A GHOST AND A CUSTOM - A FISH-MARKET AND A NORSE LOVER

There was no night in Bergen at this time.  At the midnight hour there was light enough to see to read the smallest print, and at an early hour in the morning this sweet twilight brightened into dawn.

This being the case, Fred Temple was not a little surprised to see a ghost make its appearance about six o’clock ­for ghosts are famous for their hatred of broad daylight.  Nevertheless there it was, in the form of a woman.  What else could it be but a ghost? for no woman would dare to enter his bedroom (so he thought) without knocking at the door.

The ghost had in her hand a tray with a cup of coffee on it.  Fred watched her motions with intense curiosity, and kept perfectly still, pretending to be asleep.  She went straight to the box in which Sam Sorrel slept, and going down on her knees, looked earnestly into his face.  As our artist’s mouth happened to be wide-open, it may be said that she looked down his throat.  Presently she spoke to him in a soft whisper ­“Will de have caffè?” (Will you have coffee?) A loud snore was the reply.  Again she spoke, somewhat louder:  “Vill de have caffè?”

A snort was the reply.

Once more, in a tone which would not be denied: 

“Vill de have caffè?”

“Eh! hallo! what! dear me! yes ­ah ­thank you ­ver so goot,” replied Sam, as he awoke and gazed in wild surprise at the ghost who was none other than the female domestic servant of the house, who had brought the visitors a cup of coffee before breakfast.

Sam’s exclamations were wild at first, and he stared like a maniac, but as consciousness returned he understood his position, and being naturally a modest man, he hastily drew on his nightcap and gathered the bedding round his shoulders.  Accepting the coffee, he drank it, and the girl crossed the room to pay similar attentions to Fred Temple.

This presentation of a cup of coffee in bed before breakfast is a custom in Norway, and a very pleasant custom it is, too, especially when it breaks upon you unexpectedly for the first time.

“Now for the fish-market, Sam,” cried Fred, leaping out of bed when the girl had left the room.

“Who cares for the fish-market?” said Sam testily, as he turned round in his bed, and prepared to slumber.

“I care for it,” retorted Fred, “and so do you, old boy, only you are lazy this morning.  Come, get up.  I have resolved to spend only one day in this queer old city, so you must not let drowsiness rob you of your opportunities of seeing it.  The fish-market, you know, is famous.  Come, get up.”

Temple enforced his advice by seizing his companion by the ankles and hauling him out of bed.  Sam grumbled but submitted, and in a short time they were ready to start.

“Hallo!  Grant,” cried Fred, as they passed his door, “will you come with us to ramble over the town?”

“No,” said Grant, in a deep bass voice.

“Why?”

“Because I won’t.”

“A most excellent reason; one much in use in this world,” replied Temple, laughing.  “By the way, will you remember to order two sheep to be killed for our voyage north?”

“Yes,” in a sulky tone from Grant.

“Now mind, I trust this to you.”

“Go away, and don’t bother!”

Thus dismissed, Temple and Sorrel went out and sauntered towards the fish-market.

Now, fish-markets are famous all the world over for noise, riot, and confusion.  The fish-market of Bergen is no exception to the rule; but there is this peculiarity about it, that the sellers of fish are all men, and the buyers all women; moreover, the noise is all on the side of the buyers!  The scene of the market is the pier, alongside of which the fishermen’s boats are ranged; and here the fish are sold direct from the boats by the men to all the servant-girls of the town, who assemble each morning to purchase the day’s dinner.

The men, standing in the boats, are considerably below the level of the pier, so that they have to look up at the girls, who look down at them with eager, anxious faces.  The men, sure that their fish will be sold in the long-run, are quiet sedate, silent.  The women, anxious to get good bargains and impatient to get home, bend forward, shouting, screaming, and flourishing arms, fists, and umbrellas.  Every one carries an umbrella in Bergen, for that city is said to be the rainiest in the world.  Of gay colours are these umbrellas too.  Pink and sky-blue are not uncommon.  There is a stout iron rail round the pier, which prevents the eager females from tumbling headlong into the boats.  Over this they lean and bargain.

Fierce were the pretty blue eyes of these Norse females, and flushed were their fair faces, and tremendous was the flourishing of their umbrellas and the shaking of their fists, at the time when Temple and Sorrel approached.  The fishermen were used to it; they only smiled, or paid no attention whatever to the noise.  And what was all the noise about?  You shall hear.

Look at yonder flaxen-haired, pretty-faced, stoutish little girl, leaning so far over the iron rail that it seems her desire to tumble over it, and plunge into the arms of a rough old fisherman, who is gazing quietly up at her with a sarcastic smile.  He has put up a lot of fish for which she has offered “sex (six) skillings.”  A skilling is about equal to a halfpenny.

