Sverre set out to gain the throne of Norway, and in the end he succeeded.
For long he roamed about, like Robin Hood with his merry men. He would
“drop in” on a country festival and scare the people so that they fled,
whereupon he and his merry men would sit down to a comfortable banquet.
However, this was more by way of a practical joke, enforced by hunger,
than by any real cruelty, for Sverre was by nature extremely merciful.
On one occasion, when he and his Birchlegs were crossing a mountain lake
on rafts, he himself started out on the last one, but when he was some
distance from shore a poor comrade, who was nearly dead and was being
left behind, called piteously to be taken along. Although every raft was
crowded to its utmost capacity, Sverre went back and got the dying man.
The raft was so overloaded that he now had to stand up to his knees in
icy water, but he did finally reach the other shore. It is reported that
when Sverre’s foot left the raft (he was the last man to disembark),
it sank out of sight. His followers regarded this as a miracle, and it
filled them with hope.
Amid incredible hardships he fought his way to the throne, and he became
so formidable that nurses throughout all Norway used to scare bad boys by
saying that Sverre would catch them if they didn’t watch out.
In 1195 the Byzantine Emperor Alexius had a quarrel on his hands and sent
an ambassador, Reidar, to collect from Norway two hundred mercenaries.
Reidar collected his force and was prepared to return, when Bishop
Nicholas, who hated Sverre with almost insane malignity, persuaded him
to turn his attention to the task of wiping out the powerful Birchlegs.
Accordingly these two hundred mercenaries were formed into the famous
band called “Baglers” (crookmen, from _bagall_, a bishop’s crook or
staff). The historic war between the Baglers and the Birchlegs centered
around Bergen.
I climbed Flöifjeldet the other day, one of Bergen’s four real hills,
and as I looked down on the city I could seem to see the whole struggle
between Birchlegs and Baglers. But that was not the only famous struggle
which took place in Bergen, and Sverre’s is not the only great name
closely associated with it. Here, in Christ Church, Haakon Haakonsson was
crowned on St. Olaf’s Day, July 29, 1247. On this occasion a continuous
banquet was held for three days, for which function a huge boathouse was
“commandeered,” as the palace was not large enough for the guests. It was
the most splendid feast that had ever been held in Norway, and after the
banquet a five-day fête was held in honor of the cardinal. At this fête
Ordeals were forever abolished, on the very excellent ground that “it
was not seemly for Christian men to challenge God to give his verdict in
human affairs.”
Another reform was introduced, excluding from the royal succession all
illegitimate sons—_in the future_. In putting forward this reform, Haakon
Haakonsson must have made an effort to forget that he himself was an
illegitimate son of King Haakon Sverresson.
His father, who was a son of the great Sverre, as his name indicates,
had been foully murdered by his stepmother, the dowager queen Margaret.
This dowager queen had stolen away Christina, Sverresson’s half-sister.
As Sverresson was her legal protector, he tried in every way to get her
back. Argument and pleading proving vain, he resorted to stratagem. He
sent his cousin, Peter Steyper, who “burst into the princess’ room while
her mother was taking a bath, crying at the top of his voice that the
Baglers had come to town.” Christina was terrified, but Steyper told
her not to fear, as he would save her. He took her in his arms and fled
to the wharves, where he hustled her aboard his ship. The dowager queen
soon discovered the trick and dashed down to the water’s edge in the
most scandalous _décolleté_. She reached it just as the ship pulled off
and for a long time vainly screamed curses after it. However, she took a
glorious revenge by inviting her stepson to a banquet of peace and there
poisoning him.
Interesting as is the history of Norway, it is to say the least
“strenuous,” and it is rather a relief if you have been on Flöifjeldet,
dreaming of Sverre and Haakonsson, to come down into Bergen’s quiet,
old-fashioned market, where there are no Birchlegs and no Baglers now.
The name “Bergen,” or Björgvin, means “pasture on the mountains,” and
seems to suggest a restfulness with which history has not always favored
the city. Many of the fisherwomen, or _fiskerpiger_, in the market place
are gayly dressed in some of the varied forms of the national costume.
