Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Chasing the Sun by R. M. Ballantyne (book recommendations txt) 📖
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
Book online «Chasing the Sun by R. M. Ballantyne (book recommendations txt) 📖». Author R. M. Ballantyne
Supper consisted of coffee, rolls, eggs, “gamleost” (old cheese), lobster, and smoked salmon. The viands were good, the appetites were also good, so the supper went off admirably.
“Ver so goot,” said one of the young ladies, handing Mr Sorrel a plate of smoked salmon.
“Tak, tak,” (thanks, thanks), said our artist, accepting the salmon, and beginning to devour it.
“I say, what d’ye mean by ‘ver so goot’? You’re never done saying it. What does it mean?”
The fair waitress laughed, and bowed politely, as much as to say, “I don’t understand English.”
“Can you explain it, Fred?” said Sam.
“Well, yes, I can give you a sort of explanation,” replied Fred, “but it is not an easy sentence to translate. ‘Ver so goot’ (another claw of that lobster, please. Thanks),—‘ver so goot’ is an expression that seems to me capable of extension and distension. It is a comfortable, jovial, rollicking expression, if I may say so. I cannot think of a better way of conveying an idea of its meaning than saying that it is a compound of the phrases ‘be so good,’ ‘by your leave,’ ‘good luck to you,’ ‘go it, ye cripples,’ and ‘that’s your sort.’ The first of these, ‘be so good,’ is the literal translation. The others are more or less mixed up with it. You may rely on it, Sam, that when a Norwegian offers you anything and says ‘ver so goot,’ he means you well, and hopes that you will make yourself comfortable.”
“You don’t say so, Fred; I’ll adopt the phrase from this hour!”
Accordingly Sam Sorrel did adopt it, and used it on all and every occasion, without any regard to its appropriateness.
Little was said at supper. The whole party were too tired to converse.
“Now for bed,” cried Sam, rising. “I say, Fred, what’s the Norse for a bed?”
“Seng,” replied Fred.
“Seng! what a remarkable name! Now, then, my good girl, ver so goot will you show me my seng? Good night, comrades, I’m off to—ha! ha! what a musical idea—to seng.”
“More probably to snore,” observed Grant.
“Oh, Grant,” said Sam, looking back and shaking his head, “give up jesting. It’s bad for your health; fie for shame! good night.”
Norwegian beds are wooden boxes of about three feet wide, and five and a half long. I have never been able to discover why it is that Norwegians love to make their beds as uncomfortable as possible. Yet so it is.
Grant had a room to himself. Temple and our artist were shown into a double-bedded room.
“Is that a bed?” said Sam, pointing to a red-painted wooden box in a corner; “why, it’s too short even for me, and you know I’m not a giant.”
“Oh! then what must it be for me?” groaned Fred Temple.
On close examination it was found that each bed was too short for any man above five feet two, and, further, that there was a feather-bed below and a feather-bed above, instead of blankets. Thus they lay that night between two feather-beds, which made them so hot that it was impossible to sleep at first. Sorrel, being short, managed to lie diagonally across his box, but Fred, being long, was compelled to double himself up like a foot-rule. However, fatigue at last caused them to slumber in spite of all difficulties. In the morning they were visited by a ghost!
There was no night in Bergen at this time. At the midnight hour there was light enough to see to read the smallest print, and at an early hour in the morning this sweet twilight brightened into dawn.
This being the case, Fred Temple was not a little surprised to see a ghost make its appearance about six o’clock—for ghosts are famous for their hatred of broad daylight. Nevertheless there it was, in the form of a woman. What else could it be but a ghost? for no woman would dare to enter his bedroom (so he thought) without knocking at the door.
The ghost had in her hand a tray with a cup of coffee on it. Fred watched her motions with intense curiosity, and kept perfectly still, pretending to be asleep. She went straight to the box in which Sam Sorrel slept, and going down on her knees, looked earnestly into his face. As our artist’s mouth happened to be wide-open, it may be said that she looked down his throat. Presently she spoke to him in a soft whisper—“Will de have caffé?” (Will you have coffee?) A loud snore was the reply. Again she spoke, somewhat louder: “Vill de have caffé?”
A snort was the reply.
Once more, in a tone which would not be denied:
“Vill de have caffé?”
“Eh! hallo! what! dear me! yes—ah—thank you—ver so goot,” replied Sam, as he awoke and gazed in wild surprise at the ghost who was none other than the female domestic servant of the house, who had brought the visitors a cup of coffee before breakfast.
Sam’s exclamations were wild at first, and he stared like a maniac, but as consciousness returned he understood his position, and being naturally a modest man, he hastily drew on his nightcap and gathered the bedding round his shoulders. Accepting the coffee, he drank it, and the girl crossed the room to pay similar attentions to Fred Temple.
This presentation of a cup of coffee in bed before breakfast is a custom in Norway, and a very pleasant custom it is, too, especially when it breaks upon you unexpectedly for the first time.
