A NORWEGIAN HONEYMOON
"The best rose-bush, after all, is not that which has the fewest
thorns, but that which bears the finest roses."--SOLOMON SINGLEWITZ:
The Life of Adam.
I
It was not all unadulterated sweetness, of course. There were
enough difficulties in the way to make it seem desirable; and a few
stings of annoyance, now and then, lent piquancy to the adventure.
But a good memory, in dealing with the past, has the art of
straining out all the beeswax of discomfort, and storing up little
jars of pure hydromel. As we look back at our six weeks in Norway,
we agree that no period of our partnership in experimental
honeymooning has yielded more honey to the same amount of comb.
Several considerations led us to the resolve of taking our honeymoon
experimentally rather than chronologically. We started from the
self-evident proposition that it ought to be the happiest time in
married life.
"It is perfectly ridiculous," said my lady Graygown, "to suppose
that a thing like that can be fixed by the calendar. It may
possibly fall in the first month after the wedding, but it is not
likely. Just think how slightly two people know each other when
they get married. They are in love, of course, but that is not at
all the same as being well acquainted. Sometimes the more love, the
less acquaintance! And sometimes the more acquaintance, the less
love! Besides, at first there are always the notes of thanks for
the wedding-presents to be written, and the letters of
congratulation to be answered, and it is awfully hard to make each
one sound a little different from the others and perfectly natural.
Then, you know, everybody seems to suspect you of the folly of being
newly married. You run across your friends everywhere, and they
grin when they see you. You can't help feeling as if a lot of
people were watching you through opera-glasses, or taking snap-shots
at you with a kodak. It is absurd to imagine that the first month
must be the real honeymoon. And just suppose it were,--what bad
luck that would be! What would there be to look forward to?"
Every word that fell from her lips seemed to me like the wisdom of
Diotima.
"You are right," I cried; "Portia could not hold a candle to you for
clear argument. Besides, suppose two people are imprudent enough to
get married in the first week of December, as we did!--what becomes
of the chronological honeymoon then? There is no fishing in
December, and all the rivers of Paradise, at least in our latitude,
are frozen up. No, my lady, we will discover our month of honey by
the empirical method. Each year we will set out together to seek it
in a solitude for two; and we will compare notes on moons, and
strike the final balance when we are sure that our happiest
experiment has been completed."
We are not sure of that, even yet. We are still engaged, as a
committee of two, in our philosophical investigation, and we decline
to make anything but a report of progress. We know more now than we
did when we first went honeymooning in the city of Washington. For
one thing, we are certain that not even the far-famed rosemary-
fields of Narbonne, or the fragrant hillsides of the Corbieres,
yield a sweeter harvest to the busy-ness of the bees than the
Norwegian meadows and mountain-slopes yielded to our idleness in the
summer of 1888.
II
The rural landscape of Norway, on the long easterly slope that leads
up to the watershed among the mountains of the western coast, is not
unlike that of Vermont or New Hampshire. The railway from
Christiania to the Randsfjord carried us through a hilly country of
scattered farms and villages. Wood played a prominent part in the
scenery. There were dark stretches of forest on the hilltops and in
the valleys; rivers filled with floating logs; sawmills beside the
waterfalls; wooden farmhouses painted white; and rail-fences around
the fields. The people seemed sturdy, prosperous, independent.
They had the familiar habit of coming down to the station to see the
train arrive and depart. We might have fancied ourselves on a
journey through the Connecticut valley, if it had not been for the
soft sing-song of the Norwegian speech and the uniform politeness of
the railway officials.
What a room that was in the inn at Randsfjord where we spent our
first night out! Vast, bare, primitive, with eight windows to admit
the persistent nocturnal twilight; a sea-like floor of blue-painted
boards, unbroken by a single island of carpet; and a castellated
stove in one corner: an apartment for giants, with two little beds
for dwarfs on opposite shores of the ocean. There was no telephone;
so we arranged a system of communication with a fishing-line, to
make sure that the sleepy partner should be awake in time for the
early boat in the morning.
The journey up the lake took seven hours, and reminded us of a
voyage on Lake George; placid, picturesque, and pervaded by summer
boarders. Somewhere on the way we had lunch, and were well
fortified to take the road when the steamboat landed us at Odnaes,
at the head of the lake, about two o'clock in the afternoon.
There are several methods in which you may drive through Norway.
The government maintains posting-stations at the farms along the
main travelled highways, where you can hire horses and carriages of
various kinds. There are also English tourist agencies which make a
business of providing travellers with complete transportation. You
may try either of these methods alone, or you may make a judicious
mixture.
Thus, by an application of the theory of permutations and
combinations, you have your choice among four ways of accomplishing
a driving-tour. First, you may engage a carriage and pair, with a
driver, from one of the tourist agencies, and roll through your
journey in sedentary case, provided your horses do not go lame or
give out. Second, you may rely altogether upon the posting-stations
to send you on your journey; and this is a very pleasant, lively
way, provided there is not a crowd of travellers on the road before
you, who take up all the comfortable conveyances and leave you
nothing but a jolting cart or a ramshackle KARIOL of the time of St.
Olaf. Third, you may rent an easy-riding vehicle (by choice a well-
hung gig) for the entire trip, and change ponies at the stations as
you drive along; this is the safest way. The fourth method is to
hire your horseflesh at the beginning for the whole journey, and
pick up your vehicles from place to place. This method is
theoretically possible, but I do not know any one who has tried it.
Our gig was waiting for us at Odnaes. There was a brisk little
mouse-coloured pony in the shafts; and it took but a moment to strap
our leather portmanteau on the board at the back, perch the postboy
on top of it, and set out for our first experience of a Norwegian
driving-tour.
The road at first was level and easy; and we bowled along smoothly
through the valley of the Etnaelv, among drooping birch-trees and
green fields where the larks were singing. At Tomlevolden, ten
miles farther on, we reached the first station, a comfortable old
farmhouse, with a great array of wooden outbuildings. Here we had a
chance to try our luck with the Norwegian language in demanding "en
hest, saa straxt som muligt." This was what the guide-book told us
to say when we wanted a horse.
There is great fun in making a random cast on the surface of a
strange language. You cannot tell what will come up. It is like an
experiment in witchcraft. We should not have been at all surprised,
I must confess, if our preliminary incantation had brought forth a
cow or a basket of eggs.
But the good people seemed to divine our intentions; and while we
were waiting for one of the stable-boys to catch and harness the new
horse, a yellow-haired maiden inquired, in very fair English, if we
would not be pleased to have a cup of tea and some butter-bread;
which we did with great comfort.