Part 7

After this cheerful interlude we went on to the next station—if such it could be called. We intended making a meal there, and rather looked forward to it; but nothing, not a single thing, could be had. We therefore made a fire, and into a black pot put some portable soup, with slices of Brand’s gravy-looking biscuits. Whilst the Tentmaster tried to do the soup the Patriarch in vain sought a wooden spoon; not even that was to be got; so the soup was stirred and tasted with a birch twig. But he made a discovery: whilst spoon-hunting in a drawer, which would only partly open, he saw the end of a mutton bone; perseverance was rewarded, the drawer was opened; but the result worse than a blank, for the shoulder-blade bone of mutton was bare, save the green fluffy mould in which it was mantled. Some people may say, “Not so bad; soup and biscuit, biscuit and soup, is a change.” Still, in long journeys with _stolkjærs_ over rough ground, you can form no idea how shaky and restless it becomes. Moral: always carry a spoon, and, above all things, never start anywhere without a nosebag with plenty in it.

This Nordfjord district is one of special interest now, as recent discoveries have corroborated the old traditions of its close association with the Viking period—a period bearing so powerfully on our own national character, that the subject should be fully investigated, and the extant remains of the Sea Kings’ real life placed carefully before us. For the nonce it will suffice to refer to one particular tumulus, recently discovered and opened in Nordfjord. As Denmark rejoices in, and is much indebted to, the archæological enthusiasm, deep research, and sound knowledge of Professor Worsaae, so Norway is fortunate in having the devotion of M. Lorange, who not only tries to lay these precious earthbound relics before us, but actually rescues them for our benefit and that of posterity; not only interests the dry antiquarian and connoisseur, but in a far larger way draws more closely together the bonds of union and interest between nations. It is remarkable that a Roman emperor was the means of developing the sea powers of the Scandinavians rather than they themselves; for only recently some interesting coins of Marcus Aurelius have been found in a tumulus in Denmark.

The contents of the Nordfjord tumulus were as follows:—Boat with iron rivets twenty-five mètres long; a bit; fifty-four bosses of shields, or umbos; stirrup; a drinking bowl of immense interest, and well enamelled; sword, with silver work; key of treasure chest, spear head, bone comb inlaid with colour, gold ring, dice, arrows, deck marbles, beads and amulets, bones of horse and kid, belt of bronze, and belt-knife.

Having heard what tradition says about the funeral rites of the great ones, the contents of this tumulus, as well as the numismatic discoveries in Denmark, are especially interesting, as corroborative of history. We are much indebted to pagan customs and rites for the valuable materials brought to light in connection with this period. With Odin for their Mars, or god of war, and Thor for their god of air and storm, they believed that their mighty men and heroes would pass to Walhalla, and there enjoy the future in the same way, but more perfectly, that they enjoyed themselves here upon earth—strong symptoms of their belief in the resurrection of the body. For this purpose they buried with the defunct all his implements of war and chase; the horse was killed and placed in readiness, and, should he be pleased to row, his boat was there too. In the Nordfjord case the bowl is especially fine. Notice the delicate work in the base of it: in the woodcut the upper subject is the bottom of the bowl. The enamel is very minute; the “chequer” design, one might say, very Scotch. The enamel is only on the base of the bowl; the body is of bronze, and the upper rim is ornamented by three heads, one of which is shown in the centre of the illustration. This is drawn full size, and the base of the bowl one quarter size.

The two buttons are of single wire, very rudely but cleverly arranged, with shanks not likely to be pulled away from the body. These are of gold.

The key of the treasure chest would suggest that many good things had been stored therein. Still the list is so complete that we could hardly expect more items than those recorded.

The ivory or bone comb is a fine specimen, and the coloured work well preserved.

The dice also are rather curious, as being a little longer than quite square.

One of the most remarkable features, however, in the contents of this tumulus is a set of bone marbles about one inch in diameter. The sphere or marble is flat at the bottom, and has a small hole in it. These marbles were used by men who spent their lives in ships, and were played with on deck, the flat base being intended to keep them steady, while the holes at the bottom, fitting on to small pegs in the deck or board, prevented them from sliding as the vessel lurched. There was a most interesting discussion on this matter at the Society of Arts. Deck marbles were a novelty. Professor Bryce suggested that deck draughts would be a solution of the difficulty; and after referring to the antiquity of the game of draughts and the modes of playing, Professor Maguierson gave a dissertation on the ancient game of “merelles,” known in Iceland and Scandinavia as “mylla;” and even in the present day the shepherds and boys on our South Downs cut the same pattern in the close turf, and play the same game. We therefore come to the conclusion that these bone treasures had been used on board the vessels of the mighty Sea Kings of old, the little pegs, as just observed, preventing their slipping, and also the hero from losing his temper and using “pure Saxon.” The same precaution is in these days applied to railway chessmen, and also those intended for use on shipboard, each figure having its peg for safety and security. “Nothing new under the sun,” said the wise man, and true is it.