However, I understand that the costumes are so much gayer and more
conspicuous in the Hardanger and Sætersdal regions that I think I will
wait until I get there before I tell you about them. I have not yet seen
any of the well-known fjords, though I doubt if there is anything much
finer in that line than the Ofotenfjord at Narvik.
I do not know when or from where I shall write to you again, but it will
be from somewhere among the fjords, as no one could really feel the full
spell of Norway, I suppose, without exploring the famous Hardanger and
Sogne and some of the others. Another place which I want surely to see
before I leave Norway is the famous Sætersdal in the south. It is here
I understand that one may find the past _par excellence_—not history,
for Sætersdal is not a particularly historic region, but the customs and
manners and dress and general characteristics of the Norwegians of a few
centuries back.
It may be some time before I shall write again, as there is much to see
and much to explore. In the mean-time please prepare yourself to chalk up
many points for Norway, for its fjords and its _dals_, as you know, are
among its chief claims to distinction.
Yours as ever,
AYLMER.
TENTH LETTER
Norwegian fjord scenery; the “Seven Sisters” and “Pulpit
Rock”; a comparison of the Sogne and Hardanger type of beauty;
a drowned village; the cliff, Hornelen; the “City of Roses”;
Björnstjerne Björnson; over the Romsdal-Gudbrandsdal route by
carriole; an atmospheric kaleidoscope; the land of the “fos”;
some Norwegian characteristics illustrated by the “skydsgut”;
the “sæter” huts on the “fjeld”; Norwegian fauna; the terror
of a lemming raid; “into the valley of death rode the six
hundred”; a strange shipwreck; the giants of the Sogne; Balholm
and Longfellow; Leif Eriksson; “The Skeleton in Armor.”
MAROK, GEIRANGER FJORD, June 27.
MY DEAR JUDICIA,
Have you ever seen the ocean so still that there was not a single,
tiniest wind-made ripple on it; when a rowboat left a broadening wake
a quarter of a mile long, and when the circling sea gulls could signal
to their images beneath? If not, I wish you could transport yourself by
telegraph here to Marok. Here in this quiet, mountain-guarded Geiranger
Fjord, eighty miles or so from the open sea, it is even calmer than
the proverbial mill pond. It is not the stagnant calm of the mill pond
either, suggesting green slime and malarial gases, but a clear, fresh,
healthy calm, suggesting only peace and shelter from the elements.
Probably the fjord’s surface will not long be left unmolested. Soon a
breeze will come creeping around the turn of the Sunelvsfjord, or down
the _dal_, from the frozen Lake Djupvand.
[Illustration: _Copyright by Underwood & Underwood, N. Y._
Across the Glassy Geirangerfjord.]
My purpose in this letter, Judicia, is not to take you on the “best trip
in Norway,” or indeed on any trip. Countless trips have been carefully
planned and then as carefully written up for the assistance of future
travelers and for the benefit of tourist agencies. I shall simply take
you as though you were a chessman and put you on whatever spot I choose.
I hope you will not rebel at such autocratic treatment, for I shall try
to make the best moves I can. If you suddenly find yourself moved from
one fjord or _dal_ to another without the assistance of steamer or train
or _Norges Communicationer_, or anything but pure imagination, I hope
you will accept the move in good faith. You know it’s yours as a reader
not to question why, yours not to make reply, etc. I hope the places I
describe will be their own reply.
Geiranger (please consult a map if you would know where it is) is
probably oftener described and more praised than almost any other fjord
in Norway, though it seems to me absolutely impossible to pick out any
single fjord for first prize. Perhaps Geiranger would not receive so much
attention were it not for its famous “Seven Sisters” and “Pulpit Rock.”
The Seven Sisters are seven branches of a waterfall which drops hundreds
of feet sheer into the fjord. As was the case with Bergen and its hills,
it is an unfortunate, prosy, geographical fact that there are only four
real branches to the waterfall; but three little wisps of spray up at
the top separate slightly and give a somewhat plausible pretext for the
name. Directly opposite the Seven Sisters is a projecting rock of most
striking appearance, which would make an excellent pulpit if the preacher
desired to address a vast audience of screaming sea gulls, but the pulpit
is so high in air and so inaccessible that any other audience would be
impossible.
