PETSCHENGA MONASTERY.

[Contents]PETSCHENGA MONASTERY.PETSCHENGA MONASTERY.CHAPTER I.THE MILLSTONE.Come with me, and let us take a trip far away to the North Country, to the coast of the White Sea, to the land of the midnight sun, to the shores of Russian Lapland. There is very much in those parts that is still quite unknown. The district to which we journey has never yet been described, nor has it even been explored. The fisherman has not visited it. The rivers, with their flowing streams, and their beautiful pools swirling beneath the waterfalls, remain in their virgin purity, and have never been whipped by the salmon-fisher. No one has pulled a line or trawled a net across the lakes, nor has anyone passed to and fro over them, dragging that miserable implement which is known as an oter.1No sportsman has been to these parts. The hares skip about, and are as tame as if they were in the Garden of Eden. The hills and dales have never echoed to the hare-hunters’ halloo, to the baying of hounds in full cry to the sound of a gun, or to the death-shriek of the quarry.The last time I was in this district of Lapland I was sitting, at eleven o’clock one evening, in beautiful sunlight, outside the door of a Lapp who lived on the banks of a river which we[2]shall very soon reach in our journeyings. Suddenly, I observed on the other side of the river, on a sunny knoll where the herbage springs up early in the season, five or six dark-coloured animals skipping about. I thought they were sheep, and I asked the Lapp whether they were his sheep.‘A sheep,’ said the Lapp; ‘that isn’t a sheep, it is a jenesiä; that is to say, a hare.’‘Well,’ I thought, ‘what a scrimmage, what an awful scrimmage there would be if one were suddenly to let loose in this place a couple of spirited Christiania harriers!’ At any time of the year, hares are to be found in almost incredible numbers, and at eleven o’clock at night, when all is calm and quiet, and the sun is still above the horizon, they may be seen coming out of their hiding-places, and feeding and playing about.Ptarmigan and snipe are also found in great numbers, but none of them know what a setter or a pointer is like. Not one of them has ever seen a dog come snuffing and sneaking along, and then suddenly stand stock-still, as if turned to stone, ready to make a desperate spring.Too much ink has not been wasted in describing the people who dwell in this region, and their surroundings. And yet it is a country which has a remarkable history. It was quite by accident that I was led to make inquiry about it, and the reader will be able to gather from the narrative that follows the result of my studies.First of all, we will make for Finmark, but when we arrive at Hammerfest we must not forget to apply to the Russian Consul for a passport, as we then shall be within the territory of the great Russian Empire. If any of our party can speak a little Russian, it will be sure to come in useful, as nearly all Russian Lapps can speak that language after a fashion. From Vadsö we will travel by one of the small fjord steamboats across to Elvenaes in South Varanger. Perhaps we may be lucky enough on our way to see a whaler give chase to a whale, and harpoon one of those monsters.From South Varanger we can go by foot to our destination, across a tract of country extending for three or four miles, or we can go by sea. I propose the latter plan. In a good eight-oared boat we can (we are three in number—sportsman, fisherman, and botanist) take with us all that we shall need: tents, bed-clothes, meat and drink, as well as hunting and[3]fishing tackle. We can sail or row according to the state of the weather. If we wish to do so, we can, as we go, fish for huge cod and wonderful haddocks, which bite very differently from the small fish which are taken in the Christiania fjord. The bait which we shall need is not an artificial fly from Christiania, but something as thick and solid as the line itself which is used there. If we have a fair wind, and do not want to be delayed by fishing, or by shooting sea-fowl, we can reach our destination in about four-and-twenty hours. We shall sail past a projecting promontory or peninsula called Normanssaet, where there was formerly a colony of Norwegians. Then we must turn to the south, up a small fjord which is called in Russian Petschenga, but in Norwegian Munkfjord. The latter designation can scarcely fail to attract attention, but the visitor looks in vain for the slightest sign or trace of monks or of monasteries. The banks of the fjord are very lovely; there are undulating ridges of ground clothed with birch, but the banks are in other parts wild and desolate. Not an individual is to be seen anywhere. No smoke rises from a single hearth to point out the dwelling of man. A short way up the fjord, on the east side, there is an inlet which is rather narrow where it enters the fjord, but wide, deep, and broad inside, and this inlet affords the chief harbour for vessels, as it is never blocked by ice. This harbour is called the Warehouse Inlet, a name which suggests former inhabitants, but there are no more indications of warehouses now than there were of monks in Munkfjord.On the tour of which some details are now given, after passing a small river known as Trifon’s River (a name pointing to events which occurred long ago), we reached the head of the fjord where the Petschenga River discharges itself. Here, at a place called Barken, a few Lapps live. From these people we each hired a boat of the kind that is now in use in Finmark. They are long and narrow, almost exactly like those which are used on the Hallingdal River. The same kind of river has produced the same type of boat. We transferred our luggage to these river-boats, and arranged it in the centre, so that, according to our inclination, we could either sit or lie down in the boats. Then we set off, with a couple of men in each boat, one in the bow and the other at the