• • • • •

Eleven o’clock at night, four thousand feet above the sea, we find ourselves at the top of the pass, just above Udvig, looking over Nordfjord. After a long day, and a very hard one, pleasantly tired, we enjoy the scene before us: peace and tranquillity, with snow poles all along to suggest what winter made it. The happy moment has arrived to commence the descent. “Half the pleasure is in the anticipation,” has often been remarked: we all thought this about half-way down this precipitous descent in the twilight. The torrent path seemed filled with boulders, the ponies slid, the bipeds stumbled, and by the time we were half-way down we had no knees left. This is one of the roughest ascents and descents in Norway, and is hardly practicable for any kind of carriage: still it is one of the things to be done, and one of the charms of the country. Lazy people lose much of the grand scenery with which it abounds. Steady going tells best, and those who try to spurt early in the day are much the worse for it afterwards. How steadily an old Swiss guide starts off, and keeps at his pace, on and on! That is the only way to last. By this time we see a flickering light down below: we long for it, and soon arrive, but very late—about one o’clock A.M. We knock at the door of the station, which is really a private house, like that at Aurjhem, but selected by the Government to facilitate the wanderings of travellers. We are therefore the more indebted for the kind welcome we receive. Down comes the young son Jules, who immediately recognises our Tentmaster-general. Soon we have some refreshment; and not long afterwards Master Jules says, “Jeg schal go seng” (“I shall go to bed”). So said all of us—and we went.

In the morning we were up early. A bathe in the fjord was our first thought, although the big stones are much against it, and the seaweed spoils it: the only way is to take a header out of the boat. After breakfast we espied a novelty in water travel: a large birch bough was seen approaching, which we soon discerned to be the postman availing himself of a fair wind after the usual custom here, a sail being too dangerous even with sheet in hand. The original and simple practice of cutting a large birch bough, and putting it in the bow of the boat, serves the purpose better, the fresh foliage holding the light air, and helping very materially the rower, who is frequently, as in the present case, of the gentler sex, but very strong. The postman sits complacently in the stern of the boat, with his bugle just announcing his arrival, and rousing up the inhabitants of the quiet village of Udvig. The bag is not large, but most important in appearance—a huge leathern mass, locked, barred, and bolted. The boat speedily comes to land, and the well-known sound and scrape are heard. The bag is soon out, and the postman also: the post has arrived at Udvig.

We rowed out on the fjord to look up at the pass we had come down so early in the morning; the view was very grand, backed by the higher ranges of the Justedal snow. We had next to visit one spot which seemed a great favourite with the host and hostess, and therefore started off, and soon reached a position, having followed a strong stream or burn which came above a saw-mill, looking over which the whole fjord lay at our feet, the mountains on the other side looming stupendously.

Returning, we visited the church and lych gate (see p. 82), the latter narrower and higher than usual. When we regained our station a new phase of life awaited and burst upon us. An invitation to a dance! It was somebody’s birthday—the nineteenth—a young visitor from Stockholm. Would we join in the festivities? We were delighted to have the opportunity of visiting a family on such an occasion; but the dancing element alarmed us when we thought of our rough boots and our walk down, we being rather particular, and knowing what boots should be. What was to be done? We shall see.

In the meantime two boats were watched with much interest: one contained the domine and family, the other some well-to-do friends. The hearty welcome they received was beautiful; their sweet simplicity and genuine affection were charming, and certainly will never be forgotten by us, their visitors. Soon after the arrival the repast or dinner was announced, and the real Norwegian customs were well placed before us. After one course the master and lady of the house waited on us, every guest getting a knife and fork; and at the end of each we went and shook hands with the host and hostess, the children kissing their parents.[3] After the fish and various solids we adjourned to another room for fruit, _patisserie_, coffee, and, not an unwise thing in Norway, a cigar. The next event was to adjourn to the garden to see a glorious sunset over the fjord, and to finish the cigar. During this agreeable part of the evening the youthful Jules, with his nice fair face, came and asked if the “English gentlemen would come and play with the girls in the garden.” The Patriarch of our party sent his two young bachelor companions, who readily accepted the invitation with a spontaneous “Oh jag!” Report says the amusements in the garden were a combination of hide-and-seek, Tom Tiddler’s ground, and prisoner’s base. Anyhow they all seemed to have enjoyed them; in fact, the Patriarch often regretted afterwards he did not join the youthful throng instead of remaining with the seniors. Still there was much festivity in store, and the Patriarch took kindly to the dance, which included schottisches, mazourkas, and valses. This brings us to the boot question. The dance commenced. The evening began merrily. The piano (for there was a piano, and a good one, from Christiania) was in tune, and all were thoroughly enjoying themselves, when attention was drawn to one dancer in particular. Sage as an owl, how silently this youthful Achilles glided! How softly yet firmly he trod the polished boards, for no juniper tips were scattered that evening on the floor! Why was it? The Paymaster-general, equal to the occasion, was dancing in goloshes! O shades of Scandinavian gods! O Thor and Odin! that this should be the result of civilisation in Kjære Gamle Norge!

