Part 2

While thus absorbed in agricultural reflections, we drove up to the house where we were to take supper. A pleasant-featured girl, with a baby in her arms, invited us to enter. She spoke English perfectly, having been born, as we learned, in Minneapolis. I shall never forget that first Norwegian supper. The name for the evening meal in Norway is "aftenmad," but _often-mad_ would better express it in English. First, there were placed before us five different kinds of cheese, the most remarkable of which was a tall monument of chocolate-colored substance made from goat's milk. This, by Norwegians, is considered perfectly delicious; but for a month I shuddered at it regularly three times a day. Next was brought in a jar containing fish. At this my friend smiled joyfully.

"Ah," he exclaimed, "here is fish! Anything in the line of fish I can eat with a relish."

He drew a specimen from the jar, and put a portion of it in his mouth. A look of horror instantly overspread his face, and, covering his features with a napkin, he left the room in haste. I quickly followed him, and found him in the back yard gazing mournfully at some Norwegian swine.

"What is the matter?" I asked, "do you prefer pork to fish?"

"I believe I do," he rejoined. Then turning to the girl, who had followed us, he inquired, "What is the Norwegian word for pork?"

"Griss,"[A] was the reply.

[A] Pronounced as is our English word _grease_.

"Thank you," he faltered, "I don't think I will take any to-day."

"Eh" (in an aside to me), "hadn't we better drive on?"

"Drive on?" I cried. "Drive on, when there is plenty of fish, which you always eat with so much relish?"

"Great heavens!" he groaned, "that was too much even for me. It was a raw anchovy dipped in vinegar."

While this colloquy was taking place, we re-entered the dining-room and asked for bread. We were amazed to see what this request brought forth. Upon a plate almost as large as the wheel of a Norwegian hay-cart was brought to us a mound of circular wafers nearly three feet in circumference, and each about as thick as one of our buckwheat cakes. They were made of rye meal and water (chiefly water), and were so crisp that they would break to pieces at a touch. This is called "flatbrod," and it is certainly in every sense the flattest article ever invented for the human stomach. The people, however, are fond of it, and I saw horses eat it frequently, mistaking it (quite naturally, I am sure) for tablets of compressed hay.

But here I shall probably be asked, "Is this the usual state of things in Norway?" No, this first station was unusually poor. The staple article of food in Norway (always fresh and good) is salmon. Milk and sweet butter can also be had, and eggs _ad libitum_. In fact, the abundance of eggs here is probably responsible for the atrocious witticism often perpetrated by Norwegian tourists, to the effect that "if the sun does not set in Norway, hens do." Mutton and beef are not obtainable, save at the large hotels, their places being usually supplied by veal, sausage meat, or reindeer hash. I met, while traveling here, an Englishman, who said to me, "I did intend to drive on to Christiania; but I really can't, you know; another month of this would kill me. In the last two weeks I have eaten so many of these 'blasted eggs' that I'm ashamed to look a hen in the face!" Yet, notwithstanding the hardships which the traveler meets in Norway in regard to food, he will find all discomforts easily outweighed by the enjoyment of the trip. The constant exercise in the open air gives powers of digestion hitherto unknown, preceded by an appetite which laughs at everything, ... save cheese. Of course, being so far from any city, one cannot look for luxuries at these small stations; indeed, I was surprised to find that the peasants knew enough to give us, during a meal, several knives and forks, hot plates, and other features of a well-served table. And as far as prices are concerned, they are so moderate as to provoke a smile from any one accustomed to travel in other parts of Europe.

Yes, all ordinary discomforts sink into insignificance, as I recall those memorable drives, day after day and hour after hour, over lofty mountains, through noble forests, and beside stupendous cliffs, the only sounds about us being the songs of birds and the perpetual melody of numberless cascades. Moreover, this mode of travel gave us the energy of athletes. For how can I describe the invigoration and sweetness of the air of Norway,—pure from its miles of mountains,—rich with the fragrance of a billion pines, and freshened by its passage over northern glaciers and the Arctic sea?

As for Norwegian roads, they are among the finest in the world. The majority of them are flanked with telegraph-poles; for not only are these routes magnificent specimens of man's triumph over nature, but the lightning also is controlled here, and, swift as light, thought wings its way upon a metal wire through this inland waste,—a marvel always wonderful and ever new. Nature has given to these scenes the trees and rocks which yield to nothing but the wintry blasts. Man has suspended here a thread of steel, which thrills responsive to the thoughts of thousands, transmitting through the gloomiest gorges the messages of love, hope, exultation, or despair. Hence one can never feel completely isolated here. That little wire enables him at any point to vanquish space, and by placing, as it were, a finger on the pulse of life, to feel the heart-beats of the world.

