Every one who has looked at the map of Norway must have been struck with
the singular character of its coast. On the map it looks so jagged,
such a strange mixture of land and sea, that it appears as if there must
be a perpetual struggle between the two,--the sea striving to inundate
the land, and the land pushing itself out into the sea, till it ends in
their dividing the region between them. On the spot, however, this
coast is very sublime. The long straggling promontories are
mountainous, towering ridges of rock, springing up in precipices from
the water; while the bays between them, instead of being rounded with
shelving sandy shores, on which the sea tumbles its waves, as in bays of
our coast, are, in fact, long narrow valleys, filled with sea, instead
of being laid out in fields and meadows. The high rocky banks shelter
these deep bays (called fiords) from almost every wind; so that their
waters are usually as still as those of a lake. For days and weeks
together, they reflect each separate tree-top of the pine-forests which
clothe the mountain sides, the mirror being broken only by the leap of
some sportive fish, or the oars of the boatman as he goes to inspect the
sea-fowl from islet to islet of the fiord, or carries out his nets or
his rod to catch the sea-trout or char, or cod, or herrings, which
abound, in their seasons, on the coast of Norway.
It is difficult to say whether these fiords are the most beautiful in
summer or in winter. In summer, they glitter with golden sunshine; and
purple and green shadows from the mountain and forest lie on them; and
these may be more lovely than the faint light of the winter noons of
those latitudes, and the snowy pictures of frozen peaks which then show
themselves on the surface: but before the day is half over, out come the
stars,--the glorious stars which shine like nothing that we have ever
seen. There, the planets cast a faint shadow, as the young moon does
with us: and these planets, and the constellations of the sky, as they
silently glide over from peak to peak of these rocky passes, are imaged
on the waters so clearly that the fisherman, as he unmoors his boat for
his evening task, feels as if he were about to shoot forth his vessel
into another heaven, and to cleave his way among the stars.
Still as everything is to the eye, sometimes for a hundred miles
together along these deep sea-valleys, there is rarely silence. The ear
is kept awake by a thousand voices. In the summer, there are cataracts
leaping from ledge to ledge of the rocks; and there is the bleating of
the kids that browse there, and the flap of the great eagle's wings, as
it dashes abroad from its eyrie, and the cries of whole clouds of
sea-birds which inhabit the islets; and all these sounds are mingled and
multiplied by the strong echoes, till they become a din as loud as that
of a city. Even at night, when the flocks are in the fold, and the
birds at roost, and the echoes themselves seem to be asleep, there is
occasionally a sweet music heard, too soft for even the listening ear to
catch by day. Every breath of summer wind that steals through the
pine-forests wakes this music as it goes. The stiff spiny leaves of the
fir and pine vibrate with the breeze, like the strings of a musical
instrument, so that every breath of the night-wind, in a Norwegian
forest, wakens a myriad of tiny harps; and this gentle and mournful
music may be heard in gushes the whole night through. This music, of
course, ceases when each tree becomes laden with snow; but yet there is
sound, in the midst of the longest winter night. There is the rumble of
some avalanche, as, after a drifting storm, a mass of snow, too heavy to
keep its place, slides and tumbles from the mountain peak. There is
also, now and then, a loud crack of the ice in the nearest glacier; and,
as many declare, there is a crackling to be heard by those who listen
when the northern lights are shooting and blazing across the sky. Nor
is this all. Wherever there is a nook between the rocks on the shore,
where a man may build a house, and clear a field or two;--wherever there
is a platform beside the cataract where the sawyer may plant his mill,
and make a path from it to join some great road, there is a human
habitation, and the sounds that belong to it. Thence, in winter nights,
come music and laughter, and the tread of dancers, and the hum of many
voices. The Norwegians are a social and hospitable people; and they
hold their gay meetings, in defiance of their arctic climate, through
every season of the year.
