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Peter Christen Asbjörnsen
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Title: 'Round the yule-log: Christmas in Norway
Author: Peter Christen Asbjörnsen
Translator: H. L. Broekstad
Release Date: April 15, 2010 [EBook #31993]
Language: English
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[Frontispiece: Picture of a troll pulling girl by the arm]
[Illustration: Picture of a laughing troll]
'Round the Yule-Log
Christmas in Norway
BY
P. CHR. ASBJÖRNSEN
TRANSLATED BY
H. L. BROEKSTAD.
BOSTON
DANA ESTES AND CO.
PUBLISHERS
_Copyright, 1895,_
BY ESTES AND LAURIAT
_All rights reserved_
Colonial Press
Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co.
Boston, Mass., U. S. A.
'ROUND THE YULE-LOG.
The wind was whistling through the old lime and maple trees opposite my
windows, the snow was sweeping down the street, and the sky was black as
a December sky can possibly be here in Christiania. I was in just as
black a mood. It was Christmas Eve,--the first I was to spend away from
the cosey fireside of my home. I had lately received my officer's
commission, and had hoped that I should have gladdened my aged parents
with my presence during the holidays, and had also hoped that I should
be able to show myself in all my glory and splendour to the ladies of
our parish. But a fever had brought me to the hospital, which I had left
only a week before, and now I found myself in the much-extolled state of
convalescence. I had written home for a horse and sledge and my father's
fur coat, but my letter could scarcely reach our valley before the day
after Christmas, and the horse could not be in town before New Year's
Eve.
My comrades had all left town, and I knew no family with whom I could
make myself at home during the holidays. The two old maids I lodged with
were certainly very kind and friendly people, and they had taken great
care of me in the commencement of my illness, but the peculiar ways and
habits of these ladies were too much of the old school to prove
attractive to the fancies of youth. Their thoughts dwelt mostly on the
past; and when they, as often might occur, related to me some stories of
the town, its people and its customs, these stories reminded me, not
only by their contents, but also by the simple, unaffected way in which
they were rendered, of a past age.
[Illustration: Picture of two old maids]
The antiquated appearance of these ladies was also in the strictest
harmony with the house in which they lived. It was one of those old
houses in Custom House Street, with deep windows, long dark passages and
staircases, gloomy rooms and garrets, where one could not help thinking
of ghosts and brownies; in short, just such a house, and perhaps it was
the very one, which Mauritz Hansen has described in his story, "The Old
Dame with the Hood." Their circle of acquaintances was very limited;
besides a married sister and her children, no other visitors came there
but a couple of tiresome old ladies. The only relief to this kind of
life was a pretty niece and some merry little cousins of hers, who
always made me tell them fairy tales and stories.
I tried to divert myself in my loneliness and melancholy mood by looking
out at all the people who passed up and down the street in the snow and
wind, with blue noses and half-shut eyes. It amused me to see the bustle
and the life in the apothecary's shop across the street. The door was
scarcely shut for a moment. Servants and peasants streamed in and out,
and commenced to study the labels and directions when they came out in
the street. Some appeared to be able to make them out, but sometimes a
lengthy study and a dubious shake of the head showed that the solution
was too difficult. It was growing dusk. I could not distinguish the
countenances any longer, but gazed across at the old building. The
apothecary's house, "The Swan," as it is still called, stood there,
with its dark, reddish-brown walls, its pointed gables and towers, with
weather-cocks and latticed windows, as a monument of the architecture of
the time of King Christian the Fourth. The Swan looked then, as now, a
most respectable and sedate bird, with its gold ring round its neck, its
spur-boots, and its wings stretched out as if to fly. I was about to
plunge myself into reflection on imprisoned birds when I was disturbed
by noise and laughter proceeding from some children in the adjoining
room, and by a gentle, old-maidish knock at my door.
[Illustration: Picture of an old maid knocking at the door]
On my requesting the visitor to come in, the elder of my landladies,
Miss Mette, entered the room with a courtesy in the good old style; she
inquired after my health, and invited me, without further ceremony, to
come and make myself at home with them for the evening. "It isn't good
for you, dear Lieutenant, to sit thus alone here in the dark," she
added. "Will you not come in to us now at once? Old Mother Skau and my
brother's little girls have come; they will perhaps amuse you a little.
