The city of Bergen is a famous and a strange old place. In ancient days
it was a stronghold of the Vikings--those notorious sea-warriors who
were little better than pirates, and who issued from among the dark
mountains of Norway in their great uncouth galleys and swept across the
seas, landing on the coasts everywhere, to the terror of surrounding
nations.
They were a bold, fearless set, the Norse Vikings of old. They voyaged
far and wide in open boats round the coasts of Europe, and across the
stormy sea, long before the mariner's compass was invented, and they
discovered Iceland and America long before Christopher Columbus was
born. They had free spirits, these fierce Norwegians of old, and there
was much good as well as evil in them. They had good and wise laws when
nearly all the rest of the world was lawless; and many of the laws and
customs which prevailed among them a thousand years ago exist at the
present day. The bold Vikings were great colonisers; among other parts
of the world they overran and settled in a large portion of Great
Britain, 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 repeating
that Bergen, this ancient stronghold of the Vikings, is a famous and a
strange old place.
It is built at the foot of a steep mountain-range which is so close to
the margin of the sea that the city has barely room to stand. One might
fancy that the houses were crowding and jostling each other and
squeezing themselves together, in order to avoid on the one hand being
pushed up the mountain-side, and, on the other hand, being thrust into
the sea. Some of the smaller cottages and a few villas seem to have
been beaten in this struggle for standing-room, for they appear to have
been obliged to clamber up the mountain-side, and perch themselves on
spots where there does not seem to be standing-room for a goat. From
such elevated positions they look down complacently on their crowded
brethren.
The houses near the sea have not fared so well. They are built _in_ the
water on piles, and are all of them warehouses with projections in
front, from which hang blocks and hoisting tackle. These projections
resemble heads; the piles look like legs; and it does not require a very
strong effort of imagination to believe that the warehouses are great
living creatures which have waded into the sea, and are looking
earnestly 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 have
red-tiled roofs. They are peaked and gable-ended to an extraordinary
degree, so that the general aspect of the city is confused and
irregular--all the more interesting and picturesque on this account.
A thought strikes me here, and when a thought strikes one, I think we
ought always to pay that thought the compliment of jotting it down. It
is this--regularity in small details is pleasing; regularity on a grand
scale is disagreeable. For instance, a chair with one leg turned,
another square, and a third ornamentally carved, would be a disagreeable
object. The two front legs at least must be regular, and the two back
legs regular. A chair is a small matter. But proceed to a grander
subject--a city. If every house is similar to its neighbours, if every
street is parallel to the rest, the effect is bad; regularity here is
disagreeable. This is a deep subject requiring much study and
philosophical inquiry. If I were to go farther into it, our friend Fred
Temple's adventures would have to be cast overboard. I will, therefore,
cut it short with the remark that the subject is well worthy the
attention of even deeper-thinking men than are ever likely to read this
book.
When the three friends, Temple, Grant, and Sorrel, found themselves in
the quaint old city of Bergen their first thought was _supper_; their
second thought _bed_.
Now this may seem to some minds a dreadfully low and contemptible state
of things. "What!" a romantic reader may exclaim, "they had arrived in
that celebrated city, from which in days of old the stalwart Vikings
used to issue on their daring voyages, in which the descendants of these
grand fellows still dwell, and in which are interesting memorials of the
past and quaint evidences of the present. Did your heroes, Temple,
Sorrel, and Grant, think of supper and of bed when their feet for the
first time trod the soil of Old Norway?"
Even so! Romantic reader, I am bound to tell you that romance is all
very well in its way, but it has no power whatever over an empty stomach
or an exhausted brain.
When our three friends landed in Bergen it was past midnight. Their
admiration of the scenery had induced them to neglect supper and to defy
sleep, so that when they landed they felt more than half inclined to
fall upon their boatman and eat him up alive, and then to fall down on
the 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 the
owner of a plump body and a warm heart. Consequently, she at once
became a mother to all who were fortunate enough to dwell under her
roof.
Her hotel was by no means like to a hotel in this country. It was more
like a private residence. There were no hired waiters. Her amiable
daughters waited; and they did not look upon you as a customer, or
conduct themselves like servants. No, they treated you as a visitor,
and conducted themselves with the agreeable familiarity of friends! Of
course they presented their bill when you were about to leave them, but
in 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's
daughters.
Then followed a violent conversation in the Norse language, in which
there was much that was puzzling, and more that was amusing, for the
Norwegian ladies were talkative and inquisitive.
Fred Temple had studied the Norse language for three months before
setting out on this voyage, and, being a good linguist he understood a
good deal of what was said, and could make his own wants known pretty
well. Grant had studied the language also, but not for so long a time,
and, being an indifferent linguist, he made little headway in
conversation. As to Sam Sorrel, he had no talent for languages. He
hated every language but his mother-tongue, had not studied Norse at
all, and did not intend to do so. It may be supposed, therefore, that
he was dumb. Far from it. He had picked up a few phrases by ear, and
was so fond of making use of these, and of twisting them into all shapes
and out of all shape, that he really appeared to be a great talker of
Norse, 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 were
also good, so the supper went off admirably.
"Ver so goot," said one of the young ladies, handing Mr Sorrel a plate
of smoked salmon.
"Tak, tak," (thanks, thanks), said our artist, accepting the salmon, and
beginning 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, "I
don't understand English."
"Can you explain it, Fred?" said Sam.
"Well, yes, I can give you a sort of explanation," replied Fred, "but it
is not an easy sentence to translate. `Ver so goot' (another claw of
that lobster, please. Thanks),--`ver so goot' is an expression that
seems to me capable of extension and distension. It is a comfortable,
jovial, rollicking expression, if I may say so. I cannot think of a
better way of conveying an idea of its meaning than saying that it is a
compound of the phrases `be so good,' `by your leave,' `good luck to
you,' `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 less
mixed up with it. You may rely on it, Sam, that when a Norwegian offers
you anything and says `ver so goot,' he means you well, and hopes that
you 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 every
occasion, without any regard to its appropriateness.
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 a
bed?"
"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 up
jesting. It's bad for your health; fie for shame! good night."
Norwegian beds are wooden boxes of about three feet wide, and five and a
half long. I have never been able to discover why it is that Norwegians
love 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 a
double-bedded room.
"Is that a bed?" said Sam, pointing to a red-painted wooden box in a
corner; "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 any
man above five feet two, and, further, that there was a feather-bed
below and a feather-bed above, instead of blankets. Thus they lay that
night between two feather-beds, which made them so hot that it was
impossible to sleep at first. Sorrel, being short, managed to lie
diagonally across his box, but Fred, being long, was compelled to double
himself up like a foot-rule. However, fatigue at last caused them to
slumber in spite of all difficulties. In the morning they were visited
by a ghost!