No cream--The valley of the Maan--The Riukan foss--German
students--A bridge of dread--The course of true love never
did run smooth--Fine misty weather for trout--Salted
provisions--Midsummer night revels--The Tindsö--The priest’s
hole--Treacherous ice--A case for Professor Holloway--The
realms of cloud-land--Superannuated--An ornithological
guess--Field-fares out of reach of “Tom Brown”--The best
kind of physic--Undemonstrative affection--Everywhere the
same--Clever little horses.
The path, I find, is at a higher level than I imagined, for, on
reaching a sæter, no bunker (sour milk, with a thick coating of cream)
is to be had, as the temperature is too low, the girl tells me, for the
process of mantling to take place.
The horse being exceedingly lazy, I administered a rebuke to him, when
he was not slow in returning the compliment, striking me with his heels
in the thigh. Luckily I was close behind him, or the thread of my
story might have been abruptly snapped.
Pine now begins to take the place of birch, and we descend very rapidly
into the valley of the Maan, pronounced Moan. To our right, among
the trees, is heard the roar of the famous Riukan foss, which at one
perpendicular shoot of nine hundred feet, discharges the waters of the
great Miösvand and other lakes into the valley.
Leaving my guide to rest for a space, I plunged into the forest, and,
after a precipitous descent, espy a cottage close to the falls. Here
sat two strangers, regaling themselves on wild strawberries and milk,
while the master of the hut was carving a wooden shoe, and the mistress
suckling a baby. The travellers both wore spectacles and longish hair,
and a pocket-compass depending from their necks. Each carried a _beau
ideal_ of a knapsack, and I knew them at once to be German students.
After eating their meal, they observed that they had “yut yespeist,”
which stamped them at once to be from the Rhine; the pronunciation of
_g_ as _y_ being the shibboleth of detection. “Eine _y_ute _y_ebratene
_y_ans ist eine _y_ute _y_abe _Y_oddes” (a yood yoast yoose is a yood
yift of Yod), is a saying fastened on the Rhinelander by the more
orthoepic Hanoverian. But it is more than doubtful whether these good
people will have any opportunity in this country of tasting any such
delicacy.
A few yards brought us to the magnificent amphitheatre of the Riukan,
on the further side of which we have the fall full in view. On the face
of the smooth, nearly perpendicular wall which shuts in the vast arena
to the right of us, is an exceedingly narrow ledge--
A bridge of dread,
Not wider than a thread--
along which foolhardy people have occasionally risked their
necks, either out of mere bravado or in order to make a short cut
to the Miösvand, which I left this morning. This is the famous
Mari-stien--everybody knows the legend about it--sadly exemplifying
the fact that the course of true love never did run smooth: how young
Oiesteen fell from it on his way to a stolen interview with Mary of
Vestfjordalen, and she lost her senses in consequence, and daily
haunted the spot for years afterwards, pale and wan, and silent as a
ghost, and is even now seen when the shades of evening fall, hovering
over the giddy verge of “The remorseless deep which closed o’er the
head of her loved Lycidas.”
But as neither I nor the Teutons could see any possible good in risking
our necks for nought, and valued a whole skin and unbroken bones,
after assaying to take in and digest the wonderful sight, we presently
retraced our steps without setting foot on ledge.
Five miles below this is Dœl, where some accommodation, at a dear rate,
is to be obtained of Ole Tarjeison.
Next morning, the summit of Gausta, which rises just over the Maan
to the height of 5688 feet, and commands a magnificent view of the
district of Ringerike, is covered with cloud. But what is bad weather
to others, is good in the eyes of the fisherman. So, instead of
lamenting “the wretched weather,” I get out my trout-rod and secure
some capital trouts (at times they are taken here seven pounds in
weight), part of which I have sprinkled with salt, and put into the
provision-bag, with a view to the journey I purpose taking from hence
across the Fjeld to Norway’s greatest waterfall, the Vöringfoss, in the
Hardanger.
