Happy Times in Norway

by Sigrid Undset

  “Well, you’ve got such a good hold on him,” Halvor Tangen said, “you can probably hold him while I run home to the saeter and get the ax. That way we’ll save a bullet.”

  So Anders stood and held the bear by the forelegs until the Tangen boy went to the saeter and came back again with the ax.

  “Say, that was my heifer,” Anders said then, “so it’s only right that you let me kill the beast.”

  Halvor agreed to this. He took Anders’s place back of the spruce tree, and got hold of the bear’s forelegs. Anders then took the ax.

  But then Anders said, “Say, I’m awful hungry. I’d like to go down to the saeter first and get me a bite to eat. You can probably hold him that long.”

  With that Anders ran away and left Halvor holding the bear. He did not come back until he had been gone exactly as long as Halvor had stayed. Then he bashed in the head of the bear. They said the old bearskin that hangs in Sollia chapel is the hide of this bear. At least it is moth-eaten and old enough to be.

  “Have you ever heard that story before, mother?”

  “Oh, I heard it some time or the other, when I was little. Ingebrikt, the hired man at my grandfather’s, belonged to the family too, and he liked to tell about the old folks of Sollia—just so Grandfather did not hear him. Grandfather was a very religious man, you know. He had been converted while he was away at military service. After that he did not like to hear much talk about the people of Sollia. They were a wild lot, you know, most of them, and this Halvor Tangen—Tanggutten, they called him—was one of the worst.”

  “If I were you, I still think I would consider it—moving back to Sollia, I mean,” Anders declared.

  Mother shook her head.

  “It’s almost a hundred years since Grandfather left Sollia. He was only two when his father died, and his mother took him home with her to her parents in Österdalen. And when he grew up he came to Trondheim. Since then none of us have been farmers. We would not be of much use in the mountains.”

  “But they were fine people, just the same. It’s fun to think of our being descended from those fellows.”

  “Yes, it is. And we’ll have to try to be a credit to the people of Sollia—do what we have to do wherever we may be placed in the world as well as they did in Sollia.”

  6

  THERE WAS NOT MUCH FOR MOTHER AND ANDERS TO talk about these days. Every morning after breakfast he took his fishing outfit and went down to Tromsa. But his luck was not good. Sometimes he came home empty-handed, sometimes with one or two tiny trout in his pocket. Ingrid’s cat got them. He rarely caught any fish big enough to be worth the trouble of cleaning and frying. Tromsa was not good fishing, and Anders, apparently, was not much of a fisherman.

  Once in a while he went berrypicking with the other children. Blueberries were incredibly thick this year and the cloudberries were ripening enough so a few of them could be picked too. But truth to tell, it was not especially interesting for Anders up here. He had no one to keep him company, and it was not his bent to busy himself with anything about the saeter.

  Sigurd Hole came up with two men to cut the hay. Nothing smells so sweet as the hay from these mountain meadows, but it is a little sad to see the flowerspangled grass fall before the scythe. Then one knows for certain it is fall. Anders borrowed a scythe and started cutting too, but he soon gave up. He was clumsy that way. His idea of becoming a farmer at Sollia was indeed a transient dream. But Hans and the little girls busied themselves with the raking and helped to hang the hay on the drying rack—taking care to follow the haying crew indoors each time one of the customary extra meals for haymakers was to be served.

  But Anders was pleasant toward everyone, not even teasing his brother about playing with a little girl in a doll house. Hans had expected his brother to tease him about that and had been prepared to tease Anders all he could in turn. But the boys were the best friends in the world up here.

  A boy of fourteen is very much older than he was when he was thirteen, thought Mother. And one fine afternoon, as Anders sat with her out on the lawn, he drew a long and fervent sigh.

  “It isn’t going to be half bad to get back to school again—oh, as far as that goes,” he added quickly and politely, “it is very nice up here and, all in all, it has been a fine summer vacation. But after a while one gets tired of never having anything to do.”

