You will not find the full charm of seventeenth-century Norway until you get up here in the Sætersdal. It is an interesting trip, too, from Odda on the Hardanger Fjord overland by the Telemarken route to Skien, the birthplace of the famous Henrik Ibsen, and from there down to Christiansand, and up here through the Sætersdal to Bredvik. Not far from Odda we pass a hotel in the Seljestad glen where, as a certain guide book proudly points out, Mr. Gladstone, Lady Brassey, and the rest of the party of The Sunbeam greatly enjoyed the view in 1885. Certainly Mr. Gladstone and Lady Brassey and the others were justified in their admiration, for there is no more beautiful spot in all the Hardanger district. At the top of the pass there is a mountain chalet called Haukeli Sæter, and here the snow falls in such immense quantities that even in summer the road passes through a tunnel dug through a snow drift.
Farther on, near Dalen, there is a precipice nine hundred feet high called the Ravnegjuv, under which a wild, mad river tears along. Whether this river is responsible I cannot say, but there is here a strong draft, blowing upward and back over the precipice. Throw over paper or leaves, or something equally light, and it will come sailing back to you like a boomerang. It is also stoutly claimed that the breeze is strong enough to blow back a hat, but I never heard of anyone who wanted to risk it. It would be an interesting experiment, and even if it failed the hat might not be a total loss; probably it would fall into the torrent below and go whirling down toward the Skager-Rack. The hatless experimenter could then hurry down to the mouth of the stream by carriage and train and there lie in wait for his wandering hat. This draft over the Ravnegjuv sinks into insignificance compared with the draft which swirls against certain parts of the Nærö dal in the Sogne district. Here the farmhouses are surrounded by earthworks to protect them from the blasts of air caused by avalanches descending on the other side of the valley.
Farther down the Telemark route from Ulefos there is a fine excursion up the Saur River and the Nordsjö to Notodden and the Rjukan Falls. This Saur River is erroneously called the “Norwegian Rhine.” The Rhine should be called the “Swiss-German-Dutch Saur,” for I maintain that Norway is the fatherland of natural scenery, and the mere fact that the Rhine is situated within easy access of all Europe does not justify the implication that it is the last word in river scenery and that the Saur is rather a poor, second-rate, Norwegian imitation of it.
Opposite Notodden there is a romantic mountain called Helgenotra, from an old heroine named Helga Tveiten. As she was walking over this mountain, she met a trold disguised as a handsome cavalier. She allowed herself to be beguiled by him, and together they strolled into a cave, which immediately closed behind them, leaving the girl entombed in the mountain. However, the ringing of church bells broke the spell; she was released from her prison, and had nearly reached home when the bell rope broke. The spell came back in full force, and she was dragged by magic back to her mountain tomb, where she is to this day buried.
I may say, as the comforting guide book says of Bishop Pontoppidan’s monstrous sea serpent with a back “an English mile and a half in circumference,” that “there seems to be no doubt that the whole thing is purely an illusion.”
However, there is a story connected with the Rjukan Falls, a little farther on, which is perhaps a trifle less mythical. A maiden named Mary had a lover named Eystein. On the face of the precipice over which the Rjukan plunges was a narrow path called Mari-sti, or “Mary’s Path.” Along this path Mary went to warn her lover of danger, for enemies were plotting against his life. He fled for safety, but returned after many years along the selfsame path to claim his bride. In his haste he ran, and slipped and plunged down into the foaming abyss of the Rjukan. The story runs that “for many years after this a pale form, in whose eyes a quiet madness spoke, wandered daily on the Mari-sti and seemed to talk with someone in the abyss below. Thus she went, until a merciful voice summoned her to joy and rest in the arms of her beloved.”
The Rjukan Falls are still wonderful to behold, and formerly vied with Skjeggedalsfos for the honor of being the finest waterfall in Norway, but electric plants and other industrial developments have robbed it of any claim to true greatness, and the Mari-sti has become a busy thoroughfare. Along the way between Notodden and the Rjukan we meet many peasants in the ancient Telemark costume, white stockings, green vests, and silver buttons being predominant features. At Hitterdal, a village not far from Notodden, there is an old stave-kirke, or stock church, dating from the thirteenth century. There are very few of these ancient churches now left in Norway, as fire has destroyed most of them. In the last century and a half at least forty Norwegian churches have been struck by lightning and destroyed, and of course lightning is only one method out of many of setting fire to a church.
The finest example of a medieval stave-kirke is at Borgund in the Valdres district. It is built of logs of timber and the roof is arranged in several tiers like a pagoda. The walls are shingled with pieces of wood cut into the shape of the scales of a fish, and the many pinnacles and gables are surmounted by the most curious wooden gargoyle dragons, pointing their tongues skyward.
Returning to Ulefos we are within a few miles of Skien. Skien is in itself a dull, brick and stone town, devoted largely to the wood-pulp industry, but its honor of being the birthplace of Norway’s greatest literary genius is enough distinction for one town.
Here Henrik Ibsen was born on March 20, 1828. This great genius, the first to raise Norwegian literature to a standard as high as anything in all Europe, was strangely slow in discovering his talent. For seven dreary years, “which set their mark upon his spirit,” he was apprenticed to an apothecary in Grimstad. One of his companions says of him during this period that he “walked about Grimstad like a mystery sealed with seven seals.” He lived for awhile a most precarious, hand-to-mouth existence as a Christiania journalist. Then he became stage poet at the Bergen theater and studied the drama at Copenhagen and at Dresden. He wrote some poems, which began to earn for him a wide reputation. But soon his Bergen theater failed; he applied for a poet’s pension at Christiania and was refused, though one was at the same time granted to Björnson. Sick and discouraged and fighting against poverty, and above all burning with bitterest rage, he went to Berlin and Trieste and then to Rome.