by Jules Verne
CHAPTER III.
Without being very deeply versed in ethnography, one may be stronglyinclined to believe, in common with many _savants_, that a closerelationship exists between the leading families of the Englisharistocracy and the oldest families of Scandinavia. Numerous proofsof this fact, indeed, are to be found in the ancestral names whichare identical in both countries. There is no aristocracy in Norway,however; still, though the democracy everywhere rules, that does notprevent it from being aristocratic to the highest degree. All areequals upon an exalted plane instead of a low one. Even in thehumblest hut may be found a genealogical tree which has notdegenerated in the least because it has sprung up anew in humble soil;and the walls are adorned with the proud blazons of the feudal lordsfrom whom these plain peasants are descended.
So it was with the Hansens of Dal, who were unquestionably related,though rather remotely, to the English peers created after Rollo'sinvasion of Normandy, and though rank and wealth had both departedthey had at least preserved the old pride, or rather dignity, whichbecomes all social ranks.
It was a matter of very little consequence, however. Whether he hadancestors of lofty lineage or not, Harald Hansen was simply a villageinn-keeper. The house had come down to him from his father and fromhis grandfather, who were widely known and respected, and afterhis death his widow continued the business in a way that eliciteduniversal commendation.
Whether or not Harald had made a fortune in the business, no onewas able to say; but he had been able to rear his son Joel and hisdaughter Hulda in comfort; and Ole Kamp, a son of his wife's sister,had also been brought up like one of his own children. But for hisuncle Harald, this orphan child would doubtless have been one of thosepoor creatures who come into the world only to leave it; and OleKamp evinced a truly filial devotion toward his parents by adoption.Nothing would ever sever the tie that bound him to the Hansen family,to which his marriage with Hulda was about to bind him still moreclosely.
Harald Hansen had died about eighteen months before, leaving hiswife, in addition to the inn, a small farm on the mountain, a pieceof property which yielded very meager returns, if any. This wasespecially true of late, for the seasons had been remarkablyunpropitious, and agriculture of every kind had suffered greatly,even the pastures. There had been many of those "iron nights," as theNorwegian peasants call them--nights of north-easterly gales and icethat kill the corn down to the very root--and that meant ruin to thefarmers of the Telemark and the Hardanger.
Still, whatever Dame Hansen might think of the situation of affairs,she had never said a word to any living soul, not even to herchildren. Naturally cold and reserved, she was very uncommunicative--afact that pained Hulda and Joel not a little. But with that respectfor the head of the family innate in Northern lands, they made noattempt to break down a reserve which was eminently distasteful tothem. Besides, Dame Hansen never asked aid or counsel, being firmlyconvinced of the infallibility of her own judgment, for she was a trueNorwegian in that respect.
Dame Hansen was now about fifty years old. Advancing age had not bowedher tall form, though it had whitened her hair; nor had it dimmed thebrightness of her dark-blue eyes, whose azure was reflected in theclear orbs of her daughter; but her complexion had taken on the yellowhue of old parchment, and a few wrinkles were beginning to furrow herforehead.
The madame, as they say in Scandinavia, was invariably attired in afull black skirt, for she had never laid aside her mourning since herhusband's death. Below the shoulder-straps of a brown bodice appearedthe long full sleeves of an unbleached cotton chemise. On hershoulders she wore a small dark-colored fichu that crossed upon herbreast, which was also covered by the large bib of her apron. Shealways wore as a head-dress a close-fitting black-silk cap thatcovered almost her entire head, and tied behind, a kind of head-dressthat is rarely seen nowadays.
Seated stiffly erect in her wooden arm-chair, the grave hostessneglected her spinning-wheel only to enjoy a small birchwood pipe,whose smoke enveloped her in a faint cloud.
Really, the house would have seemed very gloomy had it not been forthe presence of the two children.
