The Skjærgaards.
THE canal voyage through Sweden goes at
first constantly upwards, through elvs and
lakes, forests and rocky land. From the heights
we look down on vast extents of forest-land
and large waters, and by degrees the vessel
sinks again down through mountain torrents.
At Mem we are again down by the salt fjord: a
solitary tower raises its head between the
remains of low, thick walls -- it is the ruins of
Stegeberg. The coast is covered to a great
extent with dark, melancholy forests, which
enclose small grass-grown valleys. The screaming
sea-gulls fly around our vessel; we are by the
Baltic; we feel the fresh sea-breeze: it blows as
in the times of the ancient heroes, when the
sea-kings, sons of high-born fathers, exercised
their deeds here. The same sea’s surface then
appeared to them as now to us, with its
numberless isles, which lie strewed about here
in the water by thousands along the whole
coast. The depth of water between the rocky
isles and the solid land is that we call "The
Skjærgaards:" their waters flow into each other
with varying splendour. We see it in the
sunshine, and it is like a large English
landscape garden; but the greensward plain is here
the deep sea, the flower-beds in it are rocks
and reefs, rich in firs and pines, oaks and
bushes. Mark how, when the wind blows from the
cast, and the sea breaks over sunken rocks and
is dashed back again in spray from the cliffs,
your limbs feel -- even through the ship on which
you stand -- the power of the sea: you are lifted
as if by supernatural hands.
We rush on against wind and sea, as if it were
the sea-god’s snorting horse that bore us; from
Skjærgaard to Skjærgaard. The signal-gun is
fired, and the pilot comes from that solitary
wooden house. Sometimes we look upon the
open sea, sometimes we glide again in between
dark, stony islands; they lie like gigantic
monsters in the water: one has the form of the
tortoise’s arched shell, another has the elephant’s
back and rough grey colour. Mouldering, light
grey rocks indicate that the wind and weather
past centuries has lashed over them.
We now approach larger rocky islands, and
the huge, grey, broken rocks of the main land,
where dwarfish pine woods grow in a continual
combat with the blast; the Skjærgaards
sometimes become only a narrow canal, sometimes
an extensive lake strewed with small islets, all
of stone, and often only a mere block of stone,
to which a single little fir-tree clings fast:
screaming sea-gulls flutter around the
landmarks that are set up; and now we see a single
farm-house, whose red-painted sides shine forth
from the dark background. A group of cows lies
basking in the sun on the stony surface, near a
little smiling pasture, which appears to have
been cultivated here or cut out of a meadow in
Scania. How solitary must it not be to live on
that little island! Ask the boy who sits there
by the cattle, he will be able to tell us. "It is
lively and merry here," says he. "The day is so
long and light, the seal sits out there on the stone
and barks in the early morning hour, and all
the steamers from the canal must pass here.
I know them all; and when the sun goes
down in the evening, it is a whole history to
look into the clouds over the land: there stand
mountains with palaces, in silver and in gold, in
red and in blue; sailing dragons with golden
crowns, or an old giant with a beard down to
his waist -- altogether of clouds, and they are
always changing.
"The storms come on in the autumn, and
then there is often much anxiety when father
is out to help ships in distress; but one becomes,
as it were, a new being.
"In winter the ice is locked fast and firm, and
we drive from island to island and to the
main land; and if the bear or the wolf pays
us a visit we take his skin for a winter
covering: it is warm in the room there, and they
read and tell stories about old times!"
Yes, old Time, how thou dost unfold thyself
with remembrances of these very Skjærgaards --
old Time which belonged to the brave.
These waters, these rocky isles and strands,
saw heroes more greatly active than actively
good: they swung the axe to give the
mortal blow, or as they called it, "the whining
Jetteqvinde."[1]
Here came the Vikings with their ships: on
the headland yonder they levied provisions; the
grazing cattle were slaughtered and borne away.
Ye mouldering cliffs, had ye but a tongue, ye
might tell us about the duels with the
two-handed sword -- about the deeds of the giants.
