Happy Times in Norway

by Sigrid Undset

  One Sunday noon Anders came home from the skiing hill with his cap full of blue anemones and violets.

  “There are thousands of them up there, mother. . . . Yes, we have been hauling snow for skiing until today, but today is very likely the last time we use the hill this year.” He sighed. Then, “Mother, one month from today is the Seventeenth of May,” he announced radiantly.

  “But aren’t you going to study now?” Mother reminded him as he prepared to go out again as soon as he had finished his dinner.

  “Haven’t time. I’ve got to run. There’s a committee meeting today.”

  “Committee meeting?”

  “Entertainment committee, of course—that’s what I’m on. But I’ll try to look over my lessons tonight a little.”

  A pig is big when it can put a curl in its tail, and a boy is big when he can serve on a committee. Hans and his friends, Ole Henrik and Magne, were also on a committee, they said, though they seemed to represent no one but themselves and their work consisted chiefly of counting their savings—which grew less week by week. But they had great plans on how to improve their finances by the Seventeenth.

  “You know you’ll get a half crown in Seventeenth of May spending money, Hans,” Mother reminded him. “That is enough for you to go to Maehlum on.”

  “Ole Henrik gets a crown . . . from his grandmother,” whispered Hans, a pained look on his face.

  “That’s nice for Ole Henrik.”

  “Don’t you think Grandmother will come up for the Seventeenth?”

  “I haven’t heard anything about it.”

  Hans appeared to be deeply grieved over Grandmother’s faithlessness.

  2

  FINALLY ONE NIGHT CAME THE RAIN. FOR THREE SUCcessive days it streamed down, mild and still.

  “Mother,” said Hans triumphantly, “I thought it was just something people said. But now I can hear it—the grass grow.”

  Yes, the soft, sweet sound of falling rain that awakens the smell of earth and the first green blades of grass that are breaking through the earth. . . .

  “Yes, it is true. Now we can hear the grass grow.”

  The fourth day the sun came out and before evening all the birches were golden with tiny buds shaped like mouse ears. By next morning these buds had turned into tiny leaves and the trees stood there—green. Hans went with Mother when she went out to pick some of the first young birch leaves and white anemones for the Sunday dinner table.

  “Mother, tell me the story you told me last year. About the pants-coat.”

  “Dear me, have I told you that one? That was in a reader Aunt Signe had when she was little.”

  IT WAS A STORY about a father who was explaining to his two little daughters, Kirsten and Else, the meaning of the Seventeenth of May. To illustrate, he reminded Else of the coat she had that was made out of an old pair of his pants. Else did not like this coat at all. It did not fit her, although Mother had done the best she could with material that had been cut originally for an entirely different purpose. All the children in the street shouted “the pants-coat, the pants-coat” whenever she wore it. And the day that Else got a new spring coat which had been made just for her was the happiest day of her life.

  The union with Denmark had become a kind of pants-coat for Norway. It was so many hundreds of years ago that the two countries had united that people had almost forgotten how it happened in the first place. Queen Margrethe, mother of Olav Haakonsson, the last descendant of Norway’s old royal family, was also the daughter of the King of Denmark. When her father died, Margrethe got the Danes to select her son Olav to be Denmark’s king. Olav inherited the crown of Norway from his father. But Olav died quite young. And so Queen Margrethe got both the Danes and the Norwegians to choose a little German prince, who was the son of her niece, to be king of Norway and also king of Denmark. And after him came other German princes who had nothing more to do with Scandinavia than be descendants of Danish princesses who had married in Germany. And in a measure these foreign kings united Norway and Denmark into one kingdom. But Norway soon became the stepchild in the union. It was a poorer land than Denmark, and so far-flung and difficult to rule—Norwegians were known to be headstrong and obstinate—that public officials and clergymen considered it almost like being banished to be sent to Norway. Finally, when the last king that ruled over the “twin kingdoms” lost a war with Sweden, he was forced to cede Norway to Sweden.

