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 onto 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 onto 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 neighbors and the topics of the day. Finally, our thoughts took a flight toward 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 toward 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 was nobody there but peasants in their red caps, soldiers in full uniform, country lasses with their white headdresses 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 toward me and took me by the shoulder and said, “You’ll have to join us, my lad!”
At this moment I awoke, and felt someone 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?”
“Ah! that I can soon tell you,” answered Thor. “I came with your favorite, 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.
1895
THE CAT ON THE DOVREFJELL
Peter Christen Asbjørnsen and Jørgen Moe
ONCE ON A TIME THERE WAS A MAN UP IN FINNMARK WHO HAD CAUGHT a great white bear, which he was going to take to the King of Denmark. Now, it so fell out, that he came to the Dovrefjell just about Christmas Eve, and there he turned into a cottage where a man lived, whose name was Halvor, and asked the man if he could get house-room there for his bear and himself.
“Heaven never help me, if what I say isn’t true!” said the man. “But we can’t give anyone house-room just now, for every Christmas Eve such a pack of trolls come down upon us, that we are forced to flit, and haven’t so much as a house over our own heads, to say nothing of lending one to anyone else.”
“Oh?” said the man. “If that’s all, you can very well lend me your house; my bear can lie under the stove yonder, and I can sleep in the side room.”
Well, he begged so hard, that at last he got leave to stay there; so the people of the house flitted out, and before they went, everything was got ready for the trolls; the tables were laid, and there was rice porridge, and fish boiled in lye, and sausages, and all else that was good, just as for any other grand feast.
So, when everything was ready, down came the trolls. Some were great, and some were small; some had long tails, and some had no tails at all; some, too, had long, long noses; and they ate and drank, and tasted everything. Just then one of the little trolls caught sight of the white bear, who lay under the stove; so he took a piece of sausage and stuck it on a fork, and went and poked it up against the bear’s nose, screaming out:
“Pussy, will you have some sausage?”
Then the white bear rose up and growled, and hunted the whole pack of them out of doors, both great and small.
Next year Halvor was out in the wood on the afternoon of Christmas Eve, cutting wood before the holidays, for he thought the trolls would come again; and just as he was hard at work, he heard a voice in the wood calling out:
“Halvor! Halvor!”
“Well,” said Halvor, “here I am.”
“Have you got your big cat with you still?”
“Yes, that I have,” said Halvor; “she’s lying at home under the stove, and what’s more, she has now got seven kittens, far bigger and fiercer than she is herself.”
“Oh, then, we’ll never come to see you again,” bawled out the troll away in the wood, and he kept his word; for since that time the trolls have never eaten their Christmas meal with Halvor on the Dovrefjell.
1859
A LEGEND OF MERCY
Zachris Topelius
ON ONE SIDE OF THE LAKE THERE WAS A LARGE TOWN; ON THE OPPOSITE shore stood a little lone cottage. The snow whirled over the frozen lake in great clouds and the wind was very keen; for it was winter and Christmastide in the world.
At the cottage there was poverty inside, but riches on the roof. Up there stood the great golden sheaf of grain about which the birds of heaven gathered joyfully for their Christmas feast, while inside the cottage food was scanty, as usual. The peasants’ little children, however, listened happily to the birds’ joyous twitter from the housetop, and took great delight in seeing the fine prints of the sparrow’s tiny feet in the smooth snow roundabout.
“If we had threshed that grain instead of giving it to the sparrows, we might have had fresh wheaten rolls for the children for Christmas,” sighed the peasant’s wife.
“Don’t you know that the merciful are blessed?” asked the gentle old peasant with a kind glance at his dissatisfied wife.
“But to let the birds of the air eat our bread,” she sighed again.
“Yes, the birds. Furthermore, what matter, even if it were the wild beasts of the forest? Should we not show mercy? Besides, I have saved enough to be able to buy four fresh rolls and a can of milk for Christmas. Let us send the children across the lake to the town with their sled. They will easily get back with the things before evening.”
“But suppose they meet a wolf on the ice,” suggested the mother.
“I will give Arvid a big club,” said the father. “He will get along all right, having that.”
