CHAPTER XXXIV.
DOWN THE DRIVSDAL
The next morning I proceeded on my way, resolved, if ever I came this route again, to spend a week at Djerkin. A withered old man accompanied me on the back of the cariole. After half an hour’s hard climbing up a very steep hill we reached the highest point of the Dovre Fjeld, 4594 feet above the level of the sea. From this point the view is exceedingly weird and desolate. Owing to the weather, however, which was dark and threatening, I did not stop long to enjoy the view of the barren wastes that lay behind, but was soon dashing at a slapping pace down into the valley of the Drivsdal – one of the most rugged and picturesque in Norway.
My journey down the valley of the Drivsdal was both pleasant and interesting. A beautiful new road commences at Kongsvold, the last station on the Dovre Fjeld, after passing Djerkin, and follows the winding of the river through the narrow gorges of the mountains all the way to Ny Orne. On each side towering and pine-covered mountains rear their rugged crests, sometimes approaching so close to the river as to overhang the road, which for miles on a stretch is hewn from the solid rock.
The innumerable clefts and fissures that mark the rugged fronts of the cliffs; the overhanging trees and shrubbery; the toppling boulders of granite, balanced in mid-air; the rushing torrents that dash from the moss-covered rocks; the seething and foaming waters of the Driv, whirling through the narrow gorges hundreds of feet below the road; the bright blue sky overhead, and the fitful gleams of sunshine darting through the masses of pine and circling into innumerable rainbows in the spray of the river, all combine to form a scene of incomparable beauty and grandeur such as I have rarely seen equaled in any part of the world, and only surpassed by the Siskiyon Mountains in the northern part of California.
About midway down the valley, after passing the settlement of Rise, I stopped to examine a curious passage of the river in the neighborhood of the Drivstuklere, where it dashes down between two solid walls of rocks, which at this point approach so as to form a passage of not more than fifteen feet in width. Securing my cariole horse to a tree by the side of the road, I descended a steep bank under the guidance of my skydskaarl, a bright little fellow about ten years of age, who first called my attention to this remarkable phenomenon. I was soon compelled to follow his example, and crawl over the rocks like a caterpillar to avoid falling into the frightful abyss below. For a distance of fifty or sixty yards, the river, compressed within a limit of fifteen feet, dashes with fearful velocity through its rugged and tortuous boundaries, filling the air with spray, and making an angry moan, as if threatening momentarily to tear the rocks from their solid beds, and sweep them, into the broad and sullen pool below.
The trembling of the massive boulder upon which I lay outstretched peering into the raging abyss, the fierce surging of the waters, the whirling clouds of spray, and gorgeous prismatic colors that flashed through them, created an impression that the whole was some wild, mad freak of the elements, gotten up to furnish the traveler with a startling idea of the wonders and beauties of Norwegian scenery.
CHAPTER XXXV.
A NORWEGIAN HORSE-JOCKEY
Late one evening I arrived at a lonely little station by the wayside, not far beyond the valley of the Drivsdal. I was cold and hungry, and well disposed to enjoy whatever good cheer the honest people who kept the inn might have in store for me. The house and outbuildings were such as belong to an ordinary farming establishment, and did not promise much in the way of entertainment. Upon entering the rustic doorway I was kindly greeted by the host – a simple, good-natured looking man – who, as usual, showed me into the best room. Now I am not aware of any thing in my appearance that entitles me to this distinction, but it has generally been my fate, in this sort of travel, to be set apart and isolated from the common herd in the fancy room of the establishment, which I have always found to be correspondingly the coldest and most uncomfortable. It is a great annoyance in Norway to be treated as a gentleman. The commonest lout can enjoy the cozy glow and social gossip of the kitchen or ordinary sitting-room, but the traveler whom these good people would honor must sit shivering and alone in some great barn of a room because it contains a sofa, a bureau, a looking-glass, a few mantle-piece ornaments, and an occasional picture of the king or some member of the royal family. I have walked up and down these dismal chambers for hours at a time, staring at the daubs on the walls, and picking up little odds and ends of ornaments, and gazing vacantly at them, till I felt a numbness steal all over me, accompanied by a vague presentiment that I was imprisoned for life. The progress of time is a matter of no importance in Norway. To an American, accustomed to see every thing done with energy and promptness, it is absolutely astounding – the indifference of these people to the waste of hours. They seem to be forever asleep, or doing something that bears no possible reference to their ostensible business. If you are hungry and want something to eat in a few minutes, the probability is you will be left alone in the fine room for several hours, at the expiration of which you discover that the inn-keeper is out in the stable feeding his horses, his wife in the back yard looking after the chickens, and his children sitting at a table in the kitchen devouring a dish of porridge. Upon expressing your astonishment that nothing is ready, the good man of the house says “Ja! it will be ready directly, min Herr!” and if you are lucky it comes in another hour – a cup of coffee and some bread perhaps, which you could just as well have had in ten minutes. Patience may be a virtue in other countries, but it is an absolute necessity in Norway. I believe, after the few weeks’ experience I had on the road to Trondhjem, I could without difficulty sit upon a monument and smile at grief.