There is one house which occupies a nook on the side of one of these
lofty cliffs in Geiranger Fjord in such an inaccessible spot that
formerly the only method of reaching it was by a rope, lowered by a
member of the household. More recently, however, a flight of steps has
been cut in the rock. It is often said that at some of these little
houses the children are tethered, in order to prevent their falling down
into the fjord.
Before I go any farther, Judicia, I must tell you something about the
Norwegian fjords in general. Like so many other portions of the globe,
Norway traces its peculiar formation to the grinding, irresistible
glaciers of the ice age. While the actual coast line of Norway is about
seventeen hundred miles, the distance is increased to twelve thousand if
all the indentations are added, so that the fjords alone have a coast
line which would stretch nearly halfway around the world. Also some
of them are very deep, the Sogne showing a depth of nearly a mile in
some places far inland. There are several fjords which stand out with
particular prominence, not that they are necessarily finer than others,
but because they are more accessible. The most southerly fjord to achieve
fame is the Hardanger; then, going north, the Sogne, the Nord, the
Hjörund, the Geiranger, and the Molde. One author, who signs himself O.
W. F., thus vividly contrasts the great Hardanger and Sogne: “… whereas
the mountains of the Sognefjord are knit together in mighty knots, those
of Hardanger shoot in straight, slim peaks from the bottom of the fjord,
higher and higher, until at last they end in glittering glaciers. Whereas
the Sognefjord is wild, Hardanger is deep blue and tranquil.”
But the Nordfjord is not like either. The mountains do not rise
continuously to a lofty tableland, but at intervals, in sharp, isolated
peaks. No fjord is quite like another, and I cannot sympathize with the
tourists who complain that Norwegian scenery, even in its grandeur, is
monotonous. Of course to some unfortunate traveler who craves some new
excitement every day Norway may be a dull country after he has once seen
two or three of the fjords. They will all look alike to him, and some of
these calm retreats like Marok will be unendurable.
Marok is a center for some of the most delightful excursions in Norway. A
fifteen-mile boat ride and then a fifteen-mile drive to Oie will take you
through one of the most varied and beautiful scenes that the imagination
can picture. It is inspiring, no less in the mountain walls that rise on
the Geiranger than in the smiling, sunlit Norangdal, which leads from
Hellesylt to Oie.
Midway in this Norangdal a landslip occurred in 1908. It carried away a
part of the road and formed a new lake by damming up the river. When the
water of this new-born lake is clear, the roofs of the submerged houses
of the old village may be plainly seen. There is something uncanny in
the thought that a skillful swimmer might dive far below the water’s
surface and _swim_ into the garret window of any one of these former
habitations.
Another trip which Marok affords is up the valley to Grotlid, past the
frozen Lake Djupvand; but still another valley, the Romsdal, which
extends from Næs on the Molde Fjord to Domaas on the Dovre _fjeld_, and
there connects with the Gudbrandsdal, leading down toward Christiania,
affords such a wonderful trip that I think I must wait and tell you of
that and not dull your appetite by describing inferior valleys.
But Marok needs no valleys to add to its attraction. The superb Geiranger
is surely enough to bring it fame. At the opening of the long fjord,
which changes its name every few miles and at its inmost extremity
assumes the name Geiranger, is situated the town of Aalesund. It is a
beautiful port, but its chief claim to distinction lies in the fact that
it was once the home of Rolf the Walker, who, you remember, conquered
Normandy and caused his proxy to kiss Charles the Simple’s foot so
violently that he fell from his horse. In token of this conquest the town
of Rouen has given to Aalesund a statue of Rolf.
A few miles north of Aalesund the steamers going to Molde pass a cliff
called Hornelen, which towers three thousand feet in air. There is no
cliff in Norway which can compare with it, and that is equivalent to
saying that there is none in Europe. Formerly every tourist steamer
which sailed by Hornelen fired a gun in order that the passengers might
hear the echo, but this was done once too often, for on one occasion the
concussion made by the firing of the gun loosened an immense amount of
rock on the side of the cliff, and this came hurtling down, leaving a
hole which can plainly be seen now.
