closed in on all sides; it is a little doubtful whether these beds
were very comfortable. In great houses they were richly ornamented,
the legs enriched with ivory, and were sometimes even of precious
metal. They were covered with silk and tissues of interwoven gold; but
somehow in classic literature we do not come upon much that speaks
of the luxurious comfort of a bed. In the charming passage on Sleep
in the first Ode of the Second Book, Horace makes no allusion to the
bed as having any relation to sleep, does not hang upon it tenderly
as something to be fond of. The bedroom of a Roman house was a mere
closet. The Roman flung himself on a bed because he was obliged to
take some rest, not because he loved to sink among feathers, and enjoy
repose.
The modern Italian bed is descended by direct filiation from the
classic _lectus_, and what an uncomfortable article it is! There are
plenty of representations of ancient beds on tombstones and on vases;
they are not attractive; they look very hard, unpleasantly deficient in
soft mattresses.
The Roman noble had his _lectica_--a litter enclosed within
curtains--in which he was carried about. One of bronze, inlaid with
silver, is preserved in the Palace of the Conservators at Rome. Now and
then mosquito curtains were used round a bed, and Horace represents
the rout of the forces of Antony at Actium as due to the disgust
entertained by the Roman legionaries at seeing their general employ
mosquito curtains to his bed at night. The couches on which guests and
host reclined at dinner were, in fact, beds, and they had curtains
or a sort of a canopy over them. Great fun is made by Fundanius in
his account to Horace of a banquet in the house of a _nouveau-riche_,
of the fall of the canopy on the table during dinner, covering all
the meats and dishes, and filling the goblets with a cloud of black
dust.[19]
But the true four-poster derives from the north. The Briton had it not
when invaded by the Romans, and the Roman did not teach the Briton to
construct it.
The Saxon did not bring his four-poster with him, nor did the Jute or
the Angle, for the four-poster was unknown to these Teutonic peoples.
It came to us with the “hardy Norseman.”
[Illustration: _Fig. 23._--INTERIOR OF A SCANDINAVIAN HALL.
A The fire in the midst. On great occasions goes the whole length of
the hall.
B The principal bench and its footstool F. D The second bench and its
footstool F.
C The high seat of honour. E The seat of secondary consideration.
G The beds. On high occasions curtains hung before them. H Steps into
the beds.
I The lokrekkjur or lokhvilur, closed beds, bolted from within.
M Windows.]
Let us see what was the construction of a Scandinavian house. The house
consisted of one great hall that served most purposes (_skali_). In it
men and women ate and drank, the dinner was cooked, work was done when
the weather was bad, and there also were the beds. In addition to the
hall, there was in the greatest houses a ladies’ bower (_badstòfa_),
but with that we need not concern ourselves. The hall consisted of
a nave and side aisles. The walls of the aisles were of stone, banked
up with turf, but the roof was of timber throughout. Down the centre
of the hall ran a trough, paved with stone, in which fires burnt, and
parallel with this long hearth were benches. It was not always that
fires were maintained through the whole length of the hall; one alone
was in general use in the centre, and here was the principal seat--that
occupied by the master of the house, and opposite him, beyond the fire,
was the second seat of honour. The roof was sustained by a row of
beams, or pillars, and the space of the aisles was occupied by beds. At
an entertainment, curtains were hung along the sides from post to post,
concealing the beds, but some of the bed compartments were boxed in,
both at back, foot, and front, between the pillars, and had in front
doors by which admission was obtained to them, and a man who retired to
rest in one of these _lokrekkjur_, or _lokhvilur_, as they were called,
fastened himself in. The object of these press beds was protection.
When, as among the Norsemen, every man revenged himself with his own
hand for a wrong done, it was necessary for each man who was sensible
that he had enemies, to provide that he was not fallen upon in his
sleep. In the Icelandic Saga of Gisli Sursson, relating to incidents in
the tenth century, is a story that illustrates this. As this saga is
exceedingly curious, I venture here to give the substance:--
In Hawkdale in Iceland lived two brothers, Thorkel and Gisli. “Sons
of Whey,” they were called, because, when their father’s house had
been set on fire, they and he had extinguished the flames with vats of
curds and whey. Thorkel had to wife a woman named Asgerda, and Gisli
was married to Auda, sister of his intimate friend Vestein. Their
sister Thordisa was married to a certain Thorgrim. The brothers and
brothers-in-law were great merchants, and went trafficking to Norway
and Denmark. Gisli and Vestein were partners in one vessel, and went
one way; Thorkel and Thorgrim were in partnership, and went their
way. But the brothers were very good friends; they and their wives
lived together in one house, and managed the farm in common. Thorkel,
however, was a proud man, and would not put his hand to farm work,
whereas Gisli was always ready to do what was needed by night or by
day. Things prospered, and it occurred to Gisli that if they took an
oath of close brotherhood, they would each stand by the other, and
would be too strong to meet with opposition in their quarter of the
island. Accordingly the four men proceeded to a headland, cut a piece
of turf so that it remained attached to the soil at both ends, raised
it on a spear, and passing under it, opened their veins and dropped
their mingled blood into the mould from which the strip of turf had
been cut. Then they were to join hands, and swear eternal fellowship.
