The stage was a raft on the largest tarn on Maihaugen. It was beautiful beyond words: the evening sun gilded the spruce forest and the old brown houses, and on the bright water, where the wooded ridge and the houses stood upside down, sailed large white swans, breaking the mirrored picture. The crowd stood close packed along the lake’s edge, and the singing and the music rang out fine and clear in the still air.
The professor stepped forward. He looked rather odd, for the pillows and the eiderdowns had slipped out of place, so he was no longer exactly a kingly figure. But he stood straight, his crown on his head, gesticulating with the long-stemmed pipe which he held in his hand. And his lecture was excellent.
The journey through town had turned the children utterly wild. Now they discovered that when they jumped and ran the whole raft moved and water splashed in on the stage floor. So they jumped and ran all the more. Mother had a frightful time trying to keep a little order, and never succeeding in getting very much. But the public thought it was part of the play and loudly applauded everything the children hit upon. The play went very well.
Only once—while Gudbrand told of the apples that had also disappeared on the way, Mother happened to look at Arnljot, Hans’s friend whom she had borrowed to be one of her children. He stood with a strange, hard, and bitter expression on his handsome face. His real mother was not unlike the wife of Gudbrand of Lia— good and pretty, but a little careless in looking after what was her own. Last year, when Arnljot was seven years old, he had to start school and the teacher asked him about his father.
“My father is in America,” said Arnljot. “He went over twelve years ago, and since then Mother hasn’t heard from him.”
Poor Arnljot, he did not understand why the other boys in his class began to laugh. But during recess they took pains that he found out. It occurred to Mother that Arnljot knew that this story about Gudbrand of Lia had another version that was not so nice—a version that the children know better than many frivolous grownups.
Mother determined that Arnljot and the little girl she had borrowed in place of Little Signe were to come with all the other players over to Hjeltarstuen, where Dr. Sandvig had invited all his assistants for supper. The sun had gone down now, and the tar barrels and torches around the tarn had been lighted. Lights also shone from all the old houses where there was fire in the fireplaces and all the candles were aglow. The sound of organ music and psalm singing from the lighted chapel floated out into the summer night.
Mother and her flock needed in high degree to tidy up a bit so she wandered around looking for the dressing room that was to have been devised for the players’ use. Soon Little Signe and her friend, Anne-Marie, turned up—fine as a flute in their new peasant costumes, with white starched kerchiefs, red stockings, and silver-buckled shoes. When Hans and Arnljot realized that the girls intended to go along with them to the party at Hjeltarstuen, they protested indignantly.
“You haven’t done a single thing for Maihaugen— just had a good time while we worked!”
But Anne-Marie only scoffed. The professor was her godfather, and he had said they must be sure to come.
The two little girls had been to the restaurant with Grandmother and had had as much chocolate and as many cakes as they could eat. Yes, they had seen the procession, and Grandmother had screamed out loud when she felt certain the cow was about to gore Mother and every child to death. But Thea thought Mother had not done so badly with the cow. One had to remember that Madam was unused to animals, and it was a troll of a cow they had given her. Only Tulla had not enjoyed herself very much. She could not understand why there were no flags in the parade today.
It is said Hjeltarstuen was built by a man who had been in Copenhagen as royal guardsman at the time Norway and Denmark were united under one king. And there was a distinguished lady—some said she was one of the king’s natural daughters, others that she was a Danish countess—who had fallen in love with the handsome soldier, and he with her. When Ola Hjeltar came home again to his estate, she ran away and came with him, and in order that his distinguished wife should live in keeping with her position, he built Hjeltarstuen. The parish registers say that Ola Hjeltar was married to a clergyman’s daughter, but people in the valley prefer to believe the story about the princess of Hjeltar. At least the house is one of the grandest at Maihaugen. It had not been built for everyday use; it stood on the farm and was used only for weddings and other such festivities. They could afford such things at Hjeltar. It is built of the choicest logs and the woodwork and carving and painting that went into it are among the best examples of old Norwegian folk culture.
To enter it this evening was to enter the home of the king in all the folk tales. In a corner of the room there burned a fire of pine roots that cast flaming-rose light over the shiny, smooth-worn floor and over the walls hung with tapestries in the fashion of the old days. The long refectory table, made of one single plank over six feet wide and twenty feet long and brilliant with candles in silver and wrought-iron holders, groaned under the weight of pewter dishes heaped with food, silver tankards full of ale, dram glasses and rare old bottles and decanters. Over in the fireplace hung a large kettle of chocolate for the children and old copper pots of coffee for the grownups. The king and the princess walked about welcoming the guests. The king looked rather depleted now, for he had taken out all his stuffing; and the princess had laid aside her silver-gilt crown. It was so heavy that it had made a fiery red mark on her forehead and given her a splitting headache.
But when the newspaper photographers came, she had to put it on again. All the children pushed forward to sit in the middle of the front row. They wanted to be sure their pictures would be in the paper early next morning, although Hans protested: “Little Signe and Anne-Marie have absolutely no right to be in the picture.” At that moment the photographers set off their flash bulbs—and it was very evident from the pictures in the paper that the ragged youngsters of Gudbrand of Lia and the elegant little girls of Hjeltarstuen were not at all good friends.
