MOLDE—THE GOOD SHIP “TASSO”—STATLAND—AALESUND—MOLDE
LANDING—HERR BUCK—THE LOVE OF FLOWERS AT MOLDE—THE LEPER
HOUSE—MOLDE TO VEBLUNGSNÆS—THE BEAR AND THE PIGE—ROMSDAL
FJORD—AAK—THE RAUMA—THE OLD CHURCH OF GRYTEN—THE
CANDELABRA—HERR ONSUM—NÆSS—THE SKYD-GUT—THE SAIL WITH SEA
ROVERS—THE INEBRIATED BAKER OF WHITE BREAD—OLE LARSEN—THE
LAAVE—HERR LANDMARK AND THE HOTEL AT AAK—KJERULF THE
COMPOSER—THE ROMSDAL HORN—THE TROLTINDERNE—FIVA—THE
MEAL HOUSE—THE STEEN-SKREED—THE SOLGANG WIND—THE SHEEP
BOY AND GOAT HORN—SEA-FISHING—WOODWORK—CARRIOLES—HOW TO
CROSS A RIVER—OLD KYLE—MØLMEN CHURCH, AND THE SLEEPER’S
CURE—FLIES—SALMON-FISHING FROM A TINE.
To those going northward Molde has especial interest for many reasons:
its situation is beautiful, its climate delightful, its vegetation
luxuriant, its flora abundant, and, as a centre to radiate from, it
is most convenient. To arrive there one becomes associated _pro tem._
with the good ship _Tasso_. “Good ship” is used, in this instance, as
a term of affection among old Norwegians. In former days it was rarely
that any save real sportsmen or regular fishers were to be found on
board. Every one was known. The steward knew every one by name; the
captain looked forward to seeing his “regulars,” and could tell exactly
how much he would see of each individual passenger. Judging from the
weather, he could guess the number for each festive meal in the saloon,
and knew without a doubt who would propose to smoke a cigar on deck, or
one more pipe before turning in, and who would be ready to spin a good
yarn if there were any chance of conversation flagging. From Hull to
Trondhjem a fraternity existed, on condition that no one betrayed undue
curiosity about his fellow-traveller’s river. That condition carried
out, any one might kill his fish over and over again, and even add a
pound or two, rather than the relater should not be happy. The captain
of the _Tasso_ was decidedly a favourite, and could the weather at all
times have proved as fair as the captain himself, the _Tasso_ would
have been always crowded with passengers; for even in spite of the
stormy winds of the North Sea there has been such a thing as a telegram
for the captain, hoping he would wait for the next train, as ——
wanted to go by the _Tasso_. There is much sentiment about this dear
old vessel. Light as a cork, in a breeze she can throw you up off your
legs, and catch you somehow when you come down. She is lively, but that
is better than being driven through everything, tunnelling the long
seas. Besides, if the Saturday be very bad, and Saturday night too,
Sunday afternoon generally improves matters, and by the evening some
ladies venture up in the captain-cabin on deck for a little fresh air,
and are well looked after; for the captain himself, in spite of having
been up all night, comes out with his personal appearance unimpaired,
and buttoning his gloves, which he wears only on Sundays. He had a
very impressive way of buttoning the right glove, as if a great work
had just been completed, and the mere act would revive the passengers.
Still he was a thorough sailor and a great favourite, and everybody
regrets that he no longer commands the _Tasso_.
[Illustration: _The Landing-Place: Molde._]
[Illustration: _Molde, from above the Town._]
This vessel, which leaves Hull on Friday night, with her course
north-east, ploughs, or rather bruises, the North Sea until
Monday morning, when the first land is made, which is generally
Statland—bluff, wild, precipitous, and if not almost uninhabited,
at all events very sparsely populated. Having made this point, the
_Tasso_, altering her course, runs up the coast for Aalesund, before
reaching which the number of passengers on deck increases. Passengers
are always divided into two classes—the well and the unwell, or
“marines.” It is surprising how strongly the marines muster at this
point, and discover that they would have come up before if they had
known there was anything really worth getting up for. Not a syllable
do they utter about how they envied those humble people who were
always asking for more roast beef, and who relished bottled stout.
Neptune’s habit of rocking stops many a hearty meal, and keeps many a
visitor from Norway, levelling even the great and mighty; for even the
president of a learned society has been seen lying on the deck, rolled
up in a blanket, with the large red letters “Scandinavia” across his
vertebræ, helpless and mute, though his object in coming was to talk
Norske; but the sea god denied him the luxury until he arrived at the
land of Thor and Odin. Aalesund will be described afterwards.