  One felt chill now in the morning. The heavens were a deep, brilliant blue and the air so clear that to the north one could see the snow mountains, with all their peaks and gorges, outlined sharply against the horizon. In summer one only suspected something dazzlingly bright over there where the clouds hovered above the melting snow fields. And one morning the high gray peaks that formed the Österdalen boundary were white far down the sides with newly fallen snow.

  Anders had even bought and brought with him a birthday present for Hans—a knife. The boys always got a great assortment of knives for Christmas and on their birthdays and it was inconceivable what became of them all, but they were always coming to Mother to “borrow” a knife. When Hans’s birthday came, Anders, however, could not remember what he had done with the gift for his brother. Both boys spent all morning looking through Anders’s pockets and his knapsack and all his fishing things. By the time they finally found the knife—on the floor under Anders’s bed—the car with the company from home was already in the yard.

  First both the dogs tumbled out. Njord leaped on Mother and licked her face so enthusiastically that he scratched her lip and made it bleed. Neri whizzed about so happy to see his family again that he did not know what to do with himself. Jöda and Janna were terrified by these wild, coal-black dogs and ran indoors. But Johanne coaxed the dogs over to her and succeeded in petting them.

  “Say, what two nice pooches you got here, Sigrid! What life in them!” she said, addressing Mother, as usual, with “du.”

  Tulla seemed to be just as happy as the dogs, though in a slightly more subdued manner. She would not let go of Mother’s hand for anything, and she called to Hans and Anders constantly, laughing delightedly. Thea had brought a reclining chair, which she now set up against the sunny wall of the lunnhu, and put Tulla into it, a pillow under her head and a cover across her legs. Tulla should take a little nap now, Thea said, for they had been driving since early morning. Hans was to have his hot chocolate and his birthday cake— the twisted yeast ring with raisins in it and sugar and almonds on top—at twelve o’clock, and before the company left he would have the usual birthday dinner with all the things to eat that he always had on his birthday. Thea and Böe were busy carrying all the baskets and cakeboxes down to the saeter house.

  The boys raced around their grandmother explaining the names of all the mountains that could be seen from the yard. Little Signe had discovered in the goat shed two lovely little newborn kids, snow white. Unfortunately, Njord also had discovered them. Little Signe grabbed him by the chops and got him out in a hurry. Then she locked herself in with the baby kids. . .

  Now came Thea calling that the chocolate was ready.

  Hanna had decorated the saeter house so prettily, strewing fresh juniper on the floor and setting vases of mountain flowers—buttercups and shooting stars and the blue monkshood—on the table. She stood by the stove making cream waffles and the whole yard smelled of them. Thea lighted the eight candles on the birthday ring and poured the chocolate into the cups, and Hanna appeared with a huge bowl of whipped cream stiff enough to cut with a knife.

  All the children ate and drank as if they had not eaten for a week, though Johanne was chiefly occupied with the dogs. It was a disgrace the way they stood beside her, their forepaws in her lap, begging waffles. Janna sat tenderly fingering the paper napkins Thea had brought along. They looked exactly like real napkins and had checked borders in many colors.

  It was impossible for Mother to get to talk with Grandmother. There were so many things the boys simply had to show her. Anders thought Grandmother should certainly come with them to see the
pond where the golden plover’s nest had been that summer.

  “It’s so beautiful there, grandmother. The water is so blue now you can’t believe your eyes, and there is a floating island with some little birches on it that look exactly like lighted candles with their yellow leaves. It’s just up the hill there, and beyond that little cliff you see over there . . .”

  But just as they reached the top of the hill and saw the little pond, like a blue eye right below them, Grandmother shrieked in terror.

  “Oh, good heavens, there are bulls down there!”

  Grandmother was deathly afraid of animals. She dared not even walk past a month-old calf. And down by the edge of the pond there were actually four pretty little bull calves.

  Anders pulled up a dry juniper root and ran down to drive them away.

