Читать книгу: «The Land of Thor», страница 27

I must now turn back a little to say that, while my comrades were engaged in their unlawful work of killing the sparrows and frightening the sheep, I deemed it a matter of personal safety to keep out of range of their guns. Apart from the danger of arrest, the probable loss of an eye or disfigurement of some ornamental feature was a sufficient consideration to satisfy me of the policy of this course.

Taking a path across the rugged desert of rocks and bogs, extending for some miles back of Thorshavn, I quickly began to ascend a barren range of hills, abounding in greenstone trap-rock and zoolites, from the summit of which there is a magnificent view of the whole surrounding country, with glimpses of the cloud-capped summits of the neighboring islands. Beautiful little valleys, dotted with the sod-covered huts of the shepherds and fishermen, sweep down to the water’s edge a thousand feet below; weird black bogs, and fields of scoria and burned earth, lie on the slopes of the distant hills to the right; and to the left are rugged cliffs, jutting out of the sea like huge castles, around which myriads of birds continually hover, piercing the air with their wild screams. The wind blew in such fierce gusts over the bleak and desolate range of crags on which I stood that I was glad enough to seek shelter down on the leeside.

It now occurred to me to go in search of a ruined church of which I had read in some traveler’s journal said to be within four or five miles of Thorshavn. Some artificial piles of stones, near the ledge upon which I had descended, indicated the existence of a trail. On my way down, a legion of birds, about the size of puffins, began to gather around, with fierce cries and warning motions, as if determined to dispute my progress. They flew backward and forward within a few feet of my head, flapping their wings furiously, and uttering the most terrific cries of rage and alarm, so that I was sorely puzzled to know what was the matter. It was not long before I came upon some of their nests, which of course explained the difficulty. Having no immediate use for eggs or feathers, I left the nests unmolested and proceeded on my way. In about an hour I came suddenly upon a small green valley that lay some five hundred feet below, directly on the water’s edge. By some mischance I had lost the trail, and, in order to descend, was obliged to slide and scramble down the cliffs – an experiment that I presently discovered would probably cost me a broken neck if persisted in; for when there seemed to be no farther obstruction, I came all at once upon a precipice at least sixty feet deep, without a single foothold or other means of descent than a clear jump to the bottom. Not disposed to follow the example of Sam Patch on dry land, I reluctantly turned back. By dint of scrambling and climbing, and slipping down various cliffs and slopes, I at length reached a point from which I had a view of some ruins and farm-houses still some distance below. Following the line of the regular trail till it struck into the cliffs, I had no farther difficulty in reaching the valley.

The good people at the farm-house – a family by the name of Petersen – received me in the kindest manner, with many expressions of wonder at the risk I had run in crossing the mountain without a guide. It was with considerable difficulty we made ourselves understood. None of the family spoke any language except their own. The son, indeed, a fine young man of twenty, understood a few words of English, but that was all. There is something, nevertheless, in genuine kindness and hospitality that makes itself intelligible without the aid of language. I was immediately invited into the house, and while young Petersen entertained me with old prints and Faroese books, his mother prepared an excellent lunch. Tired and worried after my trip, I could offer no objection. Never shall I forget the coffee and cream, and the butter and bread, and delicate fruit-tarts placed on the nice white table-cloth by the good Mrs. Petersen. I ate and drank, and glowed all over with a childlike relish of the good things, while the whole family gathered round and tried to make me understand that they had a relative in California, who lived in the mines at a place called Six-mile-bar, and that they were glad to see a Californian, and wanted to know all about California. It is wonderful with how few words we can communicate our ideas when necessity compels us to depend upon our ingenuity. Before I had parted from that family the whole matter was perfectly explained; the history of their absent relative was quite clear to me, and they had a very fair conception of the kind of country in which he lived. Upon no consideration would they receive compensation for the lunch, and they even seemed offended when I endeavored to press it upon them. This, from people whom I had never seen before – a plain country family living in a wilderness where such luxuries as sugar and coffee could only be had at considerable expense – was absolutely refreshing. For the first time since my arrival in Europe, after having traversed the whole Continent, I had encountered a specimen of the human race capable of refusing money. Subsequently I learned that this was the common practice in the Faroe Islands. The poorest shepherd freely offers to the stranger the hospitality of his hut; and it is a creed among these worthy people not to accept pay for coffee and bread, or indeed any thing else they may have to offer in the way of entertainment. My fellow-passengers were similarly treated in Thorshavn, where visitors are more frequent and the customs of the country less primitive.

