From Fairy lore to Nature lore--Charming idea for stout
folk--Action and reaction--Election day at Bergen--A laxstie--A
careless pilot--Discourse about opera-glasses--Paulsen Vellavik
and the bears--The natural character of bears--Poor Bruin
in a dilemma--An intelligent Polar bear--Family plate--What
is fame?--A simple Simon--Limestone fantasia--The paradise
of botanists--Strength and beauty knit together--Mountain
hay-making--A garden in the wilderness--Footprints
of a celebrated botanist--Crevasses--Dutiful snow
streams--Swerre’s sok--The Rachels of Eternity--A Cockney’s
dream of desolation--Curds and whey--The setting in of
misfortunes--Author’s powder-flask has a cold bath--The shadows
of the mountains--The blind leading the blind--On into the
night--The old familiar music--Holloa--Welcome intelligence.
From Utne I take boat for a spot called Ose, in a secluded arm of the
Fjord. My boatman, an intelligent fellow, tells me that Asbjörnsen,
the author of a book of Fairy Tales, is now, like Mr. Kingsley, turned
naturalist, and has been dredging with a skrabe (scraper) about here.
He has discovered one small mussel, and a new kind of star-fish,
with twelve rays about twelve inches long, body about the size of a
crown-piece, and the whole of a bright red. The rays are remarkably
brittle. This I afterwards saw in the Museum at Bergen. Asbjörnsen is
an exceedingly stout man, and very fat, and the simple country-people
have the idea, therefore, that he must be very rich. Wealth and fatness
they believe must go together.
The wind, which had all the morning been blowing from the land, as the
afternoon advances veers round, like the Bise of the Mediterranean, and
thus becomes in our favour. I now see the reason why the men would not
start till the afternoon. In fine weather, the wind almost invariably
blows from the sea after mid-day, and from the mountain in the morning;
and, in illustration of the law that action and reaction are always
equal and contrary, the stronger it blows out, the stronger it blows
in. Tit for tat.
Erik, who is very communicative, says, “This is our election day at
Bergen for South Bergen-Stift. We don’t choose directly; every hundred
men elect one; and this College of Voters elects the Storthing’s-man.
Mr. H----, the clergyman, is one of the sitting members.”
“Has every male adult a vote?”
“No. In the country they must have a land-qualification, and pay so
much tax to Government; besides which, before they can exercise their
franchise, they must swear to the Constitution. People think much more
of the privilege than they did formerly. Several have qualified lately.
The more voters, the more Storthing’s-men, so that the Storthing is
increasing in number.”
As we scud along, we pass a stage projecting from a rock. This is a
Laxstie, or place where salmon are caught, as they swim by, by means
of a capstan-net, which is hoisted up suddenly as they pass over it.
But I shall have occasion to describe one of these curious contrivances
hereafter.
“Very curious fish, those salmon,” continued my informant. “They are
very fond of light--like moths for that; always like to take up the
Fjord where the cliffs are lowest--at least, so I hear.”
The breeze being fresh, we went gaily along; “So hurtig som sex”
(as quick as six), said the man, using a saying of the country.
Presently, he fastened the sheet, drew a lump of tobacco out of his
waistcoat-pocket, and began to chew.
“You must not fasten the sheet,” interposed I.
“Why, you are not ‘sö-raed’ (frightened of the sea)?”
“No; but you Norskmen are very careless. Supposing a Kaste-wind comes
from that mountain plump upon us, where are you?”
“Oh, that is never the case in summer.”
“Can you swim?” said I.
“No.”
“Well, I can; so that in case of accident you have more reason to be
alarmed than I. But I have property in the boat, and I shan’t run the
risk of losing it.”
“Ah! you English are very particular. Not long ago I rowed four
Englishmen. Directly we got in the bay, although it was beautiful
weather, one and all they pulled out a cloth bag with a screw to it,
and blew it up, and put it round their waists.”
I could not help smiling at my countrymen’s peculiarities. As we swept
along under the cliffs, I inquired whether there were any bears about
here.
“Bears! forstaae sig (to be sure)! You see that speck yonder? That’s
Vellavik.”
I took out my double glass to discern it--they are infinitely superior
to the single ones.
