IT ought,one would have thought,to have been night,even in the sixty-fifth parallel of latitude;but still the nocturnal illumination did not surprise me.For in Iceland,during the months of June and July,the sun never sets.
The temperature,however,was very much lower than I expected.I was cold,but even that did not affect me so much as ravenous hunger.
Welcome indeed,therefore,was the hut which hospitably opened its doors to us.
It was merely the house of a peasant,but in the matter of hospitality,it was worthy of being the palace of a king.As we alighted at the door the master of the house came forward,held out his hand,and without any further ceremony,signaled to us to follow him.
We followed him,for to accompany him was impossible.A long,narrow,gloomy passage led into the interior of this habitation,made from beams roughly squared by the ax.This passage gave ingress to every room.The chambers were four in number-the kitchen,the workshop,where the weaving was carried on,the general sleeping chamber of the family,and the best room,to which strangers were especially invited.My uncle,whose lofty stature had not been taken into consideration when the house was built,contrived to knock his head against the beams of the roof.
We were introduced into our chamber,a kind of large room with a hard earthen floor,and lighted by a window,the panes of which were made of a sort of parchment from the intestines of sheep-very far from transparent.
The bedding was composed of dry hay thrown into two long red wooden boxes,ornamented with sentences painted in Icelandic.I really had no idea that we should be made so comfortable.There was one objection to the house,and that was,the very powerful odor of dried fish,of macerated meat,and of sour milk,which three fragrances combined did not at all suit my olfactory nerves.
As soon as we had freed ourselves from our heavy traveling costume,the voice of our host was heard calling to us to come into the kitchen,the only room in which the Icelanders ever make any fire,no matter how cold it may be.
My uncle,nothing loath,hastened to obey this hospitable and friendly invitation.I followed.
The kitchen chimney was made on an antique model.A large stone standing in the middle of the room was the fireplace;above,in the roof,was a hole for the smoke to pass through.This apartment was kitchen,parlor and dining room all in one.
On our entrance,our worthy host,as if he had not seen us before,advanced ceremoniously,uttered a word which means "be happy,"and then kissed both of us on the cheek.
His wife followed,pronounced the same word,with the same ceremonial,then the husband and wife,placing their right hands upon their hearts,bowed profoundly.
This excellent Icelandic woman was the mother of nineteen children,who,little and big,rolled,crawled,and walked about in the midst of volumes of smoke arising from the angular fireplace in the middle of the room.Every now and then I could see a fresh white head,and a slightly melancholy expression of countenance,peering at me through the vapor.
Both my uncle and myself,however,were very friendly with the whole party,and before we were aware of it,there were three or four of these little ones on our shoulders,as many on our boxes,and the rest hanging about our legs.Those who could speak kept crying out saellvertu in every possible and impossible key.Those who did not speak only made all the more noise.
This concert was interrupted by the announcement of supper.At this moment our worthy guide,the eider-duck hunter,came in after seeing to the feeding and stabling of the horses-which consisted in letting them loose to browse on the stunted green of the Icelandic prairies.There was little for them to eat,but moss and some very dry and innutritious grass;next day they were ready before the door,some time before we were.
"Welcome,"said Hans.
Then tranquilly,with the air of an automaton,without any more expression in one kiss than another,he embraced the host and hostess and their nineteen children.
This ceremony concluded to the satisfaction of all parties,we all sat down to table,that is twenty-four of us,somewhat crowded.
Those who were best off had only two juveniles on their knees.
As soon,however,as the inevitable soup was placed on the table,the natural taciturnity,common even to Icelandic babies,prevailed over all else.Our host filled our plates with a portion of lichen soup of Iceland moss,of by no means disagreeable flavor,an enormous lump of fish floating in sour butter.After that there came some skyr,a kind of curds and whey,served with biscuits and juniper-berry juice.To drink,we had blanda,skimmed milk with water.
I was hungry,so hungry,that by way of dessert I finished up with a basin of thick oaten porridge.
