The Captain’s at Heen is the only name given to the roomy house belonging to the commander of the steamboat that plies between that place and Sörum on Lake Spirellen. We reached it about 1 P. M., at the moment dinner was going on the Captain’s hospitable table. As our carriage was destined to accompany us up the lake, that was the end of the land-ride for the present, and we were glad of it. The Captain greeted us as we alighted. He is a square-shouldered, resolute man, who speaks English well. Instead of ordering some one else to do the work, he put the carriage with his own hands on board the steamboat, which was then lying at her wharf close by and ready to leave. The Captain’s dinner was a good one, as ten or twelve persons who sat about the board all agreed. Soup, fresh eggs, two kinds of meat, pudding, strawberries, cheese, coffee, and wine and beer for those who ordered them, satisfied every rational expectation.
We all boarded the little craft in a contented frame of mind. The day was cloudy, but not damp or cold. Our course, for several English miles, was up the Bægna River, in the teeth of a tremendous current. At times it ran like a mill-race. The boat could make headway in some places only by closely hugging the shore. Occasionally we would see logs, that had slipped their moorings in the lake beyond, coming down the middle of the stream with frightful velocity and threatening to punch holes in the bow. The steersman smoked his pipe as calmly as if sitting by his own hearth. If any log ever touched the hull, it glanced off harmless. There were moments when the boat refused to mind the helm. Then the Captain, who stood hard by—pipe in mouth also—would put his great hairy hands on the spokes, and she minded quickly then. Presently we entered upon that expansion of the river known as Lake Spirellen. It is the Tyri-Fiord over again—in its alternately tame and wild environments—but the current still ridges itself in the center of the lake, and only near its shores can the boat make six or eight knots an hour. No landings are attempted, but passengers and freight are taken off or put on by flat-bottomed barges, which require powerful rowers to hold them against the stream. We killed time watching these struggling craft, or gazing through the crystal water down to the grassy bottom, which our keel almost scraped.
It was nearly dark when we landed at Sörum and the boat tied up for the night. We all hurried ashore, to try our luck at a new hotel whose unpainted sides showed a beautiful wood-color against the dark background of hills. There was in its newness a promise of clean beds, and wholesome, if homely, fare. The beds proved to be good, and the fare was undoubtedly satisfactory to persons, if any, who happen to prefer hard-boiled eggs to meat. For it was the five-minute egg that formed the staple of supper and again of breakfast. The eggs were always brought on in heaping platefuls wrapped up in hot napkins and deceiving the eye with the promise of something better than themselves, till the cloth was removed by a waitress, disclosing the standard food of the smaller inns of Eastern Norway. But the bread, butter, and cheese were very good, and there was a choice of tea, coffee, and chocolate. What the Sörum hotel lacked, even more than meat, was modern improvements. It is the want of these that makes the traveler, who has outlived his passion for roughing it, think at least twice before he makes up his mind to enter upon an extended tour of the interior of the country. The most primitive New England farm-house of twenty-five years ago was better off in these respects than any Norwegian hotel we have seen outside of Christiania.
The third day of the excursion was the one to which we had looked forward with the greatest pleasure; for the route from Sörum to Odnæs was said to traverse some of the finest scenery in Eastern Norway. We were promised a succession of high mountains, some snow-clad, waterfalls leaping down precipices, and valleys unsurpassed in loveliness stretching between the frowning heights. Throw in a lavish supply of lakes and rivers, with Rands-Fiord as the goal, and you have the seductive features of the journey as we had fondly dreamed of it.
But the day opened with lowering weather. The air was full of moisture. It seemed like a sponge just waiting to be squeezed a little to give down rain. There was a good twelve hours’ ride before us to Odnæs. So I determined to be off early. Everybody else at the hotel who was bound in the same direction was equally anxious to get away. Breakfast was ordered for us at half-past six, and, even before I had attacked my ration of hard-boiled eggs, I interviewed the head-hostler upon the subject of horses for the carriage, which had been drawn up before the hotel during the night. He was a Norwegian who did not speak a word of English; and, if he had spoken it as well as myself, we could not have conversed at any length, he was so beset by people all wanting their carriages and horses immediately. Thus far in our progress from Christiania I had not had occasion to test the persuasive power of the krone. The humble öre had been good enough for the trivial exigencies that had hitherto arisen. Taking care not to be observed by others, I held up one of the enticing bits of paper so that the head-hostler could see it. Then I said “Odnæs,” and displayed seven fingers.