You are so fond of the dear children."
[Illustration: Picture of an old woman wearing a cap]
I accepted the friendly invitation. As I entered the room, the fire from
the large square stove, where the logs were burning lustily, threw a
red, flickering light through the wide-open door over the room, which
was very deep, and furnished in the old style, with high-back, Russia
leather chairs, and one of those settees which were intended for
farthingales and straight up-and-down positions. The walls were adorned
with oil paintings, portraits of stiff ladies with powdered coiffures,
of bewigged Oldenborgians, and other redoubtable persons in mail and
armour or red coats.
[Illustration: Picture of the narrator looking at the paintings]
"You must really excuse us, Lieutenant, for not having lighted the
candles yet," said Miss Cicely, the younger sister, who was generally
called "Cilly," and who came towards me and dropped a courtesy, exactly
like her sister's; "but the children do so like to tumble about here
before the fire in the dusk of the evening, and Madam Skau does also
enjoy a quiet little chat in the chimney corner."
"Oh, chat me here and chat me there! there is nothing you like yourself
better than a little bit of gossip in the dusk of the evening, Cilly,
and then we are to get the blame of it," answered the old asthmatic lady
whom they called Mother Skau.
"Eh! good evening, sir," she said to me, as she drew herself up to make
the best of her own inflated, bulky appearance. "Come and sit down here
and tell me how it fares with you; but, by my troth, you are nothing but
skin and bones!"
I had to tell her all about my illness, and in return I had to endure a
very long and circumstantial account of her rheumatism and her
asthmatical ailments, which, fortunately, was interrupted by the noisy
arrival of the children from the kitchen, where they had paid a visit to
old Stine, a fixture in the house.
"Oh, auntie, do you know what Stine says?" cried a little brown-eyed
beauty. "She says I shall go with her into the hay-loft to-night and
give the brownie his Christmas porridge. But I won't go; I am afraid of
the brownies!"
"Never mind, my dear, Stine says it only to get rid of you; she dare not
go into the hay-loft herself--the foolish old thing--in the dark, for
she knows well enough she was frightened once by the brownies herself,"
said Miss Mette. "But are you not going to say good evening to the
Lieutenant, children?"
"Oh, is that you, Lieutenant? I did not know you. How pale you are! It
is such a long time since I saw you!" shouted the children all at once,
as they flocked round me.
"Now you must tell us something awfully jolly! It is such a long time
since you told us anything. Oh, tell us about Buttercup, dear Mr.
Lieutenant, do tell us about Buttercup and Goldentooth!"
I had to tell them about Buttercup and the dog Goldentooth, but they
would not let me off until I gave them a couple of stories into the
bargain about the brownies at Vager and at Bure, who stole hay from each
other, and who met at last with a load of hay on their backs, and how
they fought till they vanished in a cloud of hay-dust. I had also to
tell them the story of the brownie at Hesselberg, who teased the
house-dog till the farmer came out and threw him over the barn bridge.
The children clapped their hands in great joy and laughed heartily.
[Illustration: Picture of two brownies fighting]
"It served him right, the naughty brownie!" they shouted, and asked for
another story.
"Well," said I, "I will tell you the story of Peter Gynt and the trolls.
"In the olden days there lived in Kvam a hunter whose name was Peter
Gynt, and who was always roaming about in the mountains after bears and
elks, for in those days there were more forests on the mountains than
there are now, and consequently plenty of wild beasts.
"One day, shortly before Christmas, Peter set out on an expedition. He
had heard of a farm on Doorefell which was invaded by such a number of
trolls every Christmas Eve that the people on the farm had to move out,
and get shelter at some of their neighbours'. He was anxious to go
there, for he had a great fancy to come across the trolls, and see if he
could not overcome them. He dressed himself in some old ragged clothes,
and took a tame white bear which he had with him, as well as an awl,
some pitch and twine. When he came to the farm he went in and asked for
lodgings.
