The Journals of Ola Nilsson

“Take My Music North and I Will Offer You My Blessing”

Among the less important Funerary Violinists unearthed through my many and meandering researches, one man stands out, not for his contribution to the Art, which was indeed negligible; nor for his great artistry, which was adequate but by no means exceptional: but for the sheer wealth of first hand archive materials that he left behind. I first heard rumours of Ola Nilsson whilst working as advisor on Funerary Violin for the ill-fated film Deathly Strains in Nuremburg in 1994. One evening after the shoot the second assistant cameraman, Tor Benteinn, a Norwegian from Harstad, happened to mention, somewhat in passing, that he recalled his grandmother talking of a family of Funerary Violinists who had lived in a cave just east of the town. Whether this was merely a local folk tale, or had some basis in fact he had no idea. I was immediately interested in this notion as I had found no records whatever to suggest that the Art had spread any further north than Copenhagen, and even a folk tale involving a Funerary Violinist so very far north would imply a branch of the Art hitherto unknown. When the film was unceremoniously closed down two weeks later, and suddenly as a result having three weeks available to me, I travelled, with Tor, to Harstad in the hope of  tracing some rumour or clue to this mystery. What I found, admittedly after nearly a week of unrewarding interviews, was well beyond all my expectations, and indeed my ability to digest, as it consisted of 47 leather bound journals and three boxes of assorted papers, all hand-written in Old Swedish. This collection was in the hands of Hildr Hök, an elderly woman, whose grandfather was said to have “rescued” it from the cave after the death of Ola Nilsson V, the last of the dynasty. After some considerable effort of persuasion she agreed that I might arrange to take the entire collection back to England for study.

The situation greatly tested my patience, as it was a further three months before the archive had been safely acquired and funds had been raised to pay a Swedish translator to embark upon the epic task. (I must here acknowledge the tremendous fortitude of Magnus Björkegren, who worked on this project for two and a half years in what could be described as difficult circumstances, and showed great tolerance and forbearance in the face of my own frustrations at the time taken to finish the job).

What slowly emerged was extraordinary in many unexpected ways.

The 47 leather bound journals were all the work of the original Ola Nilsson who made the journey to Harstad, later evidently known by his descendants as Ola Nilsson I. Clearly written to be read by posterity, the journals inadvertently paint a remarkably honest picture of what was evidently a particularly unpleasant man: arrogant, condescending, racist, manipulative, heartless, cruel, deluded, dishonest, and totally self-absorbed, though also occasionally capable of valuable insights and moments of self-knowledge. Much of the 47 volumes are filled with tedious self-aggrandisements and mundane accounts of the everyday, which may be of interest to some social scholars, but are of no concern for this history: however, the first two volumes, which cover his journey to Harstad, and his often bizarre methods employed in attempting to integrate the Art into what was fundamentally a superstitious peasant culture, often read like nothing short of a Boy’s Own adventure, and indeed it is his missionary zeal for extending the realm of the Art well into the arctic circle, that makes him, in the opinion of the author, worthy of inclusion in this Incomplete History, regardless of his motives.

Ola Nilsson I is thought to have been born in Stockholm in 1760. There is virtually no mention of his early life in the journals, save that his parents were successful wine merchants and he had some family links with Vienna. He was clearly well educated, had a not insubstantial private income, and it is implied, though not actually stated, that he learnt the violin from his mother, who it seems was a good performing amateur. The earliest entries in the journal are dated February 1782, but it is in volume 18, written in 1801, that he reveals the catalyst for what was to become a remarkable journey that would change the entire course of his entire life. The meeting he refers to is thought to have happened in October 1881 during a visit to Vienna:

I can still recall in every detail the day I met Herr Gratchenfleiss at the Zentralfriedhof in Vienna, and how his playing transformed me in every way, from the gay youth that I once was, to the man of substance that I have today become. His bold nobility, strong masculine beauty and unswerving commitment to his Art were forever etched into both my mind and my heart, and it was then that I vowed to remake myself in his image. And how I have treasured the book of scores that he so generously gave me with the words, “take my music North, and I will offer you my blessing”. And so I have, and I can but hope that, were he to know of all that I have done he might be proud of his own small hand in this, my true-found vocation.

Again there are very few details but it seems that he apprenticed himself to Albrecht Feinstein, in Wroclaw, West Prussia, for around 6 months before taking Herr Gratchenfleiss’ words quite literally and heading north in the company of Knut Sjöblom, his allegedly mute manservant: (the last entry in his final journal, written by his newly widowed wife indicates that Sjöblom was not in fact mute, as shall be seen). As already stated, the journals begin in February 1782, but it is not until he approaches his chosen destination of Harstad in September that they become of considerable interest to the scholar of the history of Funerary Violin. Why he chose Harstad is entirely unknown, though it is certainly among the most northerly towns (at the time it was little more than a fishing village) in today’s Norway. What is clear is that he would have stood little chance of success or indeed survival without Sjöblom, who, though only 17 at the time, was clearly a strong and strapping young man, well capable of all the practical necessities of life, even in those difficult climes: that he tolerated Nilsson’s evident brutality towards him at all is only understandable in the light of a social structure now long since dismantled by the terrible events of the 20th century.