He thinks this too little, but he won’t condescend to say so.  He merely pays no attention to the girl’s violent entreaties.  The language of the girl bears so strong a resemblance to our own that it scarcely requires translation.

“Fiskman,” she cries, “vill du have otto skillings?” (will you have eight skillings?)

No, the fiskman won’t have that; it is not enough, so he makes no reply, but pretends to be washing his boat.

“Fiskman, fiskman, vill du have ni?” (will you have nine?)

Still no reply.  The fisherman turns his back on the market, gazes out to sea, and begins to whistle.

At this the girl becomes furious.  She whirls her umbrella in the air desperately.  If that umbrella were only a foot longer the fiskman’s head would certainly feel its weight!

Presently the girl forces herself to become calm and deeply earnest; she has made up her mind to make a liberal offer.

“Fiskman, vill du have ti (ten) skillings?”

The fiskman, who wears a red nightcap, with a tall hat on the top of it, takes off his head-gear, exposes his bald pate to view, and wipes it with a fishy cotton handkerchief; but he takes no notice whatever of the girl, who now becomes mad ­that is to say, she stamps, glares, shakes her pretty little fist at the hard-hearted man, and gasps.

Suddenly she becomes reckless, and makes a wild offer of “tolve (twelve) skillings.”

Ha! the mark is hit at last!  The fiskman can hold out no longer.  Without saying a word, he turns quietly round and hands up the fish.  The girl, without a word, stoops down and pays for them, and then goes off in triumph, for her energy has been successful; she has got the fish a little cheaper than she had expected.

Suppose twenty or thirty such scenes going on at once, and you have a faint idea of the Bergen fish-market.

It was just before the termination of the bargain which has been described that Fred Temple and Sam Sorrel arrived on the scene.  The artist was busy with his sketch-book in one minute.

“Sam,” said Fred, touching his friend’s arm, “look here, sketch me yonder girl, like a good fellow.”

“Which girl; the one with the nose?”

“If you see one without a nose,” retorted Fred, “I’ll be glad to have a portrait of her too.”

“Nay, but really, I do see one with such a long red nose that ­”

“Well, well,” interrupted Fred impatiently, “it’s not her.  Do look to where I am pointing; see, the stout pretty little woman who is talking so fiercely to that fisherman.”

“Oh, I see!” exclaimed Sam, who began to take her portrait without delay.

Meanwhile Fred was observant.  At first he was much amused by the scene before him, and continued to gaze with interest at one group after another.  In a short time his curiosity was awakened by a handsome Norwegian youth, whose gaze was fixed with intense earnestness on the maiden whom Sam was sketching.  When the girl had concluded her bargain and gone away, he observed that the youth, who appeared to be a fisherman from his dress, went after her.

Without well knowing what he did, and without any very definite intentions, Fred Temple followed them, and left his friend busy with his pencil.

The Norwegian youth soon overtook the girl, who at once received him with a bright smile, and held out her hand.  The two then went on together, turned to the left, and followed a winding road, which led up the side of the mountain.  They appeared to converse earnestly as they went.  Fred still followed them, but in a few minutes they paused in front of a small white house, with a green door, so he was now compelled to pass them.  As he did so, it suddenly occurred to his mind that he was acting a mean, contemptible part in following them thus.  He blushed as he thought of this, and passed quickly forward, intending to deny his curiosity and take a ramble.  He could not help observing, however, that the girl was weeping, and that the youth did not look happy by any means.

Having gained the brow of an eminence which overlooked the city, Fred sat down behind a rock to admire the beautiful scenery and to ponder what he had seen.

While he was thus engaged, he heard the voices of two men who approached on the other side of the rock, and did not observe him.  They talked loud, in the Norse language.  Fred understood enough of it to make out their meaning pretty well.

“I tell you what it is, Hans,” said one, “give her up.  You have no chance of gaining the required sum for many years, and it’s a hard case to keep a poor girl waiting.  Give her up, man, and don’t go on like a silly love-sick boy.”

“Give her up!” cried he who was called Hans, ­“give her up!  Ah! my friend Ole, I did not expect such counsel from thee.  But I tell thee flatly I will not give her up.  She loves me; I love her!  Sweet Raneilda! nothing but death shall separate us!”

“A very pretty sentiment,” retorted Old, “but pray, what do you mean to do?”

“I have decided that,” replied Hans; “I will fish all winter in the deep sea, and all summer I will ­”

“Well, what will you?”

“Alas!  I know not.  Would that I were a pilot, but I am not.”