  But the Norwegians did not want to be ceded to anyone. They remembered their ancient right. Norway was not a part of Denmark, but an independent kingdom. It was the Danes who had chosen to unite themselves with Norway when they chose Norway’s King Olav to be their king also. And they knew every man in Norway had always had greater freedom than people had had in Denmark and Sweden. There the peasants were subjects of powerful proprietors and noblemen, but in Norway the peasants had never been serfs. Even when they were renters and cotters, they had only to pay certain sums to the owner—they did not have to give him their services. He could not command them to become soldiers. The Norwegian army was a people’s army, and in the Danish-Norwegian fleet it was the Norwegians who had always made the best sailors and marines. The Norwegians did not want any Swedish pants-coat. They knew it would never fit them.

  Representatives from all over Norway gathered at Eidsvold to discuss how they could rescue our independence. While the Swedish army and the European powers, by means of blockade and threats, sought to force Norway to accede, the fathers sat at Eidsvold and worked out a statement that expressed our ideas about the rights and justice, the dignity and honor of the Norwegian people. On May 17, 1814, Norway’s constitution was adopted and the men at Eidsvold swore to protect our right to live under laws “sewn” to meet our own requirements. That was our new spring coat. . . .

  “And no matter what has happened since in Norway’s history, and what may happen in the future, remember, dearly beloved children, the Seventeenth of May is and will remain for us, in the words of our old song, the ‘most blessed of all our days.’ ”

  “Do you think Grandmother ever helped Aunt Signe with that lesson about the pants-coat?” Hans asked, with a wise smile.

  “I honestly don’t know. Norway and Denmark have so many good things to remember from the days of the Union—things of which both countries can be proud. Grandmother preferred to speak of these things.”

  “Is it true, mother, that when you were little only boys were allowed to march in the Seventeenth of May procession?”

  “I can even remember the day when it was called ‘the Boys’ Seventeenth of May Procession.’ You see, in the olden days it was considered improper for girls to appear in a public parade. When I began school most girls even went to girls’ schools, and certainly most parents would never allow their daughters to be in a parade. But Grandfather and Grandmother put me in a coeducational school, and that was a year or two after it was recognized that all Norwegian children, girls as well as boys, had a right to take part in the Seventeenth of May procession. So I got to be in it all those years I went to school. The girls all wore garlands of green leaves and spring flowers on their heads instead of hats. . . . It was a shame they dropped that custom. They were a lovely sight.”

  “Oh, mother, I wish I had a photograph of you with a garland on your head,” Hans said reflectively. “You must have looked wonderful.”

  Mother was so touched and flattered that she completely forgot she had a bone or two to pick with Hans that afternoon. But she was sure Hans had not been calculating in his compliment. . . . Poor Hans. It always chagrined him so whenever Mother had to let him know she was displeased over something he had done.

  No one understood how Tulla knew it was the Seventeenth of May, but every year, as that day drew near, Tulla seemed to know it and became eager and excited. Perhaps it was the new, stronger sunlight, or that the world had become green again, that reminded her. For she gazed at the treetops and her eyes followed the birds winging their way over the garden. Also from ever
y bush could be heard the singing and trilling of many birds.

  “Flags,” she said, and “music” and “car.” Her face beamed with delight.

  The significance of the day she certainly could not know. No one could penetrate her little world with stories of pants-coats and liberty or death. “Fatherland”—she had no idea of the meaning of that word. Still there was probably not a child in Norway who loved his country more than Tulla did. When Mother promised that tomorrow they would go for a long drive up into the mountains, she could not sleep that night for sheer joy. Rivers, waterfalls, trees wringing their tops in the wind—Tulla threw out her arms toward it all and rejoiced. She could not possibly know what the flag meant, but no one could doubt that Tulla loved the Norwegian flag above all else in the world. When it was raised on the pole in front of the house she wanted only to be allowed to sit quiet and behold it, hour upon hour, staring at the tricolored cloth streaming in the wind over her head.