The passages relating to his arrival in Harstad and his first demonstrations of the Art run to over 100 pages across volumes 1 and 2 of the journals, and give a wonderful insight both into the problems of introducing a new tradition into what was then a long established and superstitious folk culture, and into Nilsson’s own heartlessly cunning and manipulative approach to addressing these issues. Given that all of the evidence for this bold and not unsuccessful attempt at taking the Art of Funerary Violin to the northern climes comes from one source alone, it seems appropriate to present the story in Nilsson’s own words, albeit translated and heavily edited, as any commentary without cross-references would seem superfluous.

From  Ola Nilsson’s Journal:

September 12th 1782

It is now three weeks since I last had the chance to write without fear of damp, darkness or wild beasts intruding upon my reverie. Three whole weeks of mud and moss and rocks and water, oh so much water, all bathed in that insidious half-light that slowly eats into the soul casting endless shadows that fool the mind and ultimately lead to nought but madness. Were it not for the patience and silent loyalty of my mute servant, Sjöblom, and the comforting tones of my violin, I do not think I could have made it: yet here I am, in Harstad at last, and, though to some my accommodation might seem little more than a pile of stones and sticks, to me, after such deprivations as would sour the heart of Adelsvärd himself, it is nothing short of a palace. I have a chair, a table, and a simple wooden bed, and there is a generous pile of dried heather and moss in the corner for Sjöblom, to which the landlord adds daily. Last night we celebrated our arrival with a feast of broiled hare, pickles, and Tångbröd [seaweed bread], which made a fine change after weeks of nothing but dried walrus meat and the occasional mushroom or berry. They brew a particularly strong spirit here, which they call Illvilja [bad blood] that certainly has the power to restore the warmth, even in this, the coldest of places.

I only hope that our stay in Harstad proves to be more successful than Narvik. I did not have time to write of our ignoble flight from that village, as it came with the suddenness of a winter storm: enough to say that the peasants there were ignorant and superstitious, and their accusations bore no more sense and intelligence than the weepings of young girls. Of course I have long known of the ignorance of these Norwegians, and yet, still I was not prepared for their barbarity and courseness. The people of Harstad do seem to be a little more civilised, and have already shown some interest in the “magic” I have brought to them.

Sjöblom’s fear of Trolls increases with each step further north, and is proving to be most useful. He has not tried to escape since we left Kiruna. I do think he believes that my violin magically keeps the Trolls at a distance, and hence he clings to me like a child, particularly when we are crossing the mountains. I no longer have any cause to beat him, other than the venting of my own frustrations, which he is by now well used to.

Past experience has already shown me that attempts at dispelling the superstitious rot that riddles these peasants lives are all in vein. This time I shall play upon their folkloric nonsense, and use it to my advantage. I have a plan. I am sure that they have not come upon a violin before, and certainly the tone of my fine Gofriller should seem unreal to them and not of this world, as their own hardingfele [an inlaid folk fiddle with sympathy strings] is thin and puny by comparison; and indeed my virtuosity should leave them aghast as the music they are used to is at best banal. I shall tell them that I won the violin from Geirröður himself [the mythical king of the trolls] in a game of chess, and that it must be played only for the Dead. I shall say that it has the power to protect both the living and the dead from trolls and other beasts that fear Geirröður, and that I alone have the power to weald it. I shall not let them see it, but only play it in here, in secret, until there is a death, which, given that winter is on its way, should not be too long. If I can convince them of its magical origins it should be easy to win them over to obeyance of my Art.

September 20th 1782.

Why oh why did I come here. Herr Gratchenfleis told me to take his Art north, and so I have done, but never did I imagine it would be like this. All is damp and dark, and a cold drizzle has drenched the air for over a week now. It is clear that there is no chance of fellowship amongst these people for they think like peasants, behave as animals, and stink of fish! And it seems they consider it now too cold to wash themselves until next spring! A few days ago I met with the village elders, and a bizarre spectacle they were indeed, with their long beards, pointed hats and embroidered capes: looking not unlike the magicians of old were it not for the lack of light of understanding in their eyes. I kept myself aloof and yet feel I sowed enough seeds of mystery about myself to serve my purpose. I told them of my Art and played further upon their fears and superstitions. It is obvious that I have been the cause of much gossip and mythology already, and they have agreed to give me a free hand, in consultation with their priest, at the next funeral, whenever that may be. So I sit and wait for a death, and can but only hope that it is not my own!