stern, each furnished with a long pole. The boats glided on as[4]the boatmen, encouraged by us, pushed along the banks of the river, competing with one another. The banks are covered on both sides with beautiful white-stemmed birch trees. Here and there a solitary fir is to be seen, which looks almost black by contrast with the bright green birch leaves. Further toward the south the firs are more plentiful, and quite in the distance dense pine-woods appear. The fact is, that the river rises in the south, and in travelling up it we take a southerly direction.A quarter of a mile up the river we reached such a lovely spot that we decided at once to disembark, and pitch our tents for the night. There is a level plot of ground a few feet above the river-bed, and it is as smooth and as flat as a parlour floor, so that it must have been made at some period by the river itself. Here and there are clumps of trees that are a hundred years old, birch, aspen, and mountain-ash; and in the open spaces between the clumps a luxuriant herbage is growing. It looks as if somebody, a long time ago, had laid out plantations here. From this level piece of land there is a view across the river, which flows still and deep just below, and there is another view over the fjord towards the north, while very far to the south-east, mountains with the snow upon them can be seen. A more lovely spot for a dwelling could scarcely be found anywhere, even in Norwegian Finmark.For about an hour we were busily occupied in pitching our tents, strewing thin fragrant birch twigs on the ground, spreading reindeer-skins over the twigs, and arranging our baggage according to each one’s taste, and idea of order. When all was finished we paid calls on each other, and discussed the question, what should we have for supper, or, to speak more correctly, for dinner; for in those parts one is often at dinner when it is midnight in Southern lands.‘Fresh salmon,’ said the sportsman.‘And young ptarmigan,’ said the botanist.‘And cloudberries for dessert,’ said the fisherman.‘Do salmon come up the river as far as this?’ I asked of one of the boatmen.‘Salmon indeed!’ he replied, ‘why, I should think so; they come up here, and many miles further to the Harefos, then they can’t get further, and are packed like herrings in a barrel.’Out, then, with salmon rod, reel, line, and gaff, and so into[5]the boat once more. It is just eight o’clock in the evening, and this is not too late for a bite, before the fish are away to rest for the night. The sportsman at the same time took his gun, and sallied forth with Pan, the dog. I put a bright spoon on the line, and got the Lapp to row off with a single stroke, so as to row ‘poiki, poiki,’ backwards and forwards, across the stream. It was not necessary to work very long. The third time of crossing, the line ran buzzing violently off the reel.‘Lohi on, lohi on! That’s a salmon, that’s a salmon!’ shouted the Lapp.‘Yes, yes,’ said I; ‘but surely you aren’t afraid of a salmon? Why, a salmon is what we want for dinner!’At that very moment the salmon took a vigorous leap of three feet into the air, so that the evening sun glittered on its shining silvery scales, and it fell again with a splash.‘Iso on! It is a big one!’ said the Lapp.‘Yes, it’s an eighteen-pounder,’ I replied. ‘I have taken so many of them with the line that I am not far wrong, if I can only see the fish once.’Another leap into the air, and it became so tractable that we were able to row with it towards our encampment. There I landed, and soon had it close to the shore; then, with a final effort, it was off again into the middle and deepest part of the river. It was, however, quite powerless to rise, and lay flat on its side. The line was quickly wound in, and the fish guided to the shore through deep water, when the Lapp plunged the spear into it. It was ours, and weighed eighteen and a half pounds. So we had enough fish for ourselves and for the men.As if by a preconcerted arrangement, at the very same moment a double report was heard, one shot immediately after the other, from a bleak spot a little distance off. The sportsman had come upon some ptarmigan. He is a crack shot, as the two reports following each other so quickly showed. Immediately afterwards two more shots were heard. Clearly we had got three young birds at least, one for each of us.‘But how about the cloudberries?’ I remarked to the botanist, who was standing and gazing at the salmon.‘Oh, I have sent a Lapp to pick them,’ he replied; ‘he knows better than I do where to find them.’While we were cutting up the salmon the sportsman and Pan[6]returned. The latter seemed quite crestfallen at the expedition having proved such a short one.‘How many reports did you hear?’ the sportsman inquired.‘Four,’ we replied.‘Just so: two double ones,’ he said. ‘I have only shot four young birds; they are, however, enough for us to-day.’The botanist was with one voice condemned to pluck the ptarmigan, as he had been too lazy to pick the cloudberries. He went away with the birds, but, shameful to say, when he came back he had skinned them instead of plucking them. What barbarism! A fire was lighted, and a couple of pots were set over it. There was plenty of fuel, and we had an excellent kitchen. The smoke soon began to curl in the air, and protected us from the mosquitoes, so that we were able to take the veils off our faces.After having regaled ourselves with a capital meal, some of the party retired to rest. The Lapps laid themselves down on the ground under a birch-tree. They needed no tent. They drew themselves up, head, legs, and arms, within their coarse-woven garments, and had by this means both over and under clothing, as well as a protection from mosquitoes. Only an old Lapp, Nilas, and I remained sitting at the fire chatting, and smoking our clay pipes over a glass of grog. The nectar of life excited the Lapp; he became communicative, and I began to question him as to whether he knew anything about what had occurred in those parts in former times. I could see that there must have been people living in the district at some period. The grassy mounds were in places so regular, and of so remarkable a shape, besides being so neatly formed, that they must originally have been the work of man.