While sauntering about, a printed notice, suspended in the passage of
the house, attracts my attention, which afforded a considerable insight
into the morals of the Norwegian peasant. It was dated April 18, 1853,
and was to this effect: The king has heard with much displeasure that
the old custom of young unmarried men running about at night, sometimes
in flocks (flokkeviis), especially on Sundays and saints’-days, after
the girls, while asleep in the cow-houses, has been renewed. His
Majesty, therefore, summons all Christian and sober-minded parents,
and house-fathers, to protect their children and servants from this
nocturnal rioting. He also calls upon them to keep the two sexes
apart, for the sake of order and good morals; and if the same shall
be detected conniving at these irregularities, they shall, for the
first offence, be mulcted one dollar seventy-two skillings; for the
second offence, double that amount, &c. The young men shall have the
same punishment; and, for the third offence, be confined from three
to six months with hard labour in a fortress. Girls who receive such
clandestine visits, shall be punished in like manner. Informers shall
be entitled to receive the fine. All Government officers are required
to make known these presents. This notice must be read at churches,
posted in conspicuous places, and sent about by messengers.
Here, then, I obtained the certain knowledge of a custom--similar
to one which still lingers in Wales--which I had suspected to be
prevalent, but the existence of which the inhabitants of the country,
for some reason or other, I found slow to admit. The above ordinance
is a renewal of a similar one made 4th March, 1778, from which it
appears that the immorality of “Nattefrieri” (night-courting) has long
prevailed in Norway.
Eight English miles below this the Maan finds ample room and verge
enough to expatiate in the deep Tindsö, which is, perhaps, one of the
most dangerous lakes in Norway, being subject to frightfully sudden
storms; while the precipitous cliffs that bound it, for the most part
only afford foothold to a fly, or such like climbers. There is an old
tale about this lake, illustrative of the dangers to which a clergyman
is subject in the discharge of his duties. Many years ago, the parson
of the parish had to cross over the lake to do duty in the “annex
church” at Hovind. The weather was threatening; but his flock awaited
him, and so he started, commending himself to God and his good angels.
Long before he approached his destination, the wind had so increased
in violence that the boatmen were overpowered, and the boat was dashed
to pieces against the adamantine walls of the Haukanes Fjeld. All on
board were lost but the priest, who was carried by the billows into
a small cleft in the rock, far above the usual high-water mark. For
three days he sat wedged in this hole, from whence there was no exit.
On the fourth day, the winds and waves abated; and some boatmen, who
were rowing by, as good fortune would have it, heard the faint cry
for assistance which the captive gave, as he saw them from his “coin
of vantage.” And so he was rescued from his terrible predicament;
and the notch in the wall still goes by the name of the Prestehul,
“Priest’s-hole.”
Bishop Selwyn, with his well-found yacht, sailing among the deep bays
of New Zealand, confirming and stablishing the Maoris in the Christian
faith, will have to wait a long time before he can meet with such an
adventure as the Tindsö priest. But then you’ll say, in winter time it
is all right, and the parson can dash along over the ice, defying the
dangers of the deep and the bristling rocks. Not so, however; there
are not unfrequently weak places in the ice, which look as strong as
the rest, but which let in the unfortunate traveller. Not long ago,
five men and a horse were thus engulphed. So in the Heimskringla Saga,
King Harold and his retinue perish by falling through the ice on the
Randsfjord, at a place where cattle-dung had caused it to thaw.
Giving up all thoughts of ascending the Gausta,--as I understand the
chance of a view from it in this misty weather is very precarious,--I
hire a horse from one Hans Ostensen Ingulfsland, to convey my luggage
to Waage, on the Miösvand. Hans was ill, apparently of a deranged
stomach and liver, and, with rueful aspect, consulted me on his case.
All the medicine he had was what he called a _probatum_, in a small
bottle. The probatum turned out to be a specific for the gravel, as I
saw from a label on the flask; so I gave him what was more likely to
suit his case, some blue pill and rhubarb.
Hans’ father used to entertain travellers, but his charges became so
high that all his customers forsook him; and M. Doel, who appears to be
in a fair way to imitate his predecessor, set up in “the public line.”
Hitherto the valley has been clear of cloud; and on arriving at Vaa,
I stop to rest, and sketch the distant smoke of the Riukan ascending
from its rocky cauldron towards heaven. Presently the mist, which had
all the morning hidden the “comb” of Gausta, threw off a few flakes;
these gradually extend and unite, and pour along the mountain-tops to
my left, and in a few minutes reach to and absorb the smoke of Riukan,
and hide it from view. Up boil the fogs, as if by magic, from all
sides; and, like the image of Fame, in _Virgil_, the vapour rises from
the depths of the valley, and reaches up to the sky. Doubtless it was
the spirit of the place, wroth at my profane endeavour to represent
her shrine on paper; and the sullen “moan” of the stream might, by
an imaginative person, have been supposed to be the utterance of her
complaint.