“Bless me! why you have got a skue-spil kikkert[17] (theatre-glass)!”
“Skue-spil! what do you know about skue-spil?”
“Why, I once was at Bergen, and went to see a play.”
“Indeed! And how did you like it?”
“Not much. I also saw a juggler and a rope-dancer: that I liked a vast
deal better.”
“But about that bear at Vellavik?”
“Oh, yes. Well, Paulsen Vellavik, who lives yonder, was up under the
mountain early in the spring. The bears get up there then to eat the
young grass, for it springs there first. He was coming down a narrow
scaur--you know what I mean? Such a place as that yonder”--pointing
to a deep scaur in the side of the mountain. “Suddenly he meets four
bears coming towards him, two old, two young. The bears did not wish to
meet him, for when they were some distance off, they turned out of the
road, and tried to climb up out of the scaur; but it was too steep. So
down they came towards him, growling horribly. He immediately stuffed
his body, head foremost, into a hole which he saw in the cliff. It
was not deep enough to get himself hidden in. His legs stuck out. In
another second two of the bears were upon him, biting at his legs. To
scream was death. His only chance of preservation was to sham dead.
After biting him, and putting him to great pain, which he endured
without a sound, the bears paused, and listened attentively. Paulsen
could distinctly feel their hot breath, and, indeed, see them from
his hiding-place. After thus listening some time, and not hearing him
breathe or move, they came to the conclusion that he was dead, and then
they left him. Faint with loss of blood, his legs frightfully bitten,
he managed, nevertheless, to crawl home, and is slowly recovering.”
“That is a very good bear-story,” said I; “have you another?”
“Ah, sir, the bear is a curious creature; he does not become so savage
all at once. When they are young, they eat berries and grass; presently
they take to killing small cattle--I mean sheep and goats. Later in
life they begin killing horses and cows, and when the bear is very old,
he attacks men. But they are great cowards sometimes. Ivar Aslaacson
met a she-bear and three young ones this summer. She bit his leg; but
he drove her off with nothing but a bidsel”--_i.e._, iron bit and
bridle.
The biter bit, as you may say. This seems rather a favourite weapon of
attack. Snorro relates how those two ruffians, Arek and Erek, rode off
together into the forest, and were found dead, their heads punched in
“med hesten-hoved-band”--_i.e._, with their horses’ bits.
“Once,” continued my informant, “I and a party of young fellows went
up to a sæter on the mainland, just opposite Utne. It was Sunday, and
we were going to have a lark with the sæter girls. They were in great
alarm, for they had seen a bear snuffing about. Off we set in pursuit.
At last we found him, skulking about, and drove him with our cries down
towards the cliffs that look over the Fjord. We saw him just below us,
and shouted with all our might, and the dogs barked. This alarmed him,
and he seemed to lose his head, for he jumped to a place where there
was no getting away from. Down we thundered rocks and stones at him. He
looked in doubt what to do. Then he tried to jump upon another rock;
but the stone slipped from under him, and rolled down, and he after it,
and broke his neck. A famous fat fellow he was.
“A year or two ago, some men were fishing along shore at Skudenaes,
when, lo and behold, they saw something white swimming along straight
for the land. It was a white bear. One of them landed, and ran for a
gun, and shot at the beast as it touched the shore. It put up its paws
in a supplicating manner, as if to beg them to be merciful, but a shot
or two more killed the animal without it offering any resistance. It
is thought that the creature had escaped from some ship coming from
Spitzbergen.”
After a favourable run, we enter a deep Fjord, and landing at its
extremity, march up to a cluster of houses. Here I agree with one
Simon, for the sum of three dollars, to convey my effects over the
Fjeld to the Sogne Fjord. His daughter Sunniva prepares me some coffee.
To ladle out the cream, she places on the board a stumpy silver spoon,
the gilding of which is nearly worn off. It was shaped like an Apostle
spoon, except that the shaft was very short, and ended in something
like the capital of a pillar.
“That’s a curious spoon,” I observed to Madam, who now appeared on
household cares intent.
“Ah! that belonged to my grandfather, Christopher Gaeldnaes. Did you
never hear of him?”
“I can’t say I ever did.”