‘Have you seen the big wonderful stone that is lying close to the Kujasuga River?’ asked the Lapp.‘No,’ I said; ‘I have never been here before, and I have neither seen nor heard of any stone. But let us go and look at it.’Two thousand feet or so behind our encampment a small rivulet emptied itself into the river; it was as bright and clear as crystal. Probably it was not flowing far from its source, or it would not have been so free from mud, and so wonderfully clear and cold. Just below a little waterfall which the rivulet forms, a huge round stone was lying. At first I thought it might be an old idol which the Lapps formerly worshipped,[7]but in this I was mistaken. When I got down close to it, and had cleared it of the branches and rubbish which covered it, I saw to my amazement that it was—a Millstone. There was no possible mistake about it. It was a real millstone, and so big that I doubt whether, at the present day, a bigger one could be found in any water or wind mill. The hole in the centre was so large that I could easily put my head through it. It was also quite evident that the stone had been in use at some time. But how on earth did it get there? How did it find its way there in the seventieth degree of north latitude, where not a single blade of corn ever grew, to say nothing of ripening? It could not have lain there since the Deluge. Nor could it have been brought there by the ice, like a stray log of wood, for the motion of the ice is from north to south, and surely in olden times people were not using millstones at the north pole, unless it should really turn out to be the case, in accordance with the very newest theory, that Europe has been peopled from the north! It was an enigma, and one which completely puzzled me.A shipwreck? Perhaps, thought I, it was brought there by a shipwreck. But no; the millstone is about a quarter of a mile from the sea. It was clear that somebody must have taken it there, and must have had a mill at that place. But who?‘Can you tell me anything about the stone, Nilas?’ I asked. ‘Do you know what such a stone is used for?’‘No,’ replied Nilas; ‘I don’t know.’‘Do you know whether it has been lying here for a long time?’‘Yes,’ said Nilas; ‘it has lain here for hundreds of years. I heard that from my old grandfather.’‘God bless both you and your old grandfather!’ I said; ‘but who brought the stone here?’‘It must have been the monks,’ said Nilas.‘The monks, do you say? Why, what monks?’‘The monks who lived here a long time ago, about whom my grandfather has told me.’‘You are my friend, Nilas,’ I said; and I rubbed my hands together for joy. ‘Come, let us get back to the fire, good Nilas, and sit down. You must tell me all you have heard from your grandfather about these monks. You mustn’t forget anything. I shan’t let you go till you have told me all that you know.’[8]‘Well,’ thought I to myself, ‘here is the explanation of the names Munkfjord, Warehouse Inlet, Trifon’s River, and others.’We went back to the fire, and remained sitting through the light night-time, and far on into the morning, Nilas squatting on the ground, half in the smoke of the fire, with which he mingled the smoke from his own pipe, looking, with his red head-covering, just like an imp. I sat with a veil over my face, and with paper before me, he relating and I listening, and scribbling down on the paper, as fast as my pen would go, his strange tales about a big monastery which had once stood where our tents were pitched, and about a magnificent church, and monks who used to go in procession, and sing psalms, and burn incense. If I had not found the millstone, I should most probably never have learnt the history of this monastery, but the millstone gave me the first clue, which I resolutely followed up, carefully searching through legends and manuscripts and books, among the State archives, and in libraries in Norway, Finland, and Russia. I have picked up and collected every trustworthy piece of historical and ethnographical information, and woven these together with the old legends which I heard from the Lapp Nilas that night on the banks of the Petschenga River.Before we left the neighbourhood I went once more to the millstone, to look at it somewhat more closely, and to take leave of it. It had been the upper of the two stones which are used in a mill. It lay with the hollowed part uppermost, and a quantity of dead leaves—yellow, green, and red birch leaves—had collected in the hollow. While I was sitting quite alone and dreaming of the old times, a little whirlwind arose which whisked the leaves round in a circle on the stone, and swept them into the hole, rolled them up again, and then whirled them into the air, so that they danced about, chasing one another hither and thither as if at play, just as if they had all of a sudden come to life, and had been transformed into a variety of yellow, green, and red butterflies.Are they the souls of the monks, I thought, which have come back here again, and are carrying on a sprightly dance over the solitary relic of their former glory? and is it for joy because now at last, after the lapse of three centuries, they are to be rescued from oblivion and brought to the light of day once[9]again? If this be so, then I hope they will not be altogether displeased with my endeavour to serve them.We will now take our leave of both the sportsman and the botanist, and endeavour to recall, and to present to our readers, scenes and incidents which belong to the middle of the sixteenth century.[10]1The ‘oter’ is a Norwegian fishing implement, consisting of a board, or piece of wood, with a number of hooks attached to it.↑

