Agust Gisli Grimsson Breidfjord
His Story - Part 2
Translated from his handwritten Icelandic by Anna Bjornson
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Agust Gisli Grimsson Breidfjord His Story - Part 2 Translated from his handwritten Icelandic by Anna Bjornson |
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I reiterate, as I said in the beginning of this story of my life, that I was born at Litli Kambi in Breidavik in Snæfellsnes sýsla. Litli Kambur was rented from Stori Kambur, where it is said in “Eirbyggju Saga” that Bjorn the Viking dwelt when he visited the Lady, Owner of Frod River, the sister of the god of Hellgafelli. When the writer of this story was about 2 years old, my parents moved to Brimilsvöllum in the same sýsla (Snæfellsnes). Brimilsvellir was on the south side of Breidafjord, right by the sea. They stayed there for two or three years and then moved to Dalasýsla, where my mother was brought up, at which time I was four years old. I don’t remember this very clearly, but I think there were two children in the family and they had to find another home for my sister, as we were so poor. They kept me with them so I was not able to grow up with my sister. Our sojourn together would have been of brief duration anyway, as she died when she was eight years old. My parents settled in a place called Skardsstrond in Dalasýsla, south of Breiðafjord by the sea. My father was a man servant while my mother worked in the house and they were able to keep me with them. It was there that I was first aware that I was living on this earth. The farm, in which we lived was called Efri Langey. It was called an island because the sea surrounded the farm during flood time, but during low tide, it was possible to walk on dry land to the mainland. Yes, there my first memories began, at perhaps five years of age. There is nothing particularly notable to remember, but I will say my first memory concerns a little girl, who lived in the home in Langey the Efri, my age or slightly older, with whom I played. We used to chase the cows out of the home field into the pasture. There were peat pits along the way, full of water, about ten feet deep, with a narrow ridge of earth about a foot in width between each of the holes. The little girl made a game of running along the ridge between the pit holes and she tried to get me to do the same but I refused, mostly because my mother had told me not to do so, and because I thought the water in the pits was too deep. The landscape resembled a net and I guess I wasn’t as brave as the little girl. Another incident I remember, is the fact that the son of the owners of the place played a trick on me by giving me brennivin so that I became very agitated. I remember my mother put me to bed when she found out what had happened where I thrashed around in a frenzy of anger. Such was the effect the wine had on me. This sticks in my memory because I thought this a rather mean trick. One more occurrence in this home, though not of any great importance, happened when I was either four or five. There was a hill, near the sea not too far distant from the houses. There was no pile of ashes in front of the house as there was in so many places in Iceland, in that era, but there was this clay hill. One morning the owner of the farm asked my father to mend a turf wall that was falling down (I think it was a shed for animals or a fence), and to use the sod from the hill to mend the wall. The next night, the farmer’s wife dreamed that a woman came to her and said that she had treated her very badly by letting this man ruin her home, and to see to it that it would be repaired. When the wife awoke in the morning, she told her husband about her dream, and asked him not to take any more sod away from the hill. Her husband wouldn’t listen, saying that such dreams were silly, and ordered more sod removed. The following night, the wife dreamed that the same woman returned and said that if the destruction of her property did not cease, the consequences of their act would be upon their heads. The lady of the house told her husband that she did not want any more sod removed from the hill and if he did not give that order she would see to it herself. The husband finally consented but still maintained that such dreams were pure foolishness. No more sod was removed and the holes filled in with hay. The mistress of the home never saw the strange woman again. This was the main topic of the household for some time, and young as I was it fascinated me, for it seemed a sort of mysticism. My parents worked in this household for about two years, after which my father built a little house on a stony hill, near the road to Stykkisholm, a village on Breiðafjord. The house was built of stone and sod and was eight feet by twelve feet in size. The stove was on the second floor for heating and cooking. While my father was building the house, my mother and I lived with the couple who shared the household on the farm. I was about six years old at this time, either more or less, it could be one way or the other for this is written from memory. I am going to mention one thing that happened to me, even though it is of little importance. While we were still living with this couple and before we moved to the new house, and since I still bear on my body the make of this incident, I wish to mention it. I was upstairs in the bedroom of Einar and Olina Benjaminsson’s home. I was allowed to go out of doors to play after I had finished the reading lessons