Reykjavík Grapevine - 18.07.2014, Blaðsíða 46

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Vegetari
an Dish
of the D
ay
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 cli-
mate, 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 inhabit-
ants, worse off than
the dead, are bur-
ied alive. No gar-
dens, no cultivated
patches, no attempt
at anything orna-
mental 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 neigh-
boring bog; a rick-
ety shed in which the fish are hung up to
dry; a gang of wolfish-looking curs, hor-
ribly lean and voracious; a few prowling
cats, and possibly a chicken deeply de-
pressed 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.
Over-taxed by domestic cares, they
go down upon the wharves when a ves-
sel comes in, and by hard labor earn
enough to purchase a few rags of cloth-
ing 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 rac-
ing of horses up and
down the streets, un-
der the stimulus of li-
quor rather than natu-
ral energy, sometimes
made me feel quite at
home.
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 cul-
tivated 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 stu-
dents from all parts of the island, and
several of the professors and literary
men have obtained a European
reputation. Two semi-monthly newspa-
pers are published at Reykjavik, in the
Icelandic language. They are well print-
ed, and said to be edited with ability. I
looked over them very carefully from be-
ginning to end, and could see nothing to
object to in any portion of the contents.
E. J. Oswald: By Fell and Fjord, or,
Summer Scenes in Iceland (1882)
There are three streets in Reykjavik
parallel to the shore, and one leading
up inland at each extremity of the town;
these are nicely gravelled and neatly
kept. There is also a square, with grass
in the centre, in the middle of which
stands a fine statue of Thorwaldsen, the
only ornament of the town.
°The rest of it is all irregular, houses
dotted about by twos and threes over a
considerable space of country. The pub-
lic buildings consist of an ugly salmon-
coloured church they call the cathedral,
a plain whitewashed house for the gov-
ernor and a larger one, salmon-coloured
again, for the college.
Most of the houses are of timber
painted black, picked out with white;
many stand in gardens among hardy
flowers, or, with a complete disregard
for appearances, turnips and potatoes.
How I longed often to do a little
gardening, and square things up! for
the Icelanders have no ideas about
out-of-doors amenity. The houses
are, however, generally neat inside, and
some of them are daintily pretty; and
they are usually ornamented by roses,
carnations, and geraniums, blooming
in the windows, tender favourites which
are rarely exposed to the open air.
There are a few old turf-houses,
which are among the worst and small-
est specimens of the genuine Icelandic
bae or dwelling; and of late many new
substantial houses of grey whinstone
have been built. The red Danish flag
flutters from many a roof, and the whole
place has a thriving air, and an increas-
ing trade and population. The two or
three stores, which are like our High-
land "general merchants" shops, places
where you can buy everything rather
dear, are crowded in summer.
Sabine Baring-Gould: Iceland:
Its Scenes and Sagas (1862)
Reykjavík is a jumble of wooden shan-
ties, pitched down wherever the builder
listed. Some of the houses are painted
white, the majority
black, one has broke out in green shut-
ters, another is daubed over with or-
ange. The roofs are also of wood, and
coloured black or grey.
[...]
There are but two streets, and these
are hardly worthy of the name. One
leads from the jetty to the inn, and is
called Athalstræti, or High Street; in it
live the agent for the steamer and the
printer. The second starts from this
street, and terminates at a bridge cross-
ing a brook, which flows from the lake
into the sea. [...] The sea-front is occu-
pied by a line of merchant stores. The
moment that the main thoroughfares
are quitted, the stench emitted from the
smaller houses
becomes insupportable. Decayed fish,
offal, filth of every description, is tossed
anywhere for the rain to wash away, or
for the passer-by to trample into the
ground. [...]
An Icelander seems to have no
sense of smell; perhaps it is well that
he has none, for there is no possibility
of gratifying that sense, whilst there is
every opportunity of mortifying it. The
enoromous amount of snuff consumed
is one cause of this deadness in the
perception of scent. Nature has made
a mistake in forming Icelanders' faces;
she should have inverted their noses, so
as to facilitate their plugging them with
tobacco.
The town is full of idle men, who fol-
low the strange whithersoever he goes
- provided he does not walk too fast for
them. They hang about the stores as
thickly and stupidly as flies round a sug-
ar-barrel; they stream into the shops af-
ter me, throng so closely round me that
I can hardly move, listen to what I say,
eye me from head to foot, as the price
of every article of clothing I have on; bid
for my knickerbockers which, of course,
I cannot spare; feel my stockings, and
laugh to scorn their loose texture; criti-
cize my purchases, want to examine my
purse, but I object, and by so doing, hurt
the feelings of half-a-dozen [...]
They make advances towards famil-
iarity, shaking hands, asking my name,
then my father's name, then they inquire
who was my mother; they offer me a
pinch of snuff, or rather a pull at their
snuff horns, which are like powder-
flasks, and are applied to the nostril, the
head thrown back, and the snuff poured
in, till the nose is pretty well choked.
One man, very dirty and very drunk,
insists on having a kiss — the national
salutation; and, when the merchant
explains that such is not the English
custom, he kisses all the natives in
the shop, and embraces the merchant
across the counter. [...]
In character, the people are phleg-
matic, conservative to a fault, and
desperately indolent. They have a pecu-
liar knack of doing what has to
be done in the clumsiest manner imag-
inable.
46 The Reykjavík GrapevineIssue 10 — 2014LEMÚRINN
Lemúrinn is an Icelandic web magazine (Icelandic for the native primate of Mad-
agascar). A winner of the 2012 Web Awards, Lemúrinn.is covers all things strange
and interesting. Go check it out at www.lemurinn.is
“At a short distance
they look for all the
world like mounds in a
grave-yard. The inhab-
itants, worse off than
the dead, are buried
alive. No gardens, no
cultivated patches, no
attempt at anything
ornamental relieves the
dreary monotony of the
premises.”