On a January night, a hundred years ago, there was great merriment in
the house of a farmer who had fixed his abode within the arctic circle,
in Nordland, not far from the foot of Sulitelma, the highest mountain in
Norway. This dwelling, with its few fields about it, was in a recess
between the rocks, on the shore of the fiord, about five miles from
Saltdalen, and two miles from the junction of the Salten's Elv (river)
with the fiord. It was but little that Erlingsen's fields would
produce, though they were sheltered from the coldest winds, and the
summer sunshine was reflected from the rocks, so as to make this little
farm much more productive than any near which were in a more exposed
situation. A patch of rye was grown, and some beans and oats; and there
was a strip of pasture, and a garden in which might be seen turnips,
radishes, potatoes, lettuce and herbs, and even some fruits,--a few
raspberries, and a great many cherries. There were three or four horses
on the farm, five cows, and a small flock of goats. In summer, the
cattle and flock were driven up the mountain, to feed on the pastures
there; and during the seven months of winter, they were housed and fed
on the hay grown at home, and that which was brought from the mountain,
and on a food which appears strange enough to us, but of which cows in
Norway are extremely fond:--fish-heads boiled into a thick soup with
horse-dung. At one extremity of the little beach of white sand which
extended before the farmer's door was his boat-house; and on his boat he
and his family depended, no less than his cows, for a principal part of
their winter subsistence. Except a kid or a calf now and then, no meat
was killed on the farm. Cod in winter, herrings in spring, trout and
salmon in summer, and salted fish in winter, always abounded. Reindeer
meat was regularly purchased from the Lapps who travelled round among
the settlements for orders, or drove their fattened herds from farm to
farm. Besides this, there was the resource of game. Erlingsen and his
housemen brought home from their sporting rambles, sometimes a young
bear, sometimes wild ducks, or the noble cock-of-the-woods, as big as a
turkey, or a string of snipes, or golden plovers, or ptarmigan. The
eggs of sea-birds might be found in every crevice of the islets in the
fiord, in the right season; and they are excellent food. Once a year,
too, Erlingsen wrapped himself in furs, and drove himself in his sledge,
followed by one of his housemen on another and a larger, to the great
winter fair at Tronyem, where the Lapps repaired to sell their frozen
reindeer meat, their skins, a few articles of manufacture, and where
travelling Russian merchants came with the productions of other
climates, and found eager customers in the inhabitants who thronged to
this fair to make their purchases. Here, in exchange for the salt-fish,
feathers, and eider-down which had been prepared by the industry of his
family, Erlingsen obtained flax and wool wherewith to make clothing for
the household, and those luxuries which no Norwegian thinks of going
without,--corn-brandy, coffee, tobacco, sugar, and spices. Large mould
candles were also sold so cheap by the Russians that it was worth while
to bring them home for the use of the whole family,--even to burn in the
stables and stalls, as the supply of bears' fat was precarious, and the
pine-tree was too precious, so far north, to be split up into torches,
while it even fell so short occasionally as to compel the family to burn
peat, which they did not like nearly so well as pine-logs. It was
Madame Erlingsen's business to calculate how much of all these foreign
articles would be required for the use of her household for a whole
year; and, trusting to her calculations, which were never found to be
wrong, her husband came home from the winter fair heavily enough laden
with good things.
