[Illustration: CURING FISH.]
"We are delighted with it," was the answer. "It is now thirteen years
since it was started, and all the prominent towns in Norway, except
three, have followed our example. The liquors, in the first place,
are all carefully selected. Secondly, the bars are not attractive
gin-palaces, but plain rooms, with no seats for customers. No loitering
on the premises is allowed. Only a small amount is sold at any one
time. Children are not allowed to serve as messengers. Even the
bartenders are appointed by the government, and wear a uniform and a
number, by which they can be easily identified in case of complaint;
and as a practical result," he added, "by taking the liquor traffic
out of the hands of irresponsible agents the annual amount of ardent
spirits sold has been reduced from twelve and a half to five and a half
million quarts; and yet our Bergen company has earned each year a net
profit of one hundred and twenty-five per cent., one hundred and twenty
of which is, as I have said, applied to public charities!"
[Illustration: A BUSY DAY IN BERGEN.]
But to me the most interesting sight in Bergen was the grave of the
Norwegian violinist, Ole Bull. His last appearance in America was in
1879—too long ago perhaps for many to recollect him—for, alas! even
those who entertain the public best are soon forgotten. But some of
my readers no doubt recall that Paganini of the North, tall and erect,
with large blue eyes and flaxen hair—the personification of a valiant
Norseman, whose fire and magnetism in this nineteenth century displayed
themselves in music rather than in maritime adventure. As his old
Viking ancestors had no doubt wielded sword and battle-ax, so his bow
was of such unusual length that no one of inferior strength and stature
could have used it advantageously.
[Illustration: THE GRAVE OF OLE BULL.]
From this musician's grave one looks off over the lovely bay of Bergen.
This peaceful view, which he so loved, produced upon my mind, in the
soft evening light, the same effect as did the music of that skillful
hand which now reposed beneath the flowers. To me his playing was
enchanting, and unlike that of any other violinist I have ever heard.
There was a quality in the tones that he would call forth from his
violin, which seemed as weird and fascinating as the poetry of the
sagas, and as mysterious as the light which lingered on his mountains
and fjords. What wonder that his death in 1880 was deplored in Norway
as a national calamity?
[Illustration: OLE BULL.]
Taking our leave reluctantly of Bergen, we entered on what proved to
be one of the most delightful features of our tour in Norway, a sail
of twenty-four hours along the coast to the town of Molde. How can I
adequately describe that most unique and memorable journey? Our entire
course lay through a labyrinth of islands, beyond which, every now
and then, we gained a glimpse of the Atlantic rolling away toward the
horizon. The proximity and number of these islands astonished me. For,
hour after hour, they would come into sight, wheel by us slowly, and
then disappear, to be succeeded by their counterparts. We went down to
dinner or to our staterooms, yet when we came on deck again, islands
still surrounded us. We saw them glittering in the sunset ere we went
to sleep, and in the morning we were once more environed by them.
Sometimes I could have fancied that they were sailing with us, like a
vast convoy of protecting gunboats, moving when we moved, halting when
we halted, patient and motionless till we resumed our voyage.
[Illustration: THE NORWEGIAN COAST.]
Meantime, just opposite these islands, is the coast,—a grand
succession of bold headlands and dark, gloomy mountains, beyond which
always are still higher summits capped with snow. At frequent intervals
some beautiful fjord leads inward, like the entrance to a citadel; and
here and there, within a sheltered nook, we see some fishing hamlet
crouching on the sand. This is surely the perfection of ocean travel.
For, though this mountain-bordered channel is hundreds of miles in
length, the sea within it is as smooth as a canal. Once only throughout
the day was the great swell of the Atlantic felt, when for a little
space the island breakwater was gone.
[Illustration: A WONDERFUL PANORAMA.]
Our sail along the coast had, late at night, a most appropriate
ending in our arrival at Molde. There are few places in the world
more beautiful. It lies upon the bank of a fjord, on the opposite side
of which is an array of snowy mountains forty miles in length. Molde
is sometimes called the "Interlaken of Norway," but that does not by
any means describe it. For here there is no single mountain, like the
Jungfrau, to compel our homage, but rather a long series of majestic
peaks, resembling a line of icebergs drifting in crystal splendor from
the polar sea.
Filled with enthusiasm over this splendid spectacle, we left the
steamer, and soon found ourselves within a comfortable hotel. It was
the hour of midnight, but, far from being dark, the eastern sky was
even then brightening with the coming dawn. A party of excursionists
was just returning from a mountain climb. Some passengers were
embarking on the steamer we had left. Supper or breakfast (I know not
which to call it) was awaiting us. Under such circumstances it seemed
ridiculous to go to bed. Accordingly, we laughed and chatted on the
balcony, until a wretched man thrust out his head from an adjoining
window, and remarked:
"My friends, I am glad to see you happy, but I have just returned from
the North Cape. I haven't slept for eight nights. It seems quite dark
here by comparison, and I was hopeful of a good night's rest. Would you
just as lief postpone your fun until you get inside the Arctic circle?"
This pathetic appeal could not be resisted, and asking his forgiveness,
we retired.
Taking leave of Molde one pleasant afternoon, we sailed across its
beautiful fjord to explore the snow-capped mountains opposite. It was
upon this voyage that I was taught the bitter lesson never to trust my
baggage to a Norwegian, merely because he claims to be able to speak
English. Upon the deck of our little steamer stood that day a man, upon
whose hatband I read the legend that he was the proprietor of a hotel
at Veblungsnäs, where we proposed to spend the night. Approaching him,
therefore, I inquired:
"Can you speak English?"