[Illustration: Picture of Peter Gynt and his tame white bear]
"'God help us!' said the farmer; 'we can't give you any lodgings. We
have to clear out of the house ourselves soon and look for lodgings, for
every Christmas Eve we have the trolls here.'
"But Peter thought he should be able to clear the trolls out,--he had
done such a thing before; and then he got leave to stay, and a pig's
skin into the bargain. The bear lay down behind the fireplace, and
Peter took out his awl and pitch and twine, and began making a big, big
shoe, which it took the whole pig's skin to make. He put a strong rope
in for lacings, that he might pull the shoe tightly together, and,
finally, he armed himself with a couple of handspikes.
"Shortly he heard the trolls coming. They had a fiddler with them, and
some began dancing, while others fell to eating the Christmas fare on
the table,--some fried bacon, and some fried frogs and toads, and other
nasty things which they had brought with them. During this some of the
trolls found the shoe Peter had made. They thought it must belong to a
very big foot. They all wanted to try it on at once, so they put a foot
each into it; but Peter made haste and tightened the rope, took one of
the handspikes and fastened the rope around it, and got them at last
securely tied up in the shoe.
"Just then the bear put his nose out from behind the fireplace, where he
was lying, and smelt they were frying something.
"'Will you have a sausage, pussy?' said one of the trolls, and threw a
hot frog right into the bear's jaws.
"'Scratch them, pussy!' said Peter.
"The bear got so angry that he rushed at the trolls and scratched them
all over, while Peter took the other handspike and hammered away at them
as if he wanted to beat their brains out. The trolls had to clear out at
last, but Peter stayed and enjoyed himself with all the Christmas fare
the whole week. After that the trolls were not heard of there for many
years.
"Some years afterwards, about Christmas time, Peter was out in the
forest cutting wood for the holidays, when a troll came up to him and
shouted,--
[Illustration: Picture of a troll shouting at Peter Gynt]
"'Have you got that big pussy of yours, yet?'
"'Oh, yes! she is at home behind the fireplace,' said he; 'and she has
got seven kittens, all bigger and larger than herself.'
"'We'll never come to you any more, then,' said the troll, and they
never did."
The children were all delighted with this story.
"Tell us another, dear Lieutenant," they all shouted in chorus.
"No, no, children! you bother the Lieutenant too much," said Miss
Cicely. "Aunt Mette will tell you a story now."
"Yes, do, auntie, do!" was the general cry.
"I don't know exactly what I shall tell you," said Aunt Mette, "but
since we have commenced telling about the brownies, I think I will tell
you something about them, too. You remember, of course, old Kari
Gausdal, who came here and baked bread, and who always had so many tales
to tell you."
"Oh, yes, yes!" shouted the children.
"Well, old Kari told me that she was in service at the orphan asylum
some years ago, and at that time it was still more dreary and lonely in
that part of the town than it is now. That asylum is a dark and dismal
place, I can tell you. Well, when Kari came there she was cook, and a
very smart and clever girl she was. She had, one day, to get up very
early in the morning to brew, when the other servants said to her,--
"'You had better mind you don't get up too early, and you mustn't put
any fire under the copper before two o'clock.'
"'Why?' she asked.
"'Don't you know there is a brownie here? And you ought to know that
those people don't like to be disturbed so early,' they said; 'and
before two o'clock you mustn't light the fire by any means.'
"'Is that all?' said Kari. She was anything but chicken-hearted. 'I have
nothing to do with that brownie of yours, but if he comes in my way,
why, by my faith, I will send him head over heels through the door.'
"The others warned her, but she did not care a bit, and next morning,
just as the clock struck one, she got up and lighted the fire under the
copper in the brewhouse; but the fire went out in a moment. Somebody
appeared to be throwing the logs about on the hearth, but she could not
see who it was. She gathered the logs together, one at a time, but it
was of no use, and the chimney would not draw, either. She got tired of
this at last, took a burning log and ran around the room with it,
swinging it high and low while she shouted, 'Be gone, be gone whence you
came! If you think you can frighten me you are mistaken.' 'Curse you!'
somebody hissed in one of the darkest corners. 'I have had seven souls
in this house; I thought I should have got eight in all!' 'But from that
time nobody saw or heard the brownie in the asylum,' said Kari Gausdal."