[3] This has been referred to in former books, we are well aware, but could we omit a custom so expressive of gratitude? _Le bon Dieu donne tout_; but do we always give thanks?

Another great feature in the evening was the singing and the national music—and how we did enjoy it! Need we say how they sang, and we tried to sing, “The Hardanger,” by H. Kjerulf, and the chorus song of “Norsk Sjømandssang,” by Grieg, which goes with such grand emphasis; and the light tripping sweetness of “Ingrids Vise,” also by Kjerulf, with its chorus of “Over Lynget, over Lynget?”[4] Another, specially bright and cheery, touched the Patriarch very deeply; he is often heard still humming this air “without words,” which the merry dancer described as being all about some beautiful creature with large blue eyes and golden hair. If she had but been with us to have danced with the goloshes, what would she have thought?

[4] See page 14.

It was a delightful opportunity for us to see the _vie intime_ of a nice family in Norway. The welcome was most cordial; and thankful were we to find ourselves unexpectedly in a spot which every one tried to make us feel to be our home. Long may Herr Hammer, Madame Hammer, and their kindly family enjoy health and prosperity! and, might we say, continue their kindness and attention to those who go to Udvig?—for it seems a perfect pleasure to them to do so.

There was a disinclination to hurry from Udvig in spite of the fine trip before us, for it is a lovely row up the Nordfjord. The Tentmaster-general seemed loath to leave, he was so pleased with Jules; he thought he had grown—had so improved; and he determined on several good openings for him in London. The Paymaster-general had evidently made a great impression, and no wonder, with the happy combination of youth, a petite, petted dark moustache, and enthusiastic forehead and goloshes, to say nothing of really good firework execution on the Christiania piano. We were horrified afterwards to find that all this had induced the young ladies to ask him to write all our names on a pane of glass. In a weak moment he yielded; but why did he? How often have complaints been made by ourselves of the creatures who carved and wrote names! There were, perhaps, extenuating circumstances in this case. So farewell to Udvig and its pleasant associations.

And now for a start up the Nordfjord to Faleidet. Such a good boat was supplied by Herr Hammer! How we enjoyed it, looking forward to our drive from Faleidet! We soon came upon a number of boats fishing for _lyth_, a fish caught in large numbers, easily taken, readily consumed: there were a great many boats, and they fish with a deep-sea single line, feeling the bite over the forefinger, as in Scotland. We wanted much to have seen some of the red sea-fish taken, which are much larger than the mullet, but redder in tone and of splendid colour: a noble fish to look at when caught, but poor on table.

Faleidet is a good station, beautifully clean, and well situated over the water. Here we were much interested in specimens of copper ore, on the richness of which our native held forth most fluently. The ore was decidedly good, and I think in his own mind the Tentmaster had promoted a company, and probably thought of the youthful Jules as assistant secretary and foreign correspondent. No time was to be lost, so we hastened to our _stolkjærs_, but hardly had we reached the top of the hill when the Patriarch’s gimlet eye saw a long birch horn near a shed by the roadside. This could not be resisted. “Halt!” was the word, whilst the others went on. They soon pulled up, for the too-tooing was noisy, if deficient in harmony; still there was a certain satisfaction in the fact that one had elicited sound from a long birch horn, as used by the good people of Faleidet, inferior as these horns are in force to steam fog-horns, as now used at the Foreland, or the steamboat whistle which skewers the tympanum of every traveller at every stopping place, be it where it may. There is a great charm in all these old-fashioned ways of doing things. Again the girls call to their cows, singing to them in very sweet strains, and the cows follow them. It is no question of a subtle tin-tack looking them up, which, like the county of Buckingham, runs into Oxon and Herts. The whole treatment of animals in Norway is a good example: the kindness is consistent and the care unceasing. The early training of the children has much to do with this; at all events the youthful impressions and the influence of the parents have never lost one iota of good.