  “Red, white, blue,” explained Anders to his brother. “Those are freedom’s colors. The French and the English and the American and the Dutch flags—these are all red and white and blue.”

  “Yes, but the Danish flag is only red and white,” said Hans. “And the Danes are just as free as the rest of us.”

  “The Danish flag is the oldest in Europe,” said Mother. “It goes back to the time of the Crusades, and it was a Church banner at first. In those days people did not think of freedom as we do now. Freedom then meant deliverance from the power of the devil, and the cross was the symbol of that deliverance. That is why the Danish flag is marked with the cross.”

  “Grandmother says it fell down from heaven during a battle the Danes were just about to lose to some heathens. God threw it down to them, and so they won the war.”

  “Yes, that’s how the legend goes. It is a beautiful story. That was why we kept the white cross on the red field in our flag—and also to commemorate all the Norwegian seamen who had sailed and fought under Dannebrog. But we drew that blue stripe straight through the cross because we wanted to live under today’s colors of freedom.”

  It was the custom in that little town for the boys in the Junior College to begin the celebration of freedom, or independence, day by staying out most of Seventeenth of May Eve shooting off firecrackers and making as much racket and commotion in general as they possibly could. That is to say, all the boys in town took part in the uproar, but according to tradition, it was the boys from the Junior College who had started the bad habit. But bad or not, it had now become a privilege and a right for the youth of the town. So when the new Chief of Police hit upon the idea this year of banning the shooting of firecrackers at night, most of the parents took the boys’ part. Wrathful fathers wrote letters to the local papers, and indignant mothers assured all and sundry that they most certainly would not sit up all night to see that their sons did not slip out. The Chief of Police was from Kristiansand, and was therefore halfway an alien in this inland town, so what business did he have trying to change the town’s customs? Of course it was a nuisance—this racket at night, but when the town’s fathers and grandfathers and great-grandfathers had put up with it, one would think the man from Kristiansand could keep his ideas to himself. . . .

  Thea was out visiting some friends and Mother was sitting at her writing table that afternoon, when she noticed a strange odor in the house. It smelled almost as it did when Anders was busy stewing his ski grease, but his skis had been put up in the attic for that year. Better go up and see. . . .

  In the kitchen stood Anders supervising Ingeborg and Mari Moen. Anders was pouring a black powder into cone-shaped containers made of newspapers. A heavy cord that looked like a candlewick hung from the tip of each. Ingeborg was wrapping a new layer of newspaper around the cones, making them look like big pears. Mari Moen was dipping the pears into a pot on the electric stove. There was something in the pot that looked like ink or tar. When they discovered Mother in the doorway, Ingeborg looked as if she were suffering from an acute attack of bad conscience, and Anders exuded embarrassment at Mother’s tactlessness.

  “What in the world are you all doing here?”

  No answer. Nor did Mother say any more. She had not participated in the newspaper controversy but at bottom, she also felt the Chief of Police was a troublesome fuss-budget, and agreed with the mothers who maintained that one could not shepherd grown boys day and night.

  “Where is Tulla?” Mother asked, distrustfully eying the black pear-shaped objects.

  “I thought Tulla could take her nap in her chair out in the garden, it is so nice today,” said Mari Moen. “I tucked her in good all around.”

  Behind Anders’s back, she nodded toward the pails of water at her side. “Madam does not need to worry—about Tulla.”

  Mother realized she ought to withdraw. . . .

  “—but of course it is true, as the Chief of Police says—noise and uproar near the hospital or the Home for Tuberculars cannot be tolerated,” Mother remarked out of the blue as they sat at the supper table.

  “Oh, let up, mother. We never did carry on in those streets. We always used to stay in Main Street, and on the market place and around there.”

  Anders’s eyes were dark with virtuous indignation.

  “It may be that this year the center of disturbance will be farther south. In the direction of Björnstjerne Björnson Street, for instance.”

  That was the street in which the Police Chief lived.