PETSCHENGA MONASTERY.PETSCHENGA MONASTERY.CHAPTER I.THE MILLSTONE.

Come with me, and let us take a trip far away to the North Country, to the coast of the White Sea, to the land of the midnight sun, to the shores of Russian Lapland. There is very much in those parts that is still quite unknown. The district to which we journey has never yet been described, nor has it even been explored. The fisherman has not visited it. The rivers, with their flowing streams, and their beautiful pools swirling beneath the waterfalls, remain in their virgin purity, and have never been whipped by the salmon-fisher. No one has pulled a line or trawled a net across the lakes, nor has anyone passed to and fro over them, dragging that miserable implement which is known as an oter.1No sportsman has been to these parts. The hares skip about, and are as tame as if they were in the Garden of Eden. The hills and dales have never echoed to the hare-hunters’ halloo, to the baying of hounds in full cry to the sound of a gun, or to the death-shriek of the quarry.The last time I was in this district of Lapland I was sitting, at eleven o’clock one evening, in beautiful sunlight, outside the door of a Lapp who lived on the banks of a river which we[2]shall very soon reach in our journeyings. Suddenly, I observed on the other side of the river, on a sunny knoll where the herbage springs up early in the season, five or six dark-coloured animals skipping about. I thought they were sheep, and I asked the Lapp whether they were his sheep.‘A sheep,’ said the Lapp; ‘that isn’t a sheep, it is a jenesiä; that is to say, a hare.’‘Well,’ I thought, ‘what a scrimmage, what an awful scrimmage there would be if one were suddenly to let loose in this place a couple of spirited Christiania harriers!’ At any time of the year, hares are to be found in almost incredible numbers, and at eleven o’clock at night, when all is calm and quiet, and the sun is still above the horizon, they may be seen coming out of their hiding-places, and feeding and playing about.Ptarmigan and snipe are also found in great numbers, but none of them know what a setter or a pointer is like. Not one of them has ever seen a dog come snuffing and sneaking along, and then suddenly stand stock-still, as if turned to stone, ready to make a desperate spring.Too much ink has not been wasted in describing the people who dwell in this region, and their surroundings. And yet it is a country which has a remarkable history. It was quite by accident that I was led to make inquiry about it, and the reader will be able to gather from the narrative that follows the result of my studies.First of all, we will make for Finmark, but when we arrive at Hammerfest we must not forget to apply to the Russian Consul for a passport, as we then shall be within the territory of the great Russian Empire. If any of our party can speak a little Russian, it will be sure to come in useful, as nearly all Russian Lapps can speak that language after a fashion. From Vadsö we will travel by one of the small fjord steamboats across to Elvenaes in South Varanger. Perhaps we may be lucky enough on our way to see a whaler give chase to a whale, and harpoon one of those monsters.From South Varanger we can go by foot to our destination, across a tract of country extending for three or four miles, or we can go by sea. I propose the latter plan. In a good eight-oared boat we can (we are three in number—sportsman, fisherman, and botanist) take with us all that we shall need: tents, bed-clothes, meat and drink, as well as hunting and[3]fishing tackle. We can sail or row according to the state of the weather. If we wish to do so, we can, as we go, fish for huge cod and wonderful haddocks, which bite very differently from the small fish which are taken in the Christiania fjord. The bait which we shall need is not an artificial fly from Christiania, but something as thick and solid as the line itself which is used there. If we have a fair wind, and do not want to be delayed by fishing, or by shooting sea-fowl, we can reach our destination in about four-and-twenty hours. We shall sail past a projecting promontory or peninsula called Normanssaet, where there was formerly a colony of Norwegians. Then we must turn to the south, up a small fjord which is called in Russian Petschenga, but in Norwegian Munkfjord. The latter designation can scarcely fail to attract attention, but the visitor looks in vain for the slightest sign or trace of monks or of monasteries. The banks of the fjord are very lovely; there are undulating ridges of ground clothed with birch, but the banks are in other parts wild and desolate. Not an individual is to be seen anywhere. No smoke rises from a single hearth to point out the dwelling of man. A short way up the fjord, on the east side, there is an inlet which is rather narrow where it enters the fjord, but wide, deep, and broad inside, and this inlet affords the chief harbour for vessels, as it is never blocked by ice. This harbour is called the Warehouse Inlet, a name which suggests former inhabitants, but there are no more indications of warehouses now than there were of monks in Munkfjord.On the tour of which some details are now given, after passing a small river known as Trifon’s River (a name pointing to events which occurred long ago), we reached the head of the fjord where the Petschenga River discharges itself. Here, at a place called Barken, a few Lapps live. From these people we each hired a boat of the kind that is now in use in Finmark. They are long and narrow, almost exactly like those which are used on the Hallingdal River. The same kind of river has produced the same type of boat. We transferred our luggage to these river-boats, and arranged it in the centre, so that, according to our inclination, we could either sit or lie down in the boats. Then we set off, with a couple of men in each boat, one in the bow and the other at the stern, each furnished with a long pole. The boats glided on as[4]the boatmen, encouraged by us, pushed along the banks of the river, competing with one another. The banks are covered on both sides with beautiful white-stemmed birch trees. Here and there a solitary fir is to be seen, which looks almost black by contrast with the bright green birch leaves. Further toward the south the firs are more plentiful, and quite in the distance dense pine-woods appear. The fact is, that the river rises in the south, and in travelling up it we take a southerly direction.A quarter of a mile up the river we reached such a lovely spot that we decided at once to disembark, and pitch our tents for the night. There is a level plot of ground a few feet above the river-bed, and it is as smooth and as flat as a parlour floor, so that it must have been made at some period by the river itself. Here and there are clumps of trees that are a hundred years old, birch, aspen, and mountain-ash; and in the open spaces between the clumps a luxuriant herbage is growing. It looks as if somebody, a long time ago, had laid out plantations here. From this level piece of land there is a view across the river, which flows still and deep just below, and there is another view over the fjord towards the north, while very far to the south-east, mountains with the snow upon them can be seen. A more lovely spot for a dwelling could scarcely be found anywhere, even in Norwegian Finmark.For about an hour we were busily occupied in pitching our tents, strewing thin fragrant birch twigs on the ground, spreading reindeer-skins over the twigs, and arranging our baggage according to each one’s taste, and idea of order. When all was finished we paid calls on each other, and discussed the question, what should we have for supper, or, to speak more correctly, for dinner; for in those parts one is often at dinner when it is midnight in Southern lands.‘Fresh salmon,’ said the sportsman.‘And young ptarmigan,’ said the botanist.‘And cloudberries for dessert,’ said the fisherman.‘Do salmon come up the river as far as this?’ I asked of one of the boatmen.‘Salmon indeed!’ he replied, ‘why, I should think so; they come up here, and many miles further to the Harefos, then they can’t get further, and are packed like herrings in a barrel.’Out, then, with salmon rod, reel, line, and gaff, and so into[5]the boat once more. It is just eight o’clock in the evening, and this is not too late for a bite, before the fish are away to rest for the night. The sportsman at the same time took his gun, and sallied forth with Pan, the dog. I put a bright spoon on the line, and got the Lapp to row off with a single stroke, so as to row ‘poiki, poiki,’ backwards and forwards, across the stream. It was not necessary to work very long. The third time of crossing, the line ran buzzing violently off the reel.‘Lohi on, lohi on! That’s a salmon, that’s a salmon!’ shouted the Lapp.