given by my mother, which lessons I considered very difficult and tiresome before mastering the science of reading. I hurried too much, for as the saying goes “too much rushing around often does not end happily,” and I fell against the wall from which a tone projected. This caused a three-inch cut on my forehead, the scar of which I bear to this day since the wound was not stitched. I mention this as it seems to me to have been the main event of my first five years, it is not a major event but one of the first that I remember. My mother and I moved to the little house in 1875 and lived there until 1881 when we had to leave. At that time my father was what was known as a herdsman at large, which means that he worked wherever he was needed for very little pay during the winter. The wages were 12 kronur and found for 6 months and that was the scale of pay for such work at that time in that area. My father was a good herdsman whose services were sought by employers but this did not mean that he was given higher wages, in spite of his good reputation and he did not ask for a raise. During the haying season my father and my mother hired out for about 6 to 8 weeks. The pay was 2 kronur for a grown man, or 50 cents a day lasting 14 to 16 hours. The women received 6 to 7 kronur for six days a week, or about one krona a day, which at that time was the equivalent of about twenty-five cents in American money in the years 1890 to 95. This was the wage scale for day workers. Men who worked on a yearly basis were paid 80 to 100 kronur per annum while women received 35 kronur. That is how the times were when I was growing up. During the haying season my father earned about 150 kronur. The rest of the year he worked for little more than his keep, with lots of work to do, which he did diligently and efficiently, the good herdsman and excellent worker that he was. I must have been six years old when we moved into the little house and at that time I began to take note of what was going on around me. Until I was 15 years old, that is during the next eight years, my parents hired out as day workers about six to eight weeks during the haying season, while I worked for my keep most of the summer while my mother went to work at another farm, or into the home of the man who taught me to write. Had we stayed in the little house much longer we would probably died from starvation or frostbite. Everyone who was then alive remembers the winter of 1881 and 1882. It has been established from the study of weather maps of the preceding 100 years that there had never been so much frost as that of the 1882, nor has there been for the last seventy-six. The sea froze for a considerable distance from the shore and horses with heavy laden sleds were able to travel on the ice. A man named Torfi Bjarnason traveled from Stikkosholm in Breiðafjord. He was a school master in Olafsdal. During the trip he spent a night at the farm where I lived after leaving the little house. I could see the load which seemed much too heavy for the little Icelandic horses to pull. We did not return to the little house in the fall, my father having been given permission to build a house, two or three English miles from the next farm. He had hoped to raise cattle but that did not come about, the spring of 1882 being so cold that the ice from the ocean covered the land and the animals lay dead in the fields and were practically nothing but skin and bone. The people would have died too, but fortunately many whales – thirty-two in number were washed ashore from Hunafloi. This was a great blessing and people went to all outlaying districts to gather up the carcasses. I believe my mother and I dwelt for two years in the house where we planned to become self-sufficient. The owner of the land was forever bothering us even if we had only three or four sheep. During this time I learned my catechism and was confirmed in the spring, the year I was 14 and that was the year I left. It was very easy for me to learn as I had good food and very little to do as there were no animals to feed, and was quite lonesome for I had no one to play with. I was often very frightened of the windstorms on that place, which my7 parents had named Gull Homrum (Gold Cliffs). There were some cliffs around there but I never was aware of any gold. There was quite a high cliff about a quarter of a mile from the house which had a division in the top of it and when the south wind blew it whistled through this cleft in the mountain so strenuously that it seemed that everyone and everything would be blown away, and then it became so still that one could have lit a match. One evening when my mother and I were at Gullhomrum, a storm blew up which caused the house to shake and shiver in every beam. I was about ten years old and not very brave. With each gust of wind, I expected the house to blow away. At bedtime which was at 10 or 11 o’clock, the storm abated and my mother went out to the kitchen to bank the fire, so that it would not have to be lit in the morning, matches, like everything else, being in short supply. When she reached the kitchen, she found that the turf roof had been blown away. Yes, I was very frightened by those windstorms. As I mentioned, bravery was not my strong suit, and my mother and I were alone and far away from help. Two years later, I was in a home where there were many people and I was not a bit frightened no matter how hard the wind blew. Later, during the summer we spent in that little house, I planned to do a