  “Oh, God!” Grandmother shook with fear. “Sigrid, get that boy to come back. Oh, God, what if they gore him to death! Anders, Anders, come here,” she called miserably after him.

  Hans and Little Signe tried to reassure her, but they were laughing so hard they finally had to roll in the heather.

  “Why, Grandmother, they’re only calves.”

  But Grandmother did not want to stay any longer “in these wild mountains where you run the risk of meeting all kinds of dangerous animals walking around loose.” She wanted to go back down the hill to the security of the saeter fence. In great annoyance she turned her back on the children and started down the path with quick, determined steps. Mother followed, and behind came Anders, who grasped Mother’s arm and silently pointed.

  Mother had already seen them. Down the road came a herd of bulls—at least twelve of them. Most of them were young bulls but there were several big ones among them, and one was a light-gray color. In Hadlandslegeret, a valley between the gray mountains toward Österdalen, a herd of a hundred bulls was quartered—animals that would be sold for beef in the fall. Now that the feed had become scarce, an occasional herd would sometimes travel as far as Krekke during the course of the day. And among them there was supposed to be a big gray bull not to be trusted.

  “Mean, did you say?” the herder at Hadland had asked. “No, he’s not mean. Of course he sometimes tosses a stranger on his horns.”

  “By the way, grandmother,” Anders said, “we must stop in at Ingrid’s saeter. She has a cat that is a son of that daughter of Sissi at Thorstad. He is so pretty grandmother, you must see him . . . such fine long fur . . . dark brown with yellow spots . . .”

  And Anders took his grandmother by the arm and steered her hurriedly north toward the nearest saeter Hans and Little Signe had already started running to ward Nyplass. Fortunately, they had not noticed the bulls up on the road.

  Anders chattered and chattered, pointed, gesticulated, and gestured at such a rate that Grandmother did not have a chance to turn around once before she was well inside the fence enclosing Ingrid’s hayfield. Even then this reticent, taciturn boy continued to preach and point out so many curious, remarkable things on this poor little saeter of Ingrid’s that Mother thought Grandmother must surely suspect something. The cat came right over to Anders, for it had got all those little fish from him, and he presented it to Grandmother, conducting a lecture at the same time on its family history and recalling other offspring of Sissi. Then he related all Ingrid’s troubles with the cows that never came home by themselves, and this got Grandmother and Ingrid involved in a long conversation.

  Luckily none of the bulls bellowed as they passed Ingrid’s gate, and Grandmother did not notice a thing. Not until the animals were only little specks far out on the moor did Anders give the sign to say good-by to Ingrid and go home.

  “Poor thing, she would have had a stroke at least, if we had met them,” whispered Anders to Mother. “And she would certainly never let Little Signe stay on up here awhile.”

  Thea had warmed up the baked chicken stuffed with rice and mushrooms she had brought along and, for dessert, Hanna brought out cloudberries and cream. Thea had brought canned pineapple along for dessert and Janna and Jöda thought they had never tasted anything so good as pineapple. Country people cannot afford American canned fruit, whereas they could have cloudberries at home every Sunday—if it was a good year for cloudberries. And when Janna and Jöda also got all the leftover paper napkins, Hans’s birthday became for them also a glorious feast day.

  Little Signe was to stay a week or so with her aunt. But Anders packed his things and said he wished to go home in the car this evening.

  “You see, mother, there is always a thing or two to do before school starts—get out the books, take a look at the Scout lodge, and so on.”

  Yes, Mother understood.

  It was hard to say good-by to Tulla. She was sad when she realized that Mother was not going to ride with them in the car. But it comforted her a little when Anders sat down beside her and put his arm around her shoulders.

  “Mother’s coming soon, Tulla. Mother has only to finish something she’s working on up here, and then she will come home to you.”

  Ah, yes, it was a good thing Anders went back with them to town.

  7

  LITTLE SIGNE’S STAY AT KREKKE SAETER TURNED OUT to be a great disappointment to Hans. She was not one bit impressed by the doll house. On the contrary, she made several rather unkind remarks about its past—a past that could not be concealed.