So it happened that Arvid and his sister, Hanna, went to town to buy the treat of white rolls and milk. By this time the snow was piled in great drifts on the ice, and the children had difficulty in dragging the sled, so that when they turned toward home the early darkness was
already beginning to settle down. They trudged through the snow as fast as they could, but the drifts were much higher than before, and darkness came on in earnest while they still had quite a long distance to go.
As they struggled on, something black moved in the darkness. When it came nearer, the children saw that it was a wolf.
“Don’t be afraid, Hanna,” said Arvid. “I have a good club.” And with these words, he raised it threateningly.
The wolf was now close beside the children but made no attempt to harm them. He only howled, but the howling was extraordinary for it sounded as if he uttered words in it—words that the children could understand. “It is so cold, so cold,” howled the wolf. “And my little ones have nothing to eat. Give me some bread for them in the name of mercy.”
“Poor little things!” said Hanna. “We will give you our two rolls for them, and we ourselves will eat hard bread tonight, but father and mother must have their Christmas treat.”
“Many thanks,” said the wolf as he took the two fresh rolls and glided away.
The children strove on through deeper and deeper snow, but in a little while they heard some creature treading heavily behind them. It proved to be a bear.
The bear growled out something in his own language, and at first the children could not find out what he meant although they tried hard; but the bear kept on growling and finally, strangely enough, the children understood. The bear, too, desired a Christmas gift.
“It is so cold, so cold,” growled the big creature. “All the water everywhere is frozen and my poor little ones have nothing to drink. Be merciful and give me a little milk for them.”
“How is this?” asked Arvid. “Why are you not asleep in your den for the winter, as other bears are? But that is your affair. We will give you our half of the milk for your little ones. Hanna and I can very well drink water tonight, if only father and mother have something good for Christmas.”
“Many thanks,” said the bear, as he took the milk in a birch bark cone which he carried in his forepaws. Then with slow, pompous steps, he lumbered away into the darkness.
The children waded along through the drifts still more eagerly now, for they could see the Christmas lights shining through the windows of their home; but they had not gone far before an ugly owl came flapping along beside them.
“I will have bread and milk! I will have bread and milk!” screamed the owl, stretching out her long claws to scratch the children.
“Oh, ho!” said Arvid. “If that is the kind you are, I shall have to teach you to be polite.” So saying, he gave the owl such a clever blow on the wings with his club that she flew screaming away.
Soon after this the children were at home, gaily beating the snow from their clothes in the little entry.
“We have met a wolf!” shouted Hanna.
“And given a bear some milk!” added Arvid.
“But the owl got a taste of the club!” laughed Hanna. Then they told all their adventures.
The parents looked thoughtfully at each other. How wonderful! To think that their children had shown mercy even to the wild beasts of the forest! What would happen next? What did it all mean?
It was now supper time. The peasant family gathered at the table upon which, besides the usual poor fare, was the half portion of the expected treat— all that the children had brought home.
Arvid and Hanna wished to eat only dry bread and drink only water, so that their parents might have the Christmas goodies; but the parents would not allow that. They joyfully shared with the children the two rolls and the half tankard of milk which were such luxuries.
But as they ate, they noticed something very marvelous. However often they broke and broke pieces from either of the rolls, the fresh, delicious, wheaten rolls never grew smaller; and however often they poured milk from the tankard into one bowl after another the milk never grew less!
While they were wondering greatly over this, they heard a scratching at the little window, and behold! There stood the wolf and the bear with their forepaws against the windowpane. Both animals grinned and nodded in a knowing, friendly way. An owl could be heard flapping behind them in the darkness, and calling out in a hoarse voice to Arvid:
“Sometimes hits
Sharpen wits.
Hoo, hoo! Hoo, hoo!
Not from need
But from greed
I begged of you.
Hoo, hoo! Hoo, hoo!”
Then her hoarse cries died away in the distance, and the two beasts, after a little more grinning and nodding, disappeared from the window.
The peasant and his wife and the children understood now that a blessing rested upon their Christmas food because it had been shared in mercy with those that needed it; and they finished their meal in wonder and thankfulness.