very good job. I was fourteen years old and already knew how to use a scythe. I was going to be a big man and get hay for four or five sheep. I had cut enough hay, which was dry and stacked but a horse was needed to haul it to the barn. My father planned to borrow a horse the next time he was home. The night before the move was to be made, a strong wind blew all the hay over hill and dale. I felt that this was a great loss. In the spring of 1883, my father hired out as a hired man in the home of Pjetur Stefansson. I was fifteen years old at the time. Pjetur Stefansson was the nephew of Reverend Fridric Eggers of Ballar of Skardarstrond in Dalasýsla where this tory took place. At Pjetur’s I worked for board and my mother worked as a maid. We stayed there only one year as Pjetur gave up farming for a very good reason. He lost his mind during the latter part of the year we worked there. He was not dangerous, harming on one, but he did frighten me once. A man was hired to take care of him for he would get up in the middle of the night and visit the next farm, bothering the residents of that place. The guardian thought he could spare himself some bother by thing the door of Pjetur’s room shut. In the early morning I awakened by the sight of Pjetur standing by the bed in which my father and I were sleeping with a big knife in his hand. I was terribly frightened but did not let on. I heard my father call Ogmundur, the male nurse, but he apparently was frightened for he did nothing. Fortunately, Pjetur was not an evil man, for when my father started to talk to him about things long past, of a happy nature, everything was fine. This was one of my childhood memories – some memories being happy and some unpleasant. My dearest memories are those, which concern my mother, and may I never forget them. She was my only teacher from the earliest times until I was fifteen years old. After that we spent very little time together. My father did not have much to do with my upbringing for he was away so much of the time and he would probably have let my mother take care of me in any case. I knew that my father was a good man in word and deed, and he had that reputation among all who knew him. He did his work dutifully and well, though this was not always appreciated as it should have been, and we often suffered want on this account. He was not concerned with money matters, his mind being on higher things and so he always seemed to be content with his lot, trusting that God in His mercy would take care of him. My parents were alike in this respect. I said that my mother had taught me prayers when I was very young and before I learned to read. She said “My dear son, always remember to say your prayers and ask God in Jesus’ name, to help you and give you strength.” I have always remembered these words of my mother’s in each passing year in the school of life. I think this was a maxim of Halgrimur Petursson taken from his Passion Hymns, which are full of wise sayings, such as this one:
Your prayers to God will never fail Though sins of earth your life assail. When you are weary, in disgrace Prayer is the key to heaven’s grace.
I have felt that a sincere and heartfelt prayer, strengthens both body and soul, a prayer that asks for strength and support to do the tasks of life with honesty and faithfulness, not one which petitions God for our own selfish gratification so that we need not lift a finger to help ourselves. In the spring of 1884, my father hired out to Thorlakur of Melum Bergvinsson for a tour of duty of one year, in the same township and county of Skardarstrond in Dalasýsla, while my mother went to work in a place she found for herself. I still worked for my food and keep, plus clothing, all of which was of a scarce nature in Melum. I was then sixteen years of age, rather small in stature and my father and I lived there for five years or so. I enjoyed my stay there very much for I found that living alone with my mother was rather a lonely existence. Seeking its own age level seems to be the nature of youth. After I joined Thorlakur of Melam’s household, most of my time was spent at sea in the company of my master. We followed the fishing and spent the winter under Snæfellnes glacier. My master and I went on short journeys by sea, moving people from island to island or to the shopping center. I loved the sea and had I remained in Iceland, I would, no doubt have followed that mode of life. But that was not to be. Thorlakur was considered a very fine seaman, as were so many of the people of Breiðafjord. I was particularly impressed by his skill in handling a small open boat in the stormiest of weathers. No matter how high the waves rose, Laki seemed to be able to know what to expect and to gauge their danger. I was never afraid at sea when I was with him, though he did take chances, especially when he had had a drink. He never did drink to excess. He taught me a lot about how to sail a boat. As I said before, my father was hired as a workman by the year, as was the custom in Iceland. He tended the cattle, sheep and horses winter and summer, and was usually the only man on the farm as my master was seldom at home, having little inclination for farming. His first love was the sea, but not being particularly lucky as a fisherman, his income was small. Food was often scarce in his household and many times I went hungry. At that time I was between fifteen and twenty years of age, a time of life when one’s appetite is very great. The fourth of fifth year that