by Jules Verne
2. A manometer of compressed air, to indicate pressures higher than that of the atmosphere at sea-level. An ordinary barometer would not have answered the purpose, as the atmospheric pressure would increase in proportion to the depth of our descent underground.
3. A chronometer made by the younger Boisonnas of Geneva, and set to the meridian of Hamburg.
4. Two compasses, one for inclination, the other for declination.
5. A night glass.
6. Two Ruhmkorff coils which, by means of an electric current, provided a safe, handy, and portable light.
The arms consisted of two rifles made by Purdley More & Co., and two Colt revolvers. Why were we taking arms? We had no need to fear savages or wild beasts, or so at least I supposed. But my uncle seemed to be just as attached to his arsenal as he was to his instruments, and particularly to a large quantity of gun cotton, which is unaffected by damp and has a greater explosive force than ordinary gunpowder.
The tools consisted of two mattocks, two pickaxes, a silk rope ladder, three iron-shod staves, an axe, a hammer, a dozen iron wedges and spikes, and some long knotted cords. All this made a big package, for the ladder was three hundred feet long.
Lastly there were the provisions – not a big package, but one that I found reassuring, for I knew that it contained enough meat extract and biscuits to last us six months. Gin was the only liquid, and there was no water at all, but we had some flasks and my uncle counted on finding springs from which we could fill them. The fears I had expressed as to the quality and temperature of these springs, and indeed as to their existence, had been totally disregarded.
To complete the exact inventory of our travelling accessories, I ought to add that we had a medicine chest containing blunt scissors, splints for fractures, a piece of tape of unbleached linen, bandages and compresses, lint, and a basin for bleeding – all rather terrifying objects – as well as a set of bottles of dextrine, medical alcohol, liquid acetate of lead, ether, vinegar, and ammonia – drugs which did nothing to reassure me. Finally we had all the necessary chemicals for the Ruhmkorff lamps.
My uncle had been careful not to forget tobacco, gunpowder, and touchwood, nor a leather belt which he wore next to his skin and which contained a goodly sum of gold, silver, and notes. Six pairs of stout boots, waterproofed with a mixture of tar and indiarubber, were packed with the tools.
‘Clothed, shod, and equipped like this,’ said my uncle, ‘there’s no reason why we shouldn’t go a very long way.’
The whole of the fourteenth was spent packing all these various articles. In the evening we dined with Baron Trampe, in company with the mayor of Reykjavik and Dr Hyaltalin, the leading medical man in the place. Mr Fridriksson was not there; I later learnt that he and the Governor were at loggerheads over some administrative question and avoided meeting each other. I was therefore unable to understand a single word that was spoken in the course of this semi-official dinner. I only noticed that my uncle talked all the time.
The next day, the fifteenth, we completed our preparations. Our host delighted the Professor by presenting him with a map of Iceland infinitely superior to that of Handerson. It was a map made by Mr Olaf Nikolas Olsen, on a scale of 1: 480,000, on the basis of geological studies by Mr Scheel Frisac and a topographical survey by Mr Bjorn Gumlavgson. Published by the Icelandic Literary Society, it was a precious document for a mineralogist.
Our last evening was spent in friendly conversation with Mr Fridriksson, to whom I had taken a great liking; the talk was followed, in my case at least, by a restless night.
At five in the morning the neighing of four horses pawing the ground under my window woke me. I dressed quickly and went down into the street. There Hans was loading the last of our luggage, almost without moving a limb but with remarkable skill. My uncle was giving more advice than help, and the guide seemed to be paying very little attention to his instructions.
At six o’clock everything was ready. Mr Fridriksson shook hands with us. My uncle thanked him warmly in Icelandic for his kind hospitality. For my part I elaborated a cordial farewell in my best Latin. Then we mounted our horses, and with his final farewell Mr Fridriksson called out to me a line of Virgil which seemed eminently applicable to the uncertain travellers that we were:
‘Et quacumque viam dederit fortuna sequamur.’