Sure enough, at 7 A. M., sharp, there was the carriage with two fine ponies attached, and a bright-looking lad in the seat, waiting at the door of the hotel for me. Other persons, who had previously ordered their carioles or stolkjœrres, looked on in amazement. They had been coaxing and scolding the poor man, but had evidently not thought of my simple expedient to secure his attention.
We set out in fine style, with much cracking of the whip, all for effect, however, as Norwegian horses need only a hint—which sounds like uncorking a bottle, and is made by the lips of the driver—in order to display their speed. They stop with equal readiness in response to a buzzing sound emitted between his teeth. The road was good, and that was fortunate, for we went at a frightful pace over every short level stretch, and just the same down-hill. Some of the hills slope at an angle of forty-five degrees. But this made no difference. The horses dashed down one with a speed that did not slacken till they had proceeded some distance up the next hill. They would climb this at a fast walk, and at the top would be fresh and ready for another plunge. After we had taken several of these dives and come up safe and sound, the sensation of anxiety about consequences wore off, and we enjoyed the delirious rush. They recalled the excitement of tobogganing and swinging. But they did not permit that survey of the scenery which one ought to take leisurely in Norway. Whether we went fast or slow mattered but little that day, however, for the rain soon began to fall in torrents. It was a steady down-pour, which taxed our utmost resources in leather aprons, waterproofs, shawls, and umbrellas. We were obliged to close the sides of the carriage with oil-skins which had been provided by the ever-thoughtful Bennett. Thus almost hermetically sealed up, we missed the charms of the landscape, save when, at rare intervals, we would make a little chink through the folds of the envelopes and catch tantalizing glimpses of it. The driver—poor boy—must have been soaked through his heavy top-coat to the skin. He urged his horses at their topmost speed, to gain the station where some other luckless fellow must take his place. We reached it in about three hours, and found it full of travelers, rained in. Bed and board there were out of the question, in the crowded condition of the station, and our only recourse was to go ahead.
Here the omnipotent kroner again came into play with immense effect. The exhibition of a few of them procured an immediate change of horses, and no less a person than the station-master himself occupied the post of driver. A full-grown man was very acceptable for that function in such weather. Small boys and girls were no more to be thought of. The station-master made himself as nearly waterproof as possible; and I hope was none the worse for his exposure to the storm, which continued unabated all the way to a certain Sanitarium at which we had been advised to stop for luncheon, instead of going on to the regular station for that meal. Never was advice better given, or more obediently followed. We found the Sanitarium a large, first-class house. It would be a haven of rest, even in the finest weather, after three hours of furious driving. As a refuge from the pitiless storm, it was welcome and delightful beyond description. Luckily, we did not want a room, for the house was packed full of summer boarders, who were said to be drinking or bathing in the mineral waters which are the chief attractions of the place. In whatever way they took the waters, they were undoubtedly deriving benefit from them; for when we sat down to dinner with about one hundred and fifty of the convalescent patients, we never saw such a display of ravenous appetites. The bill of fare was long. The waiters were nimble and attentive. The dishes were gigantic platters, heaped up with food and passed with the utmost dispatch down the long lines of hungry guests. As fast as these mighty trays were cleared of their burdens, others equally large and laden with steaming meats or vegetables would come to the rescue. A sturdy corps of white-aproned carvers, at an adjoining table, could be heard slashing away at the hot joints, trying to keep pace with the jaws of the patients, and were at last successful, however difficult their task.
It would not have been thought possible, but is a fact that, in the final stage of the repast, plenty of fruit was passed around and no takers. But then it must be explained that pudding, ice-cream, cakes, and a most toothsome dish, which I will now briefly describe from the best information procurable, had already made the circuit for all who wanted them. This novel delicacy, without an English name, is prepared as follows: A thin gruel is made of rice-flour, or farina will do. Into this, while boiling hot, a mixture of jellies is introduced—the greater the variety the better. Currant, raspberry, strawberry—whatever the good housewife finds on her pantry-shelves—are all dumped in together and vigorously stirred. The artful compounder studies how to blend the natural flavors of these jellies so that no one shall be in the ascendant. When the operation is an entire success, the eaters should not be able to distinguish any particular berry in the compost, but should enjoy a gustatory effect in which each of the jellies is lost, only to reappear improved in a new and delicious combination that defies analysis on the palate. It is eaten, hot or cold, with or without cream and sugar.