Perceiving through the cracks of the door that there was a good fire in the kitchen, and hearing the cheerful voices of the man and his wife, varied by the merry whistle my skydskaarl, I made bold to go in and ask leave to stand by the fire. The good people seemed a little astonished at first that a person of quality like myself should prefer the kitchen to the fine room with the sofa and bureau, the mantle-piece ornaments and pictures of the royal family; but, by dint of good-humored gossip about the horses, and an extravagant compliment thrown in about the beauty of the landlady’s children – for which I hope to be pardoned – I secured a comfortable seat by the fire, and was soon quite at home. The great open fireplace, the blazing pine logs, the well-smoked hobs, the simmering pots and steaming kettles, had something indescribably cheerful about them; and lighting my pipe, I puffed away cozily during the pauses in the conversation, having a delightful consciousness that nature had peculiarly adapted me for the vulgar enjoyments of life, and that every thing approaching the refinements of civilization was a great bore. It was doubtless this taint of the savage in my disposition that made me look with such horror upon neat rooms and civilized furniture, and fall back with such zest upon the primitive comforts of savage life. When I told the people of the house that I was all the way from California – that I had come expressly to see their country – there was no end to the interest and excitement. “Dear me!” they cried, “and you have traveled a long way! You must be very tired! And you must be very rich to travel so far! Ah Gott – how wonderful!” “Did you come all the way in a cariole?” inquired the simple-minded host. “No; I came part of the way by sea, in a great ship.” “How wonderful!” “And what sort of horses had they in California?” I told some tough stories about the mustang horses, in which the landlord was profoundly interested, for I soon discovered that horses were his great hobby. Whatever we talked of, he invariably came back to horse-flesh. His head was overrunning with horses. I praised his cariole horses, and he was enchanted. He gave me the pedigree of every horse in his stable, scarcely a word of which I understood, and then wound up by telling me he was considered the best judge of horses in all Norway. I did not think there was much in his appearance indicative of the shrewd horse-jockey, but was soon convinced of his shrewdness, for he informed me confidentially he had drawn the great prize at the last annual horse-fair at Christiania, and if I didn’t believe it he would show it to me! I tried to make him understand that I had no doubt at all what he said was strictly true; but, not satisfied at this expression of faith in his word, he went to a big wooden chest in the corner and took out a bag of money, which he placed upon the middle of the table with a proud smile of triumph. “That,” said he, “is the prize! A hundred and fifty silver dollars —silver, mind you – all SILVER!” But perhaps I didn’t believe it was a prize? Well, he would convince me of that. So he left the bag of money on the table and went into a back room to get the certificate of the society, in which it was all duly written out, with his name in large letters, the paper being neatly framed in a carved frame, the work of his own hands. There it was; I could read for myself! I tried to read it to oblige him, and as I blundered over the words he took it into his head that I was still incredulous. “Nai! nai!” said he, “you shall see the money! You shall count it for yourself!” In vain I strove to convince him that I was entirely satisfied on the subject – that he must not go to so much trouble on my account. “Nai! nai!” cried the enthusiastic dealer in horse-flesh, “it is no trouble. You shall see the money WITH YOUR OWN EYES!” And forthwith he untied the string of the bag, and poured out the shining dollars in a pile on the middle of the table. His good wife stood by, professing to smile, but I suspected, from the watchful expression of her eye, that she did not feel quite at ease. The skydskaarl leaned over with a general expression of the most profound astonishment and admiration. “See!” cried the old man; “this is the prize – every dollar of it. But you must count it – I’ll help you – so!” As there was no getting over the task imposed upon me without hurting his feelings, I had to sit down and help to count the money – no very pleasant job for a hungry man. After summing up our respective piles, there appeared to be only a hundred and forty-nine dollars – just a dollar short. “Lieb Gott!” cried the man, “there must be a mistake! Let us count it again!” I felt that there was a necessity for counting it very carefully this time, for the landlady’s eye was on me with a very searching expression. “Een, to, tre, five, fem, sex,” and so on for nearly half an hour, when we summed up our counts again. This time it was only a hundred and forty-eight dollars – just two dollars short! The old man scratched his head and looked bewildered. The landlady moved about nervously, and stared very hard at me. It was getting to be rather an embarrassing affair. I blamed myself for being so foolishly drawn into it. Wishing to know if there really was a mistake, I begged my host to let me count it alone, which I did by making fifteen piles of ten dollars each, carefully counting every pile. It was all right; the whole amount was there, a hundred and fifty dollars. “All right!” said I, much relieved; “don’t you see, every pile is exactly the same height!” “Ja! Ja!” said the man; “but I don’t understand it. Here, wife, you and I must count it!” So the wife sat down, and they both began counting the money, varying every time they compared notes from two to ten