A worthy lad was Joel Hansen. Twenty-five years of age, well built,tall, like all Norwegian mountaineers, proud in bearing, though notin the least boastful or conceited. He had fine hair, verging uponchestnut, with blue eyes so dark as to seem almost black. His garbdisplayed to admirable advantage his powerful shoulders, his broadchest, in which his lungs had full play, and stalwart limbs whichnever failed him even in the most difficult mountain ascents. Hisdark-blue jacket, fitting tightly at the waist, was adorned on theshoulders with epaulets, and in the back with designs in coloredembroidery similar to those that embellish the vests of the Bretonpeasantry. His yellow breeches were fastened at the knee by largebuckles. Upon his head he wore a broad-brimmed brown hat with ared-and-black band, and his legs were usually incased either in coarsecloth gaiters or in long stout boots without heels.
His vocation was that of a mountain guide in the district of theTelemark, and even in the Hardanger. Always ready to start, anduntiring in his exertions, he was a worthy descendant of the Norwegianhero Rollo, the walker, celebrated in the legends of that country.Between times he accompanied English sportsmen who repair to thatregion to shoot the riper, a species of ptarmigan, larger than thatfound in the Hebrides, and the jerpir, a partridge much more delicatein its flavor than the grouse of Scotland. When winter came, thehunting of wolves engrossed his attention, for at that season of theyear these fierce animals, emboldened by hunger, not unfrequentlyventure out upon the surface of the frozen lake. Then there was bearhunting in summer, when that animal, accompanied by her young, comesto secure its feast of fresh grass, and when one must pursue it overplateaus at an altitude of from ten to twelve thousand feet. More thanonce Joel had owed his life solely to the great strength that enabledhim to endure the embraces of these formidable animals, and to theimperturbable coolness which enabled him to eventually dispatch them.
But when there was neither tourist nor hunter to be guided through thevalley of the Vesfjorddal, Joel devoted his attention to the _soetur_,the little mountain farm where a young shepherd kept guard over halfa dozen cows and about thirty sheep--a _soetur_ consisting exclusivelyof pasture land.
Joel, being naturally very pleasant and obliging, was known and lovedin every village in the Telemark; but two persons for whom he felt aboundless affection were his cousin Ole and his sister Hulda.
When Ole Kamp left Dal to embark for the last time, how deeply Joelregretted his inability to dower Hulda and thus avert the necessityfor her lover's departure! In fact, if he had been accustomed to thesea, he would certainly have gone in his cousin's place. But money wasneeded to start them in housekeeping, and as Dame Hansen had offeredno assistance, Joel understood only too well that she did not feelinclined to devote any portion of the estate to that purpose, so therewas nothing for Ole to do but cross the broad Atlantic.
Joel had accompanied him to the extreme end of the valley on his wayto Bergen, and there, after a long embrace, he wished him a pleasantjourney and a speedy return, and then returned to console his sister,whom he loved with an affection which was at the same time fraternaland paternal in its character.
Hulda at that time was exactly eighteen years of age. She was not the_piga_, as the servant in a Norwegian inn is called, but rather the_froken_, the young lady of the house, as her mother was the madame.What a charming face was hers, framed in a wealth of pale golden hair,under a thin linen cap projecting in the back to give room for thelong plaits of hair! What a lovely form incased in this tightlyfitting bodice of red stuff, ornamented with green shoulder-straps andsurmounted by a snowy chemisette, the sleeves of which were fastenedat the wrist by a ribbon bracelet! What grace and perfect symmetryin the waist, encircled by a red belt with clasps of silver filigreewhich held in place the dark-green skirt, below which appeared thewhite stocking protected by the dainty pointed toed shoe of theTelemark!
Yes, Ole's betrothed was cer
tainly charming, with the slightlymelancholy expression of the daughters of the North softening hersmiling face; and on seeing her one instantly thought of Hulda theFair, whose name she bore, and who figures as the household fairy inScandinavian mythology.
Nor did the reserve of a chaste and modest maiden mar the grace withwhich she welcomed the guests who came to the inn. She was wellknown to the world of tourists; and it was not one of the smallestattractions of the inn to be greeted by that cordial shake of thehand that Hulda bestowed on one and all. And after having said to her,"_Tack for mad_" (Thanks for the meal), what could be more delightfulthan to hear her reply in her fresh sonorous voice: "_Wed bekomme_!"(May it do you good!)
