The SKYDSGUT, or so-called postboy, for the next stage of the
journey, was a full-grown man of considerable weight. As he climbed
to his perch on our portmanteau, my lady Graygown congratulated me
on the prudence which had provided that one side of that receptacle
should be of an inflexible stiffness, quite incapable of being
crushed; otherwise, asked she, what would have become of her Sunday
frock under the pressure of this stern necessity of a postboy?
But I think we should not have cared very much if all our luggage
had been smashed on this journey, for the road now began to ascend,
and the views over the Etnadal, with its winding river, were of a
breadth and sweetness most consoling. Up and up we went, curving in
and out through the forest, crossing wild ravines and shadowy dells,
looking back at every turn on the wide landscape bathed in golden
light. At the station of Sveen, where we changed horse and postboy
again, it was already evening. The sun was down, but the mystical
radiance of the northern twilight illumined the sky. The dark fir-
woods spread around us, and their odourous breath was diffused
through the cool, still air. We were crossing the level summit of
the plateau, twenty-three hundred feet above the sea. Two tiny
woodland lakes gleamed out among the trees. Then the road began to
slope gently towards the west, and emerged suddenly on the edge of
the forest, looking out over the long, lovely vale of Valders, with
snow-touched mountains on the horizon, and the river Baegna
shimmering along its bed, a thousand feet below us.
What a heart-enlarging outlook! What a keen joy of motion, as the
wheels rolled down the long incline, and the sure-footed pony swung
between the shafts and rattled his hoofs merrily on the hard road!
What long, deep breaths of silent pleasure in the crisp night air!
What wondrous mingling of lights in the afterglow of sunset, and the
primrose bloom of the first stars, and faint foregleamings of the
rising moon creeping over the hill behind us! What perfection of
companionship without words, as we rode together through a strange
land, along the edge of the dark!
When we finished the thirty-fifth mile, and drew up in the courtyard
of the station at Frydenlund, Graygown sprang out, with a little
sigh of regret.
"Is it last night," she cried, "or to-morrow morning? I have n't
the least idea what time it is; it seems as if we had been
travelling in eternity."
"It is just ten o'clock," I answered, "and the landlord says there
will be a hot supper of trout ready for us in five minutes."
It would be vain to attempt to give a daily record of the whole
journey in which we made this fair beginning. It was a most idle
and unsystematic pilgrimage. We wandered up and down, and turned
aside when fancy beckoned. Sometimes we hurried on as fast as the
horses would carry us, driving sixty or seventy miles a day;
sometimes we loitered and dawdled, as if we did not care whether we
got anywhere or not. If a place pleased us, we stayed and tried the
fishing. If we were tired of driving, we took to the water, and
travelled by steamer along a fjord, or hired a rowboat to cross from
point to point. One day we would be in a good little hotel, with
polyglot guests, and serving-maids in stagey Norse costumes,--like
the famous inn at Stalheim, which commands the amazing panorama of
the Naerodal. Another day we would lodge in a plain farmhouse like
the station at Nedre Vasenden, where eggs and fish were the staples
of diet, and the farmer's daughter wore the picturesque peasants'
dress, with its tall cap, without any dramatic airs. Lakes and
rivers, precipices and gorges, waterfalls and glaciers and snowy
mountains were our daily repast. We drove over five hundred miles
in various kinds of open wagons, KARIOLS for one, and STOLKJAERRES
for two, after we had left our comfortable gig behind us. We saw
the ancient dragon-gabled church of Burgund; and the delightful,
showery town of Bergen; and the gloomy cliffs of the Geiranger-Fjord
laced with filmy cataracts; and the bewitched crags of the Romsdal;
and the wide, desolate landscape of Jerkin; and a hundred other
unforgotten scenes. Somehow or other we went, (around and about,
and up and down, now on wheels, and now on foot, and now in a boat,)
all the way from Christiania to Throndhjem. My lady Graygown could
give you the exact itinerary, for she has been well brought up, and
always keeps a diary. All I know is, that we set out from one city
and arrived at the other, and we gathered by the way a collection of
instantaneous photographs. I am going to turn them over now, and
pick out a few of the clearest pictures.
III
Here is the bridge over the Naeselv at Fagernaes. Just below it is
a good pool for trout, but the river is broad and deep and swift.
It is difficult wading to get out within reach of the fish. I have
taken half a dozen small ones and come to the end of my cast. There
is a big one lying out in the middle of the river, I am sure. But
the water already rises to my hips; another step will bring it over
the top of my waders, and send me downstream feet uppermost.
"Take care!" cries Graygown from the grassy bank, where she sits
placidly crocheting some mysterious fabric of white yarn.
She does not see the large rock lying at the bottom of the river
just beyond me. If I can step on that, and stand there without
being swept away, I can reach the mid-current with my flies. It is
a long stride and a slippery foothold, but by good luck "the last
step which costs" is accomplished. The tiny black and orange hackle
goes curling out over the stream, lights softly, and swings around
with the current, folding and expanding its feathers as if it were
alive. The big trout takes it promptly the instant it passes over
him; and I play him and net him without moving from my perilous
perch.
Graygown waves her crochet-work like a flag, "Bravo!" she cries.
"That's a beauty, nearly two pounds! But do be careful about coming
back; you are not good enough to take any risks yet."
The station at Skogstad is a solitary farmhouse lying far up on the
bare hillside, with its barns and out-buildings grouped around a
central courtyard, like a rude fortress. The river travels along
the valley below, now wrestling its way through a narrow passage
among the rocks, now spreading out at leisure in a green meadow. As
we cross the bridge, the crystal water is changed to opal by the
sunset glow, and a gentle breeze ruffles the long pools, and the
trout are rising freely. It is the perfect hour for fishing. Would
Graygown dare to drive on alone to the gate of the fortress, and
blow upon the long horn which doubtless hangs beside it, and demand
admittance and a lodging, "in the name of the great Jehovah and the
Continental Congress,"--while I angle down the river a mile or so?
Certainly she would. What door is there in Europe at which the
American girl is afraid to knock? "But wait a moment. How do you
ask for fried chicken and pancakes in Norwegian? KYLLING OG
PANDEKAGE? How fierce it sounds! All right now. Run along and
fish."
The river welcomes me like an old friend. The tune that it sings is
the same that the flowing water repeats all around the world. Not
otherwise do the lively rapids carry the familiar air, and the
larger falls drone out a burly bass, along the west branch of the
Penobscot, or down the valley of the Bouquet. But here there are no
forests to conceal the course of the stream. It lies as free to the
view as a child's thought. As I follow on from pool to pool,
picking out a good trout here and there, now from a rocky corner
edged with foam, now from a swift gravelly run, now from a snug
hiding-place that the current has hollowed out beneath the bank, all
the way I can see the fortress far above me on the hillside.
I am as sure that it has already surrendered to Graygown as if I
could discern her white banner of crochet-work floating from the
battlements.
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