dollars. Once they had it a hundred and sixty dollars. “The devil is in the money!” exclaimed the horse-dealer; “I’m certain I counted right.” “And so am I!” said the woman; “I can not be mistaken. It is you who have made the mistake. You always were a stupid old fool about money!” This she said with some degree of asperity, for she was evidently displeased at the whole proceeding. “A fool, eh? A fool!” muttered the old man; “you do well to call me a fool before strangers!” “Ja, that’s the way! I always told you so!” screamed the woman, in rising tones of anger; “you’ll lose all your money yet!” “Lose it!” retorted the man; “don’t you see I have made ten dollars by counting it to-night! There! count it yourself, and hold your peace, woman!” Here the wife, suppressing her wrath, made a careful and deliberate count, which resulted in the exact sum of a hundred and fifty dollars! I was much relieved; but by this time the old man, unable to bear the torrent of reproaches heaped upon him by his good wife for his stupidity, swore she must have made a mistake. He was sure he had counted a hundred and sixty; therefore he would count it again, all alone, which he proceeded to do, very slowly and cautiously. This time the result was a hundred and fifty-five dollars. “The devil’s in it!” cried the astonished dealer; “there’s some magic about it! I don’t understand it. I must count it again!” The woman, however, being satisfied that it was all right, I now thought it best to return to my seat by the fire, where she soon began to busy herself preparing the supper, turning round now and then of course to let off a broadside at her old man. She took occasion to inform me, during the progress of her culinary labors, that he was a very good sort of man, but was somewhat addicted to brandy-wine, of which he had partaken a little too freely on the present occasion. I must excuse him. She would send him to bed presently. And now, if I pleased, supper was ready.
I could not help thinking, as I lay in bed that night, how lucky it was for these simple-minded people that they lived in the interior of Norway. Even in California, where public and private integrity is the prevailing trait of the people, it would hardly be considered safe to pull out a bag of money at a wayside inn and show it to every passing stranger. I have known men there in high public positions whom I would scarcely like to tempt in that way, especially if there was money enough in the bag to make robbery respectable.
All along the route during the next day the scenery was a continued feast of enjoyment. In looking back over it now, however, after the lapse of several months, it would be difficult to recall any thing beyond its general features – pine-covered mountains, green valleys, dark rocky glens, foaming torrents of water, and groups of farm-houses by the wayside. At Bjerkager I reached the first of the “slow-stations;” that is to say, the established post-houses, where a margin of three hours is allowed for a change of horses. I had supposed that in a country, and on a public route, where during the summer there must be considerable travel, it would hardly be possible that so long a delay could take place; but in this I was mistaken. The slow-stations are emphatically slow; the keepers are slow, the horses are slow, the whole concern is slow. From Bjerkager to Garlid, and from Garlid to Hov, including all delays, a distance of three hours and a half ordinary time, it took me all day. No entreaties, no offers of extra compensation, no expressions of impatience produced the slightest effect. The people at these places were not to be hurried. Kind and good-natured as they were in appearance and expression, I found them the most bull-headed and intractable race of beings on the face of the earth.
I was particularly struck with the depressing lethargy that hung over a wretched little place called Soknaes, which I made out to reach the next morning. A dead silence reigned over the miserable huddle of buildings by the roadside. The houses looked green and mildewed. A few forlorn chickens in the stable-yard, and a half-starved dog crouching under the door-steps, too poor to bark and too lazy to move, were the only signs of life that greeted me as I approached. I knocked at the door, but no answer was made to the summons. Not a living soul was to be seen around the place. I attempted to whistle and shout. Still the terrible silence remained unbroken save by the dismal echoes of my own melancholy music. At length I went to a rickety shed under which some carts were drawn up for shelter from the weather. In one of the carts, half-covered in a bundle of straw, was a bundle of clothes. It moved as I drew near; it thrust a boot out over the tail-board; it shook itself; it emitted a curious sound between a grunt and a yawn; it raised itself up and shook off a portion of the straw; it thrust a red night-cap out of the mass of shapeless rubbish; the night-cap contained a head and a matted shock of hair; there was a withered, old-fashioned little face on the front part of the head, underneath the shock of hair, which opened its mouth and eyes, and gazed at me vacantly; it was an old man or a boy, I could not tell which till it spoke, when I discovered that it was something between the two, and was the skydskaarl or hostler of this remarkable establishment. He rubbed his eyes and stared again. “Hello!” said I. He grunted out something. “Heste og Cariole!” said I. “Ja! Ja!” grunted the hostler, and then he began to get out of the cart. I suppose he creaked, though I do not pretend that the sounds were audible. First one leg came out; slowly it was followed by the other. When they both got to the ground, he pushed his body gradually over the tail-board, and in about five minutes was standing before me.