‘Yes, yes,’ said I; ‘but surely you aren’t afraid of a salmon? Why, a salmon is what we want for dinner!’At that very moment the salmon took a vigorous leap of three feet into the air, so that the evening sun glittered on its shining silvery scales, and it fell again with a splash.‘Iso on! It is a big one!’ said the Lapp.‘Yes, it’s an eighteen-pounder,’ I replied. ‘I have taken so many of them with the line that I am not far wrong, if I can only see the fish once.’Another leap into the air, and it became so tractable that we were able to row with it towards our encampment. There I landed, and soon had it close to the shore; then, with a final effort, it was off again into the middle and deepest part of the river. It was, however, quite powerless to rise, and lay flat on its side. The line was quickly wound in, and the fish guided to the shore through deep water, when the Lapp plunged the spear into it. It was ours, and weighed eighteen and a half pounds. So we had enough fish for ourselves and for the men.As if by a preconcerted arrangement, at the very same moment a double report was heard, one shot immediately after the other, from a bleak spot a little distance off. The sportsman had come upon some ptarmigan. He is a crack shot, as the two reports following each other so quickly showed. Immediately afterwards two more shots were heard. Clearly we had got three young birds at least, one for each of us.‘But how about the cloudberries?’ I remarked to the botanist, who was standing and gazing at the salmon.‘Oh, I have sent a Lapp to pick them,’ he replied; ‘he knows better than I do where to find them.’While we were cutting up the salmon the sportsman and Pan[6]returned. The latter seemed quite crestfallen at the expedition having proved such a short one.‘How many reports did you hear?’ the sportsman inquired.‘Four,’ we replied.‘Just so: two double ones,’ he said. ‘I have only shot four young birds; they are, however, enough for us to-day.’The botanist was with one voice condemned to pluck the ptarmigan, as he had been too lazy to pick the cloudberries. He went away with the birds, but, shameful to say, when he came back he had skinned them instead of plucking them. What barbarism! A fire was lighted, and a couple of pots were set over it. There was plenty of fuel, and we had an excellent kitchen. The smoke soon began to curl in the air, and protected us from the mosquitoes, so that we were able to take the veils off our faces.After having regaled ourselves with a capital meal, some of the party retired to rest. The Lapps laid themselves down on the ground under a birch-tree. They needed no tent. They drew themselves up, head, legs, and arms, within their coarse-woven garments, and had by this means both over and under clothing, as well as a protection from mosquitoes. Only an old Lapp, Nilas, and I remained sitting at the fire chatting, and smoking our clay pipes over a glass of grog. The nectar of life excited the Lapp; he became communicative, and I began to question him as to whether he knew anything about what had occurred in those parts in former times. I could see that there must have been people living in the district at some period. The grassy mounds were in places so regular, and of so remarkable a shape, besides being so neatly formed, that they must originally have been the work of man.‘Have you seen the big wonderful stone that is lying close to the Kujasuga River?’ asked the Lapp.‘No,’ I said; ‘I have never been here before, and I have neither seen nor heard of any stone. But let us go and look at it.’Two thousand feet or so behind our encampment a small rivulet emptied itself into the river; it was as bright and clear as crystal. Probably it was not flowing far from its source, or it would not have been so free from mud, and so wonderfully clear and cold. Just below a little waterfall which the rivulet forms, a huge round stone was lying. At first I thought it might be an old idol which the Lapps formerly worshipped,[7]but in this I was mistaken. When I got down close to it, and had cleared it of the branches and rubbish which covered it, I saw to my amazement that it was—a Millstone. There was no possible mistake about it. It was a real millstone, and so big that I doubt whether, at the present day, a bigger one could be found in any water or wind mill. The hole in the centre was so large that I could easily put my head through it. It was also quite evident that the stone had been in use at some time. But how on earth did it get there? How did it find its way there in the seventieth degree of north latitude, where not a single blade of corn ever grew, to say nothing of ripening? It could not have lain there since the Deluge. Nor could it have been brought there by the ice, like a stray log of wood, for the motion of the ice is from north to south, and surely in olden times people were not using millstones at the north pole, unless it should really turn out to be the case, in accordance with the very newest theory, that Europe has been peopled from the north! It was an enigma, and one which completely puzzled me.A shipwreck? Perhaps, thought I, it was brought there by a shipwreck. But no; the millstone is about a quarter of a mile from the sea. It was clear that somebody must have taken it there, and must have had a mill at that place. But who?‘Can you tell me anything about the stone, Nilas?’ I asked. ‘Do you know what such a stone is used for?’‘No,’ replied Nilas; ‘I don’t know.’‘Do you know whether it has been lying here for a long time?’‘Yes,’ said Nilas; ‘it has lain here for hundreds of years. I heard that from my old grandfather.’‘God bless both you and your old grandfather!’ I said; ‘but who brought the stone here?’‘It must have been the monks,’ said Nilas.‘The monks, do you say? Why, what monks?’‘The monks who lived here a long time ago, about whom my grandfather has told me.’‘You are my friend, Nilas,’ I said; and I rubbed my hands together for joy. ‘Come, let us get back to the fire, good Nilas, and sit down. You must tell me all you have heard from your grandfather about these monks. You mustn’t forget anything. I shan’t let you go till you have told me all that you know.’[8]‘Well,’ thought I to myself, ‘here is the explanation of the names Munkfjord, Warehouse Inlet, Trifon’s River, and others.’We went back to the fire, and remained sitting through the light night-time, and far on into the morning, Nilas squatting on the ground, half in the smoke of the fire, with which he mingled the smoke from his own pipe, looking, with his red head-covering, just like an imp. I sat with a veil over my face, and with paper before me, he relating and I listening, and scribbling down on the paper, as fast as my pen would go, his strange tales about a big monastery which had once stood where our tents were pitched, and about a magnificent church, and monks who used to go in procession, and sing psalms, and burn incense. If I had not found the millstone, I should most probably never have learnt the history of this monastery, but the millstone gave me the first clue, which I resolutely followed up, carefully searching through legends and manuscripts and books, among the State archives, and in libraries in Norway, Finland, and Russia. I have picked up and collected every trustworthy piece of historical and ethnographical information, and woven these together with the old legends which I heard from the Lapp Nilas that night on the banks of the Petschenga River.Before we left the neighbourhood I went once more to the millstone, to look at it somewhat more closely, and to take leave of it. It had been the upper of the two stones which are used in a mill. It lay with the hollowed part uppermost, and a quantity of dead leaves—yellow, green, and red birch leaves—had collected in the hollow. While I was sitting quite alone and dreaming of the old times, a little whirlwind arose which whisked the leaves round in a circle on the stone, and swept them into the hole, rolled them up again, and then whirled them into the air, so that they danced about, chasing one another hither and thither as if at play, just as if they had all of a sudden come to life, and had been transformed into a variety of yellow, green, and red butterflies.Are they the souls of the monks, I thought, which have come back here again, and are carrying on a sprightly dance over the solitary relic of their former glory? and is it for joy because now at last, after the lapse of three centuries, they are to be rescued from oblivion and brought to the light of day once[9]again? If this be so, then I hope they will not be altogether displeased with my endeavour to serve them.We will now take our leave of both the sportsman and the botanist, and endeavour to recall, and to present to our readers, scenes and incidents which belong to the middle of the sixteenth century.[10]