Farther up the coast and not so very far from Trondhjem lies Molde, the
“City of Roses.” You see, Portland, Oregon, does not have a monopoly of
the name. Molde might equally well call itself the “City of Honeysuckles”
or the “City of the Wild Cherry.” The town is at the head of the fjord
which bears its name, and far in the distance we can just distinguish the
Romsdalshorn, which we shall later see at closer range. Those skilled in
mathematics say that forty-six peaks are visible from Molde, and even the
mathematically untrained can count nearly that number. Prominent among
the forty-six stand out King, Queen, and Bishop—you see, church and state
are side by side.
The citizens of Molde are proud to relate that once the great
Björnstjerne Björnson was a school teacher in their town. They may well
be proud, for Björnson stands out as one of the most daring figures in
Norway’s recent history. All Norwegians, and most other Europeans who
take any interest in literature, are familiar with the fine, commanding
face of Björnson, surrounded with its halo of white hair. No wonder he
held his audiences in the hollow of his hand whenever he made public
addresses. His oratory was not of the highest order, but his powerful
personality compelled attention. Those who could not hear him speak
can feel the thrill of his personality in his poems and stories. Some
of his peasant tales, such as _A Happy Boy_ and _The Fisher Maiden_,
are considered the finest of their type in all literature. He wrote
his first verses when he was ten years old and his genius in this line
culminated in his ode called _Bergliot_. He was always emotional, often
fiery, and generally radical in his views, so much so that his figure and
his writings became the center of a whirlwind of controversy. He wrote
several national dramas, such as _Between the Battles_ and _Lame Hulda_,
but later his genius took such a radical turn that he had the greatest
difficulty in getting any manager to stage his plays. His symbolical
play, _Beyond Our Powers_, dealing with religious themes, was either
violently criticised or as violently praised, according to the personal
feelings of the critic, and another, called _In God’s Way_, caused even
more heated discussion.
[Illustration: _Copyright by Underwood & Underwood, N. Y._
German Battleships in Norwegian Waters.]
Björnson seems not to have cared how much discussion or opposition he
aroused, though he never tried to arouse it simply for the sake of
publicity. He was daring and defiant, and cared not a snap of his finger
what this or that critic said of him. Toward the end of his life he
turned more to short stories, and in all of these the violent, startling,
emotional element was never lacking. In the end he won the highest
literary honor by receiving in 1903 the Nobel Literary Prize. Strangely
enough this apostle of radicalism preached conciliation with Sweden
during the crisis of 1905, and later he went so far as to advocate
Pan-Germanism, the uniting of all the peoples of Germanic origin into a
single nation.
There is no more interesting character in all the north than Björnson,
unless it be his compatriot, Ole Bull. He could never be called “safe.”
But in spite of his occasional wildness, he is recognized by all his
people as a great reformer, and Molde is justly proud of its former
school teacher.
I have rambled on a long time about Björnson. Interesting as _fjord_
and _fjeld_ and _dal_ are in themselves, they always seem to me more
interesting when enhanced by memories of some striking character with
whom they are associated. Therefore, I hope you will forgive my frequent
rambles.
At the end of the long Molde Fjord is the little village of Næs, the
starting point for the Romsdal-Gudbrandsdal route. No one who is not a
stick or a lump of rock can take this trip without feeling his emotions
stirred to their very foundations. There are few places in the world
where nature has so unsparingly lavished her art as here. As if the
diversity of the scenes were not enough in itself to hold our attention,
nature provides an infinite variety of lighting effects. Fleecy clouds
play about the mountain tops and then give way to full sunlight. A
fog rolls up and curls around the Romsdalshorn, soon to dissolve into
nothingness. A heavy curtain of clouds appears most unexpectedly, and
the wildest thunder pounds and rolls and crackles through the valley to
the accompaniment of pattering hail. We have hardly found shelter when
all is over. The sun seems to shine twice as brightly as before, and a
few discontented mutterings in the distance show whither the storm is
retreating. All this in itself would be inspiring, yet the scenery needs
no assistance in producing a feeling of reverence and awe.
On one side of the road towers the mountain pyramid called Romsdalshorn,
beside which the poor little attempts of Cheops in Egypt would look
pathetic. Opposite to the Romsdalshorn the “Witches’ Pinnacles” and the
“Bridal Procession” carry on their little pantomime through endless ages.
