A BABY KUDSK--TYRI-FIORD--HÖNEFOS--LAKE SPIRELLEN--DINNER AT A
SANITARIUM.
Next morning (August 9th) we made an early start, with Hönefos as
the objective point for the day, the hotel there having been highly
recommended to us. The postboy (_kudsk_) who was to drive to the first
station on the route, two hours distant, was not a boy, but a man. And
that was a damper upon the enthusiasm with which we should have set
out; for all the authorities on Norwegian traveling assure one that the
drivers are invariably real boys--when they are not girls. Much of the
charm, and most of the risk, which is itself a delightful excitement to
some people, of carriage-riding in Norway, is always said to consist
in the fact that you are in charge of a joyous child, whose infantile
ways divert you, when there is nothing else worth looking at. As we
had already journeyed over a part of the road in a little ride we had
taken out of Christiania some days before, we would have been glad to
extract some amusement from the driver. At the next station there would
be a change on the box-seat, and we were hoping for somebody a little
smaller and less obstructive of the view, than postboy number one. But
we were not prepared for what happened. I had settled for my mileage
up to that point with the _skyddsskaffer_ (station-master), paid the
overgrown postboy the gratuity in _öre_ which usage decrees to him, the
tired horses had been taken from the pole and fresh ones put on, and
we were impatient to be off again, when a little chap climbed up to
the box-seat. He looked six or eight years old. I supposed he was the
youngest brother of the driver, who had not yet appeared. His toes, by
stretching, just touched the dash-board. The child was so very young
that we thought of asking him to take part of a spare seat inside if
he wished to ride to the next station. We waited five minutes for the
driver, when, what was our amazement, to see the reins handed up to
the mite! He took them in his baby-hand like an old coachman. Then he
prattled something in Norwegian. In reply he received a whip-stock with
about three inches of lash. He looked at it scornfully, and flourished
it in the air to show that it would not “crack.” The poor little fellow
wanted a real whip, with a thong about ten feet long, which he could
snap as he passed every house, like his father and his grandfather, who
were somewhere on the road that same day. But the station-master had no
better whip, or was unwilling to trust the child with one. He ordered
the carriage on. I saw a tear steal down the cheek of Toddlekins, and
heard an infantile sob, but he suddenly checked himself and made a
scarcely audible noise with his lips, and the horses, hearing that
signal to go, flew down the road. I stood erect for a while, ready to
jump to the box-seat and seize the reins; but in a very few moments
both the mite and the horses had my entire confidence.
The animals knew every inch of the road, and were perfectly trained.
They went fast or slow in the right places, and they turned aside
enough for every passing cariole or _stolkjærre_ (cart with seats for
two). Perhaps the horses should have all the credit for that highly
satisfactory drive. But we preferred to think that we owed our safety
and pleasure to the baby _kudsk_. At the foot of every hill he would
jump to the ground--I always felt like lifting him down--and, while the
ponies were struggling up, he would, in the gravest and most knowing
manner, inspect the state of the harness and the wheels, and be sure
that everything was right and tight. He was a model coachman, seen
through the wrong end of a telescope. When he had clambered up to his
seat again and all was going well, he would look in a distressed manner
at that mockery of a whip; he would repeat the motion of cracking it,
and when the miserable apology for a lash would not make the slightest
noise, his lip would quiver and he could hardly hold in his tears. We
were sorry that we had no candy to give him at the end of the ride, but
made up for it in small coin. If he had been a shade cleaner, I might
have kissed him for his mother, at parting.
At this second station, Holmedal, we commanded a view of the
Hols-Fiord, a branch of the larger Tyri-Fiord. It is a ribbon of fresh
water winding between crags and wooded slopes and would pass for a lake
in any other country but Norway. It has no direct connection with the
salt-water, violating my preconceived notion of a fiord, which I had
always supposed to be a true arm of the sea, thrust far up into the
land like the fiord of Christiania, at the head of which stands the
beautiful city of that name. But one soon comes to learn that the same
sheet of water is called a fiord or a lake according to the caprice
of writers about Norway, who are at swords’ points on all subjects.