September 22nd 1782.

The rain has finally stopped and I must admit there is some beauty to be found in the dark blue of this twilight sky and the long shadows it casts. Even the blackness of the sea has a certain allure. Today, being Sunday, I decided to attend the church service that I might have a good look at these people close up. How they stay so healthy in this God-forsaken climate is an entire mystery, but of the hundred or so souls that attended the mass, I could see only six or seven marked by any serious illness, and of those only two had the look of Death’s shadow upon them. I made a point of arriving last, in my finest dark blue velvet suit and cloak that I had made in Vienna, and the hush that descended upon the congregation as I strode in was most delicious. The priest, who goes by the pretentious name of Laurentius Johannis on Sundays, but is known as Lars Johansson the rest of the week, was notably shaken at my presence, and I took the opportunity to smile my best Devil’s smile at him throughout the sermon, which was long, causing him to sweat profusely, despite the cold. Afterwards I overheard two women talking of a young boy, called Gunnólfr, who is apparently bedridden with consumption, and is coughing much blood, which sounds promising. Once the cold starts to truly bite I may at last have something to do.

September 30th 1782.

I have found the perfect place from which to spin my enchantments. About a mile inland from Harstad there is a cave, set in the side of the hill, which the local peasants fear greatly. Both the cave itself, and the curvature of the surrounding hillside act as a great amphitheatre focussing all sound and sending it whistling on the wind for some considerable distance, distorted and blurred. There is a definite eeriness about the place: the few twisted stunted trees; the swathes of sinister gorse and blackthorn which make the path almost impassable; the multicoloured lichen that covers almost every rock and hangs from the few spindly branches as if they were the final remnants of ragged clothes caught in the many thorns; and all of it barely lit by the distant starlight, for it lies on the northern side of the hill: if I were inclined to believe in fairies I would place them there. It was Sjöblom who first found the place, whilst out hunting for hares, and he took me there this afternoon. I could barely contain my excitement: rarely have I come upon a spot more suited for the contemplation of my Art, and certainly never before in this dismal land. After sending Sjöblom inside to check for wolves or bears, he gathered some firewood and we lit a fire just inside the mouth, which soon provided enough warmth for me to take out my violin and play. The acoustic is extraordinary. The sound bounces all around inside the cave and is then projected out with a considerable force, into the twilit world beyond. I sent Sjöblom back to Harstad and continued with my practice for some hours before venturing back myself. Upon arriving back at our hut Sjöblom told me (through his usual mix of mouthings and gestures) that occasional wisps of music could be heard, though faint and unclear, even here, and had caused much puzzlement and dread amongst the villagers. This is a very compelling development and will aid me considerably in converting the natives to the magic and mystery of my Art. Once again Sjöblom has proven his usefulness. I shall refrain from beating him for a while as his just reward. Assuming he behaves.

October 5th 1782.

Two days ago I made the bold decision to move into the cave. If these peasants are to believe I stand between the world of men and the world of trolls then what better place to live than at the very boundary of the two, and also a place that they fear so profoundly. Of course, I am no mountain dwelling hermit, and have ensured a fine degree of personal comfort, given the circumstances. Since the villagers were unwilling to go within half a mile of the cave, poor Sjöblom had to do all the work, carrying the great wooden door (purchased from the carpenter who had been making it for the church) and other materials. Once he had installed the door he dismantled and carried all the furniture from our hut (that had been bought from the landlord) together with a stock of supplies, and a number of oil lamps. I don’t believe these peasants had ever seen so much gold in their lives, and they suddenly became most ingratiating, though none were brave enough to approach the cave itself. With the further addition of a carpet and some drapes, cleverly mounted on poles by Sjöblom, it has become a veritable home from home, and though Sjöblom has much of the look of fear in his eyes, he seems to feel safe enough so long as I remain with him. When the fire is roaring it is really very snug in here, and the Illvilja adds an internal warmth that almost takes me back to Stockholm.

October 8th 1782.

Sjöblom, being by nature a common sort of fellow, and nervous of the cave, likes to spend time at the inn at Harstad where the villagers believe him to be both dumb and deaf, and therefore happily talk around him without reservations. In this way he has leaned much about their character and superstitions, which he then reports back to me. I have told him to listen particularly for any talk of their fears, as it is a man’s fears that make him most irrational, and therefore willing to believe most anything that soothes the fright within. If I can place my Art at the disposal of their fears, then I will have every chance of success in my mission.

October 10th 1782.