I spent a Melum, just after New Years, when it was time to put out to sea from under the glacier at Snæfellnes, I became very ill. I never did discover the nature of my illness, for a doctor never did come near me. I guess it must have been a type of flu, which began with a high feaver, weakness and nervousness. I spent most of the time between New Years and Easter in bed. I was so weak that I had to be carried from the ship to my master’s home. My mind seemed to be affected with a great worry concerning the future. I do not think that I every fully recovered from this illness, at least as far as physical strength is concerned. I believe that my illness was caused by the following event. During the time we were fishing under the glacier, we spent the night in Stikkisholmi, a merchandizing town in Snæfellssýslu. Our ship was tied to the dock that night, and I was instructed to watch for any change in the weather which might endanger our boat. He then secured a place for me to spend the night in the grocery store. The other shipmates stayed with friends while my master spent the night with the “big shots” of Stikkisholmi. The night was very frosty with so much wind that I was unable to sleep. The danger to the ship from the wind was negligible, but I did not dare but check on it from time to time. The ship lay about 100 feet from the store, but it seemed a long way to go in the cold and storm and I shivered mightily all night. The corner where I slept was very cold and the covers far from adequate. I had made two trips to check on the ship, when on my third such excursion, the owner of the store met me at the door. He asked me where I was going and when I told him, and he saw how cold I was, he said that the ship was perfectly safe and told me to go back to bed. I obeyed him but sleep did not come readily, the room being so bitterly cold. The next morning, we went out to Hellirssand, under the glacier to fish, but I did not get warm until I had spent some time at the oars. (As the Kerling said, “that’s one place where one can get warm”). About three or four days after this I became deathly ill, without any doctor care, lying in the very poor housing that was available in that area. These sea shelters were very unsanitary. The fishing lines were baited on our beds, for there was no other place to do this chore except outside under the sky. The people who dwelt in these houses were almost destitute, without means to repair their homes. The fishermen who did not have a home in the landing place were forced to rent sleeping quarters for a night or two for a very small price. I will never forget the care and kindness shown me by the woman in whose house I stayed during this time. My master did not seem overly concerned, for when I returned home, people were shocked at my condition, its seriousness having been downplayed. He probably made so little of it, to keep my parents from worrying. I honestly think he did not really know how sick I was. It took most of the summer to recover my strength and I still think I never was the same man again. In Thorlakur’s home I enjoyed many good times with young and old. Travellers often stayed overnight and we youngsters loved their stories and songs (which may not always have been of the greatest quality). The guests brought us news from afar, and sometimes men of learning and intelligence stayed the night. All in all, those five years I spent at Melum, were the most carefree that I knew in the dear land of my birth, Iceland. I did not always feel well, but I do not blame the land, cold and stormy, though it may have been “The land is gloriously beautiful, with clear blue skies and shining seas.” God bless our dear land and its happy language! I mentioned that at times there had been singing at Melum. From that time to this, music has given me much enjoyment. Mother, who was equally fond of melody, had taught me many songs which we sang together when I was small. We did not know as many songs then as are familiar to all nowadays and musical instruments were few and far between, a mouth organ with ten holes being our sole means of making melody. In 1885 I knew of but one organ in the whole county. The tune might have been learned correctly in the beginning but as the melody was carried from one farm to another, it changed a little each time. No one read notes and besides there was no instrument on which to play them. I will never forget how thrilled I was when I heard the organ played for the first time. This happened at Skardi in Sakardarstrond, the area in which I dwelt until the age of twenty. During my travels in that area on a Sunday afternoon, I stopped at Skardi, just at the time that the custom of House Reading was taking place, and being invited in, I sat down and then heard the most lovely tones coming from the organ. I recognized the tune right away, it being hymn #13, “Laerdoms timi opin er.” I will remember this occurrence as long as I live on this earth, or perhaps longer, who knows. From the time I was a boy, I have longed to play a musical instrument, but circumstances prevented the realization of this dream. I built many castles in the air before maturity made me sensible to the realities of life. I dreamed of getting a good education and becoming a lawyer and eventually becoming a sheriff for such an official wore clothes with gold buttons. When this dream failed, I wished to become an artisan, learning carpentry and metal work, but most of all I wished to study music. But my life’s story