The great object of interest at Kirk Göboe is the ancient church, from which the place derives its name; a long, low stone building, whitewashed and covered with a sod roof, but, owing to repeated repairs, now presenting no particular traces of antiquity, although reported to have been built in the eighth century. I have no data in reference to this interesting relic, and am not aware that antiquarians have ever attempted to trace out its origin. The probability is that it was built by some of those Culdee anchorites of whom Dasent speaks as the first settlers of Iceland.

The interior of the church contains an altar, and some wooden carvings on the head-boards of the pews, evidently of great antiquity. It is impossible to conjecture from their appearance whether they are five hundred or a thousand years old – at least without more research than a casual tourist can bestow upon them.

There is also within a few steps of the farm-house a much larger and more picturesque ruin of a church, built in a later style of architecture. The only information I could get about this ruin was that it dates back as far as the fifteenth century. The walls are of rough stone well put together, and now stand roofless and moss-covered, inhabited only by crows and swallows. The doors and windows are in the Gothic style. A sketch made from the door of the old church first mentioned, embracing the residence of the Petersen family, with a glimpse of the cliffs and rugged ledges behind upon which their flocks graze, will give the best idea of the whole premises.

Having thus pleasantly occupied a few hours at Kirk Göboe, I bade adieu to the worthy family who had so hospitably entertained me, and was about to set out for Thorshavn, when young Petersen, not content with the directions he had given me, announced his intention of seeing me safe over the mountain. In vain I assured him that, however pleasant his company would be, I had no apprehension of losing the way this time. Go he would, and go he did; and when we parted on the top of the mountain, in plain sight of Thorshavn, he cordially shook me by the hand, and said many kind words, which I could only interpret to mean that he and all his kith and kin wished me a pleasant voyage to Iceland, and many years of health and happiness.

When I now recall the fine, intelligent face of this young man, his bright dark eyes, healthy complexion, and strong, well-knit frame, the latent energy in all his movements, the genial simplicity of his manners, and his evident thirst for knowledge, I can not help feeling something akin to regret that so much good material should be wasted in the obscurity of a shepherd’s life. So gifted by nature, what might not such a youth achieve in an appropriate sphere of action? And yet, perhaps, it is better for him that he should spend his life among the barren cliffs of Stromoe, with no more companions than his dog and his sheep, than jostle among men in the great outer world, to learn at last the bitter lesson that the eye is not satisfied with riches, nor the understanding with knowledge.

On the way down to the Valley of Thorshavn I met a man mounted on a shaggy little monster, which in almost any other country would have been mistaken for a species of sheep. As this was a fair specimen of a Faroese horse and his rider, I sat down on a rock after they had passed and took the best view of them I could get.

Late in the afternoon the scattered passengers were gathered together, and the good people of Thorshavn came down to the wharf to bid us farewell. In half an hour more we were all on board. “Up anchor!” was the order, and once more we went steaming on our way.

Short as our sojourn had been among these primitive people, it furnished us with many pleasant reminiscences. Their genial hospitality and simple good-nature, together with their utter ignorance of the outer world, formed the theme of various amusing anecdotes during the remainder of the passage. Favored by a southerly wind and a stock of good coal, we made the southeastern point of Iceland in a little over two days from Thorshavn.

CHAPTER XLII.
FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF ICELAND

It would be difficult to conceive any thing more impressive than this first view of the land of snow and fire. A low stretch of black boggy coast to the right; dark cliffs of lava in front; far in the background, range after range of bleak, snow-capped mountains, the fiery Jokuls dimly visible through drifting masses of fog; to the left a broken wall of red, black, and blue rocks, weird and surf-beaten, stretching as far as the eye could reach – this was Iceland! All along the grim rifted coast the dread marks of fire, and flood, and desolation were visible. Detached masses of lava, gnarled and scraggy like huge clinkers, seemed tossed out into the sea; towers, buttresses, and battlements, shaped by the very elements of destruction, reared their stern crests against the waves; glaciers lay glittering upon the blackened slopes behind; and foaming torrents of snow-water burst through the rifted crags in front, and mingled their rage with the wild rage of the surf – all was battle, and ruin, and desolation.

As we approached the point called Portland, a colossal bridge opened into view, so symmetrical in its outline that it was difficult to believe it was not of artificial construction. The arch is about fifty feet high by thirty in width, and affords shelter to innumerable flocks of birds, whose nests are built in the crevices underneath. Solan-geese, eider-ducks, and sea-gulls cover the dizzy heights overhead, and whales have been known to pass through the passage below. Great numbers of blackfish and porpoises abound in this vicinity. From time to time, as we swept along on our way, we could discern a lonesome hut high up on the shore, with a few sheep and cattle on the slopes of the adjacent hills, but for the most part the coast was barren and desolate.

