Innocent of the awful fact that this was the whole extent of his
vocabulary, I continued:
"When we arrive, will you bring my valise ashore, while I go at once to
the hotel to secure rooms?"
"O, yes."
[Illustration: MOLDE.]
Ten minutes later we reached our landing pier. I left the boat, as
I had said, and hurried on to the hotel. I presently beheld the old
proprietor coming from the wharf, but without my satchel.
"What does this mean?" I cried; "did you not bring my valise off the
steamer?"
"O, yes."
"Where is it, then? Is it not on there still?"
"O, yes."
[Illustration: VIEW FROM MOLDE.]
"Mercy on me! Is not that the steamer going off with my valise on
board?"
"O, yes!"
"Well, are you not a monumental idiot, then?"
"O, yes!"
It took me three days to recover that valise; and the important lesson
of "_O, yes_," was effectually learned.
Early next morning we took leave of Veblungsnäs, and drove directly
towards the Romsdal, one of the finest valleys in all Norway. Before
us, like a mighty sentinel, the imposing Romsdalhorn rose, dark with
somber shadows, to an altitude of five thousand and ninety feet. The
peak itself, five hundred feet in height, is said to be almost as
dangerous to ascend as the appalling Matterhorn, not only on account
of its perpendicular sides, but also from the crumbling nature of the
rock, which renders it impossible to fasten iron bars in its surface.
Some years ago, an English tourist, after a number of unsuccessful
efforts, finally reached the summit of this mountain. He was, of
course, exultant. The inhabitants of the valley had told him that the
conquest of the Romsdalhorn was hopeless, and no tradition existed
among them that its ascent had ever been made. Nevertheless, when the
successful climber finally stood upon the mountain's crest, he found
to his astonishment and regret that he was not the first man who had
gained this victory. A mound of stones, heaped up there as a monument,
proved beyond doubt that at some unknown epoch some one had been there
before him.
[Illustration: THE ROMSDALHORN.]
Driving around the base of this majestic mountain, we found ourselves
within a narrow gorge shut in by savage cliffs, with barely space
enough between them for the carriage-road and a wild torrent rushing
toward the sea. One wall of this ravine is singularly weird and
awe-inspiring. A multitude of crags and pinnacles, splintered and
shattered by the lightning's bolts, stand out in sharp relief against
the sky, as if some monsters, hidden on the other side, were raising
o'er the brink of these stupendous precipices their outstretched hands
and tapering fingers in warning or in supplication. These strange,
fantastic forms are in the evening light so ghostly and uncanny, that
they appear to the Norwegian peasants like demons dancing gleefully
upon the mountain tops. Hence the pinnacles are called the "Witches'
Peaks."
[Illustration: THE WITCHES' PEAKS.]
It was while riding through this gorge that I heard a tourist
complaining that Norway had no ruins. In one sense this is true, for,
owing to the fact that the feudal system never existed here, castles
and strongholds are nowhere to be found. But Norway surely can dispense
with any crumbling works of man. Amidst the ruins of her everlasting
mountains and stupendous fjords, grooved by the glaciers when the earth
was young, all remnants of man's handiwork would seem like ant-hills
made but an hour ago.
Toward evening, at the head of the Romsdal Valley, we reached the
station of Stuflaaten, where we were to sleep. Our spirits sank as
we approached it. Nothing, apparently, could be less inviting. But
here, as in so many other instances, we found the accommodations
excellent. It is true, the beds possessed the usual Norwegian fault—an
insufficient length. Tall travelers, who object to having their limbs
closed under them at night, like the blades of a jack-knife, frequently
sleep on the floor in Norway.
[Illustration: STUFLAATEN.]
"I cannot lie in one of these beds," exclaimed my friend; which, for a
lawyer, seemed to me a remarkable admission!
[Illustration: A NEW ENGLAND SOUVENIR.]
Never shall I forget the dining-room at Stuflaaten. Here we were first
attracted by the fireplace. It was a chimney built out from the corner,
with space behind for a warm cupboard. The opening for fuel was so
narrow that sticks were placed upright upon the hearth. Beside this
were two rocking-chairs (almost unheard of luxuries in any part of
Europe), and sinking into these, we thought of home. The influence of
that American article of furniture was, I fear, depressing, for soon my
friend remarked:
"How far we are from dear New England! If I could only see one object
here which really came from there, how happy I should be!"