“There is something to paste into your scrapbook, Hans!” said Mother, when she saw them.
The youngsters made up when they were invited to the table, and the maids brought in large plates of piping-hot cream waffles. They ate as if they had been starved for a week—Little Signe and Anne-Marie as well.
From outside came the sound of dance music. Young people played on the lawns and the gypsy girls came in to tell fortunes and sing and dance their gypsy dances. But the children were not interested in the gypsy girls for now the professor had seated himself in front of the fireplace and had lifted Anne-Marie and Little Signe up on his lap, one on each knee. The children gathered in a circle around him. He was going to tell them stories. The grownups moved over—for the professor was the man who could tell the old folk tales in such a way it seemed they had never been told before.
But everything has an end, except the sausage, which has two. And even an evening such as this one had to end sometime. The candles had burned down in their holders, and in the fireplace there remained only a heap of coals. Dr. Sandvig himself gave orders that they could not lay on more wood and the volunteer fireguards who were going to keep watch in all the houses tonight came in and sat down with the guests.
That meant people could go now.
“Oh, tell one more story, Uncle Professor. Just a tiny one.”
“It will have to be a short one, all right,” declared the professor.
THERE WAS ONCE a fox who lay on a sunny hillside and slept. A hare came hopping along, shouting and singing, “I am so happy, so happy,” and stumbled right over the head of the fox.
“What is the matter with you?” said the fox. “Why are you making so much noise?”
“I am so happy, so happy,” said the hare, “for I have been married.”
“That was very nice for you,” said the fox.
“Oh, no, not so nice,” said the hare. “For my old woman was a troll, and she was old. She had many rings o
n her horns.”
“That was too bad,” said the fox.
“Not so bad,” said the hare, “for she had a little house.”
“That was nice for you,” said the fox.
“Oh, no, not so nice,” said the hare, “for the house burned down.”
“That was too bad,” said the fox.
“Oh, no, not so bad,” said the hare, “for the old woman burned up too.”
Outside it was as dark as summer nights ever are in Norway. Housetops and treetops stood etched against the clear blue-green sky and from down by the tarn glowed the last red embers of the tar barrels and the torches. The fireguards slipped like shadows everywhere, and down by the entrance it was impossible to find Böe’s automobile among all the cars that stood there. But Böe found Mother with her drove of youngsters without difficulty and got them packed into his car, all of them.
Anders was sleeping when Mother and Hans came into the boys’ room. He slept so soundly he did not even stir when Mother stumbled and nearly fell on her nose over his clothes scattered all over the floor. And Hans was so tired Mother had to undress that big boy and wash his face and hands just as if he was a little baby. But then he put his arms around her neck and kissed her good night, exactly as he used to do when he was little.
“—so now we can go to the mountains soon, mother.”
“Yes, I think we can go sometime next week.”
3
THE ODOR OF NEW-MOWN HAY DRIFTED IN FROM ALL the meadows of the valley the afternoon that Mother and Hans drove up. Mowing machines clattered on every farm, and hayrakes jangled softly across the fields. The river flowed broad and full, flooding the fields in the bottoms—on the little isles out in the water only the tops of the alder trees and the roofs of barns and sheds showed—and the water was bluish-green now, for the thaw had started up on the snow fields of Jotunheimen. Wild ducks, each with its train of ducklings looking like puffs of down on the water, swam in the stream.
It was true midsummer now. The light-green tips of the spruce-fir branches were already long and from the woods came the smell of that little twinflower, the linnaea. From where the road lay through mountain passes, it could be seen flowering on the steep cliff walls, and on every ledge grew spreading tufts of the white and yellow saxifrage, and in the cracks and crevices, bluebells nodded in a wealth of ferns.
“Oh, mother, isn’t it wonderful for people like us who are going to the mountains?”
Mother thought of Tulla. It was always sad to leave her—but it was impossible for Mother to find the peace and quiet for work at home in the summertime. There were always so many visitors. But, Mother thought, Thea was there, and Thea cared for Tulla as if she were a lump of gold. Grandmother was there too, and Grandmother always thought of herself as in charge of Tulla and of Mother’s house. Actually, it was Thea who was in charge of Grandmother, pampering her with all her favorite dishes and serving her tea and coffee in the garden many times a day.
They had been driving along the river for an hour or so when Böe swung off the main road and the car began to climb toward the heights. This saeter road was narrow and steep, and they had not yet reached the top of the mountain when the water in the radiator began to boil and Böe had to stop beside a brook and refill the radiator with cold water.
Mother and Hans got out. Deep below them the valley widened out like a bowl, with Losna Lake at the bottom. Baklia, dark with evergreens, here and there a little patch of meadow and field around a little farmhouse, was already in deep shadow, but the tableland, above the hillside, was flooded with afternoon sun that lighted up the little gray saeters with a light so strong the cattle that far away in the mountains were bright red and white dots and little lakes shone blue and bright. Far to the north one could glimpse gray mountains, their summits crowned with white snow fields.
