SIXTH LETTER
The “thermometer of Norway”; the Reformation in Norway; the caliber of the early Reformation pastors; the register of the “Hospitset”; “fladbröd” and “mysost”; a type of Norwegian gentleman.
Trondhjem, February 23.
My dear Judicia,
I have spent over a month now in Trondhjem, and I like it better and better every day. It bristles so with memories of the past, and yet it is such a wide-awake, modern city. Our old friend, Olaf Tryggvesson, founded it in 996, and ever since then the Norwegians have considered it the heart of their nation, even though Christiania is now the nominal capital. If Trondhjem is the nucleus of Norway, then the cathedral is the nucleolus. The Norwegians appropriately call it their national thermometer. It has been burned in whole or in part no less than seven times, and once it was struck by lightning and partly destroyed. It was built originally by King Olaf the Quiet in the eleventh century, and after every catastrophe some succeeding king has rebuilt it. If it happen that the cathedral has not been destroyed for several decades, the people occupy themselves with making additions. If hard times come to Norway, the cathedral is left as it may chance to be. If times are prosperous, money is given by state and private subscription to enlarge or beautify it. Just now times are prosperous, and strangely enough there has been no fire for over a century. Consequently there are now to be seen dozens of the most hideous gargoyles reposing in one part of the church, waiting to be put up.
Copyright by Underwood & Underwood, N. Y.
Trondhjem Cathedral.
I don’t suppose you have any idea of the beauty and grandeur of this historic Domkirke. I never dreamed of finding anything like it way up here near the arctic circle. We Americans get into the habit of thinking that Cologne and Milan and Rome and Florence and one or two other places of continental Europe have all that is worth looking at in the line of cathedrals. But this Trondhjem Dom is as fine as any of them, though much smaller than most. It is built entirely of a bluish, slaty stone, except for the marble pillars, which contrast beautifully with the blue. It is a masterpiece of Gothic architecture, and the entire church is as delicately fashioned as any in Europe.
My British author, before quoted, says of it: “This is supposed to be the grandest church in the whole of Scandinavia. It is built largely of bluish soapstone and white marble, and it is mostly Gothic in architecture. A service, apparently for children, was in progress, so we were not able to walk around the interior.” I am forced to think that the gentleman did not possess quite the average amount of ingenuity, or he might have somehow obviated the difficulty and seen the interior in spite of the service “apparently for children.” Well, this is supposed to be the grandest church in the whole of Scandinavia, and it bears out the supposition.
To me its greatest interest lies in its history. The one great king particularly associated with this cathedral was Olaf the Saint. He was the king who finally achieved the conversion of his country to Christianity, and because of his devoted life and heroic death at Sticklestad he has been made the patron saint of Norway. Cold, relentless history reveals the fact that he was not in reality as near sainthood as Harald the Good, but his saintliness was of a more romantic character and appealed to the imagination of the people. After spending many years at the court of the Russian king, Jaroslav, he believed that he was called by a vision to go back to Norway and attempt to complete the conversion of his native land. He went to Sweden and collected all the men he could. They might be robbers and outlaws, but they must be baptized Christians, and he was courageous and consistent enough to dismiss a great many brave soldiers who refused to be baptized. At Sticklestad, in Norway, he met the opposing forces, but was beaten and finally killed, fighting bravely to the last. At the very moment when he was slain, there occurred a total eclipse of the sun. “The sun grew blood-red, and a strange red sheen spread over the landscape. Darkness fell upon the fighting hosts, and the sun grew black.”
Of course nothing more than this was needed to convince the people that Olaf’s god was angry with them. Stricken with terror, they did their utmost to atone for their guilt. They later built a great cathedral in his honor. They made him the national saint, and they laid his bones in a costly silver reliquary in the cathedral, where for six centuries devout pilgrims visited his shrine.
