—­ what’s more, they were to be drowned.  A happier smile than that with which Stubberud received the bottles, or more careful and affectionate handling than they received on their way through the kitchen, I have never seen.  I was touched.  Ah, these boys knew how a liqueur should be served!  “Must be served cold,” was on the label of the punch bottle.  I can assure P. A. Larsen that his prescription was followed to the letter that evening.  Then the gramophone made its appearance, and it did me good to see the delight with which it was received.  They seemed to like this best, after all, and every man had music to suit his taste.  All agreed to honour the cook for all his pains, and the concert therefore began with “Tarara-boom-de-ay,” followed by the “Apache” waltz.  His part of the programme was concluded with a humorous recitation.  Meanwhile he stood in the doorway with a beatific smile; this did him good.  In this way the music went the round, and all had their favourite tunes.  Certain numbers were kept to the last; I could see that they were to the taste of all.  First came an air from “The Huguenots,” sung by Michalowa; this showed the vikings to be musical.  It was beautifully sung.  “But look here,” cried an impatient voice:  “aren’t we going to have Borghild Bryhn to-night?” “Yes,” was the answer; “here she comes.”  And Solveig’s Song followed.  It was a pity Borghild Bryhn was not there; I believe the most rapturous applause would not have moved her so much as the way her song was received here that evening.  As the notes rang clear and pure through the room, one could see the faces grow serious.  No doubt the words of the poem affected them all as they sat there in the dark winter night on the vast wilderness of ice, thousands and thousands of miles from all that was dear to them.  I think that was so; but it was the lovely melody, given with perfect finish and rich natural powers, that opened their hearts.  One could see how it did them good; it was as though they were afraid of the sound of their own voices afterwards.  At last one of them could keep silence no longer.  “My word, how beautifully she sings!” he exclaimed; “especially the ending.  I was a little bit afraid that she would give the last note too sharp, in spite of the masterly way in which she controls her voice.  And it is outrageously high, too.  But instead of that, the note came so pure and soft and full that it alone was enough to make a better man of one.”  And then this enthusiastic listener tells them how he once heard the same song, but with a very different result.  “It went quite well,” he says, “until it came to the final note.  Then you could see the singer fill her mighty bosom for the effort, and out came a note so shrill that —­ well, you remember the walls of Jericho.”  After this the gramophone is put away.  No one seems to want any more.