“Look, Hans. Do you think it is as beautiful anywhere in the world as in Norway?”
But Hans had no time to gaze at the scenery.
“Boy, oh, boy, what strawberries, mother! Oh, Böe, can’t you wait a little while? I see some so big . . .”
Hans was scrambling over the rocks along the brook. Böe smiled. He could certainly wait a little while, he said, but they must remember they had the greater part of the way still ahead of them, and the people at the saeter would probably like to have their guests arrive before too late in the evening.
“Here, mother. They’re all for you. Aren’t they good? Have you ever tasted such delicious strawberries?”
The woods were turning sparse. Wind-fallen trees with roots in mid-air reminded one that winter storms take harsh toll up here. The spruce firs were either thin and stunted and bearded with moss, or they were pudgy little bushes that huddled together in little vales and sheltered places in the land. Moss and lichen covered the rocky ground, broken here and there by brown tufts of heather and huckleberry bushes. Then the woods ended and before them lay the plain, the road looping around bright lakes and winding around bluffs and crags where the slopes were gray with rockfalls and the flat plateaulike tops white with reindeer moss.
The sound of wind and rushing streams that ran between growths of stunted gray and green willow filled the air. Between the crags in shielded valleys stood mountain birch with gnarled white trunks and fragrant bright foliage. Little birds flitted in and out of the bushes, and on rocks along the road sat the stonechat, cackling and jabbering. In sun-warmed crannies in the cliffs grew the monkshood, or helmetflower, with its steel-gray leaves and blue-gray blossoms. And whereever a flat of sweet, juicy grass appeared in all the wasteland, or wherever green slopes tumbled down toward one of the small lakes, or followed a creek, saeters lay in groups. From all directions out on the tableland came the dull clang of cowbells and the light tinkle of goatbells.
Some of the saeters were old, with long, low, turfthatched log cabins that hugged the ground, defying storms and lashing rains. Some were new, with houses clad in clapboard and painted red, and roofs of corrugated iron or tile. Occasionally there was a cottage, shining new with fresh log walls, and with verandas outside and flowers planted on the sod roof, and an automobile in a shelter behind the cottage—summer homes of people from town and from Oslo. But there were not many of these in this mountain area.
Girls outside the saeters and women and children at the cottages waved to them as they drove by. Hans waved back.
“We’re going clear to Krekke saeter, we are,” he called.
They drove and drove. Down a slope where the woods took hold again, up and along a tearing river of bog-brown water, and then out once more upon the plain. Finally, after a swing through steep cliffs and crags, Böe pointed and said:
“These are the Goppoll saeters, unless I’m mistaken.”
There seemed to be twelve or fourteen of them lying in a row below the crest of the mountain ridge that blocked off the Goppoll saeter area to the south. This ridge did not appear to be very high, for the incline was gradual. But if one tried to walk it one would realize how high it is. Below, the plain spread out like a shallow bowl again. It must have been seven miles wide and ten miles long. To the north cliffs mounted slowly upward, and saeters lay on those steeps wherever there was grazing, but these were the saeters of another community. The divide between them was the river, Big Tromsa, that nosed its way down toward the valley through swamps and a wilderness of stunted willow and dwarf birch. But to the northeast, high, naked, gray mountains blocked the view—the boundary between the saeter mountains of the Gudbrandsdal folk and those of the Österdal folk.
The sun lay almost on the ridge to the northwest and shadows fell far across the lea. The little brown saeter cabins shone like copper in the evening glow and the grass in the fields was brilliantly green. Around every saeter house there is always a little enclosed field, for the peasants must use the dung from the saeter barns for something, and in these patches they grow their finest hay, hauling it down in winter by sled, together with the moss and other feed they have collected in the
course of the summer. For the use of persons who come up to the saeter to do the winter work, there is a special house, called the lunnbu, which is built particularly solid. It was this winter cabin at Krekke saeter that Mother had rented for the summer.
As they drove up they met the cows coming home to the barn, the bell cow in the lead, followed by the file of cows and the calves and heifers that walked nicely too, learning to do everything the way the grown cows did. Last came the bull. The milkmaids stood outside the gate, calling.
“Come on, come o-on, come o-o-on . . .”
Krekke saeter, they said when Böe asked, was—yes, Krekke saeter was the last saeter before they came to the Björge saeter.
“It’s a new house painted red, and there’s a new winter cabin above the field, so new the walls are still white, and the roof is just plain dirt. You can’t miss it.”
A slim, long-legged little girl with braids down her back came and threw open the gate. Then she ran away across the greensward, where three other little girls stood in a row beside the cabin wall. And in the doorway of the saeter house stood a thin little woman with deep wrinkles in her forehead, kind, pale-blue eyes, and light hair. It was hard to say if her hair should be called blond or gray, or how old she might be.
“Well, come in, and welcome,” she said. “There’ll be something to eat right away. It’ll be pretty plain compared with what you’re used to, Sigrid, but Sigurd, he said I should do the best I could, so I’ll have to try.”