But at this moment Thorgrim drew back his hand--he was ready to be
brother to Thorkel and Gisli, but not to Gisli’s brother-in-law,
Vestein. Thereat Gisli withdrew his hand, and declared that he would
not pledge eternal brotherhood with a man who would not be friends with
Vestein.
One day Gisli went to his forge and broke a coin there with the hammer
in two parts, and gave one half to Vestein, and bade him preserve it.
At any time, when one desired to communicate with the other in a matter
of supreme importance, he was to send to the other the broken token.
On one of his voyages, Gisli was a winter at Viborg, in Denmark, and he
there picked up just so much Christianity that he resolved never again
to sacrifice to Thor and Freya.
He returned to Iceland in the same week as did his brother Thorkel;
and as it was hay weather, at once turned up his sleeves, and went
forth with all his house churls, haymaking. Thorkel, on the other hand,
flung himself on a bench in the hall, and went to sleep. When he awoke,
he heard voices, and dreamily listened to the gossip of his wife and
sister-in-law, who were cutting out garments in the ladies’ bower. “I
wish,” said Asgerda, “that you would cut me out a shirt for my husband
Thorkel.” “I am no better hand at cutting out than you are,” answered
Auda. “I am sure of one thing, if it were anything that was wanted
doing for my brother, Vestein, you would not ask for my help or for
anyone else to assist you.” “Maybe,” said Asgerda, “I always did admire
Vestein, and I have heard it said that Thorgrim was sweet on you before
Gisli snapped you away.” “This is idle talk,” said Auda.
Then up stood Thorkel, and striding in at the door, said, “This is
dangerous talk, and it is talk that will draw blood.”
The women stood aghast.
Soon after this Thorkel told his brother that he wished to divide
the inheritance with him. Gisli regretted this, and endeavoured to
dissuade him, but in vain. They cast lots, and the movable goods fell
to Thorkel, the farm to Gisli. Thereupon Thorkel departed to Thorgrim,
his brother-in-law.
Sometime after this came the season of the autumn sacrifice. Gisli
would not sacrifice, but he was ready to entertain all his friends, and
invited to a great feast. Just before this, he heard that Vestein had
arrived in Iceland in his merchant vessel, and had put into a fiord
some way off. He immediately sent him the half-token by a servant, who
was to ride as hard as he could, and stop him from coming to Hawkdale.
The servant rode, but part of his way lay along a lava chasm, and as
ill fate would have it, he took the way above the rift at the very time
that Vestein was riding in the opposite direction through the bottom.
So he missed him, and on reaching the ship, learned that he had done
so. He turned at once, and rode in pursuit till his horse fell under
him just as he had caught sight of the merchant. He ran after him
shouting. Vestein turned and received the message and the token that
was to assure him the message that accompanied it was serious.
“I have come more than half way,” said he. “All the streams are running
one way--towards my brother-in-law’s vale--and I will follow them.”
“I warn you,” said the servant, “be on your guard.” Vestein had to
cross a river. As he was being put across, the boatman said, “Be on
your guard. You are running into danger.” As he rode near Thorgrim’s
farm, he was seen by a serf who belonged to Thorkel. The serf
recognised him, and bade him be on his guard. Just then, out came
the serf’s wife, Rannveig, and called to her husband to tell her who
that was in a blue cloak, and carrying a spear. The serf went in, and
Thorgrim, who was in the hall, inquired who had passed the garth. The
woman said it was Vestein, spear in hand, wearing a blue cloak, and
seated in a rich saddle. “Pshaw,” said her husband, “the woman can not
see aright. It was a fellow named Ogjorl, and he was wearing a borrowed
cloak, a borrowed saddle, and carrying a harpoon tipped with horn.”
“One or other of you is telling lies,” said Thorgrim. “Run, Rannveig,
to Hol, Gisli’s house, and ascertain the truth.”