No sportsman has been to these parts. The hares skip about, and are as tame as if they were in the Garden of Eden. The hills and dales have never echoed to the hare-hunters’ halloo, to the baying of hounds in full cry to the sound of a gun, or to the death-shriek of the quarry.

The last time I was in this district of Lapland I was sitting, at eleven o’clock one evening, in beautiful sunlight, outside the door of a Lapp who lived on the banks of a river which we[2]shall very soon reach in our journeyings. Suddenly, I observed on the other side of the river, on a sunny knoll where the herbage springs up early in the season, five or six dark-coloured animals skipping about. I thought they were sheep, and I asked the Lapp whether they were his sheep.

‘A sheep,’ said the Lapp; ‘that isn’t a sheep, it is a jenesiä; that is to say, a hare.’

‘Well,’ I thought, ‘what a scrimmage, what an awful scrimmage there would be if one were suddenly to let loose in this place a couple of spirited Christiania harriers!’ At any time of the year, hares are to be found in almost incredible numbers, and at eleven o’clock at night, when all is calm and quiet, and the sun is still above the horizon, they may be seen coming out of their hiding-places, and feeding and playing about.

Ptarmigan and snipe are also found in great numbers, but none of them know what a setter or a pointer is like. Not one of them has ever seen a dog come snuffing and sneaking along, and then suddenly stand stock-still, as if turned to stone, ready to make a desperate spring.

Too much ink has not been wasted in describing the people who dwell in this region, and their surroundings. And yet it is a country which has a remarkable history. It was quite by accident that I was led to make inquiry about it, and the reader will be able to gather from the narrative that follows the result of my studies.

First of all, we will make for Finmark, but when we arrive at Hammerfest we must not forget to apply to the Russian Consul for a passport, as we then shall be within the territory of the great Russian Empire. If any of our party can speak a little Russian, it will be sure to come in useful, as nearly all Russian Lapps can speak that language after a fashion. From Vadsö we will travel by one of the small fjord steamboats across to Elvenaes in South Varanger. Perhaps we may be lucky enough on our way to see a whaler give chase to a whale, and harpoon one of those monsters.

From South Varanger we can go by foot to our destination, across a tract of country extending for three or four miles, or we can go by sea. I propose the latter plan. In a good eight-oared boat we can (we are three in number—sportsman, fisherman, and botanist) take with us all that we shall need: tents, bed-clothes, meat and drink, as well as hunting and[3]fishing tackle. We can sail or row according to the state of the weather. If we wish to do so, we can, as we go, fish for huge cod and wonderful haddocks, which bite very differently from the small fish which are taken in the Christiania fjord. The bait which we shall need is not an artificial fly from Christiania, but something as thick and solid as the line itself which is used there. If we have a fair wind, and do not want to be delayed by fishing, or by shooting sea-fowl, we can reach our destination in about four-and-twenty hours. We shall sail past a projecting promontory or peninsula called Normanssaet, where there was formerly a colony of Norwegians. Then we must turn to the south, up a small fjord which is called in Russian Petschenga, but in Norwegian Munkfjord. The latter designation can scarcely fail to attract attention, but the visitor looks in vain for the slightest sign or trace of monks or of monasteries. The banks of the fjord are very lovely; there are undulating ridges of ground clothed with birch, but the banks are in other parts wild and desolate. Not an individual is to be seen anywhere. No smoke rises from a single hearth to point out the dwelling of man. A short way up the fjord, on the east side, there is an inlet which is rather narrow where it enters the fjord, but wide, deep, and broad inside, and this inlet affords the chief harbour for vessels, as it is never blocked by ice. This harbour is called the Warehouse Inlet, a name which suggests former inhabitants, but there are no more indications of warehouses now than there were of monks in Munkfjord.

