Becoming quite conversational and familiar, he offers me a pinch of snuff (snuus), whence the Scotch, “sneeshing.” It was excellent “high dried,” and, to my astonishment, of home manufacture, he buying the tobacco-leaf and the necessary flavouring fluid at the town. The rain having been very heavy, the valley is alive with falling waters. We pass a splendid fall close by the road, the white rage of which gleamed distinctly through the darkness, rendering that part of the road lighter than the rest. Imagine the way being lighted with cascades. Who would care for a row of gas-lamps under such circumstances?
This fall, Skomedal tells me, was once drawn by a Frenchman; but I doubt much one of that nation ever venturing into these parts. “Well, Skomedal, can’t you tell me some tales about the trolls?” said I, thinking the hour and the scene were admirably adapted for that sort of amusement.
“Let me see, ah! yes. There was a woman up at my stöl in Skomedal—that’s where the tomt (site) of the old church is to be seen. She was all alone one Thorsdags qveld (Thursday evening), her companion having come down to the gaard for mad (food). Looking out she sees what she supposes is Sigrid coming back up the mountain with a great box of provisions. But when the figure gets alongside of an abrupt rock just below, it suddenly disappears. Gunvor knew then that it was a Thus.”
“Nonsense,” replied I.
“Oh! it’s all very well to say nonsense, but why do the cattle always get shy and urolig (unruly), when they pass that spot. We never could make out before why this was, but it was plain now, they could tell by their instinct there was something uncanny close by.”
“Very good; do you know another tale?” said I, our pace well admitting of this diversion, as it was very slow in the dark wood, into which our road had now entered.
“Yes, that same woman, Gunvor’s husband, was the best fiddler in the valley. One day, when she was all alone, she heard near her a beautiful tune (vaene slot) played on a violin. She could see nobody, though she looked all over. That must have been a Troll underground. She remembered the tune, and taught it her husband. It was called (the name has slipped my recollection.) Nothing so beautiful as that slot was ever heard in the valley.
“But he is dead now, and there is nobody who can play as he did.”[9]