Lake George (New York), or the Italian Lake Como, would pass for a
fiord in Norway. But, aside from questions of nomenclature, there is
no disputing the loveliness of Hols-Fiord or of the nobler Tyri. We
looked down upon a mirror, which perfectly reflected the green hills
and the beetling rocks that composed its frame. There was not wind
enough for sailing, and the surface of the fiord was unvexed save by
a few fishermen’s boats lazily rowed through the smooth water. The
original lotos-eaters, stretched along the ground covered with dry-pine
needles in the rear of the house, would have been loath to quit the
idyllic scene. Nothing less imperative than a luncheon would have
called us away from it. We would have been more grateful for the savory
stew of mutton served at that meal, had we known that we were soon to
be put on short rations of meat. The one article of food that never
fails is the egg. The trout are left to flash their speckled sides in
the brook, instead of gracing the table. And by the road-side, millions
of bushels of delicious strawberries rot unregarded! All the women
and girls are busy in the house, and all the men and boys are guiding
and driving the mob of tourists. Thus the hen--which can scratch for
her living, and needs to be watched only for her eggs laid in the
neighboring barn--becomes the unfailing reliance.
At the Holmedal station, a man who was resting there, on his way to
Christiania, recognized the carriage as his own. Bennett had hired it
of him, and sublet it to me. The owner learned from me that I had
agreed to send it back from Odnæs to Christiania, by rail or steamboat,
at my own expense; whereupon occurred to him the brilliant idea of
getting me to sell it for him for his standing price of four hundred
kroner (about one hundred and twelve dollars). I thought he was joking,
and dismissed his proposition with a laugh. While we were lunching,
the man resumed his journey. On re-entering the carriage, I found
upon the seat a paper written in Norwegian, and signed by a name and
address. It proved to be a document authorizing the bearer (myself)
to sell the carriage at Odnæs for four hundred kroner. Nothing was
said about paying the money to the signer; that was taken for granted.
I was interested in gratifying his wishes, to the extent of fifteen
kroner--that being the freight-charge on the carriage from Odnæs back
to Christiania. I tried to make the sale, but without success. Such
instances of confidence in perfect strangers are, it is said, not rare
in Norway.
A boy about ten years old here took the reins. He was so much larger
and maturer than the preceding youngster, that he looked a man in
contrast. He had a whip with a long lash, which he cracked continually,
till I was impelled to check his exuberance of spirits. He also had the
fault--which it seems impossible to correct in the Norwegian _kudsk_,
old or young--of urging the horses down-hill at a headlong gait. They
all seem to think that this must give the greatest possible pleasure to
the riders. It is, indeed, agreeably exciting at times, when the road
is free of stones and sunken places. But we were journeying along the
side of the Tyri-Fiord at a good height above it, and did not want our
attention distracted from its calm, sunny bosom. In the post-luncheon
mood, we would fain have rested half an hour each at some of the
points. But, as this would have delayed the arrival at Hönefos till an
unseasonable evening hour, we took in the scene on the wing. At one
elevation we seemed to survey the whole expanse of the Tyri-Fiord. It
was apparently landlocked. Not till one examines a map does he discover
that a long strip of water--Drammenselv--links it to Drammens-Fiord,
which in turn leads up to the Christiania-Fiord. And this is the only
tenure by which the Tyri holds the title that is so misleading to
travelers. But, whatever its classification in geography, it is one of
the most picturesque pieces of water in Europe.
The tourist’s principal motive in visiting Hönefos is to see the
waterfalls. He wants those falls “neat,” as one may say--that is,
unmixed with baser things. If he could realize in advance the number
of saw-mills for which these falls supply the power, he would probably
stay away from Hönefos. His idea of a fall is of a body of water which
has nothing to do but tumble gracefully over rocks with a tremendous
roar and a following cloud of spray. If he is an American, and has
seen Niagara, he is sure to be very exacting in his requirement for
waterfalls. When such a man first beholds the cascades of Hönefos,
his feeling is one of disappointment. The saw-mills stand so thick as
to cut off the view of the foaming, white water at many points. The
bubbles that are borne toward him by the raging current are flecked
with the fine dust of wood. With the roar of the water is mingled the
sound of buzz-saws.