[Illustration: _Sea Warehouse: Molde._]
The _Tasso_ arrives at Molde on Monday afternoon or evening, according
to the run. If it is a fine evening, what a lovely sight after the
permanent unbroken horizon of the last three days! On the left lies
Molde; on the right, mountains, snow ranges, islands, and fjord
entrances running up to Veblungsnæs, Alfernæs, and Eikesdal. Some have
described Molde as a Naples; but the two places are as different as
is Stockholm—sometimes called the Venice of the North—from Venice
itself. Let each have praise for its individual beauty and grandeur,
but no comparison can well be made.
[Illustration: _The Flower Market: Molde._]
The _Tasso_ does not come alongside; the small coasting steamers do.
Boats, therefore, come out, when one soon sees what seamen these
Norsemen are; and the women are as good as the men. The principal
figure as well as the voice most distinctly heard is that of Jacob, the
polyglot and ubiquitous porter from the hotel. Molde was once famous
for an hotel kept by Herr Buck and family, whose kindly reception and
unceasing attention were a pleasure to the visitor. In front of the
house were honeysuckles, clustering roses, geraniums—not yet called
pelargoniums at Molde—wallflowers, fuchsias, and almost every kind
of flower. With such good quarters, such attention, and such natural
beauty, how could any one be disappointed in Molde? Yet so it was;
one’s fancy was blighted by the footmark of civilisation—modern dress
had supplanted costume. The _taille de Paris_ was attempted, although
it has not, up to this time, much reduced the general solidity of the
Scandinavian waist. The heads of the people are much more transformed,
and soon become smiling victims to the first phases of the vile taste
for artificial flowers, feathers, and tawdry finery. If they only knew
the dignity of simplicity and the charm of good silver ornaments handed
down for generations, they would never so debase themselves.
[Illustration: _The Churchyard: Molde._]
Molde is almost entirely built of wooden houses painted white. In
the lower basement the storehouses run out over the water for some
distance, being built on most picturesque piles of timber, with solid
galleries, affording delightful peeps seaward. This warm spot, nestling
under the mountains, faces the south, and is naturally celebrated for
the vigour of its vegetation and the luxuriance of every variety of
floral growth, which is centred in the churchyard, where every Moldean
tries to outvie his neighbour in the culture of fair flowers on the
graves of those dear ones who have been called home. What a beautiful
thought is this to keep before one through life—to be called home, and
to look upon death as a friend, or as a schoolboy does upon his exit!
Happy indeed are those who can do so! It has a soothing influence,
which conduces to cheerfulness in old age; and what is cheerfulness in
old age but a looming of the immortality of the soul, as the outer case
begins to fade away?
This lovely spot has been selected as the best locality for an
establishment to solace the poor victims of that terrible scourge of
the North—leprosy. White as a leper, and shining as Gehazi, Elijah’s
servant—that is the aspect of Eastern leprosy. Not so in the North.
The features of the Northern leper become purple and hard, and the
feet swollen and fearfully disfigured. It is brought on by the absence
of vegetable diet and the constant use of salt fish. The hospital is
situated outside the town, on the south-west side, and is coloured
yellow.
Many routes start from Molde, and much character may be noticed
on board the steamers—small practical craft, with very efficient
captains—good seamen and remarkably obliging—a quality most
acceptable to the traveller. But this attention is only accorded to
those who adopt the axiom of the late Dr. Norman Macleod, who said the
best language to travel with was, “Yes, if you please,” and “No, I
thank you,” whether in domestic life or _en voyage_. It would conduce
greatly to home harmony if this were more generally adopted. It is a
wholesome contrast to a woodcut in _Punch_ by that keen observer of
human nature, John Leech, who portrayed a Transatlantic brother holding
a revolver at the head of the person sitting next to him, adding only
the simple words, “Pass the mustard.” To return, however, to the deck
of the steamer.
The lower class in Norway chew and expectorate; the upper class
smoke, and some carry pipes. Carry is the correct term, for the pipe
belongs to the class impedimenta. As the map of France is divided into
departments, so may be the travelling pipe of Norway. First department,
the mouthpiece; next, the elastic, to ease off the roll of steamer or
jostle of stranger; then a huge silver tassel, generally two; then a
stem and a joint; and finally the bowl of meerschaum. What an _écume de
mer_! What a responsibility to travel with such an instrument! It is
quite an apparatus—worse than a _narghile_ or _chibouque_: less coil,
but more tassel. The bowl of the pipe is generally surmounted by a
huge silver cover in the form of a crown. Our woodcut gives a specimen
of one in the possession of an officer on a tour of inspection along
the coast or fjord. As he is represented with his back to the land, it
is only just to mention that there was some object of interest in front
of him.