When Vestein arrived at his brother-in-law’s, Gisli received him,
and again cautioned him. Vestein opened his saddlebags, and produced
some beautiful Oriental stuffs interwoven with gold, and some basins,
also inlaid with gold--presents for Gisli, for his sister Auda, and
for Thorkel. Next day Gisli went to Thorgrim’s house, carrying one of
these beautiful bowls, and offered it to his brother as a present from
Vestein; but Thorkel refused to receive it. Gisli sighed. “I see how
matters tend,” said he.
One night shortly after, a gale driving over the house, tore the thatch
off the hall, and the rain poured in through the roof. Everyone woke,
and Gisli summoned all to help. The wind had abated, but not the rain;
they must go to the stackyard and re-cover the roof as best they might.
Vestein volunteered his help, but Gisli refused it. He bade him remain
within. Vestein pulled his bed away from the locked compartment where
the water leaked in, drew it near the fire in the open hall, and fell
asleep on it. Then softly someone entered the hall, stole up to his
bedside, and transfixed him to the bed with a spear. Vestein cried out,
and was dead. Auda, his sister, woke, and seeing what had taken place,
call to a thrall, Witless Thord, to pull out the weapon. Thord was too
frightened to do so. He stood quaking with open mouth. Then in came
Gisli, and, seeing what had been done, drew out the weapon, and cast
it, all bloody, into a chest. Now according to Scandinavian ideas, not
only was Gisli solemnly bound to avenge Vestein’s death, as knit to him
by oath of brotherhood, but also by the fact of his having withdrawn
the weapon from the wound. He at once called his sister to him, and
said, “Run to Thorgrim’s house, and bring me word what you see there.”
She went, and found the whole house up, and armed.
“What news? what news?” shouted Thorgrim. The woman told him that
Vestein had been murdered.
“An honourable man,” said Thorgrim. “Tell Gisli we will attend the
funeral, and let the wake be kept as Vestein deserves.”
Gisli prepared for the burying of his brother-in-law according to the
custom of the times. The body was placed where a great cairn was to be
heaped over it. Then first Thorgrim stepped forward. “The death-shoes
must be made fast,” said he, and he shod the feet of the dead man with
a pair of shoes, in which he might walk safely the ways of Hela. “There
now,” said he, “I have bound the hell-shoes so fast they will never
come off.”
The summer passed, and winter drew on, then Thorgrim resolved on a
great sacrifice to Frey at the Solstice, and on a mighty feast, to
which a hundred guests were invited. Gisli would not hold a sacrifice,
but he sent out invitations to a banquet.
Whilst Thorgrim and Thorkel were preparing to receive their guests, it
occurred to one of them that Vestein had given splendid curtains to
Gisli and his sister for hanging along the sides of the hall. “I wonder
whether he would lend them?” asked Thorgrim. “For a banquet, everyone
is ready to lend anything,” answered Thorkel. Then Thorgrim called to
him the same thrall who had endeavoured to deceive him relative to
the passing by of Vestein, and bade him go to Gisli, and ask for the
curtains. “I don’t relish the job,” answered the man. Thorgrim knocked
him down, and bade him go as he was bid. The man’s name was Geirmund.
Geirmund went to Hol, and found Gisli and his wife engaged in hanging
up the very curtains in preparation for their feast. The serf proffered
his request. Gisli looked at his wife, and said, “What answer shall we
make to this?”
Then an idea struck him, and taking Geirmund by the arm, he led him
outside the hall, and said, “One good turn deserves another. If I
let you carry off the curtains, will you leave the hall door ajar
to-night?” Geirmund hesitated, looked steadily at Gisli, and said, “No
harm is intended against my master, your brother, Thorkel?” “None in
the least.” “Then,” said Geirmund, “I will do it.”
The snow fell thick that night, and the frost was keen. A hundred men
roystered in the hall of Thorgrim. Gisli entertained but sixty men.
In the night, when all had retired to their beds round the hall, and
were snoring, Gisli said to his wife, “Keep up one of the fires. I must
go out.” Then he drew from the chest the weapon wherewith Vestein had
been murdered, and stepped forth into the night. There was a little
brook ran down the vale, and he walked up the bed of the stream till
he came to the well-trodden way leading to the mansion of Thorgrim.