12
Slow Progress
We had set off under a cloudy but settled sky. There was no danger either of tiring heat or of heavy rain. It was perfect tourist weather.
The pleasure of riding on horseback through unknown country put me in a good mood for the start of our journey. I gave myself up to the happiness of the tourist, compounded of desires and freedom, and began to make the best of the expedition.
‘Besides,’ I said to myself, ‘where’s the risk in travelling through a most interesting country, climbing a remarkable mountain, and at the worst going down into an extinct crater. Obviously that’s all that Saknussemm did. As for the existence of a passage leading to the centre of the world, that’s pure imagination and absolutely impossible. So let’s get all the pleasure we can out of this expedition without worrying about it.’
I had scarcely finished this reasoning before we had left Reykjavik behind.
Hans walked ahead, at a quick, even, and untiring pace. The two baggage-horses followed him of their own accord, and behind them came my uncle and me, looking not too ridiculous on our small but hardy animals.
Iceland is one of the largest islands in Europe. It has a surface of fourteen thousand square miles, but has a population of only sixty thousand. The geographers have divided it into four quarters, and we had to cross diagonally the south-west quarter, known as the Sudvestr Fjordungr.
On leaving Reykjavik, Hans had immediately taken a path along the coast. We rode between meagre pastures which were having all the trouble in the world to look green; yellow came to them more easily. The rugged summits of the trachyte hills on the horizon were blurred by the mist in the east; now and then a few patches of snow, concentrating the diffused light, glittered on the slopes of the distant mountains; certain peaks, rising more sheerly than the others, pierced the grey clouds and reappeared above shifting vapours, like reefs emerging in the sky.
Often these chains of barren rocks would stretch out towards the sea, encroaching on the pasturage; but there was always enough room left to pass. Besides, our horses instinctively chose the best way without ever slackening their pace. My uncle was cheated even of the satisfaction of urging his mount on with voice or whip: he had no excuse for losing his patience. I could not help smiling at seeing him, such a tall man, on his little horse, and, as his long legs almost touched the ground, he looked like a centaur with six legs.
‘Good horse! Good horse!’ he kept saying. ‘You will see, Axel, that there is no animal more intelligent than the Icelandic horse. Snow, storms, impassable roads, rocks, glaciers – nothing can stop him. He is brave, steady, and reliable. He never stumbles, never shies. If there’s a river or a fjord to cross – and there’ll be plenty, I can tell you that – you will see him plunge straight into the water as if he were amphibious and swim across to the opposite bank. But we mustn’t hurry him; just let him alone and we shall do our thirty miles a day.’
‘We may, but what about the guide?’
‘Oh, I’m not worried about him. People like that can walk miles without even noticing it. This man moves about so little that he can’t get tired. Besides, if need be I can always let him have my horse. I shall soon get cramp if I don’t have a little exercise. My arms are all right, but I mustn’t forget about my legs.’
Meanwhile we were making rapid progress. The country was already almost a desert. Here and there we saw an isolated farm, a lonely boer, made of wood, earth, or blocks of lava, and looking like a beggar by the wayside. These dilapidated huts gave the impression of asking the passer-by for charity, and we almost felt inclined to give them alms. In this region there were no roads or paths, and the vegeta
tion, however slowly it grew, soon obliterated all trace of the rare travellers.
Yet this part of the province, not far from the capital, was regarded as one of the inhabited and cultivated portions of Iceland. What then must the other parts be like, if they were more deserted than this desert? After travelling half a mile, we had not seen a single farmer standing at the door of his cottage, nor a single shepherd minding a flock less wild than himself; nothing but a few cows and sheep left to their own devices. What then could we expect to see in the regions convulsed by eruptions and born of volcanic explosions and subterranean disturbances?