But one soon adjusts himself to the conditions of the scene. The falls
are so attractive that, when he has studied them a little while, he
ceases to note the planks, the boards, the shingles, which are piled up
on the banks of the Bægna River, and the dust that whirls past him on
all the surface of the water, and he no longer hears the saws as the
teeth eat their way through the hard Norwegian pine-logs. By shading
his eyes with his hand, he can shut out the mills which occupy the
middle distance, and imagine himself in the presence of Nature before
man had harnessed her up for his use. And when he inspects the branches
or side-issues of the cataract, he finds some as untamed and free as
any mountain-brook. In these he sees the natural fall of the waters
over rocks of their own choosing, uncontrolled by dams and sluices. The
Bægna is about an eighth of a mile wide at the place where it takes a
sheer plunge of thirty feet, and then races away in rapids. The best
view may be had in safety from a bridge immediately below the falls.
The village of Hönefos is compact and businesslike. But there is a
Garden of Eden at the north end of it. This is situated at a bend of
the river, where one can see the falls in the distance and hear their
deep roar free from the under-tone of the saw-mills. By a wise choice,
Glatved’s Hotel has been placed there, and the tired wayfarer knows not
which to praise the more, the quiet comfort of the well-kept inn or the
restful charm of the lovely grounds in which it stands. They are laid
out in walks, lined with flowers and fruit- and foliage-trees. In shady
spots stand little tables and rustic chairs for the use of those who
like to eat or drink _al fresco_. But that sort of thing, though very
romantic, is quite out of the question at nightfall, with the mercury
down to 55° Fahr. So we took our first meal at Glatved’s in the pretty
dining-room, and a very good supper it was. I distinctly remember the
crisp trout, the broiled chicken, the snowy bread, and a dish of
huckleberries with cream. There were few guests at that season of the
year, English for the most part, friendly and affable to us Americans.
Our sleeping-room was large and clean, and opened on a broad balcony
facing the river. There in the morning was served a capital breakfast.
The sun shone brightly. The distant falls sparkled. The roar of the
water was a musical bass. Birds flew among the trees and butterflies
hovered over the flowers. If all things were steeped in rose-color, who
can say how much of it was owing to the strong, fragrant coffee, with
whipped cream, the dainty lamb-chops, the fried potato-shavings, the
_omelette au confiture_ with its purple heart of raspberry-jam?
We had hoped to be favored with a girl instead of a boy as driver to
the next station on the route--Heen. After our experience the day
before, we felt that anybody who could sit on the box-seat and hold the
reins could manage trained ponies in use on Norwegian roads. A girl
could safely be trusted with them. But to our great disappointment, a
lout of a boy climbed up in front, and off we started for Heen--with
the injunction (from the young woman who settled our bill and saw us
off) ringing in our ears--“Stop at the Captain’s!”
The road to Heen was sandy and hilly most of the way. There were more
dashing falls at Höfsfos. And we found, in the depths of a pinewood,
stunted bushes with just such blueberries on them as the people of
distant New Hampshire and Vermont were doubtless picking that very day.
It is one of the pleasantest incidents of foreign travel to come across
wild flowers and fruits identical with those of America.
The Captain’s at Heen is the only name given to the roomy house
belonging to the commander of the steamboat that plies between that
place and Sörum on Lake Spirellen. We reached it about 1 P. M., at
the moment dinner was going on the Captain’s hospitable table. As our
carriage was destined to accompany us up the lake, that was the end
of the land-ride for the present, and we were glad of it. The Captain
greeted us as we alighted. He is a square-shouldered, resolute man,
who speaks English well. Instead of ordering some one else to do the
work, he put the carriage with his own hands on board the steamboat,
which was then lying at her wharf close by and ready to leave. The
Captain’s dinner was a good one, as ten or twelve persons who sat about
the board all agreed. Soup, fresh eggs, two kinds of meat, pudding,
strawberries, cheese, coffee, and wine and beer for those who ordered
them, satisfied every rational expectation.
We all boarded the little craft in a contented frame of mind. The day
was cloudy, but not damp or cold. Our course, for several English
miles, was up the Bægna River, in the teeth of a tremendous current.