He went to that, and found, as he anticipated, that the door was not
locked. He entered the hall. Three fires were burning in the midst. No
one was stirring. He stood still and listened. Then he took the rushes
up from the floor, wove them together, and threw them as a mat on one
of the fires, and covered it. He waited a minute. No one stirred, so
he went on to the second fire, and treated it in the same manner. The
third was but smouldering, but there was a lamp burning. He saw a young
man’s hand thrust forth from a bed to the lamp, draw it to him, and
extinguish it. Then he knew that all slept save Geirmund, who had left
the door ajar.
On tiptoe Gisli stepped to the closed bed-recess of Thorgrim, and
found that it was not fastened from within. Thorgrim had not dreamed
of danger, with a hundred guests and all his servants about him. Gisli
put his hand into the bed, and touched a bosom. It was that of his
sister, the wife of Thorgrim, who slept on the outside. The icy touch
roused her, and she said, “Husband! how cold your hand is.” “Is it so?”
answered Thorgrim, half roused, and turned in bed. Then with one hand
Gisli sharply drew down the coverlet, and with the other drove the
spear--still stained with Vestein’s blood--through the heart of his
murderer. Thordisa woke with a cry, started up and screamed, “Wake, and
up all! my husband has been killed!” In the dark, Gisli escaped, and
returned home by the same way he had come.
Next morning very early, Thorkel and the nephews of Thorgrim came
to Hol. Thorkel led the way into the hall, and walked direct to the
closed bed of his brother. As he came to it, his quick eye detected
Gisli’s shoes frozen and covered with snow, and he hastily kicked them
under the stool lest the nephews should see them, and conclude who had
murdered their uncle.
“What news?” said Gisli, rousing and sitting up in bed.
“News serious and bad,” answered Thorkel. “Thorgrim, my brother-in-law,
is murdered.”
“Let him be buried as he deserves,” said Gisli. “I will attend and
greet him on his way.”
Now, at the funeral, Thorgrim was laid in a ship that was placed on
a hill-top, and all prepared to heap a cairn over the dead man. Then
Gisli heaved a mighty stone, and flung it into the ship of the dead,
so that the beams brake, and he said, “Let none say I cannot anchor a
death-ship, for I have anchored this that it will sail no more.” And
all who heard him remembered the words of Thorgrim when he bound the
hell-shoes on the feet of Vestein.
There are a good many passages in the sagas that refer to the
press-beds. In the saga of the Droplauga-sons we read--“It was
anciently the custom not to use the _badstòfa_ (the heated room); men
had instead great fires, at which they sat to heat themselves, for at
that time there was plenty of fuel in the country. The houses were
so constructed that one hall served all purposes for banqueting and
sleeping, and the men could lie under the tables and sleep, or each in
his own room, some of the bed places being enclosed, and in these lay
the most honourable men.”
In the saga of Gunnlaug with the Serpent’s Tongue, we are told how that
“One morning Gunnlaug woke, and everyone was on foot except himself. He
lay dozing in his press-bed behind the high seat. Then in came a dozen
armed men into the hall,” etc.
The Droplauga-sons saga tells us how one Helgi, Asbjorn’s son, slept
with his wife in one of these closed-in beds for fear of his mortal
enemies. One day a friend came to his house. In the evening Helgi said
to his wife, “Where have you put Ketilorm to sleep?” “I have made him
up a bed--a good one--out on the long bench in the hall.” Then Helgi
said, “When I go to Ketilorm’s house, he always turns out of his
press-bed and gives it up to me, so you and I must to-night lie in the
hall, and give up our close-bed to him.” They did so, and that night
the murderer came, and Helgi died through his hospitality.
In the saga of Egill Skallagrim’s son is a story that shows us how that
some of the closed bedchambers contained more than one sleeping place.
Egill, who lived in Iceland, had lost his son Bödvar, who was drowned.
The grief of the old man was excessive. He retired to his locked-up
bedchamber, fastened himself in, and, lying down, refused food. After
three days had elapsed, his wife, in serious concern, sent for his
married daughter, Thorgerthr, who, on entering the house, said loud
enough to be heard, “I intend not to touch food till I reach the halls
of Freya. I can do naught better than follow my father’s example.” Then
she knocked at the opening into the _lokhvila_, and called, “Father,
open, I desire to travel the same road with you.”
The old man let her in, and she laid herself down on another bed in the
same enclosed place.
After some hours had passed in silence, Egill said, “Daughter, you are
munching something.”
“Yes, father. It is sol (_alga saccharina_). It shortens life. Will you
have some?”
“If it does that, I will.”
Then she gave him some of the seaweed. He chewed it, and naturally both
became very thirsty.
Presently Thorgerthr said she must taste a drop of water. She rose,
went to the door, and called for water. Her mother brought a drinking
horn. Thorgerthr took a slender draught, and offered the horn to her
father.