“Indeed! Why he was a man renowned for wisdom and wealth all over
Norway in the Danish days. Our clergyman tells me that this sort of
spoon used to be hung round the child’s neck at baptism.” (Döbe =
dipping.)
In the Museum of Northern Antiquities at Copenhagen, a similar one may
be seen.
The extent of the household accommodations was not great. There were no
sheets; as a make-shift, I suggested a table-cloth, of the existence
of which I was aware; and, in place of a towel, the _pis-aller_ was
a shirt. I rose at three o’clock, A.M., as we had a long journey
before us; but Simon was not ready till much later. He was evidently a
fumbling sort of fellow; and even when we had started, he had to run
back and get something he had forgotten. From my experience in guides,
I augured ill of his capabilities. To judge from the map, I thought we
ought to accomplish the passage of the Fjeld before dark; but all that
could be got out of him on this subject was, he could not say. If we
couldn’t get over, there was a châlet where we might sleep.
As we trudged up the very narrow valley behind the houses, following
the brawling stream, I had leisure to survey the surrounding objects.
Right and left were impending mountains of enormous height, while in
front of us stood, forbidding our approach, a wall of rock. Behind
lay the placid Fjord, with a view of Folgefond in the distance, just
catching the blush of the sunrise. The summits of some of the cliffs
were cut into all sorts of fantastic shapes. The stupendous ruins which
choked the path and stream, and were of limestone, at once explained
the reason of the horrid forms above. The rock, from its nature, is
evidently given to breaking away, and when it does so, does not study
appearances. My guide, however, has something to say on the subject.
“Yonder, sir, is the priest. Don’t you see him? His nose
(Probst-snabel) came away some months ago, so that now his face is not
so easy to make out. That other rock goes by the name of Störk’s stool.
Did you ever hear the story? Störk was a strong man, and a daring
withal. One day he was up at a Thing (assize) at Kinservik, where the
Bishop presided. Enraged at some decision made by his right reverence,
Störk struck at him with his axe, but luckily missed him, making a
fearful gash in the door-post. Störk immediately fled to Ose, below
there. Not long after, the Bishop’s boat was descried rowing into the
Fjord, to take vengeance for the act of violence. Störk at once fled
up to that rock there, to watch the proceedings. Close by it there is
a hole, and he had ready a vast flat stone, for the purpose of drawing
it over the mouth, in case the Bishop came in pursuit. Meantime, he had
left instructions with his son Tholf (which also means twelve) how to
act. Tholf, who was a huge fellow, and nearly as strong as his father,
set out in his boat to meet the Bishop, having on board a barrel of
beer. As the other boat drew near he rested on his oars, and asked the
Bishop’s permission to drink his health; and this being given, he took
up the barrel and began drinking out of the bung-hole. The size of this
fellow rather appalled the Bishop, who discreetly inquired whether
Störk had any other such sons. ‘He has _Tholf_,’ was the crafty answer.
When the Bishop, not relishing an encounter with twelve such fellows,
turned his boat round, and retreated with all speed.”
In spite of my anticipations, I find the path gradually unfolds itself
as we advance, worming in and out of the rocks. More luxuriant
shrub-vegetation I never beheld; a perfect Paradise of Sub-alpine
plants. There were raspberries, and strawberries, and haeggebaer
(bird-cherry), the wood of which is the toughest in Norway; besides
many kinds of wild flowers, peeping among the fallen rocks. And then
the ferns: there was the delicate oak-leaved fern, and the magnificent
“polysticum logkitis,” with several others. Growing among these was a
plant which appeared to be parsley-fern, specimens of which I stuffed
into my book.
“Ay, that’s a nasty plant, sir,” said my guide. “En hel Maengde (a
great lot) of it grows hereabouts. We call it Torboll” (I suppose from
the destroying god Thor), “or Heste-spraeng (horse-burster). It stops
them up at once, and they begin to swell, and the only chance then is a
clyster.”
The cause of all this luxuriance of vegetation is to be found in the
sheltered position of the valley, and the moisture caused by the
Thousand pretty rills
That tumble down the rocky hills.
One wonders where so much water comes from; till, lifting up the eye
beyond the tall cliffs that lie still in the shadow, the vision lights
on a field of glistening snow, which the morning sun has just caught
and illumined.
