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.