“But you know the coast as well as any pilot,” said 016.

“True, but who would trust me ­an unknown boy?” replied Hans sadly.

There was silence for a few minutes; then Ole said:  “How much money do you require to pay for your father’s farm and set yourself up?”

“Two hundred dollars,” [The dollar is equal to about 4 shillings and 6 pence sterling] answered Hans.

“A goodly sum,” said Ole despondingly.  “No, no, Hans, give her up, boy, give her up.  It is the advice of an oldish man and a true friend.”

“It is the advice of an ass,” retorted Hans fiercely.  “Go, my true friend, ­when I want your advice I will ask it.”

The youth flung off from his friend, and came suddenly on Fred Temple, who rose and saluted him.

“This is a splendid city of yours, Hans,” said he.  “You know my name, and you speak Norse,” exclaimed the youth in surprise.

“I know your name, Hans, because I heard your friend mention it, and I can speak a little Norse because I have studied it.  I have come to stay in Old Norway for a few months, and would like to get a little information about it from some one.  Are you a busy man just now?”

“No, not very busy,” said Hans, with a disconcerted look.

“Then, could you call on me this afternoon?  I live in Madame Sontoom’s house.”

“I will come,” said Hans, whose face beamed with good-humour.

“Good; I shall expect you.  Farewell.”

“Farvel,” replied Hans.

Fred sauntered down the hill that morning with a very peculiar smile on his countenance.  There was something quite sly about his aspect, and more than once his companions caught him chuckling at breakfast in a way that surprised them much, for Fred Temple was not given to secrets, or to act in an outrageous manner without any apparent reason.  But Fred had his own peculiar thoughts that morning, and they tickled him to such an extent that more than once he burst into a fit of laughter.

“Come, Fred, you’re meditating something.  Out with it,” said Grant.  “It is selfish to keep all your good thoughts to yourself.”

“Not yet, not yet,” replied Fred, with a mysterious look.  “You shall know before our excursion comes to an end.”

Further conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Hans Ericsson, who was impatient to get employment of any kind in order to earn a few dollars, and lay them up with a view to the future.  Fred took him aside, and said in a low tone ­“Hans, are you very anxious to wed Raneilda?”

The young Norseman’s face flushed, and he started as if he had received a blow.

“Don’t be angry, Hans,” continued Fred; “I ask the question because I think I can help you in the matter if you will allow me.  I do not ask it out of idle curiosity.  Come, tell me your troubles like a good fellow, and I’ll put you in the way of getting out of them.”

Hans was inclined to repel Fred’s kind intentions at first, but the Englishman’s open, honest manner won upon him so much that he related to him all his sorrows.

He was the son of Eric, who dwelt in a valley at the head of the Nord Fiord.  His father was too old to manage his farm, and Hans wished to take it up and work it on his own account.  But, in order to do so, he must buy up the shares of the other members of his family.  This would require 500 dollars.  He had worked hard for two years to make this sum, but there was still 200 dollars to pay.  He could make this in the course of time, but he had been engaged to Raneilda long, and he wished now to make her his wife.  In short, he was tired of waiting.

“So, then, you would be glad to get some sort of work with good pay,” said Fred.

“Ya,” said Hans, with a nod of his head.

“Can you pilot a schooner from this to the Nord Fiord?”

“Ya, I know every island on the coast.”

“Good; then be ready to start this evening.  I shall send my vessel there in your charge, and I myself with my friends will travel overland and meet you there.  Farewell!”

Hans went off to tell Raneilda, his handsome face beaming with joy.

“Now,” said Fred, returning to his friends, “I have made arrangements with a pilot to take the Snowflake round to the Nord Fiord, and we will travel overland to the same place and meet it.  The journey will be a very charming one of several days, through wild magnificent scenery.  By the way, Grant, did you order the two sheep to be killed and sent aboard immediately?”

“Of course I did.  Have I not always proved myself a trustworthy messenger?  I told the man, in my best Norse, to have two `Kos’ killed without delay.”

“Two what?” exclaimed Fred, with a look of alarm.

“Two Kos,” returned Grant; “did you not tell me that Ko is the Norse word for a sheep?”

“Why, as I live, you have ordered two cows to be killed.  Quick, come with me to the butcher’s!”

The two friends rushed out of the house, and reached the shop of the man of meat just in time, fortunately, to arrest the fatal blow.  The order was of course countermanded, and they were thus saved the necessity of setting up a butcher’s shop in Bergen to get rid of their superabundant beef!

That night the Snowflake set sail for the far north, and next morning our three adventurers were galloping through the wilds of Norway.