“A horse and cariole,” said I; “let me have them quick!”
“Ja! Ja!”
“Strax!” [directly!] said I.
“Ja! Ja!”
“How long will it be?”
“Ach!” – here he yawned.
“An hour?”
“Ja! Ja!”
“Two hours?”
“Ja! Ja!”
“Three hours?”
“Ja! Ja!”
“Sacramento! I can’t stand that, I must have one STRAX – directly – forstöede?”
“Ja! Ja!” and the fellow rubbed his eyes and yawned again.
“Look here! my friend,” said I, “if you’ll get me a horse and cariole in half an hour, I’ll give you two marks extra – forstöe?”
“Ja! Ja! twa mark” (still yawning).
“Half an hour, mind you!”
“Tre time– three hours!” grunted the incorrigible dunderhead.
“Then good-by – I must travel on foot!” and, with rage and indignation depicted in every feature, I flung my knapsack over my shoulder and made a feint to start.
“Adieu! farvel!” said the sleepy lout, good-naturedly holding out his hand to give me a parting shake. “Farvel, min Herr! May your journey be pleasant! God take care of you!”
The perfect sincerity of the fellow completely dissipated my rage, and, giving him a friendly shake, I proceeded on my way. As I turned the corner of the main building and struck into the road, I cast a look back. He was still standing by the cart, yawning and rubbing his eyes as before. That man would make money in California – if money could be made by a bet on laziness. He is lazier than the old Dutch skipper who was too lazy to go below, and gave orders to the man at the helm to follow the sun so as to keep him in the shade of the main-sail, by reason of which he sailed round the horizon till his tobacco gave out, and he had to return home for a fresh supply. I call that a strong case of laziness, but scarcely stronger than the traveler meets with every day in Norway.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
OUT OF MONEY
I now began to enjoy the real pleasures of Norwegian travel. No longer compelled to endure the vexatious delays to which I had lately been subject, I bowled along the road, with my knapsack on my back, at the rate of four miles an hour, whistling merrily from sheer exuberance of health and lack of thought. The weather was charming. A bright sun shed its warm rays over hill and dale; the air was fresh and invigorating; the richest tints adorned the whole face of the country, which from Soknaes to Trondhjem gradually increases in fertility and breadth of outline, till it becomes almost unrivaled in the profusion of its pastoral beauties. Nothing can surpass the gorgeous splendor of the autumnal sunsets in this part of Norway. At an earlier period of the year there is perpetual daylight for several weeks, and for three days the sun does not descend below the horizon. The light, however, is too strong during that period to produce the rich and glowing tints which cover the sky and mountain-tops at a later season of the year. I was fortunate in being just in time to enjoy the full measure of its beauties, and surely it is not too much to say that such an experience is of itself worth a trip to Norway. I shall not attempt a description of Norwegian skies, however, after the glowing picture of the North Cape at midnight drawn by the pen of my friend Bayard Taylor, the most faithful and enthusiastic of all the travelers who have given their experience of this interesting region.
Keeping along the banks of the Gula, the road winds around the sides of the hills, sometimes crossing open valleys, and occasionally penetrating the shady recesses of the pine forests, till it diverges from the river at Meelhus. Soon after leaving this station the views from the higher points over which the road passes are of great beauty and extent, embracing a glimpse, from time to time, of the great Trondhjem Fjord.
Night overtook me at the pretty little station of Esp. Next morning I was up bright and early, and, after a cup of coffee and some rolls, shouldered my knapsack and pushed on to Trondhjem.
Finding my purse growing lighter every day, I was compelled at this point to cut short my intended journey to the North Cape, and take the first steamer down the coast for Christiansund and Hamburg.
Arrived once more at the family head-quarters in Frankfort-on-the-Main, I spent a few months writing up the loose material I had thus gathered, and making foot-tours through the Odenwald, the Spessart, and the Schwartzwald. But I was not satisfied with what I had seen of the North. There was still a wild region, far beyond any explorations I had yet made, which constantly loomed up in my imagination – the chaotic land of frost and fire, where dwelt in ancient times the mighty Thor, the mystic deity of the Scandinavians.