  On the other hand, she became utterly infatuated with Janna’s sweater, which now had actually begun to take on lines that were rather stunning. The frank admiration of this little town girl was so stimulating to Janna that she would scarcely do anything but knit, knit, knit all day long.

  “Oh dear,” said Little Signe, “how I wish I had some knitting.”

  Mother said she had a sweater she rarely used, for she did not like it. It was made of variegated yarn—pink and gray and blue—and it could be unraveled.

  “Oh, that’ll make enough yarn for a sweater for me,” cried Little Signe. “I’m so little compared to you.”

  “You can’t knit a sweater,” declared Mother. “Remember Janna is more than two years older than you. You had better knit just a scarf, and maybe a ski cap.”

  But Little Signe so wanted to try knitting a sweater. Mother finally had to cast on the stitches and start the border for her.

  From that moment on, the two little girls sat on the bench outside the door and knitted all day long. Mother, watching them, did not see them exchange a word except when they held up their knitting to show how much they had done. Little Signe did not do at all badly. When that youngster made up her mind to do something she nearly always managed to do it.

  “From now on,” declared Hans in disgust, “Ulla is going to be my favorite cousin.”

  He consoled himself, however, with visits to the cat at Nyplass saeter, and soon he was firmly ensconced at Ingrid’s. Mother saw him there whenever she went walking that way. Hans carried in water and carried in wood, and obviously he was a bosom friend of that old widow whom everybody considered “difficult.” That meant she was well-nigh impossible to get along with, but people here in the valley never used strong words to express disapproval of any of their neighbors.

  “It’s going to storm tonight,” Hanna said one after noon as she stood kneading the cheese. There was a thunder of hoofs on the road as a herd of horses came galloping down toward the saeters. And when horses that run loose in the mountains do that, it is a sure sign of a coming storm. Out on the plain from every direction came lowing and bellowing and a strange hush hung in the air.

  “I’ll have to go for the cows today, I think,” Hanna said and threw her knitted shawl over her head.

  In weather such as this the cows might come home earlier than usual by themselves, but if the storm broke while they were deep in the mountains they would be just as likely to seek shelter under a crag up there and be out all night. Milkmaids from all the saeters began to appear on the road. They had all had the same thought.

  “Come on, come o-on, come o-o-on . .
.” came their call from all sides.

  The mountains to the north were lost in masses of dark clouds. The sunlight fell across the meadow dazzlingly yellow and all the colors out on the tableland became sharp and bright and clear. The green dwarf willow on the bogs turned bright green, and the red dwarf birch were pools of blood.

  “Just so the cloudberries don’t get ruined,” sighed Johanne. Then, “We’d better take in the wash.”

  The first burst came as they were busy out by the clothesline. The sheet Johanne and Mother stood folding was torn from their fingers and went sailing far through the air before drifting down north of the hay-field. Aprons and cotton house dresses stood straight out from the line, or wrapped themselves tightly around it. Janna and Hans chased fugitive garments all over the field, and almost got blown away themselves. Before they had got in the last clothesbasketful, rain was spurting down from the skies and splashing up from the ground.

  The slope between the saeter house and the lunnbu was a tearing stream when Mother and the children ran up from the house in the pitch-dark after they had eaten supper. Before they got through their doorway they were wet as drowned cats, all three. And the lunnbu was full of sour, acrid smoke that made their eyes smart. Chimneys smoked in such weather.

  Mother had to rake out the coals from both stoves. Sparks and burning bits of wood flew out and burned holes in her apron while Hans and Little Signe had a busy time stamping out the sparks scattered over the floor.

  The children had to be content this evening with a mere “cat wash” of their faces. The chimney howled and, outside, the wind roared and moaned around the corners of the house, and on the roof something was rattling terrifically.

  “It’s only that galvanized iron Sigurd patched the roof with,” Mother said reassuringly.

  Little Signe was plainly terrified, though she tried hard not to show it.