"Look at that clock upon the wall," I responded; "that has a familiar
look. Perhaps that came from 'dear New England!'"
[Illustration: TRONDHJEM.]
"Nonsense," he answered; "how could anything made in New England find
its way here almost within the Arctic circle?"
"Well," I exclaimed, "where is the land that Yankee inventions have
not entered? Let us put it to the test." Accordingly, stepping to the
clock, I opened it and read these words: "Made by Jerome & Co., New
Haven, Conn."
Returning once more through the Romsdal, Veblungsnäs, and Molde, we
sailed again, for twelve hours, along the Norway coast to reach the
city of Trondhjem. Although less beautifully situated than Bergen,
Molde, or Christiania, in point of historic interest, Trondhjem is
superior to them all. For here lived the old Norwegian kings, and
the town can boast of a continuous existence for a thousand years. It
also enjoys the proud distinction of having the most northern railway
station in the world, for from this city, which is in the latitude of
Iceland, a railroad now extends three hundred and fifty miles southward
to Christiania.
[Illustration: A NORWEGIAN RAILWAY.]
[Illustration: A RAILWAY STATION.]
Upon this road are run some cars which are facetiously called
"sleepers"; but they are such as Mr. George M. Pullman would see only
in an acute attack of nightmare. The road being a narrow-gauge one, the
car is not much wider than an omnibus. The berth (if the name can be
applied to such a coffin-like contrivance) is formed by pulling narrow
cushion-seats together. On these is placed one pillow, but no blanket
and no mattress,—simply a pillow,—nothing more! From the feeling,
I should say that my pillow consisted of a small boulder covered with
cotton. But what, think you, is the upper berth? It is a hammock, swung
on hooks, and sagging down to within a foot of the lower couch. Now, it
requires some skill to get into a hammock anywhere; but to climb into
one that is hung four feet above the floor of a moving railroad car,
calls for the agility of an acrobat. After my experience that night, I
feel perfectly qualified to perform on the trapeze, for since I weighed
but one hundred and forty pounds, while my friend tipped the scales
at two hundred and fifty, I thought it was safer for me to occupy the
upper story.
[Illustration: A NORWEGIAN HARBOR.]
Another difficulty met with in that memorable journey was to keep
covered up. There was no heat in the car. At every respiration, we
could see our breath. This was, however, a consolation, since it
assured us that we were still alive. Wraps of all kinds were needed,
but the space was limited. There was, for example, in my hammock, room
for myself alone; or without me, for my traveling-rug, overcoat, and
pillow. But when we were all in together, the hammock was continually
overflowing. Accordingly, every fifteen minutes during that awful
night, my friend would start up in abject terror, dreaming that he was
being buried beneath a Norway avalanche.
I never think of Trondhjem without recalling, also, an experience in a
Norwegian barber-shop. I knew that it was tempting Providence to enter
it, for shaving in Norway is still a kind of surgical operation. But
for some time a coldness had existed between my razors and myself.
The edge of our friendship had become dulled. Accordingly, I made the
venture. Before me, as I entered, stood a man with a head of hair like
Rubenstein's, and a mouth like a miniature fjord.
[Illustration: TOURING ON FOOT.]
"Do you speak English?" I began.
"Nay."
"Sprechen sie Deutsch?"
"Nay."
"Parlez-vous Français?"
"Nay."
"Parlate Italiano?"
"Nay."
"Well, one thing is sure, then," I said; "you will not talk me to
death, anyway!"
Having made the most graceful gestures of which I was capable
to indicate what I wanted, I settled myself in a hard chair and
laid my head against a rest resembling the vise furnished by a
photographer when he asks you "to look pleasant." The preliminaries
being over, the Norwegian Figaro took his razor and made one awful
never-to-be-forgotten swoop at my cheek as if he were mowing grain with
a scythe! I gave a roar like a Norwegian waterfall and bounded from the
chair in agony! When I had fully wiped away my blood and tears, I asked
him faintly:
"Have you any ether?"
"Nay."
"Any laughing-gas?"
"Nay."
"Any cocaine?"
"Nay."
"Well, then," I exclaimed, "will you please go over there and 'nay' by
yourself while I finish this operation with my own hands?"