Each step that we ascend the flowers grow perceptibly smaller and
smaller, but their tints brighter, while the scenery grows more rugged
and sombre, and its proportions vaster--an apt representation of savage
strength pillowing beauty on its bosom.
As we climb higher and higher, we pass a waterfall, over which hovers
an iris, one of those frequent decorations of Norwegian landscape which
a British islander but seldom sees in his be-fogged home. Looking back,
and following the stream below with my eye, I perceive two figures
approaching the water’s edge.
“That’s my son and daughter,” exclaimed Simon. “They are going to make
hay on that slope on the other side,” said he, pointing to a little
green spot high up the mountain.
If a crop was to be got there it would be one, methought, such as the
Scripture describes, “with which the mower filleth not his hand, nor he
that bindeth up the sheaves his bosom.” Such little matters indicate
the wrestle that mankind here has to make both ends meet; in other
words, to get a supply of forage enough to last from September to May.
“But there’s no bridge,” exclaimed I. “They can’t get over.”
“Oh, they’ll manage.”
And sure enough I saw the boy first, and then the girl, take off their
shoes, and with a hop, spring, and a jump, light on a stone standing
out in the torrent, and then on another; and so over with the agility
of mountain goats. One false step--an easy matter when the rocks were
so slippery--and they would have endangered limb at any rate, for the
lin was deep, and worked up to a dangerous pitch of exasperation by the
knock-me-down blows that its own gravity was giving it.
Before we emerge from the vast labyrinth of mountain ruin, one
overhanging fragment particularly arrests my attention, for, under its
eaves, a quantity of martens had constructed their mud habitations,
and were darting out and athwart the stream and back again with their
muscipular booty, with intense industry. The trout abound in the brook
that placidly flows through the little green plain beyond; but, with
such a host of winged fly-catchers about, I doubt whether they ever
get into season. Here, taking advantage of this little oasis of sweet
grass, two or three sæters had been constructed, with the cows and
sheep around them. The bald rock, up which our path now lay, was of
mica-slate, striped with bands of white felspar; cold and grey, it
was void of grass. The beautiful ferns we had left nestling among the
clefts far behind, but a bit of stone-crop held its own here and there,
and the claret-stalked London Pride asserted its dignity with much
pertinacity. There was also abundance of a red flower.
On the bare waterless brow
Of granite ruin, I found a purple flower,
A delicate flower, as fair as aught I trow,
That toys with zephyrs in my lady’s bower.
“Ah!” said Simon, as I picked up some specimens, “it must be nigh
thirty years ago that I guided a Thelemarken priest over this Fjeld. He
told me the name of that ‘grass’ you’ve got there (a Norwegian calls
all flowers ‘grass’) but I don’t mind it now. He had a large box with
him, and filled it full of grass and mosses. He was very particular
about that black moss under the snow. His name was--let me see--”
“Sommerfeldt,” suggested I, the well-known author of the _Supplementum
Floræ Laponicæ_.
“That’s it!” exclaimed Simon; “quite right.”
The inclined plane, up which we strode, was clearly the work of
a glacier. But though there was no ice now, there were crevasses
notwithstanding. The mountain was traversed with deep parallel
fissures, from a few inches to two or three feet in width. There might
have been a score of them--the widest spanned by little bridges of
stone, thrown across by the peasants for precaution’s sake.
“Dangerous paths these on a dark night,” observed I.
“Yes, and in broad daylight too,” was the response.
“Mind how you go--it’s very slape. Do you see that mark?” continued he,
pointing to a long scrawl on the slippery surface, which terminated on
the edge of one of these yawning chasms. “The best horse in the valley
made that. He slipped in there, and was lost. Nabo (neighbour) Ole’s ox
did the same thing in another place. Forfaerdelig Spraekke (frightful
crack)! Pray take care; let me go first. It will be very bad going, I
see, to-day. The snow is so much melted this summer,” said he, as we
scrambled down into a deep basin, the bottom of which was occupied by
grim Stygian pools of snow-slush and spungy ice. We were no sooner out
of this slough of despond, than we were on a quasi glacier, with its
regularly-marked dirt bands. The snow on which we trod was honeycombed
and treacherous. Underneath it might be heard rumbling rills busily
engaged in excavating crevasses. Now and then one of them came to the
light of day, with that peculiar milky tint of freshly-melted snow,
as if the fluid was loth to give up all at once its parent colour,
dutiful child. To add to the strangeness of the scene, the sun, which
was now high in heaven, catching the face of the mica-slate, bronzed it
into the colour of the armour we have seen worn by the knights at the
Christmas pantomime.