In the foreground, intently watching my operations as he sits upon a
rock, is old Peer Peerson Vaa, who being over eighty, is past work,
and having no children, has sold his Gaard to one Ole Knutzen, on the
condition of having his liv-brod (life-bread)--_i.e._, being supported
till his death. This is not an uncommon custom in Norway. He is
“farbro” (uncle) to the man at Dœl.
Observe the simplicity of the language. So the Norsk for “aunt” is
“moerbro,”--mother’s brother.
I here obtain a dollar or two of small change, with which I am ill
provided. It is curious, by-the-bye, to see how one of these bonders
looks at half-a-dozen small coins before he is able to reckon the
amount. This is in consequence of the infrequency of money up the
country.
As we ascend the Pass, I observe some dusky-looking birds, which
turn out to be ringouzels. According to a Norwegian whom I consulted
on the subject, they are the substitute, in a great measure, if not
altogether, in this part of the country, for the
Ouzel cock, so black of hue,
With orange-tawny bill,
whose plaintive song so delights us in Great Britain.
Several fieldfares, also, chattered in a startled and angry manner
as they rose from the low birch bushes, impatient, no doubt, for the
period, now fast approaching, when their young ones will be ready to
fly and start for Germany, one of their chief winter _habitats_, where,
under the appellation of “Krammets-vogel,” they will appear in the bill
of fare at the hotels. What an odd notion, to be sure, of all these
birds going so far to lie-in! What an infinity of trouble they would
save themselves if they stopped, for instance, during the breeding
period, in Germany or England! Aye; but then they would be exposed to
the depredations of “Tom Brown” and others of the genus schoolboy,
whose destructive and adventurous qualities generally first develop
themselves in the bird-nesting line.
One of the straps which fastened my luggage to the horse having broken,
my guide very soon constructs, of birch twig, a strap and buckle
which holds as fast as any leathern one I ever saw. This fertility
of invention is due to the non-division of labour. What could an
Englishman have done under similar circumstances?
Halvor Halvorsen, my guide, is a poor weakly fellow, and having seen
me prescribe for Ingulfsland, he asks me if I can do anything for him.
Good living and less hard work are all he wants; but, unfortunately,
while he has plenty of the latter, he gets but little of the former. On
his back is a great load of milk-pails, and some provisions (potatoes
and flad-brod) for his spouse, who is taking care of a sæter, which we
shall pass.
At length we arrive there: it is a cot of unhewn stone-slabs, and
before the door a lot of dried juniper-bushes, the only firing
which the desolate plateau affords. Gro Johannsdatter, a really
pretty-looking young woman, with delicate features, smiles in a
subdued manner as we enter, and thanks her husband quietly and
monosyllabically for bringing up the food. This, together with her
little boy, she proceeds to examine with inquisitive, eager eye. The
larder was doubtless nearly empty. She then gives her husband, whom she
had not seen for some time, a furtive look of affection, but nothing
more--no embrace, no kiss. How undemonstrative these people are! It
is a remarkable characteristic of the lower orders of Norway, that,
unlike their betters, they never think of kissing or embracing before
strangers. Compare this with those demonstrations in Germany and
France, where not the opposite sexes, but great bearded men, will kiss
each other on either cheek with the report of popguns, regardless of
bystanders.
Presently they go into the inner compartment of the hut, and then at
length I believe I heard the sound of a kiss. While she makes up the
fire, and boils some milk for her husband, who has many hours of
mountain still before him, I endeavour to take a slight sketch of her
and the abode.
No sooner does she become aware of my intentions, than, with true
feminine instinct, she begs me to wait a moment, while she divests
herself of an ugly clout of a kerchief which hides a very pretty neck.
The sketch concluded, she asks for a sight of it, and, with a pleased
smile, exclaims, “No, no; I’m not so smuk (pretty, smug) as that.”
These châlets, by-the-bye, are not called sæter in this part of Norway,
but stol, or stöl. They are very inferior in accommodation to those in
the Hardanger district and elsewhere.
Beyond crossing a river, Humle-elv, when, by my guide’s recommendation,
I spring on the horse’s back, I find nothing noted in my diary
concerning the rest of the day’s journey.
These little horses will carry up and down steep mountains from
fifteen Norwegian Bismark lbs. (nearly two hundred weight English) up
to twenty-two. How the little nag, with my luggage and myself on his
back, managed to win his way over the stream, which was at least two
feet deep, and among the large slippery stones on its bottom, it was
difficult to divine. They are very cats for climbing, though they do
not share that animal’s aversion to water, which they take to as if it
was their natural element.