In 1888, two American gentlemen were traveling in Norway, one of whom grew depressed at his apparent isolation from humanity. His comrade, to astonish and console him, telegraphed from one of the post-houses where they had stopped for dinner, to the American consul at Christiania. The message which he sent was this:

"Who was the Democratic nominee for President yesterday in Chicago?"

Before the meal was finished, the answer had arrived:

"Grover Cleveland."

Some of the roads on which we traveled here are cut directly through the mountains. We found such tunnels quite agreeable, since they furnished the only genuine darkness to be found. So far as light is concerned, one may drive through Norway in the summer just as well by night as by day. Early and late indeed are words which in this region grow meaningless. I could not keep a diary in Norway, so difficult was it to tell when yesterday ended and to-day began. At first this seemed a great economy of time. We felt that we were getting some advantage over Mother Nature. "Why not drive on another twenty miles?" we asked; "we can enjoy the scenery just as well;" or, "Why not write a few letters now? It is still light. In fact, why go to bed at all?" But after a time this everlasting daylight grew a trifle wearisome. It thoroughly demoralized both our brains and our stomachs, from the unheard of hours it occasioned for eating and sleeping. Steamers will start in Norway at five o'clock in the morning, or even at midnight. I once sat down to a _table d'hôte_ dinner at half-past nine, and on another occasion ate a lunch in broad daylight at two o'clock in the morning. Moreover, even when we went to bed the sun's rays stole between our eyelids, and dispelled that darkness which induces slumber. For, strangely enough, there are rarely any blinds or shutters to Norwegian windows. Only a thin, white curtain screened us usually from the glare of day. After a while, therefore, I could sympathize with an American lady, whom I heard exclaim, "O, I would give anything for a good, pitch-dark night twenty-four hours long!"

One characteristic of these roads made on my mind a profound impression, namely, the boulders that have been split off from overhanging peaks by frost and avalanche. This is a feature of Norwegian scenery that I have never seen equaled in the world. Sometimes we drove through such _débris_ for half an hour. Nor is there the least exaggeration in the statement that these boulders are in many instances as large as a house; yet, when compared with the gigantic cliffs from which they came, even such monsters seemed like pebbles. Some of these cliffs were frightful in appearance. Again and again, when we had passed beneath some precipice, one third of whose mass seemed only waiting for a thunder-peal to bring it down, my friend and I would draw a long, deep breath, and exchange glances of congratulation when we had escaped its terrors.

A still more wonderful feature of Norwegian scenery is found in its imposing waterfalls. Nothing in Norway so astonished me as the unending number and variety of its cascades,—ribbons of silver, usually, in the distance, but foaming torrents close at hand. On any of these roads, halt for a moment and listen, and you will often hear a sound like that of the surf upon the shore. It is the voice of falling water.

On our journey toward the coast, during a drive of three days we counted one hundred and sixty separate falls, and eighty-six in the previous ten hours. This was an average of more than two in every fifteen minutes. True, we saw these cascades in the month of June, when snow was melting rapidly on the heights; but even in midsummer they must far outnumber those in any other part of Europe.

In fact, although familiar with the Alps, and having driven twice through all the valleys of the Pyrenees, I never knew how many waterfalls one country could possess until I went to Norway. There are, of course, magnificent falls in Switzerland, and a great number of them in the Pyrenees; but where you there see one cascade, in Norway you see twenty; and many a Norwegian cataract which would in Switzerland draw thousands of admiring tourists, and make the fortune of hotel proprietors, is here, perhaps, without a name, and certainly without renown.

On our last day's journey toward the sea, we came in sight of an extraordinary building, on which we gazed in great astonishment, for it seemed more appropriate to China than to Norway, and was apparently completely out of place in this wild, desolate ravine. It was the famous Borgund Church, a place of early Christian worship, built about eight hundred years ago. It therefore ranks (unless one other similar church be excepted) as the oldest structure in all Norway. It is so small that one could almost fancy it a church for dwarfs. Around the base is a kind of cloister, from which the dim interior receives its only light. Within is one small room, scarcely forty feet long, containing now no furniture save a rough-hewn altar. As for its various roofs and pinnacles, marked now by crosses, now by dragons' heads, nothing could be more weirdly picturesque, especially as the entire edifice is black,—in part from age, but chiefly from the coats of tar with which it has been painted for protection.

Leaving this ancient church, we soon found ourselves in one of the most stupendous of Norwegian gorges. It is hardly possible for any view to do it justice. But for awe-inspiring grandeur I have never seen its magnificence surpassed, even in the Via Mala. For miles the river Laerdal makes its way here through gigantic cliffs, which rise on either side to a height of from four thousand to five thousand feet. The space, however, between these mountain sides is barely wide enough for the river, which writhes and struggles with obstructing boulders, lashing itself to creamy foam, and filling the chasm with a deafening roar. Yet, above the river, a roadway has been hewn out of the mountain-side itself, which is lined with parapets of boulders. When marking out the route the engineers were often lowered over the precipice by ropes. One can imagine nothing more exciting than this drive. When mountains did not actually overshadow us, in looking aloft we could discern only a narrow rift of sky, like a blue river, curbed by granite banks. Below us was the seething flood, at once terrible and glorious to look upon. Shut in by these huge, somber walls, we followed all the windings of the stream, whirling about their corners at a speed which seemed the more terrific from our wild surroundings. There are few things in life that have affected me so powerfully as the Laerdal gorge, and I would once more go to Norway for that drive alone. Certain it is that at the end of it we found ourselves exhausted, not physically, but nervously, from the tremendous tension and excitement of the last few hours in this wild ravine. Finally, leaving this sublime mountain scenery, we saw between us and the coast our destination—the little town of Laerdalsören. Thrilled though we were with memories of what we had just seen, and grateful, too, that our long drive from sea to sea had been successfully completed, our serious reflections vanished at the threshold of this village. My companion had found it hard to be so long deprived of news from home. Accordingly, he remarked to me as we came in sight of Laerdalsören:

"I somehow feel to-day a great anxiety about my boys, William and Henry. I am not superstitious, but I have a presentiment that they need me. Hark!" he said suddenly, "what's that?"

We stopped the vehicle and listened. It was the music of an English hand-organ; and I am speaking only the literal truth when I say that the tune which we then heard it play was that of "Father, dear father, come home with me now."

Early next morning we left our good hotel and hastened to the steamer which awaited us upon the fjord. "What, precisely, is a fjord?" some may inquire. In briefest terms, it is a mountain gorge connected with the ocean, a narrow arm of the sea extending inland, sometimes for one hundred miles. Moreover, to carry out the simile, at the extremity of every such long arm are "fingers;" that is, still narrower extensions, which wind about the bases of the mountains till they seem like glittering serpents lying in the shadow of tremendous cliffs.

Thus in one sense, here at Laerdalsören, we had reached the sea, but in another, it was still eighty-five miles away. Yet we were now to embark on a large ocean steamer, lying but a few yards from the shore, for these mysterious fjords are sometimes quite as deep as the mountains over them are high. They open thus the very heart of Norway to the commerce of the world. And as our steamer glided from one mountain-girdled basin into another, I realized why this western coast of Norway is one of the most remarkable land-formations on the globe. If we were able to look down upon it from an elevation, we should perceive that from the mountain chain, which forms, as it were, the backbone of the country, a multitude of grooves stretch downward to the shore between the elevations, like spaces between the teeth of a comb. Into these mountain crevices, formed in the misty ages of the past, the sea now makes its way, continually growing narrower, until at last it winds between frowning cliffs of fearful height, down which stream numerous waterfalls, the spray from which at times sweeps over the steamer as it glides along. Traveling, therefore, on these ocean avenues is like sailing through Switzerland.

Delighted beyond measure with this new experience, some two or three hours after leaving Laerdalsören, we gradually approached the most sublime of all these ocean highways,—the Naerofjord. No general view can possibly portray its grandeur. The only way to appreciate the vastness of its well-nigh perpendicular cliffs is to compare them with some objects on the banks. In many places, for example, cattle grazing on the shore, compared with their giant environment, seemed like mice, and a church steeple appeared no larger than a pine-cone.

As we sailed further up this beautiful expanse, it was difficult to realize that we were floating on an arm of the Atlantic. It had the appearance rather of a gloomy lake shut in by mountains never trodden by the foot of man. On either side was a solemn array of stupendous precipices—sheer, awful cliffs—refusing even the companionship of pines and hemlocks, and frequently resembling a long chain of icebergs turned to stone. The silence, too, was most impressive. There was, at times, no sign of life on sea or shore. The influence of this was felt upon the boat, for if any of us spoke, it was in a tone subdued by the solemnity of our surroundings.

As we pursued our way, sometimes we could discern no outlet whatever; then, suddenly, our course would turn, and another glorious vista would appear before us. We sat at the prow of the boat; and there, with nothing but the awe-inspiring prospect to contemplate, we sailed along in silence through this liquid labyrinth. So close together were the cliffs, that when, for the sake of the experiment, I lay down on the deck and looked directly upward, I could at the same instant see both sides of the fjord cutting their outlines sharply on the sky! Mile after mile, these grim, divided mountains stood gazing into each other's scowling faces, yet kept apart by this enchanting barrier of the sea, as some fair woman intervenes between two opposing rivals, each thirsting for the other's blood. It is such scenery as Dante might describe and Doré illustrate. We wondered what such ravines would look like without water. They would be terrible to gaze upon. They would resemble gashes in a dead man's face, or chasms on the surface of the moon, devoid of atmosphere and life. But water gives to them vitality, and lights up all their gloomy gorges with a silvery flood, much as a smile illumines, while it softens, a furrowed face.

Nor is the water in these fjords less marvelous than the land. Its depth, in places, is estimated at three thousand feet. When we sailed up the Naerofjord, its color was so green, and its surface so completely motionless, that we seemed to be gliding over a highway paved with malachite. Whether the coloring of these ocean avenues is due to their great depth, to the crystal clearness of the atmosphere, or to the reflection of the forests on their banks, certain it is that I have nowhere else (save in the blue grotto at Capri) seen water tinted with such shades of robin's-egg blue and emerald green. In confirmation of this fact, we noticed with astonishment that whenever the white seagulls, wheeling round our boat, would sink breast downward toward the waves, the color of the sea was so intense, that their white wings distinctly changed their hue in the reflected light, assuming a most delicate tint, which gradually vanished as they rose again!

After a sail of several hours, we approached the terminus of the Naerofjord, at which is located the little hamlet of Gudvangen. So narrow is the valley here, that through the winter months no ray of sunlight falls directly on the town, and even in the longest day in summer it can receive the sunshine only for a few hours. It seemed depressing to remain in such eternal shadow. Accordingly, we halted only a few moments at the place, and taking a carriage which awaited us, we drove beyond the village into the ravine so celebrated for its grandeur—the Naerodal. One sees at once that this is really a continuation of the Naerofjord without the water. There can be little doubt that, formerly, the ocean entered it, and one could then have sailed where we now had to drive. And what is true of the Naerodal is also true of other such ravines. In every case the grooved hollows continue inland and upward, but the gradual elevation of the coast has caused the ocean to retreat. This is a place of great sublimity. On either side rise mountains from four to five thousand feet in height—sometimes without a vestige of vegetation on their precipitous sides—which are, however, seamed with numberless cascades, apparently hung upon the cliffs like silver chains.

The most remarkable object in the valley we found to be a peculiarly shaped mountain, called the Jordalsnut. Its form is that of a gigantic thimble, and as its composition is a silvery feldspar, it fairly glitters in the sun, or glows resplendent in the evening light,—an object never to be forgotten. Those who have looked upon this dome by moonlight say that the effect is indescribable; and, in fact, moonlight in these awful gorges and fjords must give to them a beauty even more weird and startling than that of day. Of this, however, I cannot speak from experience, since moonlight is in summer very faint in Norway, and it is only earlier or later in the year that one can see this wonderful country thus transfigured.

In driving up the Naerodal, one sees, at the head of the valley, what looks like an irregular chalk-line on a blackboard. It is a famous carriage-road, which has been blasted out of the mountain-side, and built up everywhere with solid masonry. Even now it is so difficult of ascent for horses that every traveler who is able usually climbs that curving road on foot.

In doing so, we stopped at intervals to enjoy the marvelous scenery, and especially to behold the two attractive features of the mountain. For this grand terminus of the Naerodal is flanked on either side by a magnificent waterfall; and since the path continually curves, one or the other of these torrents is constantly visible. Either of them is the equal of any Swiss cascade I ever saw, and makes even the famous Giessbach sink into insignificance, and yet these are not ranked among the best Norwegian specimens. We could not, however, appreciate them as we should have done if they had been the first that we had seen; for when a tourist has counted eighty-six cascades in one day's drive, and has just run the gauntlet of some twenty more, in sailing through the Naerofjord, he becomes surfeited with such splendor, and cannot properly realize what a glorious wealth in this respect Norwegian scenery possesses.

Upon the summit of the wooded cliff toward which this driveway leads, is a speck which at a distance resembles a white flag outlined on the forest background. It is the Hotel Stalheim. As we approached it, a man stepped up to us and exclaimed: "Hullo, strangers; are you Americans?"

"I am glad to say that we are," was my reply.

He instantly stretched out his hand and said "Shake!"—"What kind of business are you in?" he presently inquired.

We told him.

"Well," he remarked, "I'm a manufacturer of barrel hoops. Norway's all right. I took an order for forty thousand yesterday."

At the dinner table, where he had greatly amused every one by his stories, he suddenly called out: "Waiter, is there anything worth seeing on that 'ere road down there?"