Formerly it was supposed to be a great feat to climb the Romsdalshorn,
but it has now been done so many times that the glamor of the achievement
has worn off. The whole route up the Romsdal is lined at this time of
year with imposing waterfalls. A waterfall in Norway is called a _fos_,
and on this route, as on so many others in Norway, it is practically
impossible to get out of sight of at least one tumbling _fos_. The three
in Romsdal which excite the most interest are Mongefos, Værmofos, and
Slettafos. The latter produces a roar which can be heard a great distance
away, but the finest looking of the three is Værmofos. It makes one great
leap of seven hundred feet and then is divided by a projecting rock into
three separate falls, which leap another three hundred feet. But the
Værmofos is only one of thousands and thousands, which leap or tumble
helter-skelter into valleys and fjords all through the land. One writer
says: “To enumerate the waterfalls of Romsdal would be rather a serious
task. There are a dozen or two that would support half a dozen hotels,
and be perpetually sketched, photographed, and stereoscoped if they were
anywhere up the Rhine.”
The road winds in sharp zigzags or wide curves ever higher and higher,
with the Rauma surging along below in its rock-bound gulley until we
reach Domaas at the top of the pass.
I should have told you before something about our method of locomotion.
So much travel in Norway must be done by road (railway mileage is the
least in proportion to the extent of territory of any country in Europe)
that posting has been developed to a high degree, and certain peculiarly
national conveyances have come into being. The most distinctive of these
is the carriole, a very diminutive, two-wheeled gig, which accommodates
but one person beside the driver, who sits up behind. Even this one
person must place his feet in stirrups outside the wagon and below
its floor. If he tries to keep his feet inside the wagon he will find
himself cramped into a bowknot. Your driver, who is known as _skydsgut_
(pronounced _shusgut_), is generally a peasant boy. In many respects he
is like peasant boys of other countries, but he is sure to possess the
quality of absolute honesty. If you give him too much money by mistake,
he will return your change. You cannot cheat yourself if you will. There
is one other characteristic which your _skydsgut_ will possess, if he
is at all a normal Norwegian; that is a stolid sort of courtesy, which
cannot be bullied into doing anything for you, but will invariably
do the utmost if politely requested. Demand your carriole rather
peremptorily and a little harshly, and you will get no answer—neither
will you get your carriole. Tell your _skydsgut_ that you are in a hurry
to get started and would appreciate it if he could bring the carriole
immediately. Before you have finished speaking he is off, and with all
possible speed he brings you the carriole. The normal Norwegian simply
cannot resist a polite appeal to his sympathy or courtesy. No more can
he refrain from resisting to the finish an attitude of overbearing
peremptoriness.
From the town of Domaas we must take a side excursion up into the Dovre
Mountains or _fjeld_. The _fjeld_ is generally a wild, rough, mountain
wilderness, implying snow fields. It is the paradise of the solitude
seeker, unless it be robbed of its quietude by the ubiquitous huntsman.
Here we find the _sæter_ huts in all their primitive, old-world charm.
For centuries these _sæter_ huts have existed just as they exist to-day.
They are very rude affairs, being built only for summer occupation.
Trunks of fir trees are fitted together, and the chinks are filled in
with birch bark and sods. Generally a single room is used as sitting
room, dining room, kitchen, bedroom, and dairy. This doesn’t sound
particularly attractive for the ultimate consumer of the dairy products,
but the dairying processes are really carried on in cleanly and sanitary
fashion.
[Illustration: _Copyright by Underwood & Underwood, N. Y._
A Stolkjaerre.]
Into most of the accessible nooks of the _fjeld_ the sportsman has found
his way. Beasts of the field and birds of the air are still abundant
in some places. Of this latter class there are found the more or less
international grouse, woodcock, snipe, partridge, and golden plover. The
Lapland bunting, the puffin, the kittiwake, and the capercaillie have a
more northern sound, but I am not enough of a huntsman or a naturalist to
know just where their habitat is.
Bears and wolves are still found in Norway and add a decided thrill to
the life of the adventurous hunter. There is a single island off the
mouth of the Trondhjem Fjord which has an almost complete monopoly of the
red deer. For some strange reason the red deer has disappeared throughout
the length and breadth of peninsular Norway, but still abounds on this
island of Hitteren.