From First Crater we walked over the left or western dorsum, over which one could drive a coach, and we congratulated one another upon the exploit. Former travellers, “balancing themselves like rope dancers, succeeded in passing along the ridge of slags which was so narrow that there was scarcely room for their feet,” the breadth being “not more than two feet, having a precipice on each side several hundred feet of depth.” Charity suggests that the feature has altered, but there was no eruption between 1766 and 1845; moreover, the lip would have diminished, not increased. And one of the most modern visitors repeats the “very narrow ridge,” with the classical but incorrect adjuncts of “Scylla here, Charybdis there.” Scylla (say the crater slope) is disposed at an angle of 30°, and Mr Chapman coolly walked down this “vast” little hollow. I descended Charybdis (the outer counterscarp) far enough to make sure that it is equally easy.
Passing the “carriage road” (our own name), we crossed a névé without any necessity for digging foot-holes. It lies where sulphur is notably absent. The hot patches which account for the freedom from snow, even so high above the congelation-line, are scattered about the summit: in other parts the thermometer, placed in an 18-inch hole, made earth colder than air. After a short climb we reached the apex; the ruddy-walled north-eastern lip of the Red Crater (No. 2): its lower or western rim forms two of the five summits seen from the prairie, and hides the highest point. We thus ascertained that Hekla is a linear volcano of two mouths, or three including that of ’45, and that it wants a true apical crater. But how reconcile the accounts of travellers? Pliny Miles found one cone and three craters; Madame Ida Pfeiffer, like Metcalfe, three cones and no crater.
On the summit the guides sang a song of triumph, whilst we drank to the health of our charming companions and, despite the cold wind which eventually drove us down, carefully studied the extensive view. The glorious day was out of character with a scene niente che montagne, as the unhappy Venetian described the Morea; rain and sleet and blinding snow would better have suited the picture, but happily they were conspicuous by their absence. Inland, beyond a steep snow-bed unpleasantly crevassed, lay a grim photograph all black and white; Lángjökull looking down upon us with a grand and freezing stare; the Hrafntinnu Valley marked by a dwarf cone, and beyond where streams head, the gloomy regions stretching to the Sprengisandur, dreary wastes of utter sterility, howling deserts of dark ashes, wholly lacking water and vegetable life, and wanting the gleam and the glow which light up the Arabian wild. Skaptár and Öræfa were hidden from sight. Seawards, ranging from west to south, the view, by contrast, was a picture of amenity and civilisation. Beyond castellated Hljóðfell and conical Skjaldbreið appeared the familiar forms of Esja, and the long lava projection of the Gold Breast country, melting into the western main. Nearer stretched the fair lowlands, once a broad deep bay, now traversed by the network of Ölfusá, Thjórsá, and the Markarfljót; while the sixfold bunch of the Westman Islands, mere stone lumps upon a blue ground, seemingly floating far below the raised horizon, lay crowned by summer sea. Eastward we distinctly traced the Fiskivötn.[102] Run the eye along the southern shore, and again the scene shifts. Below the red hornitos of the slope rises the classical Three-horned, not lofty, but remarkable for its trident top; Tindfjall (tooth-fell) with its two horns, or pyramids of ice, casting blue shadows upon the untrodden snow; and the whole mighty mass known as the Eastern Jökull, Eyjafjall (island-fell), so called from the black button of rock which crowns the long white dorsum; Kátlá (Kötlu-gjá), Merkrjökull, and Goðalands, all connected by ridges, and apparently neither lofty nor impracticable.[103] I venture to predict that they will succumb to the first well organised attack.
The descent, in three hours, was as fast as the ascent had been slow. We soon saw the last of our fair companions who, mounted and attended by their train, rode gallantly back to Stóruvellir. Amongst the party was Síra Guðmundr’s son, a sharp youth of eighteen, and if there was not something under his waistcoat buttons which was beating at an accelerated pace, I am much mistaken. We felt demoralised by this unusual dissipation; we cooled our blood with Skyr; we bathed in the Lavapés, and we tried throwing a line, but came back with a hook behind, as the people say.