I am beginning to understand the hermit philosophers of old, for a week spent alone in a cave, even as winter closes in, does indeed do strange things to the mind, and certainly helps to sharpen the subtle art of contemplation. Like Jesus in the wilderness, I see the Devil come forth to tempt me in his many guises, dressing my thoughts in a shroud of shame for past crimes and a hundred ill-advised decisions. It is easy to be all too honest with oneself when there is nobody to overhear, and it is only by repeating my vision over and over that I have retained the dignity that has always been so dear to me. My dream: to weald the power of the Heart and Soul with all the might and majesty that I saw that first time in Vienna: and when I feel the weakness rising from my belly, it is all that I can do to take up my violin and lose myself in those wondrous and mysterious works that He placed in my hand with the memorable words “take my music North and I will offer you my blessing”. How many times have I wondered what this truly meant, and why it was I who was chosen? How many times have I felt the creeping despair of doubt at my own abilities to fulfil this task? And yet when I play the music all that blackness falls away as if cast asunder by the bright light of Clarity and Faith. Oh, how I am impatient for the first great test. When oh when will there be a death for me to honour and command? For whilst I remain here, that is my only purpose, without which I am as a bird without flight! a river without water! a beast without teeth!

October 13th 1782.

Sjöblom returned this evening full of fantastical tales of the Trolls. As an educated man, and having travelled much in Europe I know these mountain monsters to be nothing but wild flights of fancy, conjured by these peasant’s own lack of Philosophy and the many mental benefits of Civilisation. And yet I must concede a growing fascination for the workings of the peasant mind. For it seems that not only do they believe in these childish fairy tales of goblins, elves and trolls, but that at least half the village claim to have seen them with their own eyes; and I am sure that they believe it. And they hold up the most questionable of hearsays and wheretofores as if they constituted concrete and unquestionable evidence. And yet this all plays nicely to my plan, for Sjöblom tells me that I have already become a part of these Folkeric stories. They call me “the man between two worlds” which I feel is an apt title, even if not as they intend it. For truly I do stand between two worlds: the world of civilised Europe and this damnable northern wilderness; and, of course, through my music, the world of the living and the world of the Dead. For them, the only other world imaginable is the magic realm of goblins, elves and trolls, and so they cast me in that light. That I have chosen to live in this cave, a place that they avoid and fear, only adds to the magical broth, and when they hear the distant strains of my violin they believe me to be playing for Geirröður himself! And who am I to disappoint?!

Sjöblom also tells me that they believe that the Trolls have many tunnels running through the hill and on, down into the fjord, passing underneath their very village; and that sometimes at night they dig their way up into the barns and store huts to steal the fish and grain from under their noses. But even that is not their greatest fear, for they know that what trolls like best is human flesh, and though they feel themselves to be safe in their beds, they fear greatly for the bodies of their dead. To protect against this their graveyard is surrounded by a ring of fence poles hammered a full 20 ft into the ground, and each newly dug grave is lined with stones: of course trolls eat stones also, but that is of no matter when dealing with the irrational. Twice weekly Laurentius Johannis blesses the graveyard as a charm against this appalling eventuality, and they also place miniature statues of Thor inside the graves as a further defence, in a peculiar mismatch of christain and pagan beliefs. And it is in this role that I see my future, for where’er I play, it stands as a warning from Geirröður to others of the magical realm to leave well alone: for I have Geirröður’s favour, and those whom I favour shall share in the favour of Geirröður. Perhaps I am spending too much time alone here, for, despite my profound rationality, I am beginning to believe it myself.

October 17th 1782.

Snow started falling yesterday morning and has continued ever since, now lying in a blanket at least 2 ft thick, making the trek down to Harstag a considerable effort. The sky gets ever darker as winter unravels here, and I imagine it will soon be as night all day round. This tedious act of waiting has given me ample time for mental preparation, but I am now beginning to lose patience. When will there be a death? Why do these peasants have such a will to cling to life – I had thought that here, where life is at its hardest, and the small rewards it offers are as nothing to the immense effort of survival; that here in this wilderness I would have many an opportunity to demonstrate my Art, and yet I am still waiting. Is the Good Lord playing some cruel trick on me that I am ever prepared but without opportunity for action? It is unbearable!

Sjöblom is spending much time at the Inn, leaving me ever more alone and restless: though he does indeed return each evening, to bring me wood, candles and food. This evening he told me that there are three now nearing death in the town: the young boy Gunnólfr, and two elderly woman who have both been bedridden for over a month, one of whom has fallen into a quiet delirium. My Dear Sjöblom. I am beginning to have some small degree of respect for him; for his immense inward and outward strength, and his seemingly infinite capacity for loyalty. I might even admit that without him, this, my given task, might be beyond the hope of fulfilment.

October 25th 1782.

At last! At last! All thanks be to God. There has been a death. And from an entirely unexpected source. It seems that Olof Timmerman, the carpenter’s son, was climbing a frozen waterfall in search of winter berries, when he slipped, dashing his head against the rocks as he fell! I must acknowledge considerable excitement when I heard this news. One hundred times at last! And I immediately made the trek down into town to consult with the Elders who, it seems, were expecting me. All has been arranged for this coming Sunday. Only four days to wait! I have given them my full instructions for the execution of my services, and they accepted without argument, so long as a full mass is first performed by Johannis.  I feel much like a child anticipating all his birthdays at once. I say again AT LAST!