We were destined to see them later on; but, consulting Olsen’s map, I saw that we were avoiding them by following the winding coastline. The great plutonic movement was in fact largely confined to the interior of the island; there the horizontal layers of superimposed rocks, known as trapps in the Scandinavian languages, the beds of trachyte, the eruptions of basalt, tuff, and all the volcanic conglomerates, and the streams of molten lava and porphyry have created a land of supernatural horror. I had no idea at that time of the sight which awaited us on the Sneffels peninsula, where this debris of a Nature in eruption forms a scene of frightful chaos.
Two hours after leaving Reykjavik we reached the little town or aolkirkja (‘principal church’) of Gufunes. There was nothing remarkable about the place. It consisted of only a few houses, and would scarcely be regarded as a hamlet in Germany.
Here Hans stopped for half an hour; he shared our frugal breakfast, answering my uncle’s questions about the road with yes or no, and when asked where he proposed to spend the night he said simply:
‘Gardär.’
I consulted the map to see where Gardär was. I saw a village of that name on the banks of the Hvalfjord, eighteen miles from Reykjavik. I showed it to my uncle.
‘Only eighteen miles!’ he said. ‘Four miles out of a hundred! What a miserable little walk!’
He began to say something to the guide, who, without answering, took his place at the head of the horses and set off again.
Three hours later, still treading on the pale grass of the pastureland, we rounded the Kollafjord, a detour which was less trouble than crossing that inlet. Soon we entered a pingstaoer or parish called Ejulberg, from whose steeple twelve o’clock would have struck if Icelandic churches had been rich enough to possess clocks; but they are like their parishioners, who have no watches and manage very well without.
There the horses were baited; then, taking a narrow path between a chain of hills and the sea, they carried us straight to the aolkirkja of Brantär, and a mile farther on to the annexia or chapel of ease of Sauboer, on the south bank of the Hvalfjord.
It was now four o’clock, and we had travelled four Icelandic miles or twenty English miles.
The fjord was at least two miles wide at this point; the waves broke with a roar on the sharp rocks, and the whole inlet was confined between steep walls of rock three thousand feet high and remarkable for its brown strata separated by beds of reddish tuff. However intelligent our horses might be, I did not look forward to crossing an arm of the sea on the back of a quadruped.
‘If they are really intelligent,’ I said, ‘they won’t try to cross. In any case I intend to be intelligent for them.’
But my uncle refused to wait. He spurred his horse on towards the shore. The animal sniffed at the nearest wave and stopped short. My uncle, who had instincts of his own, urged it on, only to meet with a fresh refusal from the animal, which shook its head. There followed oaths and blows with the whip, whereupon the horse reared up and tried to throw its rider. Finally it bent its knees, escaped from under the Professor’s legs, and left him standing on two boulders on the shore, like the Colossus of Rhodes.
‘Confounded animal!’ cried the rider, suddenly transformed into a pedestrian, and as shamefaced as a cavalry officer transferred to the infantry.
‘Farja,’ said the guide, touching him on the shoulder.
‘What! A ferry?’
‘Der,’ replied Hans, pointing to a boat.
‘Then why didn’t you say so? Well, let’s go.’
‘Tidvatten,’ said the guide.
‘What is he saying?’ I asked.
‘He says the tide,’ said my uncle, translating the Danish word for my benefit.
‘Perhaps he means that we have to wait for the tide?’
‘Förbida?’ asked my uncle.
‘Ja,’ replied Hans.
My uncle stamped his foot, while the horses made their way towards the ferry.
I quite understood the need to wait for a particular state of the tide before undertaking the passage of the fjord, that in which the sea is at its highest level. Then the ebb and flow have no perceptible effect, and the ferry is in no danger of being carried either to the head of the fjord or out to sea.
That favourable moment arrived only at six in the evening, when my uncle and I, the guide, two ferrymen, and the four horses took our places in a rather fragile-looking sort of flat boat. Accustomed as I was to the steam ferry-boats on the Elbe, I found the oars of the two boatmen a poor means of propulsion. It took us over an hour to cross the fjord; but at least the passage was accomplished without any mishaps.
Half an hour later we reached the aolkirkja of Gardär.
