Runic Stone, with Inscription, near Indfjord.

[[See larger version]]

The Gravested: Ingeborg’s Funeral, Indfjord.

[[See larger version]]

By this time we near the hamlet, and high above us on the left, on a kind of plateau, we see many figures congregated. They were in front of Erich’s house, Griseth being the name of the farm. We soon steered in, and then between two boathouses, at a rude pile-driven landing-place, the well-known scrape of keel on shore was heard, and we had safely arrived at Indfjord. Griseth had sent down to meet us and invite us up to the house, but we return the message that we would rather not disturb the family, but await their arrival at the gravested; so, with our tine, we picked out a spot for lunch, and enjoyed some cold reindeer meat, biscuit, cheese, &c. During lunch we could see the bönder folk collecting high up at Griseth, overlooking the fjord, and at two o’clock we saw them by the telescope start down the narrow mountain path, the coffin being lashed on to the little cart to prevent it slipping. Soon they were lost in a dip of the wood, from which they emerged nearer to us. As we stood at the gravested, or graveplace—like our word homestead, home-place—a man came up and shook hands with us, and then standing on the wall, commenced tolling the bell; for there is no church, but only a bell-tower.

Soon the procession drew near. First came the coffin, black, lashed on to the hay-cart, and drawn by a beautiful young blakken, or Norske pony, whose collar was of old carved wood painted, the bonde driver walking behind the coffin, which bore three wreaths of wild flowers. At a distance behind the coffin followed the men, and after an interval the sorrowing women, who were succeeded by men of the family, many sad hearts, and Ingrana. It was a modest but impressive scene. When the pony arrived at the gravested, hearing the tolling bell, he shied and jibbed, as if regretting what he had done. The coffin was therefore carried in at once. There being no clergyman, a friend sang a hymn. The coffin was lowered into the grave; the wreaths removed; the ropes withdrawn. Some one said to Ingrana, “You were lucky to escape.” “I could not have been ready,” she said; “God wanted me not, and left me a little longer. She was ready,” meaning Ingeborg, whom they were burying. They then sang the second hymn, “Hjemme, Hjemme,” as the friends shovelled the earth in, and the heavy thud of the large spadeful boomed like parts of Handel’s “Dead March” in Saul. After filling in the grave the wreaths were placed on the newly raised mound, and the ceremony closed with “Hjemme.” The weird sea birds screamed, and all went away together. Many will recount the story of Ingeborg, Erichsdatter, Griseth.

Before leaving the gravested the grave-boards must be noted, they being so remarkable in form, so quaint, and also so Bosphoric. Sometimes a white butterfly is introduced, as typical of the soul. How different from the present association with the allegory of their transient nothingness! After the funeral we had to pay two or three visits. All the farmers wanted us to visit them—some to tell of sport, others to offer us aqua vitæ and stamped cakes like the Dutch waffles; and when we returned to Ole Erikson Boe’s he gave me an old Norske belt as a memento of our visit, which we need hardly say is most carefully treasured.

So passed away Ingeborg, Erichsdatter of Griseth, while Ingrana remained waiting her bidding.

•••••