[Illustration: Picture of Kari swinging the burning log]
"I am getting so frightened!" said one of the children. "No, you must
tell us some more stories, Lieutenant; I never feel afraid when you tell
us anything, because you tell us such jolly tales." Another proposed
that I should tell them about the brownie who danced the Halling dance
with the lassie. That was a tale I didn't care much about, as there was
some singing in it. But they would on no account let me off, and I was
going to clear my throat and prepare my exceedingly inharmonious voice
to sing the Halling dance, which belongs to the story, when the pretty
niece, whom I have already referred to, entered the room, to the great
joy of the children and to my rescue.
"Well, my dear children, I will tell you the story, if you can get
cousin Lizzie to sing the Halling for you," said I, as she sat down,
"and then you'll dance to it yourselves, won't you?"
Cousin Lizzie was besieged by the children, and had to promise to do the
singing, so I commenced my story.
"There was, once upon a time,--I almost think it was in Hallingdal,--a
lassie who was sent up into the hay-loft with the cream porridge for the
brownie,--I cannot recollect if it was on a Thursday or on a Christmas
Eve, but I think it was a Christmas Eve. Well, she thought it was a
great pity to give the brownie such a dainty dish, so she ate the
porridge herself, and the melted butter in the bargain, and went up into
the hay-loft with the plain oatmeal porridge and sour milk, in a pig's
trough instead. 'There, that's good enough for you, Master Brownie,' she
said. But no sooner had she spoken the words than the brownie stood
right before her, seized her round the waist, and danced about with her,
which he kept up till she lay gasping for breath, and when the people
came up into the hay-loft in the morning, she was more dead than alive.
But as long as they danced, the brownie sang," (and here Cousin Lizzie
undertook his part, and sang to the tune of the Halling)--
[Illustration: Picture of the girl lying in the hay-loft]
"And you have eaten the porridge for the brownie,
And you shall dance with the little brownie!
"And have you eaten the porridge for the brownie?
Then you shall dance with the little brownie!"
I assisted in keeping time by stamping on the floor with my feet, while
the children romped about the room in uproarious joy.
"I think you are turning the house upside down, children!" said old
Mother Skau; "if you'll be quiet, I'll give you a story."
The children were soon quiet, and Mother Skau commenced as follows:
[Illustration: Picture of a Brownie hurling dishes on the floor]
"You hear a great deal about brownies and fairies and such like beings,
but I don't believe there is much in it. I have neither seen one nor the
other. Of course I have not been so very much about in my lifetime, but
I believe it is all nonsense. But old Stine out in the kitchen there,
she says she has seen the brownie. About the time when I was confirmed
she was in service with my parents. She came to us from a captain's, who
had given up the sea. It was a very quiet place. The captain only took a
walk as far as the quay every day. They always went to bed early. People
said there was a brownie in the house. Well, it so happened that Stine
and the cook were sitting in their room one evening, mending and darning
their things; it was near bedtime, for the watchman had already sung out
'Ten o'clock!' but somehow the darning and the sewing went on very
slowly indeed; every moment 'Jack Nap' came and played his tricks upon
them. At one moment Stine was nodding and nodding, and then came the
cook's turn,--they could not keep their eyes open; they had been up
early that morning to wash clothes. But just as they were sitting thus,
they heard a terrible crash down stairs in the kitchen, and Stine
shouted, 'Lor' bless and preserve us! it must be the brownie.' She was
so frightened she dared scarcely move a foot, but at last the cook
plucked up courage and went down into the kitchen, closely followed by
Stine. When they opened the kitchen door they found all the crockery on
the floor, but none of it broken, while the brownie was standing on the
big kitchen table with his red cap on, and hurling one dish after the
other on to the floor, and laughing in great glee. The cook had heard
that the brownies could sometimes be tricked into moving into another
house when anybody would tell them of a very quiet place, and as she
long had been wishing for an opportunity to play a trick upon this
brownie, she took courage and spoke to him,--her voice was a little
shaky at the time,--that he ought to remove to the tinman's over the
way, where it was so very quiet and pleasant, because they always went
to bed at nine o'clock every evening; which was true enough, as the cook
told Stine later, but then the master and all his apprentices and
journeymen were up every morning at three o'clock and hammered away and
made a terrible noise all day. Since that day they have not seen the
brownie any more at the captain's. He seemed to feel quite at home at
the tinman's, although they were hammering and tapping away there all
day; but people said that the gude-wife put a dish of porridge up in the
garret for him every Thursday evening, and it's no wonder that they got
on well and became rich when they had a brownie in the house. Stine
believed he brought things to them. Whether it was the brownie or not
who really helped them, I cannot say," said Mother Skau, in conclusion,
and got a fit of coughing and choking after the exertion of telling
this, for her, unusually long story.