October 27th 1782.

Thanks be laid upon thanks, praise upon praise: there has been another death! Young Gunnólfr has coughed his last, and I shall have a double funeral! A more fitting opportunity to demonstrate my Art than two young men, both caught unexpectedly by Death in their prime, could not be imagined. I shall become the very high priest of grief; the commander of both trolls and men: my violin shall echo down into the Underworld itself!

October 29th 1782.

A veritable triumph! If only Herr Gratchenfleiss had been there to see me. I performed as a Master, and left them all in no doubt as to the obvious power and commanding spiritual force of my Art. But in my excitement I am jumping ahead of myself. I must record this historic event from the beginning that those that come after me might read of the day that Funerary Violin found its foothold in the North.

For preparation I fasted for a full twelve hours, spending the time in contemplation and mental rehearsal – running through the order of events as I intended them, working out each possible error that I might avoid it, and playing the violin in my mind: repeating each difficult passage until I felt certain that I knew what was coming.

I spent a good hour getting myself dressed in my finest black tweed suit, with gold buckles, and a silk tie, pinned with my grandmothers ruby broach. I painted my face with the vivid white I had purchased in Vienna, carefully placed the beauty spot just below my right eye, and spent much time adjusting my wig, a long one of the old style, in the manner of Herr Gratchenfleiss. I wore my fine soft leather-riding boots, again in black, and to present a perfect finish I hung my dress-sabre at my side. By the time I had finished, and placed my wonderfully warm squirrel-fur-lined cloak around my shoulders I was convinced that no one, save the grand Master himself, had ever looked more the part. Finally, taking my violin case in one hand and my walking staff in the other I headed out towards my destiny.

Outside the world was lit by the cool clean glow of the snow, which now lay a good four-foot thick in many places. Thankfully Sjöblom had kept the path fairly clear during his many journeys back and fourth, making the going somewhat easier than I had imagined, and I must admit that my excitement was so great that I had to remind myself to walk with due dignity. Within half an hour I was standing outside the church whilst the service was enacted within. It had been suggested to me that I should take over as the coffin leaves the church – a polite way of requesting that I stay away from the service as the magic I was bringing was not Christ’s magic – and I was happy to oblige them in this, as I felt it could only add to the enigmatic spirit of the presentation I had planned.

I cannot say how long I had to wait, for however long it may have been it seemed to be considerably longer. Both the moon and the sun’s distant twilight glow lit up the sky, and I watched the silhouetted seagulls wheel and rail in the wind, imagining them to be the very souls of the dead, dancing to the strains of my violin. As I heard the final hymn from within the church I took my fine instrument from its box, checked the tuning, tightened and rosined the bow and I was ready.

I had begun before I even knew it – as the great door of the church swung open I was already playing almost unaware of my own actions as I was swept up in the spirit of the moment. I remember thinking how cold my hands were, though they quickly warmed at the thrill of it all, and also seeing the orange glint of the candles flickering as the two coffins were carried from the church. The peasants were all got up in their ridiculous embroidered fineries, with fur waistcoats and felt hats, looking a little more festive than I had imagined, but that was made up for in the sternly etched sorrow they wore upon their faces.

The coffins, one full size, the other a little smaller, were solemnly paraded with myself at the head performing with great earnestness and, I might add, some considerable power and intensity. The graveyard, set just outside the small town, about 500 yards down the path towards the jetty, was relatively small, and the stones, which were left much in their natural state and were crudely carved with the names and fates of the dead, glistened in the reflected light of the fires which had been lit, one in each corner. The snow was still falling, though only lightly. Once we arrived the two boxes were placed into the two surprisingly shallow depressions that were cut into the frozen soil – I presumed they would be dug deeper come the springtime thaw – and all assembled stood in silent acknowledgement of my artistry whilst I played through eight of the great man’s works, with many improvised variations and developments. Oh I was a veritable Gratchenfleiss, and their delight and admiration was only just kept hidden beneath the necessity for a sombre visage of grief. Upon my conclusion I was left in no doubt as to the profound consolation I had offered them, both in terms of the expression of their grief in the correct manner, and the protection they felt I had offered their dead, through the magic of my violin. Finally the two boxes were piled with stones, each about the size of a fist, until the whole was entirely covered, at which point I turned and, with a dramatic flourish of my cloak, returned to the church, followed only by Sjöblom, placed my instrument in its case and headed back to the cave. My heart was beating with such vigour at the thrill of it all that I seemed to almost fly up the hill, with Sjöblom barely keeping up the pace. Oh historic day! May it be the first of many! A Triumph!