was different. As Thorsteinn Erlingsson says in his poem “Youth”— How sweet was our childhood, how blithesome and free Before we were plagued by the struggles of life. How many the moments spent happily Before we faced the trouble and the strife. Dead are the flowers that bloomed in our Junes. Our castles in the air are lying in ruins. It is now seventy or eighty years since I dreamed my dreams. In those days it was not considered practical to learn carpentry, the young people being discouraged from following their ambitions and told that study was a waste of time. The standard answer to any leanings in that direction was “You’ll never become a carpenter” or whatever course one wished to pursue, be it music or building. Such an occupation did not put food on the table. But then, even if one did not waste one’s time on study and worked diligently on the farm, it often happened that all one had to fill the pot was water, of which there was plenty in Iceland’s lakes, rivers and wells. My mother made this remark once, when she and my master, Thorlakur of Melum, were arguing the merits of farming versus seafaring. My mother favored farming while Thorlakur sang the praises of fishing and seafaring (which occupation brought him little money). Laki said that there was often little food in the farmer’s pot, to which my mother responded that one could always fill the pot with water, referring to the many times that rations were short in Laki’s home. The subject was dropped hurriedly. In my youth, it often happened that those who combined farming with seafaring were much worse off than those who concentrated on farming alone. This was so in Thorlakur’s case. He never made any money on his fishing, in spite of his skill as a seaman. He should have been a captain on one of the ships which ran between ports, and he would have been a good one, for he was a courageous and able sailor. My father told me that Thorlakur did not fancy farming. During the time my father and I worked for him, my father took complete care of Thorlakur’s stock, during the winter, except for what little time I was able to give him a hand, when free from my seafaring duties. I believe I was going on 20 in the year 1889, when my parents changed their mode of living. Leaving Melum, they moved to Snæfellnes in Snæfellnes sýsla, to settle in a seafaring community called Brimilsvellir. The community consisted of ten houses, leased out in exchange for domestic service. Each home was surrounded by a small grassy plot whose hay was considered sufficient to feed one cow, but hardly ever was, the meadow being located on a hillocky field, where little grass grew. These fields, on the outskirts of the village, were constantly besieged by all manner of animals and served as a bulwark for the owner’s home, which was situated in the middle of the town and surrounded by a smooth and level lawn, well protected by the dwellings of the tenants. So the tenants were forced to look to the sea for sustenance, rowing out in boats rented from the owner, The King. I say “King,” for he referred to himself in this manner (“I am King of the length and breadth of my holdings). The ten families who rented these hovels, which were hardly livable, were poor and often times went hungry, the fishing being very slow in the wintertime. They rowed out to sea in boats, rented from the landlord. The boats were hardly seaworthy, for anything was considered good enough for these people who were struggling for themselves and their loved ones. Sometimes the fishing was so poor that we were unable to buy the protective skin clothing (outer clothing made from the hide of the sheep). Our feet were wet to the knees for it was necessary to wade into the sea to set the boat afloat, for there were no piers or bridges to compensate for the shallowness of the seashore. How uncomfortable it was to sit in wet clothing all day, for the fall nights were frosty and cold. The residents of this seafaring community lived, in the main on a diet of fish, prepared without butter or fat of any kind to season it. There was little cod in this area, and the winter and fall catch of this fish was of very poor quality, being barely large enough to feed one. The liver was worthless, a tragedy for the fisherfolk, who enjoyed cod liver fully as much as modern day people love good butter. As I have stated, the fishing in this area was so poor that what was left over after one’s need for food was taken care of, was hardly sufficient to trade for the necessities of life to be obtained from the farmers or the villages’ merchants. The poor were unable to buy any goods on credit, for there was no guarantee that the debt would be paid and they had nothing to offer as security. In the village store, the folks would try to buy 10 or 25 pounds of rye flour, 1 or 2 pounds of coffee and a few lumps of sugar to sweeten it. Of anyone buying more than this amount, it was said “He isn’t suffering want, since he is buying so much.” When not rowing out to sea because of the gales, the men were constantly going to the store since their purchases were so small. The blessed grocers did not pity them, in fact, they often kept them waiting until dark, during the short winter days, even though they were not particularly busy, and if they did not have a container, would throw the wares on the counter. Thus did the merchants of Olafsvik serve their customers in the year 1890. Unbelievable as this story is, it is, nevertheless true – though it might be better left unsaid. I