Better times did indeed come to Norway with the introduction of Christianity, but some centuries later, when the countless claimants to the throne had ruined the nation’s unity, and Denmark had taken possession of Norway virtually as a province, Christianity suffered a horrible relapse. Denmark introduced into Norway the Reformation, but the Danes considered their Norwegian subjects scarcely worth salvation. They sent to Norway the very lowest scum of their clergy. As Boyesen says, “Ex-soldiers, ex-sailors, bankrupt traders, all sorts of vagabonds, who were in some way disqualified for making a living, were thought to be good enough to preach the word of God in Norway.” Just as England once sent its criminal class to Australia, so Denmark in the Middle Ages sent its vagabond class to Norway in the form of Protestant pastors. For a long time physical strength was the Norwegian pastor’s only requisite. As a general rule he could scarcely read, and cared little or nothing for the religion he taught except as a means of keeping the wolf from his door; but if only he could thrash the strongest ruffian in his parish he was sure of success.
I am staying at the Hospitset, which corresponds somewhat to the hospitzes or Christian hotels in Switzerland and Germany. When I arrived here I had to sign a sort of register that seemed to me unwarrantably inquisitive. It must know my name, my destination, my last previous address, my permanent address, my age, my occupation, and I don’t know what other items of gossip. Some of the guests have used the opportunity to exercise their native wit. Exempli gratia. Michael O’Shaughnessy writes that his permanent address is care of the king of Siam; his occupation, plumber; his age, thirty-two; his destination, heaven. Many other humorists, mostly signing themselves under obvious noms-de-plume, have thought fit to enliven the dull pages for future readers. This register is a government institution, at least in many places, and the hotel keeper must not be blamed for such inquisitiveness.
The food in this Hospitset is excellent, both as to quality and quantity. One Norwegian feature of the meals is the cheese. You know Norway is famous for its sæters, or mountain dairies, where butter and cheese are made. The most delicious, to my mind, and certainly the most typically Norwegian, is a brown cheese called mysost. It looks like brown Windsor soap, as English authors never fail to remark, and it is sweetish. It is made from goat’s milk, and tastes as though all the cheese part had been extracted. That does not sound particularly attractive, perhaps, but honestly I like it immensely. A great cube of it, measuring something less than a foot on all sides, is put on the table, and each guest is supposed to pare off as many thin slivers of it as he can eat. It is most delicious when taken with Norwegian fladbröd. This is a sort of oat cake, and when well made is as crisp and delicious as anything I know of in that line.
I admit that both the mysost and the fladbröd are somewhat unique. There is nothing like either of them in England or America, or anywhere except in Scandinavia, and unless you are something of an adventurer you may not like them at first. Several very conservative authors write most disparagingly of it: of course they do, for mysost and fladbröd are new to them. Mysost they liken to brown soap, “which however will not lather.” Fladbröd, they say, “resembles in appearance and consistency old boot-leather.” I, personally, have never tasted old boot-leather or brown soap, but if it is really true that they taste like fladbröd and mysost, then I shall begin cultivating my appetite for them as soon as I get home.
I have met a good many of the Norwegians. Most of them speak English, at least here in Trondhjem. Particularly I am impressed with the stateliness and nobility of the old men. You have seen pictures, haven’t you, of Björnstjerne Björnson, and Grieg, and some of the others. Well, they are typical. I have talked with several of these old, patriarchal Norwegians, and they are the finest, truest gentlemen you can imagine. Benevolence and good will seem to radiate from them.
Doctor J. D. Forbes calls the Norwegians “a free, intelligent, and fine-hearted people,” and certainly he is right. Another author finds that “sincerity, honesty, and freedom from conventional cant are the chief national virtues.” If you combine these two opinions you will come near to describing the Norwegian of to-day.
The other day I hired a very good violin at a shop here, and had to pay the exorbitant sum of one kroner. I didn’t have to make any deposit, and the shopkeeper asked me no questions. When I was going out he inquired at what hotel I was staying. I told him, and he said in English: “Never mind, then, about returning the violin. I’ll come around to the hotel some time and get it.” Can you imagine such confidence in any other country? The Norwegians expect you to trust them, and in return they trust you.
I intend to go to Christiania in a few days and will write to you from there.
As always,
Aylmer.
On the Sognefjord.