On the tour of which some details are now given, after passing a small river known as Trifon’s River (a name pointing to events which occurred long ago), we reached the head of the fjord where the Petschenga River discharges itself. Here, at a place called Barken, a few Lapps live. From these people we each hired a boat of the kind that is now in use in Finmark. They are long and narrow, almost exactly like those which are used on the Hallingdal River. The same kind of river has produced the same type of boat. We transferred our luggage to these river-boats, and arranged it in the centre, so that, according to our inclination, we could either sit or lie down in the boats. Then we set off, with a couple of men in each boat, one in the bow and the other at the stern, each furnished with a long pole. The boats glided on as[4]the boatmen, encouraged by us, pushed along the banks of the river, competing with one another. The banks are covered on both sides with beautiful white-stemmed birch trees. Here and there a solitary fir is to be seen, which looks almost black by contrast with the bright green birch leaves. Further toward the south the firs are more plentiful, and quite in the distance dense pine-woods appear. The fact is, that the river rises in the south, and in travelling up it we take a southerly direction.

A quarter of a mile up the river we reached such a lovely spot that we decided at once to disembark, and pitch our tents for the night. There is a level plot of ground a few feet above the river-bed, and it is as smooth and as flat as a parlour floor, so that it must have been made at some period by the river itself. Here and there are clumps of trees that are a hundred years old, birch, aspen, and mountain-ash; and in the open spaces between the clumps a luxuriant herbage is growing. It looks as if somebody, a long time ago, had laid out plantations here. From this level piece of land there is a view across the river, which flows still and deep just below, and there is another view over the fjord towards the north, while very far to the south-east, mountains with the snow upon them can be seen. A more lovely spot for a dwelling could scarcely be found anywhere, even in Norwegian Finmark.

For about an hour we were busily occupied in pitching our tents, strewing thin fragrant birch twigs on the ground, spreading reindeer-skins over the twigs, and arranging our baggage according to each one’s taste, and idea of order. When all was finished we paid calls on each other, and discussed the question, what should we have for supper, or, to speak more correctly, for dinner; for in those parts one is often at dinner when it is midnight in Southern lands.

‘Fresh salmon,’ said the sportsman.

‘And young ptarmigan,’ said the botanist.

‘And cloudberries for dessert,’ said the fisherman.

‘Do salmon come up the river as far as this?’ I asked of one of the boatmen.

‘Salmon indeed!’ he replied, ‘why, I should think so; they come up here, and many miles further to the Harefos, then they can’t get further, and are packed like herrings in a barrel.’

Out, then, with salmon rod, reel, line, and gaff, and so into[5]the boat once more. It is just eight o’clock in the evening, and this is not too late for a bite, before the fish are away to rest for the night. The sportsman at the same time took his gun, and sallied forth with Pan, the dog. I put a bright spoon on the line, and got the Lapp to row off with a single stroke, so as to row ‘poiki, poiki,’ backwards and forwards, across the stream. It was not necessary to work very long. The third time of crossing, the line ran buzzing violently off the reel.

‘Lohi on, lohi on! That’s a salmon, that’s a salmon!’ shouted the Lapp.

‘Yes, yes,’ said I; ‘but surely you aren’t afraid of a salmon? Why, a salmon is what we want for dinner!’

At that very moment the salmon took a vigorous leap of three feet into the air, so that the evening sun glittered on its shining silvery scales, and it fell again with a splash.

‘Iso on! It is a big one!’ said the Lapp.

‘Yes, it’s an eighteen-pounder,’ I replied. ‘I have taken so many of them with the line that I am not far wrong, if I can only see the fish once.’

Another leap into the air, and it became so tractable that we were able to row with it towards our encampment. There I landed, and soon had it close to the shore; then, with a final effort, it was off again into the middle and deepest part of the river. It was, however, quite powerless to rise, and lay flat on its side. The line was quickly wound in, and the fish guided to the shore through deep water, when the Lapp plunged the spear into it. It was ours, and weighed eighteen and a half pounds. So we had enough fish for ourselves and for the men.

As if by a preconcerted arrangement, at the very same moment a double report was heard, one shot immediately after the other, from a bleak spot a little distance off. The sportsman had come upon some ptarmigan. He is a crack shot, as the two reports following each other so quickly showed. Immediately afterwards two more shots were heard. Clearly we had got three young birds at least, one for each of us.

‘But how about the cloudberries?’ I remarked to the botanist, who was standing and gazing at the salmon.

‘Oh, I have sent a Lapp to pick them,’ he replied; ‘he knows better than I do where to find them.’

While we were cutting up the salmon the sportsman and Pan[6]returned. The latter seemed quite crestfallen at the expedition having proved such a short one.

‘How many reports did you hear?’ the sportsman inquired.

‘Four,’ we replied.

‘Just so: two double ones,’ he said. ‘I have only shot four young birds; they are, however, enough for us to-day.’

The botanist was with one voice condemned to pluck the ptarmigan, as he had been too lazy to pick the cloudberries. He went away with the birds, but, shameful to say, when he came back he had skinned them instead of plucking them. What barbarism! A fire was lighted, and a couple of pots were set over it. There was plenty of fuel, and we had an excellent kitchen. The smoke soon began to curl in the air, and protected us from the mosquitoes, so that we were able to take the veils off our faces.

