortnight. I afterwards travelled with nineteen of them on board the “Diana,” and found them by no means a “rough lot.” The people buy smuggled goods low, and sell provisions uncommonly high, and the results are frequent free fights between the strangers and the islandry. The former complain that they are always wrong in the eye of the law, and that their own authorities are ever the most severe in the matter of fines and imprisonment. As has been said, the Reformation made salt cod more valuable to Catholic lands; still sundry of our fishermen, when they fail at the Færoes, where the fish is better and more easily carried home alive, try Iceland: the Grimsby men are said to be the worst, the Hull men the best. An occasional cruiser is much wanted to keep the ruffians in order: Forbes recommended the measure years before H.M.S. “Valorous,” Captain Thrupp, appeared in August 1872. No English man-of-war deigned to grace the millenary festival of 1874—the successful effacement of Great Britain should be a matter of heartfelt congratulation to us; but gare the recoil of the spring. The evening was pleasant, as usual on board a ship of war, and the belongings wore a home look, a civilised aspect, which made it more than normally agreeable—I felt again at home. The traveller cannot help remarking one effect of railroads and steamers upon European society: in dress and manners we all seem to be forming one great nation. One of the guests was a Hr Grímr Thomsen, who is favourably mentioned by Messrs Dasent and Newton: after being employed in sundry consulates, this gentleman of “grim cognomen”[384] has taken a pension, and settled at the old college of Bessastaðr, where he attends to agriculture, and looks after the fishing. From him I heard how far superior to Arab blood are Iceland ponies, and a curious local grievance—it must serve for a better—namely, that strangers come to the island under the impression that they cannot break their necks in it. He first showed me the popular habit of making unpleasant and antipathetic, if not rude, remarks: this mordant tone is still a mania in Iceland; it descends from the days of the defamatory songs, which spared neither gods nor men. And now, having dined out, we will turn elsewhere.