*****

Fascinating though this journal is (and it is without doubt the most detailed account yet discovered of the day to day life and mental vacillations of a Funerary Violinist, albeit in most unusual circumstances), its value as a contribution to the overall history of the genre is limited as Ola Nilsson himself wrote no music of his own and the dynasty he established had no influence whatever beyond Harstad and the neighbouring town (relatively) of Tromse. The following journals continue in much the same tone, with detailed descriptions of each funeral he participated in (271 in total over the following 25 years – which was a fair number considering that the population of Harstad given in the 1786 census was 662, and Tromse counted 560), alongside accounts of his day to day life: what he ate and drank; how often he beat his servant; and his many difficulties in getting money transferred from Stockholm: however, there are four specific funerals recounted that do at least establish him as the originator of a unique, if un-influential twist to the tradition. By the early 18th century Funerary Violin had become profoundly associated with the intention of assisting the spirit to pass over, and was always performed in the presence of the body, it being considered meaningless if the Dead are not within hearing. It was also a largely urban phenomenon, present in all cities and even smaller towns by 1700, though not unknown in many of the larger villages. Coastal towns and villages, whose inhabitants were largely fisherman by profession, often faced the spectre of death by drowning at sea, where recovery of the bodies was not an option, and the Funerary Violinist might perhaps play at the memorial, but the performance was generally considered to be of little more than symbolic value, being of no real use to the dead themselves. What sets Nilsson apart from the many hundreds of other coastal Funerary Violinists is his embrace of the pagan elements still very prominent in the Christianity of Northern Norway, and, in his self-appointed role as intermediary between this world and the fairy world of folklore, his willingness to develop the Art in whatever direction seemed necessary to further establish his position. Again, the author has deemed it appropriate to allow Nilsson himself to present the circumstances in his own words (considerably edited):

From  Ola Nilsson’s Journal (volume 8):

March 27th 1790.

Around lunchtime Sjöblom came rushing in with a letter from the Elders of Tromse. I have been aware for a while now that my fame is spreading, and have been expecting this for some time. It seems that one of their fishing boats had been wrecked against the rocks in last week’s storm, killing all 12 men on board. They are deeply concerned for the spirits of the dead, who, having been denied a proper burial are in danger of turning to draugs, condemned to wandering the freezing waters for eternity, and they believe that my magic might relieve the situation. Not even the Pope can consecrate the sea, and yet they are calling for me! Am I now to be more powerful than all of their priests! I will, of course, leave tomorrow morning on a journey that should take no more than 2 days. A boat is awaiting us in Harstad, so at least we won’t have to suffer the indignities of Sjöblom’s donkey again. I shall wear my new bag-wig that arrived last week, perhaps with the blue powder, as I suspect that my beloved black periwig would not survive the journey: it has suffered much over the last few years with only Sjöblom to dress it, and its curls no longer hold for much more than half a day.

March 30th 1790.

Oh how I hate boats! So many men in so small a space can hardly be healthy, and after only 2 days the stink was unendurable. My relief upon arrival was immense, and further exaggerated by the most comfortable lodgings they have provided my in the Mayor’s own home. And Brandy! I haven’t tasted proper French Brandy in many years, and knowing me to have a continental bent they have given me a whole bottle! Together with a splendid half ham!

The ceremony is planned for tomorrow afternoon. I am somewhat perplexed as to how it will proceed, since the Dead will not be present, and fear it will take all of my powers of focus, theatre and intensity to maintain the Spirit, but I do have something special planned. I have told them to bring 12 coffins filled with consecrated soil, so that I might at least have something at which to aim my playing. I also emphasized the importance of the boxes being filled not just symbolically but literally as otherwise they wouldn’t sink to bottom where the bodies lie, but merely float away. At the culmination we shall offer the coffins to the sea, thus providing the dead with a representation of burial in consecrated ground, and, together with my own magical protection from the other world, they should all be suitably reassured, and my own status as prophet of the Art shall be assured! I am sure Herr Gratchenfleiss would approve. I still do not know if their priest will be present, though I hope him not to be. Priests and boats do not mix well, and these people are basically pagans. Success lies in harnessing their Old beliefs and a priest might make for further difficulties.

I should sleep well tonight, as the bed is the best I have been offered in years, and the covers are stuffed with real duck-down.

March 31st 1790.

A truly historic day, though not without considerable difficulties along the way. Thankfully we were blessed with calm seas, clear skies, and high tides, all of which much aided our effort, indeed, I am not sure we would have been able to proceed at all had it not been so. I must admit that I had not fully considered the weight of the 12 coffins; nor indeed the space they would take up, and almost contemplated reinventing my plans when I saw the boat, which was so heavily laden it had sunk uncomfortably low in the water. One fortunate result of this overloading was that there was no room for their priest, Abrahamus Erici, (I do find these Latinised names rather ridiculous) who had intended to be present. As it was there was only the space for eight men, and, much to my relief, they were chosen for their seamanship and strength at rowing. Since all of the dead were from only two families there were three representatives of each, together with myself and the mayor, who, unusually for these Northern folks, wore a bob-wig of the English style, un-powdered and mostly undressed: I imagine this was intended to impress me. Sjöblom seemed content to stay ashore and enjoy the popularity and status accorded to him through his association with me.