Early on the following morning the sun-capped peaks of Mount Hecla were visible. There has been no eruption from this mountain since 1845. The principal crater lies 5210 feet above the level of the sea, and is distant fifteen miles from the shore.

Toward noon we made the Westmann Isles, a small rocky group some ten miles distant from the main island. A fishing and trading establishment, owned by a company of Danes, is located on one of these islands. The Arcturus touches twice a year to deliver and receive a mail. On the occasion of our visit, a boat came out with a hardy-looking crew of Danes to receive the mail-bag. It was doubtless a matter of great rejoicing to them to obtain news from home. I had barely time to make a rough outline of the islands as we lay off the settlement.

The chief interest attached to the Westmann group is, that it is supposed to have been visited by Columbus in 1477, fifteen years prior to his voyage of discovery to the shores of America. It is now generally conceded that the Icelanders were the original discoverers of the American continent. Recent antiquarian researches tend to establish the fact that they had advanced as far to the southward as Massachusetts in the tenth century. They held colonies on the coasts of Greenland and Labrador, and must have had frequent intercourse with the Indians farther south. Columbus in all probability obtained some valuable data from these hardy adventurers. The date of his visit to Iceland is well authenticated by Beamish, Rafn, and other eminent writers on the early discoveries of the Northmen.

Nothing could surpass the desolate grandeur of the coast as we approached the point of Reykjaness. It was of an almost infernal blackness. The whole country seemed uptorn, rifted, shattered, and scattered about in a vast chaos of ruin. Huge cliffs of lava split down to their bases toppled over the surf. Rocks of every conceivable shape, scorched and blasted with fire, wrested from the main and hurled into the sea, battled with the waves, their black scraggy points piercing the mist like giant hands upthrown to smite or sink in a fierce death-struggle. The wild havoc wrought in the conflict of elements was appalling. Birds screamed over the fearful wreck of matter. The surf from the inrolling waves broke against the charred and shattered desert of ruin with a terrific roar. Columns of spray shot up over the blackened fragments of lava, while in every opening the lashed waters, discolored by the collision, seethed and surged as in a huge caldron. Verily there is One whose “fury is poured out like fire; the rocks are thrown down by him; the mountains quake, and the hills melt, and the earth is burned at his presence.”

Passing a singular rock standing alone some twenty miles off the land, called the Meal-sack, we soon changed our course and bore up for the harbor of Reykjavik. By the time we reached the anchorage our voyage from Thorshavn had occupied exactly three days and six hours.

Trusting that the reader will pardon me for the frequent delays to which I have subjected him since we joined our fortunes at Copenhagen, I shall now proceed to the important labors of the enterprise with this solemn understanding – that the journey before us is pretty rough, and the prospect is strong that, in our random dash at the wonders of Iceland, we will encounter some perilous adventures by flood and field; but if I don’t carry him safely and satisfactorily through them all, he must console himself by the reflection that many a good man has been sacrificed in the pursuit of knowledge, and that he will suffer in excellent company.

CHAPTER XLIII.
REYKJAVIK, THE CAPITAL OF ICELAND

My first view of the capital of Iceland was through a chilling rain. A more desolate-looking place I had rarely if ever seen, though, like Don Quixote’s market-woman on the ass, it was susceptible of improvement under the influence of an ardent imagination. As a subject for the pencil of an artist, it was at least peculiar, if not picturesque. A tourist whose glowing fancies had not been nipped in the bud by the vigors of an extended experience might have been able to invest it with certain weird charms, but to me it was only the fag-end of civilization, abounding in horrible odors of decayed polypi and dried fish. A cutting wind from the distant Jokuls and a searching rain did not tend to soften the natural asperities of its features. In no point of view did it impress me as a cheerful place of residence except for wild ducks and sea-gulls. The whole country for miles around is a black desert of bogs and lava. Scarcely an arable spot is to be seen save on the tops of the fishermen’s huts, where the sod produces an abundance of grass and weeds. A dark gravelly slope in front of the town, dotted with boats, oars, nets, and piles of fish; a long row of shambling old store-houses built of wood, and painted a dismal black, varied by patches of dirty yellow; a general hodge-podge of frame shanties behind, constructed of old boards and patched up with drift-wood; a few straggling streets, paved with broken lava and reeking with offal from the doors of the houses; some dozens of idle citizens and drunken boatmen lounging around the grog-shops; a gang of women, brawny and weather-beaten, carrying loads of codfish down to the landing; a drove of shaggy little ponies, each tied to the tail of the pony in front; a pack of mangy dogs prowling about in dirty places looking for something to eat, and fighting when they got it – this was all I could see of Reykjavik, the famous Icelandic capital.