[Illustration: Picture of the gude-wife putting porridge in the garret]
When she had taken a pinch of snuff she felt better, and became quite
cheerful again, and began:--
"My mother, who, by the way, was a truthful woman, told a story which
happened here in the town one Christmas Eve. I know it is true, for an
untrue word never passed her lips."
"Let us hear it, Madame Skau," said I.
"Yes, tell, tell, Mother Skau!" cried the children.
She coughed a little, took another pinch of snuff, and proceeded:--
"When my mother still was in her teens, she used sometimes to visit a
widow whom she knew, and whose name was,--dear me, what was her
name?--Madame,--yes, Madame Evensen, of course. She was a woman who had
seen the best part of her life, but whether she lived up in Mill Street
or down in the corner by the Little Church Hill, I cannot say for
certain. Well, one Christmas Eve, just like to-night, she thought she
would go to the morning service on the Christmas Day, for she was a
great church-goer, and so she left out some coffee with the girl before
she went to bed, that she might get a cup next morning,--she was sure a
cup of warm coffee would do her a great deal of good at that early hour.
When she woke, the moon was shining into the room; but when she got up
to look at the clock she found it had stopped and that the fingers
pointed to half-past eleven. She had no idea what time it could be, so
she went to the window and looked across to the church. The light was
streaming out through all the windows. She must have overslept herself!
She called the girl and told her to get the coffee ready, while she
dressed herself. So she took her hymn-book and started for church. The
street was very quiet; she did not meet a single person on her way to
church. When she went inside, she sat down in her customary seat in one
of the pews, but when she looked around her she thought that the people
were so pale and so strange,--exactly as if they were all dead. She did
not know any of them, but there were several of them she seemed to
recollect having seen before; but when and where she had seen them she
could not call to mind. When the minister came into the pulpit, she saw
that he was not one of the ministers in the town, but a tall, pale man,
whose face, however, she thought she could recollect. He preached very
nicely indeed, and there was not the usual noisy coughing and hawking
which you always hear at the morning services on a Christmas Day; it was
so quiet, you could have heard a needle drop on the floor,--in fact, it
was so quiet she began to feel quite uneasy and uncomfortable. When the
singing commenced again, a female who sat next to her leant towards her
and whispered in her ear, 'Throw the cloak loosely around you and go,
because if you wait here till the service is over they will make short
work of you. It is the dead who are keeping service.'"
[Illustration: Picture of a Church with light streaming from the windows]
"Oh, Mother Skau, I feel so frightened, I feel so frightened!" whimpered
one of the children, and climbed up on a chair.
"Hush, hush, child!" said Mother Skau. "She got away from them safe
enough; only listen! When the widow heard the voice of the person next
to her, she turned round to look at her,--but what a start she got! She
recognized her; it was her neighbour who died many years ago; and when
she looked around the church, she remembered well that she had seen both
the minister and several of the congregation before, and that they had
died long ago. This sent quite a cold shiver through her, she became
that frightened. She threw the cloak loosely round her, as the female
next to her had said, and went out of the pew; but she thought they all
turned round and stretched out their hands after her. Her legs shook
under her, till she thought she would sink down on the church floor.