At times it ran like a mill-race. The boat could make headway in some
places only by closely hugging the shore. Occasionally we would see
logs, that had slipped their moorings in the lake beyond, coming down
the middle of the stream with frightful velocity and threatening to
punch holes in the bow. The steersman smoked his pipe as calmly as if
sitting by his own hearth. If any log ever touched the hull, it glanced
off harmless. There were moments when the boat refused to mind the
helm. Then the Captain, who stood hard by--pipe in mouth also--would
put his great hairy hands on the spokes, and she minded quickly then.
Presently we entered upon that expansion of the river known as Lake
Spirellen. It is the Tyri-Fiord over again--in its alternately tame and
wild environments--but the current still ridges itself in the center of
the lake, and only near its shores can the boat make six or eight knots
an hour. No landings are attempted, but passengers and freight are
taken off or put on by flat-bottomed barges, which require powerful
rowers to hold them against the stream. We killed time watching these
struggling craft, or gazing through the crystal water down to the
grassy bottom, which our keel almost scraped.
It was nearly dark when we landed at Sörum and the boat tied up for
the night. We all hurried ashore, to try our luck at a new hotel
whose unpainted sides showed a beautiful wood-color against the dark
background of hills. There was in its newness a promise of clean beds,
and wholesome, if homely, fare. The beds proved to be good, and the
fare was undoubtedly satisfactory to persons, if any, who happen to
prefer hard-boiled eggs to meat. For it was the five-minute egg that
formed the staple of supper and again of breakfast. The eggs were
always brought on in heaping platefuls wrapped up in hot napkins and
deceiving the eye with the promise of something better than themselves,
till the cloth was removed by a waitress, disclosing the standard
food of the smaller inns of Eastern Norway. But the bread, butter,
and cheese were very good, and there was a choice of tea, coffee, and
chocolate. What the Sörum hotel lacked, even more than meat, was modern
improvements. It is the want of these that makes the traveler, who has
outlived his passion for roughing it, think at least twice before he
makes up his mind to enter upon an extended tour of the interior of the
country. The most primitive New England farm-house of twenty-five years
ago was better off in these respects than any Norwegian hotel we have
seen outside of Christiania.
The third day of the excursion was the one to which we had looked
forward with the greatest pleasure; for the route from Sörum to Odnæs
was said to traverse some of the finest scenery in Eastern Norway.
We were promised a succession of high mountains, some snow-clad,
waterfalls leaping down precipices, and valleys unsurpassed in
loveliness stretching between the frowning heights. Throw in a lavish
supply of lakes and rivers, with Rands-Fiord as the goal, and you have
the seductive features of the journey as we had fondly dreamed of it.
But the day opened with lowering weather. The air was full of moisture.
It seemed like a sponge just waiting to be squeezed a little to give
down rain. There was a good twelve hours’ ride before us to Odnæs. So I
determined to be off early. Everybody else at the hotel who was bound
in the same direction was equally anxious to get away. Breakfast was
ordered for us at half-past six, and, even before I had attacked my
ration of hard-boiled eggs, I interviewed the head-hostler upon the
subject of horses for the carriage, which had been drawn up before the
hotel during the night. He was a Norwegian who did not speak a word
of English; and, if he had spoken it as well as myself, we could not
have conversed at any length, he was so beset by people all wanting
their carriages and horses immediately. Thus far in our progress from
Christiania I had not had occasion to test the persuasive power of the
krone. The humble öre had been good enough for the trivial exigencies
that had hitherto arisen. Taking care not to be observed by others,
I held up one of the enticing bits of paper so that the head-hostler
could see it. Then I said “Odnæs,” and displayed seven fingers.
Sure enough, at 7 A. M., sharp, there was the carriage with two fine
ponies attached, and a bright-looking lad in the seat, waiting at the
door of the hotel for me. Other persons, who had previously ordered
their carioles or _stolkjœrres_, looked on in amazement. They had been
coaxing and scolding the poor man, but had evidently not thought of my
simple expedient to secure his attention.
