Roundabout to Moscow: An Epicurean Journey

by John Bell Bouton

The animals knew every inch of the road, and were perfectly trained. They went fast or slow in the right places, and they turned aside enough for every passing cariole or stolkjærre (cart with seats for two). Perhaps the horses should have all the credit for that highly satisfactory drive. But we preferred to think that we owed our safety and pleasure to the baby kudsk. At the foot of every hill he would jump to the ground—I always felt like lifting him down—and, while the ponies were struggling up, he would, in the gravest and most knowing manner, inspect the state of the harness and the wheels, and be sure that everything was right and tight. He was a model coachman, seen through the wrong end of a telescope. When he had clambered up to his seat again and all was going well, he would look in a distressed manner at that mockery of a whip; he would repeat the motion of cracking it, and when the miserable apology for a lash would not make the slightest noise, his lip would quiver and he could hardly hold in his tears. We were sorry that we had no candy to give him at the end of the ride, but made up for it in small coin. If he had been a shade cleaner, I might have kissed him for his mother, at parting.

At this second station, Holmedal, we commanded a view of the Hols-Fiord, a branch of the larger Tyri-Fiord. It is a ribbon of fresh water winding between crags and wooded slopes and would pass for a lake in any other country but Norway. It has no direct connection with the salt-water, violating my preconceived notion of a fiord, which I had always supposed to be a true arm of the sea, thrust far up into the land like the fiord of Christiania, at the head of which stands the beautiful city of that name. But one soon comes to learn that the same sheet of water is called a fiord or a lake according to the caprice of writers about Norway, who are at swords’ points on all subjects. Lake George (New York), or the Italian Lake Como, would pass for a fiord in Norway. But, aside from questions of nomenclature, there is no disputing the loveliness of Hols-Fiord or of the nobler Tyri. We looked down upon a mirror, which perfectly reflected the green hills and the beetling rocks that composed its frame. There was not wind enough for sailing, and the surface of the fiord was unvexed save by a few fishermen’s boats lazily rowed through the smooth water. The original lotos-eaters, stretched along the ground covered with dry-pine needles in the rear of the house, would have been loath to quit the idyllic scene. Nothing less imperative than a luncheon would have called us away from it. We would have been more grateful for the savory stew of mutton served at that meal, had we known that we were soon to be put on short rations of meat. The one article of food that never fails is the egg. The trout are left to flash their speckled sides in the brook, instead of gracing the table. And by the road-side, millions of bushels of delicious strawberries rot unregarded! All the women and girls are busy in the house, and all the men and boys are guiding and driving the mob of tourists. Thus the hen—which can scratch for her living, and needs to be watched only for her eggs laid in the neighboring barn—becomes the unfailing reliance.

At the Holmedal station, a man who was resting there, on his way to Christiania, recognized the carriage as his own. Bennett had hired it of him, and sublet it to me. The owner learned from me that I had agreed to send it back from Odnæs to Christiania, by rail or steamboat, at my own expense; whereupon occurred to him the brilliant idea of getting me to sell it for him for his standing price of four hundred kroner (about one hundred and twelve dollars). I thought he was joking, and dismissed his proposition with a laugh. While we were lunching, the man resumed his journey. On re-entering the carriage, I found upon the seat a paper written in Norwegian, and signed by a name and address. It proved to be a document authorizing the bearer (myself) to sell the carriage at Odnæs for four hundred kroner. Nothing was said about paying the money to the signer; that was taken for granted. I was interested in gratifying his wishes, to the extent of fifteen kroner—that being the freight-charge on the carriage from Odnæs back to Christiania. I tried to make the sale, but without success. Such instances of confidence in perfect strangers are, it is said, not rare in Norway.

A boy about ten years old here took the reins. He was so much larger and maturer than the preceding youngster, that he looked a man in contrast. He had a whip with a long lash, which he cracked continually, till I was impelled to check his exuberance of spirits. He also had the fault—which it seems impossible to correct in the Norwegian kudsk, old or young—of urging the horses down-hill at a headlong gait. They all seem to think that this must give the greatest possible pleasure to the riders. It is, indeed, agreeably exciting at times, when the road is free of stones and sunken places. But we were journeying along the side of the Tyri-Fiord at a good height above it, and did not want our attention distracted from its calm, sunny bosom. In the post-luncheon mood, we would fain have rested half an hour each at some of the points. But, as this would have delayed the arrival at Hönefos till an unseasonable evening hour, we took in the scene on the wing. At one elevation we seemed to survey the whole expanse of the Tyri-Fiord. It was apparently landlocked. Not till one examines a map does he discover that a long strip of water—Drammenselv—links it to Drammens-Fiord, which in turn leads up to the Christiania-Fiord. And this is the only tenure by which the Tyri holds the title that is so misleading to travelers. But, whatever its classification in geography, it is one of the most picturesque pieces of water in Europe.