Nor was it only what was required for his own every-day household that
he brought. The quantity of provisions, especially corn-brandy,
tobacco, coffee, and sugar, consumed in hospitality in Norway, is almost
incredible; and retired as the Erlingsens might appear to dwell, they
were as hospitable, according to their opportunities, as any inhabitant
of Bergen or Christiana. They gave feasts at Christmas, and on every
occasion that they could devise. The occasion, on the particular
January day mentioned above, was the betrothment of one of the
house-maidens to a young farm-servant of the establishment. I do not
mean that this festival was anything like a marriage. It was merely an
engagement to be married; but this engagement is a much more formal and
public affair in Norway (and indeed wherever the people belong to the
Lutheran church) than with us. According to the rites of the Lutheran
church, there are two ceremonies,--one when a couple become engaged, and
another when they are married. In Norway, this betrothment gives the
couple a certain dignity beyond that of the unengaged, and more liberty
of companionship, together with certain rights in law. This makes up to
them for being obliged to wait so long as they often must before they
can marry. In a country, scattered over with farmers, like Norway,
where there are few money transactions, because people provide for their
own wants on their own little estates, servants do not shift their
places, and go from master to master, as with us. A young man and woman
have to wait long,--probably till some houseman dies or removes, before
they can settle; and then they are settled for life,--provided for till
death, if they choose to be commonly industrious and honest. The story
of this betrothment at Erlingsen's will explain what I have just said.
As Madame Erlingsen had two daughters growing up, and they were no less
active than the girls of a Norwegian household usually are, she had
occasion for only two maidens to assist in the business of the dwelling
and the dairy.
Of these two, the younger, Erica, was the maiden betrothed to-day. No
one perhaps rejoiced so much at the event as her mistress, both for
Erica's sake, and on account of her two young daughters. Erica was not
the best companion for them; and the servants of a Norwegian farmer are
necessarily the companions of the daughters of the house. There was
nothing wrong in Erica's conduct or temper towards the family. She had,
when confirmed, [Note 1] borne so high a character, that many places
were offered her, and Madame Erlingsen had thought herself very
fortunate in obtaining her services. But, since then, Erica had
sustained a shock which hurt her spirits, and increased a weakness which
she owed to her mother. Her mother, a widow, had brought up her child
in all the superstitions of the country, some of which remain in full
strength even to this day, and were then very powerful; and the poor
woman's death at last confirmed the lessons of her life. She had stayed
too long one autumn day at the Erlingsen's; and, being benighted on her
return, and suddenly seized and bewildered by the cold, had wandered
from the road, and was found frozen to death in a recess of the forest
which it was surprising that she should have reached. Erica never
believed that she did reach this spot of her own accord. Having had
some fears before of the Wood-Demon having been offended by one of the
family, Erica regarded this accident as a token of his vengeance. She
said this when she first heard of her mother's death; and no reasonings
from the zealous pastor of the district, no soothing from her mistress,
could shake her persuasion. She listened with submission, wiping away
her quiet tears as they discoursed; but no one could ever get her to say
that she doubted whether there was a Wood-Demon, or that she was not
afraid of what he would do if offended.
Erlingsen and his wife always treated her superstition as a weakness;
and when she was not present, they ridiculed it. Yet they saw that it
had its effect on their daughters. Erica most strictly obeyed their
wish that she should not talk about the spirits of the region with Orga
and Frolich; but the girls found plenty of people to tell them what they
could not learn from Erica. Besides what everybody knows who lives in
the rural districts of Norway,--about Nipen, the spirit that is always
so busy after everybody's affairs,--about the Water-sprite, an
acquaintance of every one who lives beside a river or lake,--and about
the Mountain-Demon, familiar to all who lived so near Sulitelma; besides
these common spirits, the girls used to hear of a multitude of others
from old Peder, the blind houseman, and from all the farm-people, down
to Oddo, the herd-boy. Their parents hoped that this taste of theirs
might die away if once Erica, with her sad, serious face and subdued
voice, were removed to a house of her own, where they would see her
supported by her husband's unfearing mind, and occupied with domestic
business more entirely than in her mistress's house. So Madame
Erlingsen was well pleased that Erica was betrothed; and she could only
have been better satisfied if she had been married at once.
