Frederick Metcalfe

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

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.

“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

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.”