“Certainly,” said he, “that weed has parched my throat with thirst.” So
he lifted the horn with both hands, and drained it.
“Father,” said Thorgerthr, “we have both been deceived; we have been
drinking milk.” As she spoke, the old man clenched his teeth in the
horn, and tore a great shred from it, then flung the vessel wrathfully
on the ground.
“Our scheme has failed,” said Thorgerthr, “and we cannot now continue
it. I have a better plan to propose. Compose a death-lay on your son,
Bödvar, and I will carve it in runes on oaken staves.”
Then the spirit of song came on the old man, and he composed the long
Wake-song of Bödvar that goes by the name of the Sonartorrek, and in
singing it his grief was assuaged.
The invasion of the Northmen, of Dane and Viking of Norway, that
made the Saxons tremble, was an invasion of something more than
marauders--it was one of four-post beds. They did not, indeed, bring
their press beds with them in their “Long Serpents,” but no sooner
did they establish themselves in the land--Ragnar Lodbrog’s sons
in Northumbria, and King Knut in England--than they set up their
four-posters, and made themselves both secure and comfortable. They
shut themselves in for the night, pulled the bolt, and were safe till
next morning. We do not half understand the horrors of St. Brice’s
Day, 1002, when the Danes were massacred throughout the dominions of
Æthelred, unless we introduce these closed beds into the picture. We
must imagine the Saxons storming the closed and bolted boxes, and
the Danes within, unable to escape, as the axes and crowbars crashed
against the oak doors and hinges of their _lokhvilur_. They could but
muffle themselves in their feather beds, and endeavour to burst forth
when the entrance was forced.
The cairn, or tumulus, that covered a dead Norseman was heaped over a
sort of wooden or stone bed made after the fashion of a _lokhvila_. In
the Grettis saga we have the story of the hero breaking into the cairn
of an old king, and he found him enclosed in a box of boards--stout
oak planks--very much as he had been shut in every night when he
retired to sleep. The _kistvaens_ of stone, oblong boxes of stones set
on end, and covered over with great slabs, to contain the dead, are
nothing other than stone four-posters. And the modern coffin is nought
else but the wooden enclosed _lokhvila_--the Scandinavian close bed
reduced to the smallest possible dimensions. There is no particular
sense in the coffin, but it is a reminiscence of what the beds of our
Scandinavian forefathers were, and will continue to be used long after
the four-poster is banished from our bedrooms.
In the Völsunga saga is a ghastly story of two men buried alive in
a kistvaen. Sigmund was the sole surviving son of King Völsung, who
had been killed by King Siggeir of Gothland. Siggeir was married to
Signy, the sister of Sigmund. The duty to revenge the death of Völsung
lay on Sigmund, and Signy was by no means indisposed to further this
vengeance-taking. Sigmund and his son Sinfjotli came secretly to the
hall of King Siggeir, and concealed themselves in full harness in an
outhouse behind a cask of ale. The two boys of the king, running out,
saw them hiding there, and raised the alarm, whereupon Sigmund and
Sinfjotli cut them down. King Siggeir called together his men, and they
closed round Sigmund and his son and took them alive. Then the King of
Gothland declared he would bury them alive. Accordingly he ordered his
men to erect large stones set on end, and to cover them over with flat
stones, and then he placed the two men, Sigmund and Sinfjotli, in the
chamber thus formed, and heaped over them a cairn of earth and small
stones. Now, just before the last stone coverer was placed on this
living grave, Signy, the queen, flung in a big bundle. When the cairn
was raised the two men who were entombed alive felt the bundle, and
discovered that it consisted of a stout rope wrapped round the sword of
Sigmund. That gave to them hope. With the blade they dug at the bases
of the upright stones, and, raking out the small stuff between them,
managed to pass the rope round them, and drew them down. By the fall of
these stones a gap was made, the top of the cairn ran in, and the two
entombed men crawled out. They at once went to the hall of the king,
heaped wood about it, and set it on fire. As it flared, Signy came out,
kissed her brother, and his son, refused life, and went back into the
flames to die with her husband and his men.
The Völsunga saga is valuable, as it carries us back to the
pre-Christian condition of life in the semi-mythical period. The
Völsungs are kings of the land of the Huns: they are not Huns
themselves, but belong to the Odin-born conquering race. The historic
Huns have the rude stone monuments attributed to them in Hanover,
Pomerania, and Mecklenburg, but they had nothing to do with their
erection. These monuments belong to a far earlier race.