We were further reminded of our lost one by looking in the Day-book (or traveller’s name-book), where his was the last English name. This was not surprising, for though Bjölstad is a posting station, it is a very out-of-the-way place; but we looked back for two years without finding that any other Englishman had been here, and then the Skipper’s name occurred again. Between these dates the names were all Norwegian, and there were not very many even of them.
[CHAPTER XXXIV.]
BJÖLSTAD.
Sunday, September 19.—
Bjölstad is an ancient Norwegian homestead, and consists of several separate buildings surrounding a central rectangular court. The house that we slept in bears the date of 1818, and is the most modern as well as the largest of the group; it is really a suite of state apartments for the use of the king on the rare occasions when he visits this part of his dominions.
On the left-hand side of the courtyard as we stand at the door of our state apartments, is a very quaint and picturesque old house with a handsome porch, built in the Byzantine style, date 1743, and in this the owner lives whenever he comes to this farm.
Opposite to us is another building even more curious in its architecture, and considerably older than the other; and the remaining side of the yard is occupied by another more modern edifice, used chiefly as a storehouse. Besides these there are several other detached outbuildings, in which sleighs, ploughs, spare cooking utensils, rugs, and various other useful and useless articles are kept, including all the fittings and even the weathercock of an ancient church which used to stand close to the farm, but which is now demolished and partly reduced to firewood.
The owner of all this grandeur is one Ivar Tofte, a wealthy yeoman who has several other farms in other parts of the country, one of which is much larger and more important even than Bjölstad; and we were lucky enough to find this Northern Crœsus at home, for it turned out that he was the cheery old man in the shocking bad hat who had run out to welcome us last night.
This morning he came into our room after breakfast, with a bottle of aquavit in his hand wherewith to drink our health. Now to refuse this ceremony is an unpardonable insult, but we had tasted aquavit before, and had a wholesome dread of the nauseous compound, reeking of carraway seeds and aniseed, which we were accustomed to expect out of an aquavit bottle. So we poured out very small glasses, clinked them in approved manner, and raised them to our lips as we uttered the magic word Skaal, more with a feeling of disgust than any other sensation. And then it was beautiful to see a heavenly smile steal over Esau’s ingenuous countenance; while John, softly murmuring, ‘Chartreuse, by George!’ reached for the bottle, and with a shout of ‘Skaal Ivar Tofte,’ proceeded to fill himself a bumper. It was a perfect liqueur, soft, delicate, and mellow, as probably age alone could have made it; and we drank Skaal to ‘Gammle Norgé,’ and England, and Kong Oscar, and Queen Victooria, and Ivar Tofte again, and then ourselves again; whereupon the old man perceived that we appreciated his ‘cuvée de réserve,’ and went for another full bottle, which he left in our room, so that we could ‘put it to our lips when we felt so dispoged.’