For this marrying, however, the young people must wait. There was no
house, or houseman's place, vacant for them at present. There was a
prospect, however. The old houseman Peder, who had served Erlingsen's
father and Erlingsen himself for fifty-eight years, could now no longer
do the weekly work on the farm which was his rent for his house, field,
and cow. He was blind and old. His aged wife, Ulla, could not leave
the house; and it was the most she could do to keep the dwelling in
order, with occasional help from one and another. Housemen who make
this sort of contract with farmers in Norway are never turned out. They
have their dwelling and field for their own life and that of their
wives. What they do, when disabled, is to take in a deserving young man
to do their work for the farmer, on the understanding that he succeeds
to the houseman's place on the death of the old people. Peder and Ulla
had made this agreement with Erica's lover, Rolf; and it was understood
that his marriage with Erica should take place whenever the old people
should die.
It was impossible for Erica herself to fear that Nipen was offended, at
the outset of this festival day. If he had chosen to send a wind, the
guests could not have come; for no human frame can endure travelling in
a wind in Nordland on a January day. Happily, the air was so calm that
a flake of snow, or a lock of eider-down, would have fallen straight to
the ground. At two o'clock, when the short daylight was gone, the stars
were shining so brightly, that the company who came by the fiord would
be sure to have an easy voyage. Almost all came by the fiord, for the
only road from Erlingsen's house led to so few habitations, and was so
narrow, steep, and rocky, that an arrival by that way was a rare event.
The path was now, however, so smooth with frozen snow, that more than
one sledge attempted and performed the descent. Erlingsen and some of
his servants went out to the porch, on hearing music from the water, and
stood with lighted pine-torches to receive their guests, when,
approaching from behind, they heard the sound of the sleigh-bells, and
found that company was arriving both by sea and land.
It was a pretty sight,--such an arrival. In front, there was the head
of a boat driving up upon the white beach, and figure after figure
leaping out, and hastening to be welcomed in the porch; while, in the
midst of the greeting, the quick and regular beat of a horse's feet was
heard on the frozen ground, and the active little animal rushed into the
light, shaking his mane and jingling his bells, till suddenly checked by
the driver, who stood upright at the back of the sledge, while the
ladies reclined, so wrapped in furs that nothing could be seen of them
till they had entered the house, and issued forth from the room where
they threw off their pelisses and cloaks. Glad had the visitors been,
whether they came by land or water, to arrive in sight of the lighted
dwelling, whose windows looked like rows of yellow stars, contrasting
with the blue ones overhead; and more glad still were they to be ushered
into the great room, where all was so light, so warm, so cheerful! Warm
it was, to the farthest corner; and too warm near the roaring and
crackling fires; for the fires were of pine-wood. Rows upon rows of
candles were fastened against the walls, above the heads of the company;
the floor was strewn with juniper twigs; and the spinning-wheels, the
carding boards, every token of household labour was removed, except a
loom, which remained in one corner. In another corner was a welcome
sight--a platform of rough boards, two feet from the floor, and on it
two stools. This was a token that there was to be dancing; and indeed
Oddo, the herd-boy, old Peder's grandson, was seen to have his clarionet
in his belt, as he ran in and out on the arrival of fresh parties.
Before four o'clock, the whole company, consisting of about forty, had
arrived. They walked about the large room, sipping their strong coffee,
and helping one another to the good things on the trays which were
carried round,--the slices of bread-and-butter, with anchovies, or
shreds of reindeer ham or tongue, or thin slices of salt cheese. When
these trays disappeared, and the young women who had served them
returned into the room, Oddo was seen to reach the platform with a hop,
skip, and jump, followed by a dull-looking young man with a violin. The
oldest men lighted their pipes, and sat down to talk, two or three
together. Others withdrew to a smaller room, where card-tables were set
out; while the younger men selected their partners, and handed them
forth for the gallopade. The dance was led by the blushing Erica, whose
master was her partner. It had never occurred to her that she was not
to take her usual place, and she was greatly embarrassed, not the less
so that she knew that her mistress was immediately behind, with Rolf for
her partner. Erica might, however, have led the dance in any country in
Europe. All the women in Norway dance well, being practised in it from
their infancy, as an exercise for which the leisure of their long
winter, and the roominess of their houses, afford scope. Every woman
present danced well, but none better than Erica.
"Very well!" "very pretty!" "very good!" observed the pastor, M.
Kollsen, as he sat, with his pipe in his mouth, looking on. M. Kollsen
was a very young man; but the men in Norway smoke as invariably as the
women dance. "Very pretty, indeed! They only want double the number to
make it as pretty a dance as any in Tronyem."
"What would you have, sir?" asked old Peder, who sat smoking at his
elbow. "Are there not eleven couple? Oddo told me there were eleven
couple; and I think I counted so many pairs of feet as they passed."
"Let me see:--yes, you are right, Peder; there are eleven couples."
"And what would you have more, sir? In this young man's father's
time--"
"Rolf's father's?"
"No, sir,--Erlingsen's. Ah! I forgot that Erlingsen may not seem to
you, or any stranger, to be young, but Ulla and I have been used to call
him so, and I fear I always shall, as I shall never see the furrows in
his face. It will be always smooth and young to me. My Ulla says there
is nothing to be sorry for in that, and she does not object to my
thinking so of her face. But, as I was saying, in the elder Erlingsen's
time we thought we did well when we set up nine couples at Yule: and
since then, the Holbergs and Thores have each made out a new farm within
ten miles, and we are accustomed to be rather proud of our eleven
couples. Indeed, I once knew it twelve, when they got me to stand up
with little Henrica,--the pretty little girl whose grave lies behind,
just under the rock. But I suppose there is no question but there are
finer doings at Tronyem."
"Of course--of course," said the young clergyman. "But there are many
youths in Tronyem that would be glad of so pretty a partner as M.
Erlingsen has, if she would not look so frightened."
"Pretty she is," said Peder. "As I remember her complexion, it looks as
if it was made by the reflection of our snows in its own clearness. And
when you do get a full look into her eyes, how like the summer sky they
are--as deep as the heavens in a midsummer noon! Did you say she looks
frightened, sir?"
"Yes. When does she not? Some ghost from the grave has scared her, I
suppose; or some spirit that has no grave to lie still in, perhaps. It
is a great fault in her that she has so little faith. I never met with
such a case. I hardly know how to conduct it. I must begin with the
people about her,--abolish their superstitions,--and then there may be a
chance for her. Meanwhile I have but a poor account to give to the
bishop [Note 2] of the religion of the district."
"Did you say, sir, that Erica wants faith? It seems to me that I never
knew any one who had so much."
"You think so because there is no idea in this region of what faith is.
A prodigious work indeed my bishop has given me to do. He himself
cannot be aware what it is, till I send him my report. One might
suppose that Christianity had never been heard of here, by the absurd
credulity one meets with in the best houses,--the multitude of good and
evil spirits one hears of at every turn. I will blow them all to the
winds presently. I will root out every superstition in a circle of
twenty miles."
"You will, sir?"
"I will. Such is my duty as a Christian pastor."
"Do you suppose you can, sir?"
"Certainly. No doubt of that. What sort of a pastor must he be who
cannot vindicate his own religion?"
"These beliefs, sir, were among us long before you were born; and I
fancy they will last till some time after you are dead. And, what is
more, I should not wonder if your bishop was to tell you the same thing
when you send him your report of us."
"I thought you had had more faith, Peder. I thought you had been a
better Christian."
"However that may be," said Peder, "I have some knowledge of the people
about us, having lived nearly fourscore years in the parish; and
perhaps, sir, as you are young, and from a distance, you would allow me
to say a word. May I?"
"O, certainly."
But while M. Kollsen gave this permission, he took his pipe from his
mouth, and beat time with it upon his knee, and with his foot upon the
ground, to carry off his impatience at being instructed.
"My advice would be, sir, with all respect to you," said Peder, "that
you should lead the people into everything that you think true and good,
and pass over quietly whatever old customs and notions you do not
understand or like. I have so much belief in the religion you are to
teach as to feel sure that whatever will not agree with it will die out
of its way if let alone. But if religion is brought in to hurt the
people's feelings and notions, that religion will be the thing to
suffer."
"I must judge for myself about such matters, of course," said M.
Kollsen. He was meditating a change of place, to escape further
lecturing about his duty, when Peder saved him the trouble of leaving
his comfortable seat by rising and moving away towards the fire.
Peder's pipe was smoked out, and he was going for more tobacco to the
place where tobacco was always to be found--in a little recess above the
fireplace. He felt his way carefully, that he might not interfere with
the dancers, or be jostled by them; but he had not far to go. One
friend begged to be sent for anything he wanted; another, with a quicker
eye, brought him tobacco; and a third led him to his seat again. All
looked with wonder at M. Kollsen, surprised that he, Peder's companion
at that moment, young and blessed with eyesight, could let the blind old
man leave his seat for such a reason. M. Kollsen whiffed away,
however, quite unconscious of what everybody was thinking.
"This waltz," said Peder, when the dancers had begun again, "does not
seem to go easily. There is something amiss. I think it is in the
music that the fault lies. My boy's clarionet goes well enough; no fear
of Oddo's being out. Pray, sir, who plays the violin at this moment?"
"A fellow who looks as if he did not like his business. He is frowning
with his red brows as if he would frown out the lights."
"His red brows! O, then it is Hund. I was thinking it would be hard
upon him, poor fellow, if he had to play to-night; yet, not so hard as
if he had to dance. It is weary work dancing with the heels when the
heart is too heavy to move. You may have heard, sir, for everyone knows
it, that Hund wanted to have young Rolf's place, and, some say, Erica
herself. Is she dancing, sir, if I may ask?"
"Yes, with Rolf. What sort of a man is Rolf--with regard to these
superstitions, I mean? Is he as foolish as Erica--always frightened
about something?"
"No, indeed. It is to be wished that Rolf was not so light as he is--so
inconsiderate about these matters. Rolf has his troubles and his
faults; but they are not of that kind."
"Enough," said M. Kollsen, with a voice of authority. "I rejoice to
hear that he is superior to the popular delusions. As to his troubles
and his faults, they may be left for me to discover all in good time."
"With all my heart, sir. They are nobody's business but his own, and,
may be, Erica's. Rolf has a good heart, and I doubt not Ulla and I
shall have great comfort in him. He lives with us, sir, from this night
forwards. There is no fear that he will wish us in our graves, though
we stand between him and his marriage."
"That must be rather a painful consideration to you."
"Not at all, sir, at present. Ulla and I were all the happier, we
think, to this day, for having had four such years as these young people
have before them to know one another in, and grow suitable in notions
and habits, and study to please one another. By the time Rolf and Erica
are what we were, one or both of us will be underground, and Rolf will
have, I am certain, the pleasant feeling of having done his duty by us.
It is all as it should be, sir; and I pray that they may live to say at
our age what Ulla and I can say at the same season of our lives."
The pastor made no answer. He had not heard the last few words; for
what Peder said of being underground had plunged him into a reverie
about Peder's funeral sermon, which he should, of course, have to
preach. He was pondering how he should at once do justice to Peder's
virtues and mark his own disapprobation of the countenance Peder gave to
the superstitions of the region in which he lived. He must keep in view
the love and respect in which the old man was held by everybody, and yet
he must bear witness against the great fault above mentioned. He
composed two or three paragraphs in his imagination which he thought
would do, and then committed them to memory. He was roused from this
employment by a loud laugh from the man whose funeral he was meditating,
and saw that Peder was enjoying life at present as much as the youngest,
with a glass of punch in his hand, and a group of old men and women
round him recalling the jests of fifty years ago.
"How goes it, Rolf?" said his master, who, having done his duty in the
dancing-room, was now making his way to the card-tables, in another
apartment, to see how his guests there were entertained. Thinking that
Rolf looked very absent, as he stood, in the pause of the dance, in
silence by Erica's side, Erlingsen clapped him on the shoulder, and
said, "How goes it? Make your friends merry."