Ye saw the hero hew with the sword, and
cast the javelin: his left hand was as cunning
as his right. The sword moved so quickly
in the air that there seemed to be three. Ye
saw him, when he in all his martial array
sprang forwards and backwards, higher than
he himself was tall, and if he sprang into
the sea he swam like a whale. Ye saw the
two combatants: the one darted his javelin,
the other caught it in the air, and cast it
back again, so that it pierced through shield
and man down into the earth. Ye saw warriors
with sharp swords and angry hearts; the sword
was struck downwards so as to cut the knee,
out the combatant sprang into the air, and
the sword whizzed under his feet. Mighty
Sagas from the olden times! Mouldering
rocks, could ye but tell us of these things!
Ye, deep waters, bore the Vikings’ ships,
and when the strong in battle lifted the iron
anchor and cast it against the enemy’s vessel,
so that the planks were rent asunder, ye
poured your dark heavy seas into the hold, so
that the bark sank. The wild Berserk who
with naked breast stood against his enemy’s
blows, mad as a dog, howling like a bear,
tearing his shidd asunder, rushing to the
bottom of the sea here, and fetching up stones,
which ordinary men could not raise -- history
peoples these waters, these cliffs for us! A
future poet will conjure them to this
Scandinavian Archipelago, chisel the true forms
out of the old Sagas, the bold, the rude, the
greatness and imperfections of the time, in their
habits as they lived.
They rise again for us on yonder island,
where the wind is whistling through the
young fir wood. The house is of beams, roofed
with bark; the smoke from the fire on the
broad stone in the hall, whirls through the
air-hole, near which stands the cask of
mead; the cushions lie on the bench before
the closed bedsteads; deer-skins hang over the
balk walls, ornamented with shields, helmets,
and armour. Effigies of gods, carved, on
wooden poles, stand before the high seat where
the noble Viking sits, a high-born father’s
youngest son, great in fame, but still greater in
deeds; the skjalds (bards) and foster-brothers sit
nearest to him. They defended the coasts
of their countrymen, and the pious women;
they fetched wheat and honey from England,
they went to the White Sea for sables and
furs -- their adventures are related in song.
We see the old man ride in rich clothing,
with gloves sewn with golden thread, and
with a hat brought from Garderige; we see
the youth with a golden fillet around his brow;
we see him at the Thing; we see him in
battle and in play, where the best is he that
can cut off the other’s eyebrows without
scratching the skin, or causing a wink with the
eyes, on pain of losing his station. The
woman sits in the log-house at her loom,
and in the late moonlight nights the spirits
of the fallen come and sit down around
the fire, where they shake the wet,
dripping clothes; but the serf sleeps in the ashes,
and on the kitchen bench, and dreams that
he dips his bread in the fat soup, and licks
his fingers.
Thou future poet, thou wilt call forth the
vanished forms from the Sagas, thou wilt
people these islands, and let us glide past
these reminiscences of the olden time with
the mind full of them; clearly and truly wilt
thou let us glide, as we now with the power
of steam fly past that firmly standing scenery,
the swelling sea, rocks and reefs, the main
land, and wood-grown islands.
We are already past Braavigen, where
numberless ships from the northern kingdoms
lay, when Upsala’s King, Sigurd Ring, came,
challenged by Harald Hildetand, who, old
and grey, feared to die on a sick bed, and
would fall in battle; and the mainland
thundered like the plains of Marathon beneath the
tramp of horses’ hoofs during the battle:
[2]
bards and female warriors surrounded the
Danish King. The blind old man raised
himself high in his chariot, gave his horse
free rein, and hewed his way. Odin himself
had due reverence paid to Hildetand’s bones;
and the pile was kindled, and the King laid on
it, and Sigurd conjured all to cast gold and
weapons, the most valuable they possessed, into
the fire; and the bards sang to it, and the
female warriors struck the spears on the bright
shields. Upsala’s Lord, Sigurd Ring, became
King of Sweden and Denmark: so says the
Saga, which sounded over the land and water
from these coasts.
The memorials of olden times pass swiftly
through our thoughts; we fly past the scene of
manly exercises and great deeds in the olden
times -- the ship cleaves the mighty waters with
its iron paddles, from Skjærgaard to Skjærgaard.
[1] Giantess.
[2] The battle of Braavalla.
The above contents can be inspected in scanned images:
115, 117, 118, 119, 120, 121, 122, 123, 124, 125, 126
Project Runeberg, Sat Dec 15 19:52:26 2012
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