The tourist’s principal motive in visiting Hönefos is to see the waterfalls. He wants those falls “neat,” as one may say—that is, unmixed with baser things. If he could realize in advance the number of saw-mills for which these falls supply the power, he would probably stay away from Hönefos. His idea of a fall is of a body of water which has nothing to do but tumble gracefully over rocks with a tremendous roar and a following cloud of spray. If he is an American, and has seen Niagara, he is sure to be very exacting in his requirement for waterfalls. When such a man first beholds the cascades of Hönefos, his feeling is one of disappointment. The saw-mills stand so thick as to cut off the view of the foaming, white water at many points. The bubbles that are borne toward him by the raging current are flecked with the fine dust of wood. With the roar of the water is mingled the sound of buzz-saws.

But one soon adjusts himself to the conditions of the scene. The falls are so attractive that, when he has studied them a little while, he ceases to note the planks, the boards, the shingles, which are piled up on the banks of the Bægna River, and the dust that whirls past him on all the surface of the water, and he no longer hears the saws as the teeth eat their way through the hard Norwegian pine-logs. By shading his eyes with his hand, he can shut out the mills which occupy the middle distance, and imagine himself in the presence of Nature before man had harnessed her up for his use. And when he inspects the branches or side-issues of the cataract, he finds some as untamed and free as any mountain-brook. In these he sees the natural fall of the waters over rocks of their own choosing, uncontrolled by dams and sluices. The Bægna is about an eighth of a mile wide at the place where it takes a sheer plunge of thirty feet, and then races away in rapids. The best view may be had in safety from a bridge immediately below the falls.

The village of Hönefos is compact and businesslike. But there is a Garden of Eden at the north end of it. This is situated at a bend of the river, where one can see the falls in the distance and hear their deep roar free from the under-tone of the saw-mills. By a wise choice, Glatved’s Hotel has been placed there, and the tired wayfarer knows not which to praise the more, the quiet comfort of the well-kept inn or the restful charm of the lovely grounds in which it stands. They are laid out in walks, lined with flowers and fruit- and foliage-trees. In shady spots stand little tables and rustic chairs for the use of those who like to eat or drink al fresco. But that sort of thing, though very romantic, is quite out of the question at nightfall, with the mercury down to 55° Fahr. So we took our first meal at Glatved’s in the pretty dining-room, and a very good supper it was. I distinctly remember the crisp trout, the broiled chicken, the snowy bread, and a dish of huckleberries with cream. There were few guests at that season of the year, English for the most part, friendly and affable to us Americans. Our sleeping-room was large and clean, and opened on a broad balcony facing the river. There in the morning was served a capital breakfast. The sun shone brightly. The distant falls sparkled. The roar of the water was a musical bass. Birds flew among the trees and butterflies hovered over the flowers. If all things were steeped in rose-color, who can say how much of it was owing to the strong, fragrant coffee, with whipped cream, the dainty lamb-chops, the fried potato-shavings, the omelette au confiture with its purple heart of raspberry-jam?

We had hoped to be favored with a girl instead of a boy as driver to the next station on the route—Heen. After our experience the day before, we felt that anybody who could sit on the box-seat and hold the reins could manage trained ponies in use on Norwegian roads. A girl could safely be trusted with them. But to our great disappointment, a lout of a boy climbed up in front, and off we started for Heen—with the injunction (from the young woman who settled our bill and saw us off) ringing in our ears—“Stop at the Captain’s!”

The road to Heen was sandy and hilly most of the way. There were more dashing falls at Höfsfos. And we found, in the depths of a pinewood, stunted bushes with just such blueberries on them as the people of distant New Hampshire and Vermont were doubtless picking that very day. It is one of the pleasantest incidents of foreign travel to come across wild flowers and fruits identical with those of America.