The town lies on a strip of land between the harbor and a lagoon in the rear. It is said to contain a population of two thousand, and if the dogs and fleas be taken into consideration, I have no doubt it does. Where two thousand human beings can stow themselves in a place containing but one hotel, and that a very poor one, is a matter of wonder to the stranger. The houses generally are but one story high, and seldom contain more than two or three rooms. Some half a dozen stores, it is true, of better appearance than the average, have been built by the Danish merchants within the past few years; and the residence of the governor and the public University are not without some pretensions to style.

The only stone building in Reykjavik of any importance is the “Cathedral;” so called, perhaps, more in honor of its great antiquity than any thing imposing about its style or dimensions. At present it shows no indications of age, having been patched, plastered, and painted into quite a neat little church of modern appearance.

At each end of the town is a small gathering of sod-covered huts, where the fishermen and their families live like rabbits in a burrow. That these poor people are not all devoured by snails or crippled with rheumatism is a marvel to any stranger who takes a peep into their filthy and cheerless little cabins. The oozy slime of fish and smoke mingles with the green mould of the rocks; barnacles cover the walls, and puddles make a soft carpeting for the floors. The earth is overhead, and their heads are under the earth, and the light of day has no light job of it to get in edgewise, through the windows. The beaver-huts and badger-holes of California, taking into consideration the difference of climate, are palatial residences compared with the dismal hovels of these Icelandic fishermen. At a short distance they look for all the world like mounds in a grave-yard. The inhabitants, worse off than the dead, are buried alive. No gardens, no cultivated patches, no attempt at any thing ornamental relieves the dreary monotony of the premises. Dark patches of lava, all littered with the heads and entrails of fish; a pile of turf from some neighboring bog; a rickety shed in which the fish are hung up to dry; a gang of wolfish-looking curs, horribly lean and voracious; a few prowling cats, and possibly a chicken deeply depressed in spirits – these are the most prominent objects visible in the vicinity. Sloth and filth go hand in hand.

The women are really the only class of inhabitants, except the fleas, who possess any vitality. Rude, slatternly, and ignorant as they are, they still evince some sign of life and energy compared with the men. Overtaxed by domestic cares, they go down upon the wharves when a vessel comes in, and by hard labor earn enough to purchase a few rags of clothing for their children. The men are too lazy even to carry the fish out of their own boats. At home they lie about the doors, smoking and gossiping, and too often drunk. Some are too lazy to get drunk, and go to sleep over the effort. In truth, the prevailing indolence among all classes is so striking that one can almost imagine himself in a Southern clime. There is much about Reykjavik to remind a Californian traveler of San Diego. The drunken fellows about the stores, and the racing of horses up and down the streets, under the stimulus of liquor rather than natural energy, sometimes made me feel quite at home.

On the morning after my arrival I called to see my young friend Jonasen, the governor’s son, and was most hospitably entertained by the family. I had a letter of introduction to the governor from the Minister of the Judiciary at Copenhagen, but thought it unnecessary to present it. His excellency is a good specimen of the better class of Icelanders – simple, kind-hearted, and polite. My casual acquaintance with his son was sufficient to enlist his warmest sympathies. I thought he would destroy his equilibrium as well as my own by repeatedly drinking my health and wishing me a hearty welcome to Iceland. He said he had never seen a Californian before, and seemed astonished to find that they had noses, mouths, ears, and skins like other people. In one respect he paid me a practical compliment that I have rarely enjoyed in the course of my travels – he spoke nearly as bad French as I did. Now I take it that a man who speaks bad French, after years of travel on the Continent of Europe, is worthy of some consideration. He is at least entitled to the distinction of having well preserved his nationality; and when any foreigner tries to speak it worse, but doesn’t succeed, I can not but regard it as a tribute of respect.

Young Jonasen, I was glad to see, had gotten over his struggle with the sardines, and was now in a fair way to enjoy life. His sister, Miss Jonasen, is a very charming young lady, well educated and intelligent. She speaks English quite fluently, and does the honors of the executive mansion with an easy grace scarcely to be expected in this remote part of the world. Both are natives of Iceland.

I should be sorry to be understood as intimating, in my brief sketch of Reykjavik, that it is destitute of refined society. There are families of as cultivated manners here as in any other part of the world; and on the occasion of a ball or party, a stranger would be surprised at the display of beauty and style. The University and public library attract students from all parts of the island, and several of the professors and literary men have obtained a European reputation. Two semi-monthly newspapers are published at Reykjavik, in the Icelandic language. They are well printed, and said to be edited with ability. I looked over them very carefully from beginning to end, and could see nothing to object to in any portion of the contents.