“We call that Swerre’s Sok,” said my guide, pointing to an eminence
on my left, reminding me that the brave Norsk king of that name, when
pursued by his foes, escaped with the remnants of his army by this
appalling route. “He took his sleeping quarters at the sæter we are
coming to,” continued Simon.
“That’s Yuklin,” said my cicerone, pointing to a rounded mountain to
the right, muffled in “a saintly veil of maiden white,” and looking
so calm and peaceful amid the storm-tost stone-sea that howled around
us. To the left were two lesser snow mountains, Ose Skaveln and Vosse
Skaveln, looking down on the scene of confusion at their feet with
no less dignity than their sister. Striking images these of tranquil
repose and rending passion! It was a magnificent, still, autumn day;
if it had been otherwise, it would be difficult to imagine what
features the scene would have assumed. I have seen a good deal of the
Fjeld; but, until now, I had no notion how it can look in some places.
“Vegetation has ceased now,” said the old man, with a kind of shiver,
which was quite contagious, as we stumbled among
Crags, rocks, and mounds, confusedly hurled,
The fragments of an earlier world.
But a common-place comparison may perhaps bring what I saw home to my
readers. Suppose a sudden earthquake, or a succession of them, were
to rend, and prostrate, and jumble and tumble all London, choking up
the Thames with debris of all imaginable shapes, and converting its
bed into deep standing pools, with now and then the toppling tower of
a temple or a palace reflecting itself in the waters. And, to crown
all, not a single living mortal to be seen about the ruins. If this
will not suffice to illustrate the scene, the blame must be laid on my
barrenness of invention.
Well, after some miles of this amusement, we came upon a broad, hollow
way. To the right of this path was the dark, soft, slaty micaceous
schist, but it came no further; and to the left of the line was nothing
but white granitic gneiss. A little further on the rock was scorched.
“That’s the Torden,” said Simon; “a man was struck by lightning here
not so long ago.”
At last we emerged on a sort of stony moor, and after eight hours’ walk
suddenly got upon a small plot of grass, and stopped at a châlet. I was
not sorry to preface an attack on my own stores by a slight foray among
the milky produce of the Fjeld dairy. The curds (“Dravle” or “gum”)
proved excellent.
This spot was called Hallingskie, and was forty-two English miles from
the first farm in Hallingdal. Hitherto, on the whole, we had got on
pretty successfully, though at a rather tortoise pace. It was now that
our misfortunes began. In the first place, it was too late to think of
achieving the passage of the Fjeld by daylight. So we were to sleep
at a certain distant châlet; notwithstanding which Simon seemed in
no hurry to move; and it was only when I started off alone that he
bestirred himself, jabbering as fast as possible to the old man and
woman who lived on this lonely spot. Presently we missed our way, or
rather direction--for there was no way whatsoever--and lost much time
in hitting off the scent again. If we kept to the right, we got among
snow; if too much to the left, the valley was effectually stopped up by
inky lakes, laving the bases of perpendicular cliffs. A shot or two at
ptarmigan somewhat enlivened the horrors of the scene.
At last, after many ups and downs and round-abouts, we descend into
a valley, and cross over a deepish stream, both of us sitting on the
horse. Once on the further bank, I, of course, relieved the horse of my
weight. Not so my precious Norskman. The unfortunate nag, pressed down
by his bulk, sunk at once almost to his hocks in the morass, and only
by a prodigious effort extricated himself, to flounder back into the
stream. Before I was aware of it, to my consternation, I saw the poor
creature was getting into deep water, and then swimming, only his mouth
out of water, with all my baggage, coat, gun, &c., submerged. The
wretched Simon, who had never had the adroitness to throw himself from
the poor beast’s back, sat firmly upon him, just like the Old Man of
the sea on the back of Sinbad the sailor--a proper incubus. Of course
they’ll both be drowned, thought I; but no! the poor beast has secured
a footing on the further side of the water, and gradually emerges, all
my traps dripping gallons of water. My maps, and powder, and gun, too,
terrible thought! So much for the pleasures of travelling in Norway.