believe that nowhere in Iceland was there as much poverty as there was in Olafsvik in the years 1880-1890. Much of the blame for these conditions could be laid at the doors of the merchants, i.e. those who managed the stores for their Danish owners. These storekeepers, who took care of the buying and selling, though they were Icelandic, often took advantage of the poverty and need of their fellow countrymen, cheating them and then treating them as if they were beings without feelings. The patience and steadfastness of the people of Brimilsvöllum was remarkable. Their ancestors and remained in that part of the country for generations and during the four or five years my parents lived there, not one person left, nor did I ever hear anyone mention the possibility of leaving. They seemed to have no thought for the future. Lack of education was very common in that community, I do not know what the conditions were in other seafaring communities. I think they must have been better for I often enjoyed good conversations with visitors from Hellisandi, under the glacier in Snæfellsnes. The people of Brimilsvöllum were good people, and like other good folks of other communities, willing to help each other, but the ceaseless struggle for a bare existence took all of their time. I will skip over many of the things that happened to me in Iceland, but I wish to tell of one thing that I find very memorable. I mentioned before that there were many fine seamen in Breiðafjord, the best being my master, Thorlakur Bersveinsson. But the sailors of Brimilsvöllum I found to be rather incompetent, especially in stormy weather. When the fishing was good, which rarely happened, the fishermen were known to overload their boats, which caused them to overturn with a loss of catch and men. One fall, during my stay there, we made an unusually good haul while fishing, but we did not overload the boat. The weather was unfavorable, but we had to stay close to the wind to reach the landing near our homes. The foreman who steered the boat was rather old, and though he had filled this position most of his life, in my opinion, was not a good seaman. I was sitting in the baler’s place, ready to do any baling of water that washed into the boat. All went well, at first, but when we were half way home, the wind freshened and the waves grew higher. The boat began to fill with water, chiefly through the ineptness of the foreman who steered this small boat as if it were a large battleship or a decked vessel. The boat practically swamped for I was unable to keep up with the amount of water which was washing into it, though I baled with all my might and did not spare myself, strong and healthy as I was in those days. I could think of nothing but the job before me, but I happened to glance at the foreman, only to find that he was following his original course of steering into the wind, so that the boat was practically useless and I expected that we would sink, momentarily. The sea was now beginning to flow into the back of the boat and I thought that my life on earth was about to end, but I continued baling, thinking of nothing else for what else was there to do. One of the sailors was holding the rope attached to the sail which was of the square type then in use in Breiðafjord. The rope was drawn through the sail and attached to a block, located high on the mast. On windy days, an able bodied seaman raised and lowered the sail by pulling or releasing the rope as needed. Just then I heard Pjetur Guðmundsson, one of the deckhands, call to the man holding the rope, “Are you crazy? Are you planning to lower the sail so that we lose the wind?” He grabbed the rope and called to the foreman to steer away from the wind so that we would have full power. The foreman took his advice and soon no more sea washed into the boat and we were out of danger. This was the most danger I ever encountered at sea in Iceland for in a few seconds we would have overturned. There was no help to be had for we were far from land on a stormy sea, with no boat in sight. Pjetur Guðmundsson and God who was watching over us, saved the lives of those seven men on that boat. Some people would just say “Accidents happen.” Throughout my life, I have felt that some loving almighty power has saved me from danger and that this help is always at hand, though we may not wish to acknowledge it, in our pride and misunderstanding. Most accidents on land and sea are the result of our own carelessness. We, who have so much to learn, think we know all that is necessary to lead us to success. We must learn to live in harmony. Christ said in the Holy writ “Peace I leave with you. Not as the world giveth, give I unto you.” There is little peace in the world, though there is much talk concerning this subject and we long for peace, above all. The men on top do not wish to lose money on such pursuits. This man Pjetur seemed to be the only one with some sense on that boat (I do not count myself or give praise in that area. Let others do that). But I did all that I could to help, and it was probably of not much consequence. I feel that the foreman’s actions led us into this danger and that the sailors’ fear, which prevented them from doing anything to help, only made things worse. I knew this Pjetur Guðmundsson slightly and I counted him a good man, spirited, patient and gentle and free from that conceit that they think only of their own worth and forget God. Pjetur was an intelligent man, completely uneducated as were most of the