The reader will probably determine that this account of Hekla is a trifle hypercritical. But after a single day spent upon the volcano, which has so often been ascended, what can man find to explore except the labours of his predecessors? Nor would it be fair to leave unnoticed this excellent specimen of exaggerated writing upon the subject of Thule, which perhaps culminates on Hekla.
Section III.—To Geysir, and at It.
I would willingly have spent another day on Hekla, but the seething hot morning (82° F., at nine A.M.) had animated the flies with a more than normal “cussedness.” The scene was unusually “Arcadian.” Betimes the dogs folded the ewes with loud barkings, re-echoed by the backing ridge; and mother and daughters went to milk them, the “help” carrying a pair of pails fended by a square hoop. Meanwhile the lads drove the cows towards the womankind, and accompanied the horses to pasture. Even the hyæna-striped cats, bastard tortoise-shells, crept towards the fields, as if intent on grasshopper-hunting. About the house hung only the mankind, too dignified for labour; and the grandmother here is, like the grandfather, an institution; the bearded, mustachioed “old soldier,” with huge fez and hair cut boy-fashion, wanted to “swop” with us for spirits: all the males, middle-aged or old—the latter plutôt vieillis que vieux—appeared cut in the same pattern. Their necks were swathed as if lately recovering from diphtheria; their coarse heavy limbs were displayed by the flannel “tights;” their unshaven faces with loose lips, open mouths, and noses embrowned by preeing the sneeshing-mull, looked stolid enough when blear-eyed; when not so the hard optics had a cunning rat-like expression, showing that abundant selbstgefühl and a strong brain lie behind that unpromising mask. Such in some points was, in days we have read of, the rude Carinthian boor, now most polished of peasants.
This day’s march, between Hekla and the Geysir, is one of the most unpleasant in civilised Iceland. Travellers going eastward complain of it, and we found it worse for horse and rider, as the progress was from good to bad. A clerical friend subsequently divided the iter into three: between Næfrholt and the Thjórsá it was “bonum,” “mediocre” from the river to Hruni, and thence to the end “malum”—“pessimum.” As it is Sunday, the ferry lacks ferryman, and delays us for some time. The peasants are all endimanchés, and they stare at the stranger, expecting him to bow first. The Brazilian Caipira bends to the best mule, the Styrian to the black coat, but these men have no standard, and a rough nod is the extent of their recognition. They remind me much of what was said about the Siebenburgers of Transylvania: “The people are shrewd and intelligent, and, thanks to the national custom, they possess a fair amount of knowledge. But the peasant’s demeanour imposes at first, and all would be adelig. After this it rather tells against him than otherwise, for when you come to measure him, you involuntarily do so by a higher scale than you would apply to another in his position of life. Then, if you find discrepancies, you are apt to judge him over severely, but this is partly his own fault, for it was solely his air and manner which caused you to apply the standard you have chosen.” On the other hand, the unpromising figure that rides by with a glare in Iceland may be a man of substance, possibly even a vestryman.
We saw Hekla more than once on both sides of the Thjórsá, and now, aided by experience, we could explain the varying of the apices. About mid-afternoon we came upon the Laxá, for which Páll condescended to make certain preparations. An old man mumbled some directions about the ford, but they were utterly unintelligible. A mark persuaded a barefooted woman to leave the house: after spitting, as did the gentlemen of Beaux before they drank, she led the way, knitting and talking at least a quarter of an hour, to impress upon us the necessity of making for that rock. Crossing the broad bed was quite easy, and the view was unusually picturesque. The goodly stream was girt on both sides by spoil banks of red and white earth, suggesting hot springs; there were green side-gorges ready for homesteads, and the upper part was a rugged brown ravine, somewhat like what may be seen on the higher Arno.
After fording we rode up to the Sólheimar farm, a large and comfortable establishment; its approach was the usual avenue which wants ditches and drains instead of turf walls. The churlish owner detained us till the horses were strung together and sent, under the charge of his son, outside the “tún.” He gave us some skimmed milk, and we paid him half-a-mark. The idea of a gentleman farmer, or even humble Giles, taking twopence for a glass of small beer!