When she came out on the steps, she felt that they had got hold of her
cloak; she let it go and left it in their clutches, while she hurried
home as quickly as she could. When she came to the door the clock struck
one, and by the time she got inside she was nearly half dead,--she was
that frightened. In the morning when the people went to church, they
found the cloak lying on the steps, but it was torn into a thousand
pieces. My mother had often seen the cloak before, and I think she saw
one of the pieces, also; but that doesn't matter,--it was a short, pink,
woollen cloak, with fur lining and borders, such as was still in use in
my childhood. They are very rarely seen nowadays, but there are some old
ladies in the town and down at the 'Home' whom I see with such cloaks in
church at Christmas time."
[Illustration: Picture of a girl running from the church]
The children, who had expressed considerable fear and uneasiness during
the latter part of the story, declared they would not hear any more such
terrible stories. They had crept up into the sofa and on the chairs, but
still they thought they felt somebody plucking at them from underneath
the table. Suddenly the lights were brought in, and we discovered then,
to our great amusement, that the children had put their legs on to the
table. The lights, the Christmas cake, the jellies, the tarts and the
wine soon chased away the horrible ghost story and all fear from their
minds, revived everybody's spirits, and brought the conversation on to
their neighbours and the topics of the day. Finally, our thoughts took a
flight towards something more substantial, on the appearance of the
Christmas porridge and the roast ribs of pork. We broke up early, and
parted with the best wishes for a Merry Christmas. I passed, however, a
very uneasy night. I do not know whether it was the stories, the
substantial supper, my weak condition, or all these combined, which was
the cause of it; I tossed myself hither and thither in my bed, and got
mixed up with brownies, fairies and ghosts the whole night. Finally, I
sailed through the air towards the church, while some merry sledge-bells
were ringing in my ears. The church was lighted up, and when I came
inside I saw it was our own church up in the valley. There were nobody
there but peasants in their red caps, soldiers in full uniform, country
lasses with their white head-dresses and red cheeks. The minister was in
the pulpit; it was my grandfather, who died when I was a little boy. But
just as he was in the middle of the sermon, he made a somersault--he was
known as one of the smartest men in the parish--right into the middle of
the church; the surplice flew one way and the collar another. "There
lies the parson, and here am I," he said, with one of his well-known
airs, "and now let us have a spring dance!" In an instant the whole of
the congregation was in the midst of a wild dance. A big tall peasant
came towards me and took me by the shoulder and said, "You'll have to
join us, my lad!"
[Illustration: Picture of a young woman holding a bible]
At this moment I awoke, and felt some one pulling at my shoulder. I
could scarcely believe my eyes when I saw the same peasant whom I had
seen in my dream leaning over me. There he was, with the red cap down
over his ears, a big fur coat over his arm, and a pair of big eyes
looking fixedly at me.
"You must be dreaming," he said, "the perspiration is standing in big
drops on your forehead, and you were sleeping as heavily as a bear in
his lair! God's peace and a merry Christmas to you, I say! and
greetings to you from your father and all yours up in the valley. Here's
a letter from your father, and the horse is waiting for you out in the
yard."
"But, good heavens! is that you, Thor?" I shouted in great joy. It was
indeed my father's man, a splendid specimen of a Norwegian peasant. "How
in the world have you come here already?"
[Illustration: Picture of Thor leaning over the bed]
"Ah! that I can soon tell you," answered Thor. "I came with your
favourite, the bay mare. I had to take your father down to Næs, and then
he says to me, 'Thor,' says he, 'it isn't very far to town from here.
Just take the bay mare and run down and see how the Lieutenant is, and
if he is well and can come back with you, you must bring him back along
with you,' says he."
When we left the town it was daylight. The roads were in splendid
condition. The bay mare stretched out her old smart legs, and we
arrived at length in sight of the dear old house. Thor jumped off the
sledge to undo the gate, and as we merrily drove up to the door we were
met by the boisterous welcome of old Rover, who, in his frantic joy at
hearing my voice, almost broke his chains in trying to rush at me.
Such a Christmas as I spent that year I cannot recollect before or
since.
THE END.
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of 'Round the yule-log: Christmas in
Norway, by Peter Christen Asbjörnsen
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