citizens of that village. One of his sons, Sigurður Kristofer Pjetursson, a very gifted man, has written and translated many books and articles on mysterious happenings. He composed a hymn which I consider one of the best I have ever heard—full of humility, fiath and trust in a loving God, Father of all men. He died of leprosy in the Leper’s Hospital in Reykjavík. There does not seem to be much need to write more about my last five years in Iceland. In the first place, I don’t suppose that many people will read this history and to tell the truth, the things that I endured were not unusual in the Iceland of that time. The abject poverty of the people was not due to lack of trying, though the more fortunate were quick to blame. The only recourse for those who were unable to help themselves, was to go into domestic labor for little more pay than their food, which often was meager, should it happen that the wages (always small), had not been settled before hiring. A man was usually paid 80 kronur a year, while a woman would be given 30 kronur with some clothing thrown in. This amount of pay was never enough to give a man the opportunity to become independent, during those years of 1880 to 1884. Land or houses for rent were not to be had, nor were other articles to set up housekeeping in abundance. At sea, the catch of fish was always small until the introduction of decked ships in 1890. These, and other hardships forced many of the poor people to leave their native land and seek their fortune elsewhere. Those who did not have the means to pay the fare to Canada, were often loaned money by fellow travelers, seeking a better life than they had found in their native land. Some borrowed the fare from relatives and friends in the Western World. Before I leave the story of my last year in Iceland, I wish to give a picture of the poor families of Brimilsvöllum. You who have never experienced such hardships may find this hard to believe. Credit was not extended to these poor people for salt with which they could preserve their excess fish—making it impossible for them to salt and dry their fish and thus receive a much better price for it. No, they had to sell it fresh to the merchants for half the price. I often carried 100 pounds (Danish) or 110 pounds (English) of fresh cod to the store for 75 aura to one Krona –25 aura for carrying such a load, a heavy burden for an unhardened man, over 6 miles of a long and rocky way or 12 miles there and back. The amount of one’s purchases bought in exchange did not make a heavy load to carry home. I assumed the role of the horse we did not have. No one forced me to do this. I did it for my dear mother, so that she could enjoy a little coffee and mola-sykur, for she said that mola-coffee was her best medicine. Doing this for her gave me so much pleasure and she rewarded me by welcoming me with open arms on my return late at night in unpleasant weather, as was often the case. Such was the life-style of many during those years. I could not see any future for us and this gave me a melancholy outlook on life in my younger years. I longed to help my parents, but this help seemed of little worth, after I had spent a long day at sea and brought home a catch so small that it was almost impossible to divide it among the fishermen. Sometimes I thought it would be better to die than to go on living this desolate life, which might be a long one. Then I seemed to hear a voice that said “It will not always be thus” and the thought came to me that I would hardly be of much help to my parents if I died right away, and if I could be of any assistance, I had better live a little longer. At the age of 22, I got the idea that I would go to Rejkavík to learn carpentry (by this time I had given up the idea of becoming a lawyer). I even planned to go to night school to study music and the organ, but my mother did not think well of this project. Besides, there would have been little opportunity for going to night school since carpentry apprentices were only given food and lodging. So there went another castle in the air. By this time many people had emigrated to Canada. My uncle Jóhann Geir had settled in North Dakota and my father received letters from him from time to time, in which he told him of the opportunities for a good living to be found there. I felt that my father often considered moving to Canada or the United States, but he did not see any way to accomplish this. Besides, my mother was not particularly anxious to move to another hemisphere. I then came up with the idea of going to Boston ahead of them, wehre I could work for their fare. I had learned from fishermen from that city who were fishing in Icelandic waters, that I could get free fare with them by working my way over. I was very pleased with this but when I told my mother, she discouraged me from going for she was afraid that she would never see me again. I understand her feelings for I was her only child. A mother’s loving heart can only bear so much. She had suffered so much during her lifetime, losing all her near and dear ones, my father and I, the only ones she had left. She loved me as much as any mother has loved her child. I am reminded of Matthias Jochumsson’s poem, written in his mother’s words, when he left her to make his way in the world. My mother, I think, felt the same way. “I am weary, weak, undone. I fear the future and I grieve. For you are going, dearest son. I cannot bear to see you leave.”
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