After having regaled ourselves with a capital meal, some of the party retired to rest. The Lapps laid themselves down on the ground under a birch-tree. They needed no tent. They drew themselves up, head, legs, and arms, within their coarse-woven garments, and had by this means both over and under clothing, as well as a protection from mosquitoes. Only an old Lapp, Nilas, and I remained sitting at the fire chatting, and smoking our clay pipes over a glass of grog. The nectar of life excited the Lapp; he became communicative, and I began to question him as to whether he knew anything about what had occurred in those parts in former times. I could see that there must have been people living in the district at some period. The grassy mounds were in places so regular, and of so remarkable a shape, besides being so neatly formed, that they must originally have been the work of man.

‘Have you seen the big wonderful stone that is lying close to the Kujasuga River?’ asked the Lapp.

‘No,’ I said; ‘I have never been here before, and I have neither seen nor heard of any stone. But let us go and look at it.’

Two thousand feet or so behind our encampment a small rivulet emptied itself into the river; it was as bright and clear as crystal. Probably it was not flowing far from its source, or it would not have been so free from mud, and so wonderfully clear and cold. Just below a little waterfall which the rivulet forms, a huge round stone was lying. At first I thought it might be an old idol which the Lapps formerly worshipped,[7]but in this I was mistaken. When I got down close to it, and had cleared it of the branches and rubbish which covered it, I saw to my amazement that it was—a Millstone. There was no possible mistake about it. It was a real millstone, and so big that I doubt whether, at the present day, a bigger one could be found in any water or wind mill. The hole in the centre was so large that I could easily put my head through it. It was also quite evident that the stone had been in use at some time. But how on earth did it get there? How did it find its way there in the seventieth degree of north latitude, where not a single blade of corn ever grew, to say nothing of ripening? It could not have lain there since the Deluge. Nor could it have been brought there by the ice, like a stray log of wood, for the motion of the ice is from north to south, and surely in olden times people were not using millstones at the north pole, unless it should really turn out to be the case, in accordance with the very newest theory, that Europe has been peopled from the north! It was an enigma, and one which completely puzzled me.

A shipwreck? Perhaps, thought I, it was brought there by a shipwreck. But no; the millstone is about a quarter of a mile from the sea. It was clear that somebody must have taken it there, and must have had a mill at that place. But who?

‘Can you tell me anything about the stone, Nilas?’ I asked. ‘Do you know what such a stone is used for?’

‘No,’ replied Nilas; ‘I don’t know.’

‘Do you know whether it has been lying here for a long time?’

‘Yes,’ said Nilas; ‘it has lain here for hundreds of years. I heard that from my old grandfather.’

‘God bless both you and your old grandfather!’ I said; ‘but who brought the stone here?’

‘It must have been the monks,’ said Nilas.

‘The monks, do you say? Why, what monks?’

‘The monks who lived here a long time ago, about whom my grandfather has told me.’

‘You are my friend, Nilas,’ I said; and I rubbed my hands together for joy. ‘Come, let us get back to the fire, good Nilas, and sit down. You must tell me all you have heard from your grandfather about these monks. You mustn’t forget anything. I shan’t let you go till you have told me all that you know.’[8]

‘Well,’ thought I to myself, ‘here is the explanation of the names Munkfjord, Warehouse Inlet, Trifon’s River, and others.’

We went back to the fire, and remained sitting through the light night-time, and far on into the morning, Nilas squatting on the ground, half in the smoke of the fire, with which he mingled the smoke from his own pipe, looking, with his red head-covering, just like an imp. I sat with a veil over my face, and with paper before me, he relating and I listening, and scribbling down on the paper, as fast as my pen would go, his strange tales about a big monastery which had once stood where our tents were pitched, and about a magnificent church, and monks who used to go in procession, and sing psalms, and burn incense. If I had not found the millstone, I should most probably never have learnt the history of this monastery, but the millstone gave me the first clue, which I resolutely followed up, carefully searching through legends and manuscripts and books, among the State archives, and in libraries in Norway, Finland, and Russia. I have picked up and collected every trustworthy piece of historical and ethnographical information, and woven these together with the old legends which I heard from the Lapp Nilas that night on the banks of the Petschenga River.

Before we left the neighbourhood I went once more to the millstone, to look at it somewhat more closely, and to take leave of it. It had been the upper of the two stones which are used in a mill. It lay with the hollowed part uppermost, and a quantity of dead leaves—yellow, green, and red birch leaves—had collected in the hollow. While I was sitting quite alone and dreaming of the old times, a little whirlwind arose which whisked the leaves round in a circle on the stone, and swept them into the hole, rolled them up again, and then whirled them into the air, so that they danced about, chasing one another hither and thither as if at play, just as if they had all of a sudden come to life, and had been transformed into a variety of yellow, green, and red butterflies.

Are they the souls of the monks, I thought, which have come back here again, and are carrying on a sprightly dance over the solitary relic of their former glory? and is it for joy because now at last, after the lapse of three centuries, they are to be rescued from oblivion and brought to the light of day once[9]again? If this be so, then I hope they will not be altogether displeased with my endeavour to serve them.

We will now take our leave of both the sportsman and the botanist, and endeavour to recall, and to present to our readers, scenes and incidents which belong to the middle of the sixteenth century.

[10]

1The ‘oter’ is a Norwegian fishing implement, consisting of a board, or piece of wood, with a number of hooks attached to it.↑

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