  “Well,” said Mother, “if you get away with it . . . If you don’t, you brought it on yourselves, you know.”

  3

  MOTHER WAS AWAKENED BY A FEARFUL CRASH. BEyond the dark treetops the sky was beginning to turn yellow, and in the birch grove a pair of thrushes chattered their protest against the disturbances. It was not yet three. . . .

  Another. It was probably that old cannon in the artist’s garden down the hill. Apparently he too had taken the boys’ part against the authorities—naturally enough, for he himself had been a schoolboy in the town once upon a time. There it went again! Banging and thundering came from far and near in the spring night, from firecrackers and other, more powerful explosives.

  Mother peeped into the boys’ room. Anders’s bed was empty, but Hans lay sleeping like a rock, oblivious to the shooting of the cannon.

  The next thing that awakened Mother was Anders racing like the wind between the bathroom and the boys’ room. He was getting into his Boy Scout uniform. He stopped at the door when he saw Mother was awake.

  “Believe me, those bombs we made yesterday—they made a terrific noise, mother.”

  He sat down in front of Mother’s vanity, arranging his green kerchief and combing his hair, though it was already as flat and slick as if the cat had licked it. His cap sat at the proper angle—“on three lice only,” as the boys said.

  “And you know what, mother? We had been down Church Street, and, can you imagine, Nils, Arve and I ran smack into the arms of a cop—Clarin, it was—and this new constable. I’ll tell you we went into high gear then! And do you know what Clarin said to the other one? ‘I didn’t recognize them,’ he said. ‘I don’t think they live here in town. They’re probably some gypsy kids from around Leirvika.’ ”

  Hans peeped in. “May I get up now too?”

  “No, you go to bed and sleep a little longer, Hans.”

  Mother had in mind his white sailor suit. It would not be worth while for him to put it on until just before he started down to school.

  “But aren’t you going to have breakfast before you go, Anders?”

  “Haven’t time. We’ll stop in at Petra’s after the procession, I imagine.”

  The lake lay bright and pale below the hills, with ripples marking the currents. The ridge on the other shore was mirrored in it. The sun stood high in the heavens—it was nearly seven—as Mother walked down to see the Boy Scout Parade. Through the quiet morning air came the first clear notes of the horns. The official opening of all such celebrations was the
band’s playing of chorals and national songs from the church steeple for half an hour. Mother hummed the words as she walked:

  Gud signe vårt dyre fedraland

  og lat det some hagen blöma

  Lat lysa din fred frå fjell til strand

  og vetter fyr varsol röma.

  Lat folket som bröder saman bu

  som kristne det kann seg söma.

  God bless our glorious fatherland

  And make it bloom like a flower

  Let Thy peace shine from mount to strand

  Long winter flee spring’s shower.

  As brothers let our people dwell

  In Christ find strength and power.*

  The town’s largest silk flag had been raised over the market place. A light fair-weather breeze lifted the heavy flag and waved the Boy Scout banners in greeting. The Girl Scouts were there too in their navy-blue uniforms, and the Boy Scouts in khaki shirts and trench caps. There were not many of them, and not many people had gathered to see the parade. The Seventeenth of May is a long full day and most people saved their strength for later events. But it was a pretty sight. . . .

  Anders was the standard-bearer. The flag hung down and covered his face and shoulders. For only an instant did the wind lift it so that Mother caught a glimpse of his face, tense with earnestness. She recognized him by his narrow, straight figure, with the heavy leather belt that supported the flag stick.

  Then the parade was over and the boys and girls all went their various ways.

  There was not a house in town without a flag today. When Mother reached home Tulla was already standing at the window, dressed in her new peasant dress, and shrieking with joy every time their flag rolled out upon the breeze.

  Soon afterward the first little Seventeenth of May procession came marching past the garden fence. It was made up of the pupils from Kringsjå School on their way down to the meeting place. The children waved their little flags high toward the green leaves on the overhanging branches and sang in their high, shrill voices: