CHAPTER THREE.
BERGEN--TALKING, SUPPING, AND SLEEPING UNDER DIFFICULTIES.
The city of Bergen is a famous and a strange old place. In ancient daysit was a stronghold of the Vikings--those notorious sea-warriors whowere little better than pirates, and who issued from among the darkmountains of Norway in their great uncouth galleys and swept across theseas, landing on the coasts everywhere, to the terror of surroundingnations.
They were a bold, fearless set, the Norse Vikings of old. They voyagedfar and wide in open boats round the coasts of Europe, and across thestormy sea, long before the mariner's compass was invented, and theydiscovered Iceland and America long before Christopher Columbus wasborn. They had free spirits, these fierce Norwegians of old, and therewas much good as well as evil in them. They had good and wise laws whennearly all the rest of the world was lawless; and many of the laws andcustoms which prevailed among them a thousand years ago exist at thepresent day. The bold Vikings were great colonisers; among other partsof the world they overran and settled in a large portion of GreatBritain, and much of their blood--more than many people are aware of--flows in our own veins.
But I am wandering from my subject. Let me return to it by repeatingthat Bergen, this ancient stronghold of the Vikings, is a famous and astrange old place.
It is built at the foot of a steep mountain-range which is so close tothe margin of the sea that the city has barely room to stand. One mightfancy that the houses were crowding and jostling each other andsqueezing themselves together, in order to avoid on the one hand beingpushed up the mountain-side, and, on the other hand, being thrust intothe sea. Some of the smaller cottages and a few villas seem to havebeen beaten in this struggle for standing-room, for they appear to havebeen obliged to clamber up the mountain-side, and perch themselves onspots where there does not seem to be standing-room for a goat. Fromsuch elevated positions they look down complacently on their crowdedbrethren.
The houses near the sea have not fared so well. They are built _in_ thewater on piles, and are all of them warehouses with projections infront, from which hang blocks and hoisting tackle. These projectionsresemble heads; the piles look like legs; and it does not require a verystrong effort of imagination to believe that the warehouses are greatliving creatures which have waded into the sea, and are lookingearnestly down into the water to observe how the fish are getting on.
The houses are all built of wood; all are painted white, and all havered-tiled roofs. They are peaked and gable-ended to an extraordinarydegree, so that the general aspect of the city is confused andirregular--all the more interesting and picturesque on this account.
A thought strikes me here, and when a thought strikes one, I think weought always to pay that thought the compliment of jotting it down. Itis this--regularity in small details is pleasing; regularity on a grandscale is disagreeable. For instance, a chair with one leg turned,another square, and a third ornamentally carved, would be a disagreeableobject. The two front legs at least must be regular, and the two backlegs regular. A chair is a small matter. But proceed to a grandersubject--a city. If every house is similar to its neighbours, if everystreet is parallel to the rest, the effect is bad; regularity here isdisagreeable. This is a deep subject requiring much study andphilosophical inquiry. If I were to go farther into it, our friend FredTemple's adventures would have to be cast overboard. I will, therefore,cut it short with the remark that the subject is well worthy theattention of even deeper-thinking men than are ever likely to read thisbook.
When the three friends, Temple, Grant, and Sorrel, found themselves inthe quaint old city of Bergen their first thought was _supper_; theirsecond thought _bed_.
Now this may seem to some minds a dreadfully low and contemptible stateof things. "What!" a romantic reader may exclaim, "they had arrived inthat celebrated city, from which in days of old the stalwart Vikingsused to issue on their daring voyages, in which the descendants of thesegrand fellows still dwell, and in which are interesting memorials of thepast and quaint evidences of the present. Did your heroes, Temple,Sorrel, and Grant, think of supper and of bed when their feet for thefirst time trod the soil of Old Norway?"
Even so! Romantic reader, I am bound to tell you that romance is allvery well in its way, but it has no power whatever over an empty stomachor an exhausted brain.
When our three friends landed in Bergen it was past midnight. Theiradmiration of the scenery had induced them to neglect supper and to defysleep, so that when they landed they felt more than half inclined tofall upon their boatman and eat him up alive, and then to fall down onthe stone pier and go off to sleep at once.
In this frame of mind and body they entered the house of Madame Sontoom,and called for supper.
Madame Sontoom was the owner of a private hotel. Moreover, she was theowner of a plump body and a warm heart. Consequently, she at oncebecame a mother to all who were fortunate enough to dwell under herroof.
Her hotel was by no means like to a hotel in this country. It was morelike a private residence. There were no hired waiters. Her amiabledaughters waited; and they did not look upon you as a customer, orconduct themselves like servants. No, they treated you as a visitor,and conducted themselves with the agreeable familiarity of friends! Ofcourse they presented their bill when you were about to leave them, butin all other respects the idea of a hotel was banished from the mind.
"Supper," cried Temple, on entering the house.
"Ya, ya," (yes, yes), in cheerful tones from two of Madame Sontoom'sdaughters.
Then followed a violent conversation in the Norse language, in whichthere was much that was puzzling, and more that was amusing, for theNorwegian ladies were talkative and inquisitive.
Fred Temple had studied the Norse language for three months beforesetting out on this voyage, and, being a good linguist he understood agood deal of what was said, and could make his own wants known prettywell. Grant had studied the language also, but not for so long a time,and, being an indifferent linguist, he made little headway inconversation. As to Sam Sorrel, he had no talent for languages. Hehated every language but his mother-tongue, had not studied Norse atall, and did not intend to do so. It may be supposed, therefore, thathe was dumb. Far from it. He had picked up a few phrases by ear, andwas so fond of making use of these, and of twisting them into all shapesand out of all shape, that he really appeared to be a great talker ofNorse, although in reality he could scarcely talk at all!
Supper consisted of coffee, rolls, eggs, "gamleost" (old cheese),lobster, and smoked salmon. The viands were good, the appetites werealso good, so the supper went off admirably.
"Ver so goot," said one of the young ladies, handing Mr Sorrel a plateof smoked salmon.
"Tak, tak," (thanks, thanks), said our artist, accepting the salmon, andbeginning to devour it.
"I say, what d'ye mean by `ver so goot'? You're never done saying it.What does it mean?"
The fair waitress laughed, and bowed politely, as much as to say, "Idon't understand English."
"Can you explain it, Fred?" said Sam.
"Well, yes, I can give you a sort of explanation," replied Fred, "but itis not an easy sentence to translate. `Ver so goot' (another claw ofthat lobster, please. Thanks),--`ver so goot' is an expression thatseems to me capable of extension and distension. It is a comfortable,jovial, rollicking expression, if I may say so. I cannot think of abetter way of conveying an idea of its meaning than saying that it is acompound of the phrases `be so good,' `by your leave,' `good luck toyou,' `go it, ye cripples,' and `that's your sort.' The first of these,`be so good,' is the literal translation. The others are more or lessmixed up with it. You may rely on it, Sam, that when a Norwegian offersyou anything and says `ver so goot,' he means you well, and hopes thatyou will make yourself comfortable."
"You don't say so, Fred; I'll adopt the phrase from this hour!"
Accordingly Sam Sorrel did adopt it, and used it on all and everyoccasion, without any regard to its ap
propriateness.
Little was said at supper. The whole party were too tired to converse.
"Now for bed," cried Sam, rising. "I say, Fred, what's the Norse for abed?"
"Seng," replied Fred.
"Seng! what a remarkable name! Now, then, my good girl, _ver so goot_will you show me my _seng_? Good night, comrades, I'm off to--ha! ha!what a musical idea--to seng."
"More probably to snore," observed Grant.
"Oh, Grant," said Sam, looking back and shaking his head, "give upjesting. It's bad for your health; fie for shame! good night."
Norwegian beds are wooden boxes of about three feet wide, and five and ahalf long. I have never been able to discover why it is that Norwegianslove to make their beds as uncomfortable as possible. Yet so it is.
Grant had a room to himself. Temple and our artist were shown into adouble-bedded room.
"Is that a bed?" said Sam, pointing to a red-painted wooden box in acorner; "why, it's too short even for me, and you know I'm not a giant."
"Oh! then what must it be for me?" groaned Fred Temple.
On close examination it was found that each bed was too short for anyman above five feet two, and, further, that there was a feather-bedbelow and a feather-bed above, instead of blankets. Thus they lay thatnight between two feather-beds, which made them so hot that it wasimpossible to sleep at first. Sorrel, being short, managed to liediagonally across his box, but Fred, being long, was compelled to doublehimself up like a foot-rule. However, fatigue at last caused them toslumber in spite of all difficulties. In the morning they were visitedby a ghost!