The Nordfjord is a great inlet of the sea which runs up an immense distance, and greatly favoured the Viking tendencies. Many fine remains have been discovered, and the contents of one tumulus in particular, now carefully preserved in the museum at Bergen, have been already laid before the reader.

Leaving the Nordfjord and passing through much that is grand, we start from Faleidet, and when we arrive at Haugen have a glorious view of the Horningdals Vand. Our hopes are buoyant, for it is a “fast” station; and our appetites are good. What natural beauty around us! To be happy, however, requires a combination that is seldom realised. In this case one thing was wanting, and to travellers such as ourselves it was a most important item—namely, food. The station was fair to view. On the stone steps young children were playing; and the numerous family were nursing each other—rollicking, chubby-faced, and unwashed: for Norwegian children they were merry. In the road in front of the house was standing a gaunt figure in knee-breeches and stockings; and, with his braces hauling on to the short waist, his long hair, and his straggling beard, he made a good type of what he really was—a slayer of bears. Above the entrance, over the merry group of children, were two bears’ skulls—the triumph, joy, and pride of the slayer. Being short of provisions, we soon went on a voyage of discovery, and investigated the interior; but what a blank it proved! The fast station folk knew nothing, or pretended to know nothing. “A cradle” of good carved wood, a bed in the corner of the room, and a fireplace seemed to be all in this homestead. The only _fladbrod_ we could procure was of that unwelcome class prepared for travelling, which means that it is flabby and tough enough to be rolled up and folded without breaking. When the practical reader thinks of the shaking, jolting, convulsive jerking action of _stolkjærs_, and even carrioles, no wonder this food is left rather doughy for its journey. Happy the man who, when he meets with this material, can set it up on end! Dry it to the oat-cake condition, then it is good indeed—very good. Still we made the best of it, and came to the conclusion that one of the charms of travel is the variety of situation; and then, after all, with pleasant companions, anything short of bad accidents is only the kind of thing which the true traveller must expect, and almost seeks. So we looked forward to the next good meal we could get, but which must be very late in the day.

Some one suggested the advisability of smoking down our appetites. That was declined as injudicious, and we longed to reach Hellesylt. The second stage on, near Haugen, we saw a wonderful peak. Some idea of its towering grandeur may be formed by setting its printed name on end. It has no end of a name: here it is—Horningdalskrakken. What a pity one cannot have time to “do” all these peaks, this one especially, isolated as it is, and commanding a most interesting range, with so many fjords at its feet, and the Hjørrendfjord and its shriven peaks bristling below! In these days of express trains, fish torpedoes going twenty knots an hour, telegrams, and instantaneous photographs, people will not give sufficient time to do anything with steady enjoyment. Skurry and scuttle are too prominent by far.

As we approach Hellesylt the mountains become higher, more bluff, their formation more tortuous, and we anxiously begin to look out for our descent to the station—town one cannot call it; in fact, hardly a village. Arrived at the top of the pass, with the river dashing and splashing, the zigzag of the road is like patent cucumber scissors—twenty zigzags or more. At one’s feet lie the Storfjord, the Geiranger district, and Søndmur. Of course there is the usual church, most prominently posted, with a good station, to welcome those who escape from Haugen’s natural grandeur to the stomachic comfort of Hellesylt. What a good meal we all thought supper was that night! It was not the mere pleasure of going in for a meal, but we had felt the want of it, and now were thankful to enjoy thoroughly the good cheer before us. There are very few parts of Norway which exceed the grandeur of the neighbourhood of this place. The Storfjord is immensely grand, but the Geiranger is a climax. The steamer from Hellesylt to Aalesund goes down the Storfjord, affording a great variety of scenery, with considerable comfort to passengers, as the vessels are well served; and in this case the steamer has a captain known to all who have travelled here, and always remembered with the most pleasing associations. Captain Dahl has done much for this district, and has opened up the unparalleled Geiranger fjord. Are not his good qualities recognised and noticed throughout Norway by ladies? Having said so much, we hope to visit Geiranger again under the captain’s kind care.

At Hellesylt we all noticed a prevalence of brass-mounted belts among the men. Norwegian belts have invaded England and taken it by storm, from the luxurious productions of a Thornhill, regardless of price, to the other extreme, the Birmingham wholesale harum-scarum article, which loses its gloss in a few hours. The Norwegian belt is a national characteristic, adopted by both sexes, being worn on all occasions and for various purposes. An instance occurred when two were used during a trip to keep on a linseed poultice; but this was a modern innovation.