We set out in fine style, with much cracking of the whip, all for
effect, however, as Norwegian horses need only a hint--which sounds
like uncorking a bottle, and is made by the lips of the driver--in
order to display their speed. They stop with equal readiness in
response to a buzzing sound emitted between his teeth. The road
was good, and that was fortunate, for we went at a frightful pace
over every short level stretch, and just the same down-hill. Some
of the hills slope at an angle of forty-five degrees. But this made
no difference. The horses dashed down one with a speed that did not
slacken till they had proceeded some distance up the next hill. They
would climb this at a fast walk, and at the top would be fresh and
ready for another plunge. After we had taken several of these dives and
come up safe and sound, the sensation of anxiety about consequences
wore off, and we enjoyed the delirious rush. They recalled the
excitement of tobogganing and swinging. But they did not permit that
survey of the scenery which one ought to take leisurely in Norway.
Whether we went fast or slow mattered but little that day, however, for
the rain soon began to fall in torrents. It was a steady down-pour,
which taxed our utmost resources in leather aprons, waterproofs,
shawls, and umbrellas. We were obliged to close the sides of the
carriage with oil-skins which had been provided by the ever-thoughtful
Bennett. Thus almost hermetically sealed up, we missed the charms of
the landscape, save when, at rare intervals, we would make a little
chink through the folds of the envelopes and catch tantalizing
glimpses of it. The driver--poor boy--must have been soaked through
his heavy top-coat to the skin. He urged his horses at their topmost
speed, to gain the station where some other luckless fellow must take
his place. We reached it in about three hours, and found it full of
travelers, rained in. Bed and board there were out of the question, in
the crowded condition of the station, and our only recourse was to go
ahead.
Here the omnipotent kroner again came into play with immense effect.
The exhibition of a few of them procured an immediate change of horses,
and no less a person than the station-master himself occupied the post
of driver. A full-grown man was very acceptable for that function in
such weather. Small boys and girls were no more to be thought of.
The station-master made himself as nearly waterproof as possible;
and I hope was none the worse for his exposure to the storm, which
continued unabated all the way to a certain Sanitarium at which we
had been advised to stop for luncheon, instead of going on to the
regular station for that meal. Never was advice better given, or more
obediently followed. We found the Sanitarium a large, first-class
house. It would be a haven of rest, even in the finest weather, after
three hours of furious driving. As a refuge from the pitiless storm,
it was welcome and delightful beyond description. Luckily, we did
not want a room, for the house was packed full of summer boarders,
who were said to be drinking or bathing in the mineral waters which
are the chief attractions of the place. In whatever way they took the
waters, they were undoubtedly deriving benefit from them; for when we
sat down to dinner with about one hundred and fifty of the convalescent
patients, we never saw such a display of ravenous appetites. The bill
of fare was long. The waiters were nimble and attentive. The dishes
were gigantic platters, heaped up with food and passed with the utmost
dispatch down the long lines of hungry guests. As fast as these mighty
trays were cleared of their burdens, others equally large and laden
with steaming meats or vegetables would come to the rescue. A sturdy
corps of white-aproned carvers, at an adjoining table, could be heard
slashing away at the hot joints, trying to keep pace with the jaws of
the patients, and were at last successful, however difficult their task.
It would not have been thought possible, but is a fact that, in the
final stage of the repast, plenty of fruit was passed around and
no takers. But then it must be explained that pudding, ice-cream,
cakes, and a most toothsome dish, which I will now briefly describe
from the best information procurable, had already made the circuit
for all who wanted them. This novel delicacy, without an English
name, is prepared as follows: A thin gruel is made of rice-flour,
or farina will do. Into this, while boiling hot, a mixture of
jellies is introduced--the greater the variety the better. Currant,
raspberry, strawberry--whatever the good housewife finds on her
pantry-shelves--are all dumped in together and vigorously stirred. The
artful compounder studies how to blend the natural flavors of these
jellies so that no one shall be in the ascendant. When the operation
is an entire success, the eaters should not be able to distinguish any
particular berry in the compost, but should enjoy a gustatory effect
in which each of the jellies is lost, only to reappear improved in a
new and delicious combination that defies analysis on the palate. It is
eaten, hot or cold, with or without cream and sugar.