On Christmas morning when they went to get their breakfast of dry bread and water, not expecting to have anything else, they found to their amazement that both rolls and milk were as fresh as when the children bought them,—and with no sign that the rolls had ever been broken or any milk used! And all that day it was the same! There were not only riches on the roof, but joy and plenty inside the peasants’ cottage, where the children feasted and sang as gaily as did the sparrows, fluttering about their Christmas sheaf of golden grain.
1916
A CHRISTMAS GUEST
Selma Lagerlöf
ONE OF THOSE WHO HAD LIVED THE LIFE OF A PENSIONER AT EKEBY was little Ruster, who could transpose music and play the flute. He was of low origin and poor, without home and without relations. Hard times came to him when the company of pensioners were dispersed.
He then had no horse or cariole, no fur coat nor red-painted luncheon basket. He had to go on foot from house to house and carry his belongings tied in a blue striped cotton handkerchief. He buttoned his coat all the way up to his chin, so that no one should need to know in what condition his shirt and waistcoat were, and in its deep pockets he kept his most precious possessions: his flute taken to pieces, his flat brandy bottle, and his music pen.
His profession was to copy music, and if it had been as in the old days, there would have been no lack of work for him. But with every passing year music was less practiced in Värmland. The guitar, with its moldy, silken ribbon and its worn screws, and the dented horn, with faded tassels and cord, were put away in the lumber room in the attic, and the dust settled inches deep on the long, iron-bound violin boxes. Yet the less little Ruster had to do with flute and music pen, so much the more must he turn to the brandy flask, and at last he became quite a drunkard. It was a great pity.
He was still received at the manor houses as an old friend, but there were complaints when he came and joy when he went. There was an odor of dirt and brandy about him, and if he had only a couple of glasses of wine or one toddy, he grew confused and told unpleasant stories. He was the torment of the hospitable houses.
One Christmas he came to Löfdala, where Liljekrona, the great violinist, had his home. Liljekrona had also been one of the pensioners of Ekeby, but after the death of the major’s wife, he returned to his quiet farm and remained there. Ruster came to him a few days before Christmas, in the midst of all the preparations, and asked for work. Liljekrona gave him a little copying to keep him busy.
“You ought to have let him go immediately,” said his wife, “now he will certainly take so long with that that we will be obliged to keep him over Christmas.”
“He must be somewhere,” answered Liljekrona.
And he offered Ruster toddy and brandy, sat with him, and lived over again with him the whole Ekeby time. But he was out of spirits and disgusted by him, like everyone else, although he would not let it be seen, for old friendship and hospitality were sacred to him.
In Liljekrona’s house for three weeks now they had been preparing to receive Christmas. They had been living in discomfort and bustle, had sat up with diplights and torches till their eyes grew red, had been frozen in the outhouse with the salting of meat and in the brew ho
use with the brewing of the beer. But both the mistress and the servants gave themselves up to it all without grumbling.
When all the preparations were done and the holy evening came, a sweet enchantment would sink down over them. Christmas would loosen all tongues, so that jokes and jests, rhymes and merriment would flow of themselves without effort. Everyone’s feet would wish to twirl in the dance, and from memory’s dark corners words and melodies would rise, although no one could believe that they were there. And then everyone was so good, so good!
Now when Ruster came the whole household at Löfdala thought that Christmas was spoiled. The mistress and the older children and the old servants were all of the same opinion. Ruster caused them a suffocating disgust. They were moreover afraid that when he and Liljekrona began to rake up the old memories, the artist’s blood would flame up in the great violinist and his home would lose him. Formerly he had not been able to remain long at home.
No one can describe how they loved their master on the farm, since they had had him with them a couple of years. And what he had to give! How much he was to his home, especially at Christmas! He did not take his place on any sofa or rocking stool, but on a high narrow wooden bench in the corner of the fireplace. When he was settled there he started off on adventures. He traveled about the earth, climbed up to the stars, and even higher. He played and talked by turns, and the whole household gathered about him and listened. Life grew proud and beautiful when the richness of that one soul shone on it.
A Very Scandinavian Christmas Page 12