[Illustration: _The Coast Inspector._]
One more word for the _Tasso_. Returning from Trondhjem, she generally
calls at Molde. Should bad weather come on, the waiting for twenty-four
or forty-eight hours in constant expectation is wearying to a
degree. One hardly dare patronise the good baths of Molde, admirably
arranged as they are, so unmercifully do the jelly-fish sting; but
the advantages of sea-bathing are irresistible, so, in spite of being
stung, we indulge in a bath while waiting for the steamer, and in the
midst of it we hear the alarming whistle of the _Tasso_. Rapid exit
and hurry-skurry, in which tradition says the Tentmaster-general,
anxious to be first, was last, from having tried to put on his flannel
shirt without towelling sufficiently beforehand. Hurried as we were,
there was still a ceremony to go through, which could not be omitted
without giving offence. The bath attendant is most careful in his
attention to visitors, who generally give him twopence. On receiving
this honorarium he observes an old custom in Norway, that of shaking
hands and thanking the donor; so we all kept up the good old charter,
and received his kind wishes for our safe return to England and our
homes. Unquestionably we carried with us delightful recollections of
the kindness of the people, and especially of the _bönder_ folk—many
souvenirs to remind us of localities visited, and very deep impressions
of the charm of their simple life, undisturbed, as it seemed, by those
little envyings, strivings, emulations, and jealousies which, like
mosquitoes, sting and irritate, to the misery of their unhappy victims.
[Illustration: _Veblungsnæs: Romsdal._]
Surely the man who loves God, worships Him through nature, and traces
his majesty in creation, would enjoy the spot depicted in the woodcut,
where the village of Veblungsnæs is shown close to the edge of the
fjord, backed by the snow range. What a neighbourhood to have round
one! And what a contrast to the idea conveyed by the same word in
modern acceptation! Here the sea-water of the fjord washes the edges of
the hamlet, in many parts bluffly repelled by huge and mighty façades
of rocks; there a ravine terminates in a waterfall into the sea itself.
Valleys branch off in all directions, excursions are numerous, and many
new ones still remain unexplored. The high fjeld is easy of access
from Veblungsnæs, and real bear valleys are near, where Bruin exists
and has met with his death at the hands of our countrymen. Natives
have offered to go on the terms of “no bear, no pay.” This betokens
an amount of practical confidence which is a prominent feature in all
bargains between Scandinavians and our folk. Bruin is still a terror
in some parts, and especially to the _sæter_ people, or _piger_. For
instance, near Isterdal the following circumstance occurred to a
friend:—Scene, lonely _sæter_. English traveller approaching. _Pige_
appears at window imploring help and beseeching traveller’s assistance.
A bear has been down, and killed a cow. The _pige_ positively dare
not come out until the Englishman shoots the bear that killed the cow
that frightened the _pige_. Now comes the sad finale. The dead cow
could not be found, neither could the bear; and even had the latter
been discovered, the traveller had no rifle to shoot him with. Still
there can be no doubt of there being many yet left to be laid low by
our enthusiastic fellow-hunters in days to come. Veblungsnæs is hardly
appreciated by travellers, who are generally so bent on rushing forward
to the well-known comforts of Aak, that they are blind to the beauty
_en route_. Perhaps an innate longing to get away from villages makes
them anxious to dive at once to the more placid and less populated
parts. This place is generally reached by those who come from Molde
by steamer, in which case the entrance to the Romsdal fjord is a
grand subject, affording the most magnificent mountain and sea-scape
combined. Happier far is the traveller who goes in a small sailing
boat, with a good south-wester behind him, a tight sheet, and the
water hissing away all round her, thrown off from her bows and rushing
from her stern, as the crew lie down singing good Norske songs, some of
which are as long as Gaelic ones; and that is saying a good deal.
Veblungsnæs is close to the mouth of the Rauma, which rises in Lesje
Vand, and after forcing its way through rocks and every kind of
obstruction, finally finishes its course among peaceful sand plains.
The village can boast of many good things. First, the church, or
_kirke_, then the post-office, telegraph office, station for carrioles,
a compulsory school, a baker of white bread, _præstegaard_, and a pier,
to say nothing of the store or shop. Having made a bouquet of these
charms, let us refer to them _seriatim_.
The church is the old wooden structure from Gryten which was buried
in the sand, and stood, as shown by the spire on the right hand side
of the illustration, looking from Næss. It was moved about fifty
years ago, and at that time was painted red, having only of late
years assumed the more sombre hue which now characterizes its roof
and spire—namely, black. The interior is plain fir; the pulpit is
high up over the altar, and of a general light blue tone; while on
the right side, on the ground, is the bishop’s stall, panelled up to
the galleries, which go round the church. The candelabrum that hangs
in the centre from the ceiling is very elegant in design, and made of
pinchbeck; it is dated 1770. The silver candlesticks on the altar, one
on each side, are large and massive; these are lighted three times a
year—Christmas, Easter, and at the end of the forty days. The first
priest appointed to Gryten commenced his work in 1514.
Here we saw a funeral, which was largely attended, as the church is
on a main road. The coffin was followed by seven _stolkjærs_ and many
people, some of whom had driven on before; but there was no clergyman
to officiate.
The post-office is kept in a very unofficial way. Calling one day, we
found that the _post kontouress_ (who, by the way, is a very superior
person) was not at home, having left her official duties to assist
at four o’clock tea—_société_. The postman is picturesque, with an
enormous portmanteau, with irons, chains, and such fastenings, to
assist in the protection of which he carries a horn and a revolver (see
p. 87). He goes from this office to Dombaas, so that sometimes, from
the difference of elevation, he will sledge one part regularly, and
carriole the other. Before leaving the post-office we will thank the
_chef_ for all her kind attentions to us and many of our countrymen.
The telegraph office is admirable. English spoken, and every
information.
The carriole station is at Herr Onsum’s, who seems to be the squire
of Veblungsnæs. Here _tout est Onsum_—hotel, boats, land, and store.
Every one has a good word for the member of the Storthing, Herr Onsum,
and his musical and well-educated family.
[Illustration: _Carriole crossing a River._]
The school is, throughout Norway, for all denominations, and compulsory.
As to the baker of white bread, this personage is mentioned because
white-bread bakers are few and far between, and a valuable adjunct
to Fiva, where we stopped. Twice a week “our daughter” drove in from
Fiva to the baker at Veblungsnæs, about nine miles in and nine out.
Sometimes the white bread was not ready, and after a nine-mile carriole
drive, with a long ford across the river, it is rather trying to go
back empty-handed. Occasionally there were additions, such as _rød
fiske_, or red sea-fish, like very large mullet, hanging from the
carriole, and picturesque in colour, to say nothing of odd baskets
banging about. We must some time have a sketch of “The Return from
Market through the Ford, with the Skyd-gut Boy behind.” Our daughter’s
boy was rather an old one, Ole Fiva as he called himself—the _gamel
skyd-gut_. The occasional one was very young, and very nice indeed:
as he did not understand English, his answers resolved themselves
almost always into the “blushing grin” of good-hearted innocence. At
last “mee boy Matthias”—pronounced _Matteeus_—found an outlet for
his feelings, and brought red berries, or _tyttebær_ in his cap; and
when he found them accepted, and that his offering gave us pleasure,
he grinned and blushed more than ever. But why were we not sure of
getting our white bread when we sent so far for it, hail, rain, or
shine? For this reason. One day there was a glorious breeze out in the
fjord, the white horses were showing their crests, while the gulls and
terns were sweeping round us. What a day for a sail! Herr Onsum had
a good sea-boat, and would be sure to lend it to us if we asked. We
did. My wife, daughter, self, Ole Fiva, with three Norwegians, full of
sea-rovers’ expeditions and sagas, for a crew, were soon on board. As
the craft was lying by the landing-place her bowsprit naturally rose up
and down as the waves heaved her hull, when a voice came from the end
of it: “Ole, Ole! Spørge, Ole, spørge!” Ole took no notice, and again
came the same appeal from a figure with a white cap and jacket. It
was the baker of the white bread, hanging on with a desperate effort,
asking permission to go for a sail with us instead of getting our _vid
brod_ ready for us to take back. Judging from the uncertain movements
of the applicant, it is to be feared the supply of white bread is
equally precarious at Veblungsnæs.
[Illustration: _Næss._]
Our view of Næss is taken as looking up the Rauma River. On the left
are the Vengetinderne, the Karlstrotind, and the Romsdal Horn over the
valley, down which flows the river Rauma by Aak; the centre peak is the
Mid-dag Horn; and on the right is the Isterdal valley, with the Biskop
and Drönningen towering above. The little spire of Gryten is inserted
here to show where it stood before its sand immersion and removal to
its present resting-place. From this point one obtains a grand view and
general idea of the immense sand and grit deposit collected here from
the two valleys of the Rauma and Ister, the greater portion of which
was ground off the sides of the valleys by the great glaciers when the
glacial period was in full action, and before all the mighty ice giants
melted at the presence of the new visitor to the coasts of Norway, the
gulf stream. All down the valleys the rocks are worn and ground round
by the _débris_ in the ice as it passed down. Only some such phenomenon
as that referred to could have so raised the temperature and worked
such changes.
On the following page an old friend is shown at work by the
riverside—Ole Larsen, a shoemaker of simple habits and small
_clientèle_, but very large family, about eighteen in number. Unlike
many of our followers of St. Crispin, he begins _ab initio_, with
the skin as removed from the animal, and is now getting the hair off
previously to tanning. It can well be imagined that Ole Larsen does
not do a large business in the course of the financial year, and the
family seldom get meat, their whole nourishment being _brod og smör_,
bunkers, and cow comforts.
The Norwegian farm-building is called a _laave_, and is so constructed
that the hay-carts can drive right in under cover, and be unladen at
convenience: underneath are generally stables and a cow-house. Such a
_laave_ as the one shown on p. 116 will hold three ponies and about
twelve cows. During the summer the cows all go up to the _sæter_, and
about September return to the valleys, preparatory to their winter
session, when, poor things, they are generally shut up from October
right through the winter, till spring comes with all her brightness,
and releases these long-pent prisoners from their thraldom. It is an
amusing sight to see them first at liberty when the snow has melted
in the valley. They gallop, kick, frisk, career, and chase each
other; and the ponies join in the festivities with the cows and the
goats, and rejoice together for a time, until all finally agree that
there is nothing like good quiet steady grazing, to which they betake
themselves.
[Illustration: _Ole Larsen, our Shoemaker._]
Here seems centred all that is grand in nature, bold in outline,
interesting in geological formation, with the constant registers of
the ice passage down the valley, as it existed before the glacial
period was melted away by the influence of the gulf stream. The whole
valley suggests the idea of the crust of the earth having cracked in
cooling, the fissures forming these immense valleys. At the entrance
of the latter, as the river approaches the fjords or the sea, large
plateaux of sand have been deposited in past ages, and through these
sandhills the river forces its way, very frequently altering its
course, until finally it reaches the sea. These sand plateaux or
ridges are very distinctly shown at the entrance of the Rauma River, a
little above Veblungsnæs, and being exposed to the winds through the
two valleys—Romsdalen and Isterdalen—a change on the dry sand is
perceptibly going on at all times. This is especially to be noticed
at a spot called Gryten. In the maps it is marked as a church, and
a church there once was in the position indicated; but, as we have
already observed, it was so sanded up that it was taken to pieces and
removed to Veblungsnæs away from the sand-storms, and just bordering on
the fjord.
The tourist of the promiscuous class is sure to rejoice in this part of
Romsdal, as here is situated an old farmhouse, now adapted to modern
customs, and purveying comforts of all kinds not generally found in
Norway. A friend, visiting this happy spot some twenty years ago,
was kindly received by the proprietor, Herr Landmark, who is still
spared to conduce more than ever to the increasing wants of Norwegian
travellers. By degrees the farmhouse has developed, and is now, with
its new _annexe_, generally spoken of as the “Hotel at Aak.” Still,
how different is it from the modern idea of such things! Very much of
the leaven yet remains— the same kindly reception, and the _likkelig
reise_ to the parting guest. Many ask regretfully as they leave the
entrance of the house—in itself a picture: up four wooden steps to
a stage with two small tables and seats—where such is to be found;
others, perhaps just arrived, feast their eyes on the view over the
Rauma towards the Drönningen and Biskop, in Isterdal; while others,
again, anxiously watch for the first peep of the Romsdal Horn. Over the
door and by the side clusters generally a glorious honeysuckle, which
grows most profusely, and adds much to the picturesqueness. Inside, to
the left, is the _salle à manger_, out of which leads a small room,
which is, I believe, now generally left for any ladies stopping in
the house. Not much monotony is there, but many delightful evenings,
with a little music, and sometimes an exceedingly good rendering of
Mendelssohn, Schumann, Offenbach, or even the severe but sterling
Beethoven.
[Illustration: _The Farm at Aak._]
One evening, after a very earnest attempt on the part of our coterie to
sing some Norwegian songs by Kjerulf, it was discovered that amongst
those listening outside was the brother of the composer, Professor
Kjerulf, now of the Geological chair at Christiania. He expressed
himself as being highly gratified with the English appreciation of
his brother’s undoubted talent. All this musician’s work has great
individuality and crispness, and his airs always “go” well. Hear his
“Brudefærden.”
[Music: BRUDEFÆRDEN I HARDANGER.