In the museum I met Professor G——, of the University of Christiania, who is the greatest living authority upon Scandinavian archæology, and had a most instructive talk with him upon various articles of special note in the prehistoric collection. When he found that I was as interested in dead heathen Scandinavians as I was in live Christian ones, Professor G—— told me that the contents of the Oseberg ship would not be ready for exhibition to the public for some time, but several men were working on them under his supervision on the top floor. Would I care to examine them? Would I? I jumped at the chance; and we climbed to the top floor.
The Oseberg find had indeed been a rich one. The wife or daughter of a Norse chieftain had been buried in the ship. With her were the remains of another woman, probably a serving maid, put to death in order that her mistress should not go forth upon the perilous way unattended. And about them were a variety of articles such as would be expected to gladden the heart of the noble lady in the Land of the Hereafter: spinning and weaving appliances, and balls of thread and wax; carved oaken chests; several beds, with down coverlets and pillows; tubs and pails and copper kettles; and even a millstone, the ghost of which was evidently intended to grind ghostly grist under the hands of the ghostly serving maid. But this distinguished Scandinavian lady had not been restricted to sea travel; in the boat had been placed a handsomely carved, four-wheeled carriage, and four sleds, also carved in elaborate pattern, two of them with grotesque heads at the four corners. The carcasses of a number of cattle as well as of horses and dogs were also buried with the vessel. The skeletons of two of the horses, all articulated and painted white and looking very spruce, were “hitched” to the ancient carved wagon. All of the horses, Professor G—— told me, were killed by being struck a blow at the base of the skull just back of the ears; and he called my attention to the broken vertebrae of the two renovated skeletons.
Many of the things found in the Oseberg ship were restored and ready for exhibition, but the process of preparation is a long one and requires much care and patience. The objects made of wood when removed from the burial mound, were in some cases badly bent, and frequently broken into bits. The ship itself, for instance, was taken out in about two thousand pieces, but each tiny piece was properly numbered; consequently perfect reconstruction was possible. The bent pieces were steamed back into shape, and then all of the woodwork had to be boiled in oil; and I do not know how many more processes they had to be put through before they were ready to be fitted together into their original shape. But upon looking at them in a casual manner one would never suspect that they were not as sound and whole as any other wooden objects that one would be likely to find in a museum.
While we are on the subjects of sepulchers, I must tell you that I went to Vor Frelser’s Cemetery this morning to see the graves of Henrik Ibsen and Björnstjerne Björnson. I am not in the habit of haunting cemeteries, but I felt moved thus to pay my respects to these two great Norwegians. There is an appropriateness in the tombs—if there ever can be an appropriateness in tombs—and they present as great a contrast as the temperaments of the two men. Björnson is buried on a sunny green slope near a tall, graceful poplar tree. No memorial stone of any kind marks the grave; it is simply a great mound completely covered with flowers brightly blooming. Ibsen rests close at hand, but in a shady corner. Within a thick hedge is a black iron fence with polished black stone pillars at the corners; and within the fence is the grave, covered by a black stone slab simply marked with the name “Henrik Ibsen.” A black iron wreath had been placed on the tomb. At the head of the grave is a tall pyramidal obelisk of polished black stone, on the front surface of which had been engraved in outline a strong, capable-looking hammer. It is a peculiarly appropriate resting place for the iron-willed poet who devoted his life to smashing false idols, to diagnosing the diseases of society.
Christiania is only about three hundred years old. But for centuries before King Christian IV of Denmark built this modern capital of Norway, its site was guarded by the fortress of Akershuus, which still stands on the southern edge of the city. Akershuus is no longer a fortress of importance, but its ancient, conglomerate stone walls, in contrast to the modern appearance of the buildings of Christiana, are sure to attract the attention. The stronghold is still used for military purposes; one part of it is a military prison, and another is an arsenal; cannon are mounted on the ramparts, which command a view of Christiania Fiord; and the soldiers of Norway are on guard at the gateways.
Visitors are shown through Akershuus every two hours, but I arrived too late for the twelve o’clock party, and shall not be able to wait for the next one as I am booked to sail at two on the King Haakon for Copenhagen. Consequently, I am sitting on the above-mentioned ramparts finishing this Christiania letter, preparatory to accounts of Danish green fields and pastures new. It is pleasant here, and the view of the fiord is lovely. I wish that the King Haakon would wait.
CHAPTER X
COPENHAGEN ONCE MORE; CASTLES IN DENMARK
Copenhagen, Denmark,
September 11, 191—