[Illustration: A VILLAGE MAIDEN.]
[Illustration: ENTRANCE TO A FJORD.]
He seemed to understand me, and retreated to a corner. When all was
over, he pointed to a bowl at which I saw my friend gazing with that
peculiarly sad expression which he invariably assumed when thinking of
his family. I soon discovered the cause, for from the centre of this
wash-bowl rose a little fountain about a foot in height, which seemed
to him a facsimile of the one on Boston Common. I comprehended that I
was to wash in this fountain; but how to do it was a mystery. At last I
cautiously thrust one side of my face into it, and instantly the water
shot up over my ear and fell upon the other side. I turned my face, and
the ascending current carromed on my nose, ran down my neck, and made
a change of toilet absolutely necessary. When, therefore, my friend had
called a cab to take me home, I asked the barber what I should pay him.
By gestures he expressed to me the sum equivalent to three cents.
"What," I exclaimed, "nothing extra for the court-plaster?"
"Nay."
"And nothing for the privilege of shaving myself?"
"Nay."
"And you don't charge for the fountain, either?"
"Nay."
"Well," I exclaimed as I rode away, "I can truly say that never before
have I received so much for my money."
This city of the north has one extremely interesting building—its
cathedral. As a rule, Scandinavian churches are not worth a visit;
but this is a notable exception. More than three hundred years before
Columbus landed on San Salvador this building held a proud position.
Its finest carving dates from the eleventh century. At one time
pilgrims came here from all northern Europe, and laid their gold and
jewels on its shrines. But at the period of the Reformation all this
was changed. Iconoclasts defaced its carving, cast down its statues,
sacked the church, and packed its treasures in a ship, which, as if
cursed by an offended Deity, foundered at sea.
[Illustration: TRONDHJEM CATHEDRAL.]
On entering the ancient edifice, we were delighted with its delicate
stone-tracing. The material is a bluish slate, which gives to the whole
church a softness and a beauty difficult to equal, and blends most
admirably with its columns of white marble. A part of the cathedral
was, however, closed to us, for all the ruin once wrought here is being
carefully effaced by systematic restoration. The government contributes
for this purpose a certain sum every year, and private individuals
help on the work from genuine love of art, as well as from patriotic
motives. The old designs are being followed, and hence, in time, this
old cathedral will in every feature come to be a reproduction of the
original structure.
[Illustration: THE TUNNEL AT TORGHÄTTEN.]
A few days after reaching Trondhjem, we found ourselves embarking for
another ocean journey. This time our destination was the northern limit
of the continent. For a Norwegian tour naturally divides itself into
three parts. The first consists of driving through the mountainous
interior; the second is the exploration of its noble fjords; the third
is the voyage from Trondhjem to the North Cape.
[Illustration: AN EXCURSION STEAMER.]
This voyage, in fast excursion steamers, is now made in about four
days, an equal number being occupied in returning. "Eight days?"
the reader will perhaps exclaim; "why, that is longer than a voyage
across the Atlantic." In actual duration, yes; but otherwise the two
excursions are entirely different. For almost all the way you follow
so closely the fringe of islands that there is little danger of rough
weather, while the mainland is constantly in sight.
[Illustration: ONE OF THE LOFFODENS.]
Some twenty-four hours after leaving Trondhjem, our steamer halted at
an island, up whose precipitous side we climbed five hundred feet to
view a natural tunnel perforating an entire mountain. Through this
we gained a charming telescopic vista of the ocean and its island
belt. The tunnel is six hundred feet in length, and in some places two
hundred feet in height. So smooth and perpendicular are its walls, that
it appears almost incredible that human agency has not assisted in this
strange formation. But scientists say that it was accomplished entirely
by the waves, when all this rock-bound coast was covered by the sea.
Leaving this curious freak of nature, another memorable feature of our
northern voyage soon greeted us,—the Loffoden Islands. These form a
broken chain one hundred and thirty miles in length. The scenery in
their vicinity is perhaps the finest on the Norway coast, and as we
watched it with delight, the captain told us of his voyages here in
winter, and I now learned, to my astonishment that freight-steamers
make their regular trips, all winter long, round the North Cape to
Vadso, on the Arctic coast. They encounter fearful storms at times, but
rarely any icebergs. We have, it seems, a monopoly of these floating
monsters on our side of the Atlantic, borne west and south by the
current off the coast of Greenland.
[Illustration: FISHING ON THE COAST.]
[Illustration: SCENE FROM BROTHANSDALEN.]
Of course, these wintry voyages are performed in darkness, for Night
then reigns here with as much supremacy as Day in summer. The lights
on the steamers are, therefore, kept constantly burning. Yet, strange
to say, this is the period of greatest activity among these islands.
Winter is the Norwegian fisherman's harvest-time. The only light
necessary to carry on the work is that of the Aurora Borealis and
the brilliant stars. From twenty to twenty-five millions of cod are
captured here each winter, and twenty-five thousand people are employed
in the trade.
[Illustration: TROMSÖ.]
Soon after leaving the Loffodens we arrived at Tromsö, the city of
the Lapps. It had the appearance of a pretty village as we viewed it
from a distance; but soon the sense of sight was wholly lost in the
prominence given to another of our senses. The carcass of a whale was
floating in the harbor. It had been speared and towed in hither to be
cut in pieces. The blubber was being boiled in kettles on the shore.
The impression which this made on my olfactory nerves is something for
which language is inadequate. The odor was as colossal as the fish
itself. I never sympathized sufficiently with Jonah till I went to
Tromsö!
[Illustration: LAPLANDERS.]
Soon after landing here, a walk of an hour brought us to a settlement
of Lapps, consisting of some very primitive tents. My first impression
of these people was, and still is, that any one of them could have
effectually concealed his identity by taking a bath. They all have
dirty, wizened faces, high cheekbones, flat noses, and mouths that yawn
like caverns. Their beards are so peculiarly tufted that they look
like worn-out Astrachan fur. I could almost suppose that in rigorous
winters the reindeer, while their masters slept, had nibbled at their
cheeks. The men are about five feet high, the women four; but they are
tough and hardy, like most dwarfs. Dickens could have found among them
countless models for his hideous Quilp.
[Illustration: REINDEER AND SLEDGE.]
[Illustration: A LITTLE LAPP.]
Advancing to one of their huts, we peered into the interior. Upon
the ground was smoldering a small fire, part of the smoke from which
escaped through an opening in the roof. The inmates scarcely noticed
us, until my artist produced his camera. Then there was instantly a
general stampede. One woman seized her baby and rushed forth, as if a
demon had molested her. The cause of this confusion, however, was not
fear, nor even modesty, but avarice, pure and simple. They understood
perfectly what the camera was, and wanted a good price for being
photographed. Three shillings was at first demanded for a picture, but
finally we compromised by giving half that sum.
[Illustration: LIFE IN LAPLAND.]
Among these Laplanders, the clothing of both men and women is made
of reindeer skin, worn with the hardened pelt outside. These garments
last indefinitely, and are sometimes bequeathed from one generation to
another. The Lapp complexion looks like leather. Even the babies have
a shriveled look, resembling that of monkeys. This is not strange,
however, for both men and women are great consumers of tobacco.
Their huts are always full of smoke, till finally the inmates become
smoke-dried within and without. This, in turn, produces thirst. Hence
we were not surprised to learn that they are inordinately fond of
ardent spirits. In fact, when a Norwegian wishes to remonstrate with
a friend who is inclined to drink to excess, he will often say to him,
"Don't make a Lapp of yourself!"
Bidding farewell to Tromsö and the Laplanders, the next day brought
us to the most northern town in the world—Hammerfest. It was a great
surprise to me to see, in such proximity to the North Pole, a town of
about three thousand inhabitants, with schools, a church, a telegraph
station, and a weekly newspaper! The snow-streaked mountains in the
distance gave me the only hint of winter that I had; and I could hardly
realize that I was here two hundred miles farther north than Bering's
Strait, and in about the same latitude in which, on our side of the
Atlantic, the gallant Sir John Franklin perished in the ice. The cause
of this, however, is not difficult to trace.
[Illustration: HAMMERFEST.]
The influence of the Gulf Stream is felt powerfully even here. For here
it is that the great ocean current practically dies, bequeathing to
these fishermen of Hammerfest, for their firewood, the treasures it has
so long carried on its bosom, such as the trunks of palm-trees, and the
vegetation of the tropics. It is an extraordinary fact that while the
harbor of Christiania, one thousand miles farther south, is frozen over
three months every winter, this bay of Hammerfest, only sixty miles
from the North Cape, is never closed on account of ice.
[Illustration: THE GULF STREAM'S TERMINUS.]
[Illustration: THE MERIDIAN SHAFT.]
An interesting object in Hammerfest is the meridian shaft, which marks
the number of degrees between this town and the mouth of the Danube, on
the Black Sea. The mention made upon this column of that other terminus
of measurement, so far distant in the South of Europe, reminded us by
contrast of one more advantage which this high latitude possesses—the
greater rapidity of its vegetation. When the sun once appears within
this polar region, it comes to stay. Nature immediately makes amends
for her long seclusion. For three months the sunshine is well-nigh
incessant. There is no loss of time at night. The flowers do not close
in sleep. All vegetation rushes to maturity. Thus vegetables in the
Arctic circle will sometimes grow three inches in a single day, and
although planted six weeks later than those in Christiania, they are
ready for the table at the same time.
[Illustration: NORWEGIAN FLORA.]
Sailing finally from Hammerfest, a voyage of seven hours brought us to
our destination—the North Cape. I looked upon it with that passionate
eagerness born of long years of anticipation, and felt at once a thrill
of satisfaction, in the absence of all disappointment. For my ideal
of that famous promontory could not be more perfectly realized than in
this dark-browed, majestic headland, rising with perpendicular cliffs,
one thousand feet in height, from the still darker ocean at its base.
It is, in reality, an island, divided from the mainland by a narrow
strait, like a gigantic sentinel stationed in advance to guard the
coast of Europe from the Arctic storms.
[Illustration: HARBOR OF HAMMERFEST.]
Embarking here in boats, we drew still nearer to this monstrous cliff.
From this point it resembles a stupendous fortress surmounted by
an esplanade. For in that prehistoric age, when northern Europe was
enveloped in an icy mantle, huge glaciers in their southward march
planed down its summit to a level surface. The climbing of the cliff,
though safe, is quite exhausting. Ropes are, however, hung at different
points, and, holding on to these, we slowly crept up to its southern
parapet. Thence a laborious walk of fifteen minutes brought us at
last to the highest elevation, marked by a granite monument erected to
commemorate King Oscar's visit to the place in 1873.
It is a wonderfully impressive moment when one stands thus on the
northern boundary of Europe, so near and yet so far from the North
Pole. It seemed to me as if the outermost limit of our planet had been
reached. Nowhere, not even in the desert, have I felt so utterly remote
from civilization, or so near to the infinitude of space.
[Illustration: NORTH CAPE.]
But presently from our steamer, anchored near the base, some rockets
rose and burst in fiery showers far below us. It was a signal for us
to be on our guard. I looked at my watch. It was exactly five minutes
before midnight. Advancing, therefore, to the edge of the cliff, I
looked upon a unique and never-to-be-forgotten scene. Below, beyond me,
and on either side, lay in sublime and awful solitude the Arctic sea,
stretching away to that still undiscovered region of the north, which,
with its fatal charm, has lured so many brave explorers to their doom.
[Illustration: STUPENDOUS CLIFFS.]
Straight from the polar sea, apparently, the wondrous northern light
(an opalescent radiance born of the twilight and the dawn) came
stealing o'er the waters like a benediction; and to enhance its mystery
and beauty, when I looked northward over the rounded shoulder of the
globe, I saw the MIDNIGHT SUN.
[Illustration: THE MIDNIGHT SUN.]
At this great height and northern latitude it did not sink to the
horizon, but merely paused, apparently some twenty feet above the
waves, then gradually rose again. It was the last of countless sunsets
which had that day been following each other round the globe. It was
the first of countless sunrises which, hour after hour, in so many
continents would wake to life again a sleeping world. I have seen many
impressive sights in many lands, but nothing, until Time for me shall
be no more, can equal in solemnity the hour when, standing on this
threshold of a continent, and on the edge of this immeasurable sea, I
watched, without one moment's interval of darkness, the Past transform
itself into the Present, and Yesterday become To-day.
[Illustration: KING OSCAR'S MONUMENT—NORTH CAPE.]
[Illustration: EIDFJORD IN HARDANGER—EXCURSION BOAT.]