Presently, the quadruped recrossed at the ford above. After scolding
the man most resolutely for his carelessness, and adjusting the pack,
which had got under the horse’s belly, I proceeded. On we trudged, I
sulky beyond measure, and weary to boot, but consoling myself with the
thought of being speedily at the châlet, where I might rest for the
night, and dry my effects. The shadows of the mountains beginning to
lengthen apace over the dreary lake which we were now skirting, warned
me that the day was far spent. But still no symptoms of a habitation.
The way seemed interminable. At last, halting, I Old-Baileyed the
guide.
“How far have we to go?”
“Not so very far.”
“But night is coming on.”
“Oh, we shall get there in a liden Stund (a little while.)”
“Hvor er Stölen (where is the châlet)?”
“It ought to be near.”
“Ought to be! what do you mean? Haven’t you been this road before?”
“No. But the stöl is near the second great lake, and the second lake
can’t be far. We’ve passed the first.”
After this agreeable revelation I was wound up into a towering state of
ire, which made it prudent not to say more.
Picking my way with difficulty through brooks, and holes, and rocks, on
I stumped. Twilight at last became no-light, as we emerged on the side
of what seemed to be a lake. Here the châlet ought to be. But whether
or no, it was too dark to see. Halting, the guide exclaimed--
“What are we to do?”
“Do? why sleep under a rock, to be sure. Take the load off the horse,
and turn him loose. But stop. Is not that the stöl?” exclaimed I,
advancing to a dark object, a few yards from us, when I plunged up to
my knees in a peat-hag, from which I with difficulty extricated myself.
Hitherto my feet had been dry, but they were so no longer.
“Hold your tongue!” I thundered out to the guide, who kept chattering
most vociferously, and assuring me that the stöl ought to be here.
“Listen! is not that a bell, on the side of the hill?” We listened
accordingly. Sure enough it was the sound of a bell on the side of
the mountain, mingling with the never-ceasing hum of the distant
waterfalls. It must be some cattle grazing, and the sæter could not be
far off. “Try if you can’t make your way up in the direction of the
sound. The building must be there.”
During the half-hour that my Sancho was absent, I tramped
disconsolately, like “the knight of the sorrowful figure,” up and down
a little square of ground by the horse, to keep myself warm, as,
besides being wet, I sensibly felt the cold of the perpetual snow which
lay not far off. In due time Simon returned. The solitary bell was that
of a horse, who was feeding on the slope, but no sæter could he find.
“Can you holloa?” I exclaimed; “let’s holloa both together.”
“I can’t, sir,” croaked he; “I have no voice.” And now I perceived what
I had before scarcely noticed, that his voice did not rise above the
compass of a cracked tea-kettle. So, as a last resource, I commenced
a stentorian solo--“Wi har tabt Veien; hvor er Stölen,”--(We have
lost our way. Where is the stöl?)--till the rocks rebellowed to the
sound. Suddenly I hear in the distance a sound as of many cattle-bells
violently rung, and then, as suddenly, all the noise ceased.
“Strange that. Did you not hear it?” I asked.
“Surely they were cattle.”
My guide’s superstitions, I fancy, began to be worked on, and he said
nothing. Neither did any response come to my louder inquiries, except
that of the echoes. There was nothing for it, then, but to unload the
horse, and take up a position under the lee of some stone. The night
was frosty, and my pea-coat was wet through, with immersion in the
river. Nevertheless, I put it on, and over all, the horse-rug, regular
cold water-cure fashion. Then, munching some of the contents of my
wallet, and drinking my last glass of brandy, I lit a pipe. Before
long, a bright star rose above the mountain, and out twinkled, by
degrees, several other stars.
“The moon,” my man said, “must soon follow;” but before her cold
light was shed across the valley, I had dozed off. At four o’clock
I was awoke by Simon, begging me to rise, which I felt very loth to
do. Awakened by the cold, he had got up, and by the grey dawn had
discovered the sæter, not many hundred yards distant.
“My good Englishman, do get up, and dry yourself,” he added, “they’ve
lit a fire.”