To the North
By C. ALOYS■US PEPPER
THE ship was still alongside at Tilbury when the Captain entered on his tour of inspection, crisp subordinates at his clean pair of heels. He bent low and peered under a table, examining an obscure corner of the carpet; he lifted an ashtray to see whether any crumbs of tobacco illicitly lingered; he scrutinised the flowers, tenderly arranged a few minutes earlier by a stewardess, smiled briefly at his passen- gers, and disappeared. An overpowering impression of order and confidence lingered, in the air.
'But wait until you see the trains,' said the jollyboy on my right, a salesman of dental wax carrying the gospel to Sweden; 'they take squads of cleaners on the trip to hunt down any odd specks that were missed in the sidings."Huh! Wait until you try to get a drink,' said his glum companion, another commercial traveller, but of an older type, lank and drooping. 'It's the girls that / can't wait to see,' said the forward youth on my left. Gothenburg smelt of ice, iron, herring, and Chanel. Granite outcrops, each with its cap of frozen snow, loomed at the margins of suburban streets, and behind them soared the elegant silhouettes of tall tower-dwellings, brightly coloured against the gloomy sky. Flurries of sleet drove on the wind. I sank into my hotel and, in its luxurious pink depths, made a guide-book journey to the north, where the lynx lurks and the moose bellows and the humans consume (so it is said) more alcohol than is good for them. On the train next morning, herring, sole, sauerkraut, cheese, potatoes. Winding through the forests one chewed the harsh northern sea: one can taste it everywhere in Sweden, and the taste raise S fierce ghosts which are none too securely laid by modern law and order. In the next compartment a mighty blond with crew-cut hair and a cutie on his tie was boozing (illegally no doubt) out of a bottle: he might have had a war-axe tucked down the leg of his trousers.
Stockholm blazed out of darkness, a scintillation of cold light. Before leaving the train I delved into a suitcase and equipped my feet with brand-new goloshes. Slush by the cab-rank was ankle deep; crossing the bridges, I could see ice-floes jostling; a brackish mist was drifting in the narrow streets of the old city. Had I been wise to come to Sweden before spring had cracked open the cold carapace of winter? In my hotel room there was a tasteful etching of a maiden in a torn shift brushing her hair, a water-colour of a summer landscape, and furniture which would make the artiest stores of London look like antique shops. Downstairs in the bar I ordered a drink and saw it being dispensed like medicine. In the dining-room well-dressed couples rose from their tables and waltzed decorously round the floor to the tune of 'Over the sea to Skye.' For myself, I was already experiencing a touch of Lapp Fever, so I retired early to bed. I switched on the radio and heard someone singing: 'I'm not too young to jitterbug, but too young to tango 1 ' Sweden, I thought, I shall never understand you. Lapp Fever is an ennui induced by the long contrast 'be- tween darkness and snow outside and flawless correctness of manners inside. Romanticism springs out of it like blue flowers from the dull northern moss. One itches to put the too orderly city behind one, to see over the fir-fringed horizon. A not altogether perfect performance of Swan Lake in the Royal Opera House was made to seem wholly marvellous by a romantic mood. I could stand no more statistics in the formidably efficient offices of Stockholm. Another formal dinner party would have done for me. Not a skal would I skal. There was nothing for it but to bundle and go.
In Uppsala, a trim town with heathen undertones. I dined largely with some students who, some hours later, would clearly have been willing to sustain their excellent conversa- tion as far as the Finnish border. They would have been good company. But instead they waved their caps at the departing train.
In the morning there was ice on the windows and all around lay Ostersund, frozen stiff. In the station I fell in with a Jewish pianist who was engaged on a recital tour of the north. He told me of long expeditions into the mountains to play Chopin to half a dozen villagers. 'How do people amuse them- selves in the long night?' I asked. 'Why, drink,' he replied. 'How do they get enough?' I asked, `Aha !' he said, and pulling a huge silver flask from his pocket, asked me if I would care to join him. I did not ask for breakfast in my hotel but they sent it to the room all the same : herring, cheese, two boiled eggs, a glass of milk, and a pot of tea. Outside the snow began to fall and it was very, very quiet.
At last I felt at home and fancied that I had some under- standing of the country. In rather more southerly latitudes we are, more or less, our true selves most of the time. But in Sweden one has the pleasure of seeing people thaw and come alive as quickly, as dramatically, as the very land around them when the sky clears in early April and the warm wind begins to blow. 'Shall we say skal?' That is the first, the formal, stage. 'Shall we throw away the titles?' is the next question, which means that you may call Jones plain Jones and not Mr. Pro- fessor Jones, and speak to him of things other than the weather and the tepid political situation. Before you know where you are Old Adam Viking is at large.
When the last meeting was over, the last appointment kept, I took the train to Gothenburg. It was thawing fast and the countryside was smudged and blurred by mist. I left the train with the taste of herring in my mouth and boarded the ship, where a woman reporter was quizzing passengers. 'Did you enjoy your visit?' she inquired. I thought harder and more deeply than conVention required. `Yes,' I said firmly, surprised to be saying it, and astonished furthermore at the warmth of affection in my reply. 'Goodness. yes, I did.' But next time I shall go in summer.
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