It took around half an hour to reach the mouth of the fjord where the wreck was thought to have occurred, and the great weight of the coffins made the boat feel more than little unwieldy: by the time we arrived the water was a full two inches deep underfoot. Fortunately they had erected a small stage for me in the bow of the boat, with a raised canopy to protect from the elements, which proved invaluable as the low height above the water led to much splashing. The place of the wreck itself was not without its own austere beauty. To seaward left two great pillars of rock rose up out of the deep like the towers of some ancient cathedral long since drowned, and all about high cliffs fell without compromise in what can only be described as a bold confrontation between land and sea. In the few places where the rocks stepped less steeply from the water could be seen great dark lolling shapes whose eyes glinted in the low light of the sun. What manner of seal they were could not be told from such a distance but it was easy to see how these peasant sailors could mistake them for the souls of drowned men or other magical spirit beasts. As we approached the great pillars they slowly lumbered off the rocks one by one, and were gone. What was strangest of all was the extraordinary sound made by the wind, gentle as it was, as it echoed around the great stacks of rock, like the low moaning of the draugs they feared their own drowned brethren might become. The place was full of atmosphere, made all the more potent by the distant watery light of late winter.

Once all were satisfied that we had found the correct place of the wreck, they dropped the anchor: four torches were lit to symbolise the boundaries of our symbolic consecration: and it was time for me to play my part. As soon as I put bow to string I noticed that the wind’s mournful drone was pitched on the note G, a truly propitious omen for, as the Master himself said “G minor is the key most beloved of the Spirit of Death” and it made for an eerie though harmonious accompaniment to my opening dirges. As I played I began to notice many eyes watching me from within the water, reflecting the light of the torches, initially filling me with a mild form of horror until I realised that it was the seals, curious about what I imagine they must have thought were truly extraordinary sounds that I was making – for I can be certain that they had never before heard the music of Herr Gratchenfleiss. I noticed too that the peasants were much more uneasy at this sight than I, and assumed they took it as a sign of the magic I was conjuring.  I opened with “The Misbegotten Charm of Death”, and followed with “The sombre Coquetry of Death” and “The Unquenchable Thirst of Death”. There having been no procession I had decided to leave any marches or processionals until after the final mock burial of the coffins, for theatre’s sake, and continued with the plaintive “Unknowable Vision of Death”. I concluded the opening part of the ceremony with the wonderful “Dizzy Flight of Death” before commanding the men to cast the coffins into the sea with as much drama and consequence as I could muster. Then, somewhat to my own surprise, I was moved by the moment to cry out to the sky, invoking Geirröður, and, further caught up in the spirit of the role I was enacting, demanded that he and all his subjects in the magical realm consider this place to be Sacred to Men and therefore beyond their reach. At the end of this unexpected though masterful display of theatrical brilliance I launched into a truly ferocious performance of “The Fleeting Panic of Death” and, upon my conclusion, declared that the souls of the dead were now safe from all forms of unnatural magic. By then the seals had had their fill of the music and departed further demonstrating the success of my performance to the peasants, who now seemed at ease and greatly impressed by my formidable powers as an Artist. As we set off back to Tromse I played a selection of the Masters marches and processionals until the wharf was in sight, at which point I placed my violin back in its box and stood in silent majesty on my stage, in the bow of the boat, looking every bit the part. I am certain that this performance will go down in the History of Funerary Violin as a major evolution of the Art, and should guarantee my place alongside Gratchenfleiss as one of its foremost exponents. I cannot help but pray for another great storm to come soon, as there are many things I might do slightly differently next time, but, for all of that, I am content that I have served this town well, and am in no doubt that my services shall be called upon again many times in the future.

*****

In the long run Nilsson did earn his place in the History of Funerary Violin, though not for his playing so much as the copious accounts of his day-to-day life as recorded in his journals. Indeed there are no accounts of his playing whatever, so far discovered, other than his own, and without corroborating evidence it is impossible to have any real idea of his abilities, either technical or musical, as it is clear from his writing that he had a tendency towards self-aggrandisement at times bordering upon delusion. However, in the light of all that has been lost, these journals do represent an invaluable wealth of information and contemporary comment on the Art of the time, even if its value is somewhat tempered by the unusual personality of Nilsson himself and the unique and isolated situation he sought out for the expression of his Art.