13
Icelandic Hospitality
It should have been dark, but at the sixty-fifth parallel there was nothing surprising about the length of the polar day; in Iceland, during June and July, the sun never sets.
All the same, the temperature had fallen. I was cold, and above all hungry. The boer which opened its doors to receive us was a welcome sight.
It was a peasant’s house, but in point of hospitality it was equal to a king’s palace. On our arrival, the master came and shook hands with us, and without more ado beckoned to us to follow him.
It would indeed have been impossible to walk beside him. A long, dark, narrow passage led into the house, which was built of roughly squared beams, and gave access to each of the four rooms: the kitchen, the weaving shop, the badstofa or family bedroom, and the visitors’ room, which was the best of all. My uncle, whose height had not been taken into consideration when the house was built, inevitably bumped his head several times against the beams of the ceiling.
We were shown into our room, a large apartment with a floor of beaten earth and a window whose panes were sheep’s membranes of limited transparency. The beds consisted of dry hay heaped into two wooden frames painted red and decorated with Icelandic sayings. I had not expected so much comfort; the only drawback was that the house was pervaded with a strong smell of dried fish, pickled meat, and sour milk, which made a disagreeable impression on my nose.
When we had taken off our travelling wraps we heard our host’s voice inviting us into the kitchen, the only room where a fire was lighted, even in the severest cold.
My uncle lost no time in obeying this friendly injunction, and I followed him.
The kitchen fireplace was of a primitive model: in the middle of the room there was a stone to serve as a hearth, and in the roof a hole to let out the smoke. This kitchen also served as a dining-room.
When we came in, the host, as if he had not seen us before, greeted us with the word ‘Saellvertu’, which means ‘Be happy’, and came and kissed us on the cheek.
After him his wife pronounced the same word, accompanied by the same ceremonial; then the two of them, placing their right hands on their hearts, gave a low bow.
I hasten to add that this Icelandic lady was the mother of nineteen children, who, big and little alike, were all swarming about in the midst of the wreaths of smoke with which the fire was filling the room. Every few moments I noticed a little fair-haired head with a somewhat melancholy expression appearing out of this cloud. It made me think of a circle of unwashed angels.
My uncle and I were very friendly to this brood, and soon there were three or four of the children on our shoulders, as many on our knees, and the rest bet
ween our legs. Those who could talk kept saying ‘Saellvertu’ in every conceivable tone of voice, while those who could not shouted all the louder.
This concert was brought to a close by the announcement that supper was ready. At that moment our guide returned from feeding the horses – that is, from taking the thrifty course of turning them loose to graze; the poor animals had to be content with cropping the scanty moss on the rocks and some not very nourishing seaweed; the next day they would not fail to return of their own accord to resume work.
‘Saellvertu,’ said Hans.
Then quietly, automatically, without one kiss being any warmer than another, he kissed the host, the hostess, and their nineteen children.
When this ceremony was over we sat down, twenty-four in number, and therefore literally one on top of the other. The luckiest had only two children on their knees.
However, silence fell on these little people at the arrival of the soup, and the taciturnity natural to Icelanders, even in childhood, resumed its sway. The host served out to us a soup made from lichen and by no means unpleasant, then a huge piece of dried fish swimming in sour butter which was twenty years old and therefore, according to Icelandic ideas of gastronomy, vastly preferable to fresh butter. With this there was some skyr, a sort of clotted milk, accompanied with biscuits and seasoned with the juice of juniper berries; and to drink we had a thin milk mixed with water, which they call blanda. Whether this strange food was wholesome or not, I am not in a position to judge; all I can say is that I was hungry, and that at dessert I drank a thick buckwheat broth down to the last spoonful.
As soon as the meal was over, the children disappeared, and their elders gathered round the hearth, where there was a fire of peat, briar, cow-dung, and dry fish-bones. Then, after this ‘warming-up’, the various groups retired to their respective rooms. The hostess, as was customary, offered to take off our stockings and trousers; but on meeting with the most graceful of refusals on our part, did not insist, and I was at last able to snuggle down in my bed of hay.