“Now for the fish-market, Sam,” cried Fred, leaping out of bed when the girl had left the room.
“Who cares for the fish-market?” said Sam testily, as he turned round in his bed, and prepared to slumber.
“I care for it,” retorted Fred, “and so do you, old boy, only you are lazy this morning. Come, get up. I have resolved to spend only one day in this queer old city, so you must not let drowsiness rob you of your opportunities of seeing it. The fish-market, you know, is famous. Come, get up.”
Temple enforced his advice by seizing his companion by the ankles and hauling him out of bed. Sam grumbled but submitted, and in a short time they were ready to start.
“Hallo! Grant,” cried Fred, as they passed his door, “will you come with us to ramble over the town?”
“No,” said Grant, in a deep bass voice.
“Why?”
“Because I won’t.”
“A most excellent reason; one much in use in this world,” replied Temple, laughing. “By the way, will you remember to order two sheep to be killed for our voyage north?”
“Yes,” in a sulky tone from Grant.
“Now mind, I trust this to you.”
“Go away, and don’t bother!”
Thus dismissed, Temple and Sorrel went out and sauntered towards the fish-market.
Now, fish-markets are famous all the world over for noise, riot, and confusion. The fish-market of Bergen is no exception to the rule; but there is this peculiarity about it, that the sellers of fish are all men, and the buyers all women; moreover, the noise is all on the side of the buyers! The scene of the market is the pier, alongside of which the fishermen’s boats are ranged; and here the fish are sold direct from the boats by the men to all the servant-girls of the town, who assemble each morning to purchase the day’s dinner.
The men, standing in the boats, are considerably below the level of the pier, so that they have to look up at the girls, who look down at them with eager, anxious faces. The men, sure that their fish will be sold in the long-run, are quiet sedate, silent. The women, anxious to get good bargains and impatient to get home, bend forward, shouting, screaming, and flourishing arms, fists, and umbrellas. Every one carries an umbrella in Bergen, for that city is said to be the rainiest in the world. Of gay colours are these umbrellas too. Pink and sky-blue are not uncommon. There is a stout iron rail round the pier, which prevents the eager females from tumbling headlong into the boats. Over this they lean and bargain.
Fierce were the pretty blue eyes of these Norse females, and flushed were their fair faces, and tremendous was the flourishing of their umbrellas and the shaking of their fists, at the time when Temple and Sorrel approached. The fishermen were used to it; they only smiled, or paid no attention whatever to the noise. And what was all the noise about? You shall hear.
Look at yonder flaxen-haired, pretty-faced, stoutish little girl, leaning so far over the iron rail that it seems her desire to tumble over it, and plunge into the arms of a rough old fisherman, who is gazing quietly up at her with a sarcastic smile. He has put up a lot of fish for which she has offered “sex (six) skillings.” A skilling is about equal to a halfpenny.
He thinks this too little, but he won’t condescend to say so. He merely pays no attention to the girl’s violent entreaties. The language of the girl bears so strong a resemblance to our own that it scarcely requires translation.
“Fiskman,” she cries, “vill du have otto skillings?” (will you have eight skillings?)
No, the fiskman won’t have that; it is not enough, so he makes no reply, but pretends to be washing his boat.
“Fiskman, fiskman, vill du have ni?” (will you have nine?)
Still no reply. The fisherman turns his back on the market, gazes out to sea, and begins to whistle.
At this the girl becomes furious. She whirls her umbrella in the air desperately. If that umbrella were only a foot longer the fiskman’s head would certainly feel its weight!
Presently the girl forces herself to become calm and deeply earnest; she has made up her mind to make a liberal offer.
“Fiskman, vill du have ti (ten) skillings?”
The fiskman, who wears a red nightcap, with a tall hat on the top of it, takes off his head-gear, exposes his bald pate to view, and wipes it with a fishy cotton handkerchief; but he takes no notice whatever of the girl, who now becomes mad—that is to say, she stamps, glares, shakes her pretty little fist at the hard-hearted man, and gasps.
Suddenly she becomes reckless, and makes a wild offer of “tolve (twelve) skillings.”
Ha! the mark is hit at last! The fiskman can hold out no longer. Without saying a word, he turns quietly round and hands up the fish. The girl, without a word, stoops down and pays for them, and then goes off in triumph, for her energy has been successful; she has got the fish a little cheaper than she had expected.
Suppose twenty or thirty such scenes going on at once, and you have a faint idea of the Bergen fish-market.
It was just before the termination of the bargain which has been described that Fred Temple and Sam Sorrel arrived on the scene. The artist was busy with his sketch-book in one minute.
“Sam,” said Fred, touching his friend’s arm, “look here, sketch me yonder girl, like a good fellow.”
“Which girl; the one with the nose?”
“If you see one without a nose,” retorted Fred, “I’ll be glad to have a portrait of her too.”
“Nay, but really, I do see one with such a long red nose that—”
“Well, well,” interrupted Fred
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