Hidden within the many thousands of pages are occasional details and comments which scholars of the Art of Funerary Violin have found particularly tantalising: most notably those pertaining to Herr Gratchenfleiss. Rarely do a number of pages pass without some form of reference to Herr Gratchenfleiss, though in most cases, as has been seen, it takes the form of an invocation to a poetical muse, and offers little that is useful in the way of facts. However, it is in his lists of repertoire that he incidentally offers us possibly the fullest account of the works of Herr Gratchenfleiss yet uncovered. It was Nilsson’s habit to record which pieces he had played at each funeral. Initially the lists are often brief and vague but by 1786 he was recording each individual piece (though often with the exception of the processionals) and by 1800 his daily entries also record which pieces he had practiced or played through during the day. In all he mentions 77 works of which only 6 have survived. In addition we know that all of the works he mentions were composed before 1781, when Herr Gratchenfleiss presented him with the book of music, which sheds new light on the dates of the pieces discovered in the Hildesheim Trunk. The music book itself is regrettably not among the papers in the possession of Hildr Hök, and she believes it was sold, along with Nilsson’s fine Gofriller violin, in 1922. Sadly, being a young girl at the time, all she can recall is that the instrument, and a number of the papers, were bought from her grandfather by a middle-aged German man called Heinrich who gave her a red ribbon for her hair and a couple of boiled sweets.  That a copy of this book had survived until 1922 is, in itself, remarkable, and raises some hopes that it might today be in the hands of a library or private collection waiting to be found and brought to light.

In 1803 Ola Nilson married Hælga Skjaldvör, a local girl from Harstad, who was then only 17 years old. Their long courtship, covering a period of eight months during which time his attitude towards the local townspeople gradually changed from disdain and condescension to a grudging respect, takes up over 150 pages of the journals, but is not relevant to this particular history, save that she was evidently a gifted musician, and came from a family of Hardanger Fiddlers; and that she performed with such beauty that even the cruellest of hearts cannot fail to be moved. Over the following four years she bore him two sons, Ola Nilsson II, who was ultimately to take up his father’s Art, and Andor Nilsson, who died at the age of three.

On December 12th 1807 Ola Nilsson (I) died of what was probably a heart attack (it is known that he had developed a considerable fondness for Walrus fat and drank a little too much Illvilja). That would have been the end of the story were it not for the unexpected determination of both Hælga and Sjöblom to preserve his Art. The last entry in volume 47 of the journals, written in Hælga’s untutored hand explains:

My beloved Ola, who saved me from the dismal life of my forebears, died last Sunday in the early hours, after a sudden collapse. I will miss him eternally, for my heart is now forever broken. I am not much one for writing but felt that this, his final chapter, should be recorded in these, the journals that he so loved to keep. The greatest tragedy of all is that there was no one present who was skilled in the Art to which he had so dedicated his life, and thus his funeral passed without the music that he so loved. I played the saddest tunes I knew on my Hardingfele, but it was not as it should have been, and at the end I vowed quietly to myself that I would take up his violin and learn to play, not for myself, but that I might teach my sons the Art that had brought their noble father to this place, for Ola had taught me the reading of notes, and I know something of the style from hearing him play.

After the funeral gathering had passed and I had returned to our cave with Sjöblom and the boys, a miracle occurred, for Sjöblom spoke, in a weak though deep voice never heard before. Oh, if only Ola had been here to hear, though it was probably the shock of seeing his master buried without the appropriate musical rites that moved him to break his silence. He offered no explanation but spoke to say that his name was Knut, and that he would teach me the skills of my husband for he had watched him for many years and knew how his fingers worked the music; and I am now confident that we can, between us, resurrect the Art that was lost when he departed.

I will not be writing here again, considering that my duty is now done and that the great book of his life that he compiled with such diligence and love has now been closed forever.

May he rest in peace, in the knowledge that his legacy will be preserved and that his sons, and grandson’s, will be taught the very skills that he himself brought to us from a faraway place many years ago.

My darling Ola, I will love you forever.

This touching final entry proved to be more than merely a naïve intention as the other bundles of papers found with the journals include many records that demonstrate a dynasty of Funerary Violinists that lasted a further four generations. Among them there are invoices and receipts for services rendered, letters of thanks and a number of photographs. Of course, whether their performances bore any resemblance to those of Ola Nilsson I will never be known.

By 1840 the family money had run dry and Ola Nilsson III was forced to earn his living as a fisherman, performing Funerary Violin to supplement his income. Indeed Harstad was always too small and remote a town to ever support a professional Funerary Violinist and it was only the private income that enabled Ola Nilsson I and II dedicate their whole lives to the Art. Both Sjöblom and Hælga lived remarkably long lives: Sjöblom died in 1856 at the age of 94, and Hælga died in 1867 aged 81. The last of the Dynasty, Ola Nilsson V died in 1906.