Rolf bowed and smiled, and his master passed on.
"How goes it?" repeated Rolf to Erica, as he looked earnestly into her
face. "Is all going on well, Erica?"
"Certainly. I suppose so. Why not?" she replied. "If you see anything
wrong,--anything omitted, be sure and tell me. Madame Erlingsen would
be very sorry. Is there anything forgotten, Rolf?"
"I think you have forgotten what the day is: that is all. Nobody that
looked at you, love, would fancy it to be your own day. You look
anything but merry. Hardly a smile from you to-night! And that is a
great omission."
"O, Rolf, there is something so much better than merriment!"
"Yes, love; but where is it? Not in your heart to-night, Erica."
"Yes, indeed, Rolf."
"You look as dull,--as sad,--you and Hund, as if--"
"Hund!" repeated Erica, glancing around the room for Hund, and not
seeing him till her lover reminded her that Hund was the musician.
"Hund does seem dull enough to be sure," said she, smiling; "I hope I do
not often look like that."
"I am more sorry for him than you are, I see," said Rolf, brightening
when he found how entirely Hund had been absent from her thoughts. "I
am more sorry for Hund than you are: and with good reason, for I know
what the happiness is that he has missed, poor fellow! But yet I think
you might feel a little more for him. It would show that you know how
to value love."
"Indeed I am very sorry for him; but more for his disappointment about
the house than any other. To-day once over, he will soon fix his love
on somebody else. Perhaps we shall be dancing on his betrothment-day
before the year is out."
"Then I hope his girl will look merrier than you do to-night," muttered
Rolf, with a sigh. "O, Erica! I wish you would trust me. I could take
care of you, and make you quite happy, if you would only believe it.
Ah! I know what that look means. I know you love me, and all that; but
you are always tormenting yourself--"
"I think I know one who is cleverer still at tormenting himself," said
Erica, with a smile. "Come, Rolf, no more tormenting of ourselves or
one another! No more of that after to-day! What is to-day worth, if it
is not to put an end to all doubts of one another?"
"But where is the use of that, if you still will not believe that I can
keep off all trouble from you--that nothing in the universe shall touch
you to your hurt, while--"
"O, hush! hush!" said Erica, turning pale and red at the presumption of
this speech. "See, they are waiting for us. One more round before
supper."
And in the whirl of the waltz she tried to forget the last words Rolf
had spoken; but they rang in her ears; and before her eyes were images
of Nipen overhearing this defiance,--and the Water-sprite planning
vengeance in its palace under the ice,--and the Mountain-Demon laughing
in scorn, till the echoes shouted again,--and the Wood-Demon waiting
only for summer to see how he could beguile the rash lover. Erica
finished her dance; but when the company and the men of the household
were seated at the supper-table, and she had to help her mistress and
the young ladies to wait upon them, she trembled so that she could
scarcely stand. It was so very wrong of Rolf to be always defying the
spirits!
Long was the supper, and hearty was the mirth round the table. People
in Norway have universally a hearty appetite,--such an appetite as we
English have no idea of. Whether it is owing to the sharp climate, or
to the active life led by all,--whatever may be the cause, such is the
fact. This night, piles of fish disappeared first; and then joint after
joint of reindeer venison. The fine game of the country was handed
round, cut up; and little but the bones was left of a score of birds.
Then there were preserved fruits, and berries, eaten with thick cream;--
almost every dish that could be thought of made of the rich cream of the
north. Erica recovered herself as the great business went on, and while
her proud lover watched her, forgetting his supper, he thought to
himself that no one of the fair attendants trod so lightly as Erica--no
one carved so neatly--no one handed the dishes so gracefully, or was so
quick at seeing to whom the most respect and attention were owing.
Perhaps this last thought was suggested by Rolf's perceiving that,
either by her own hand or another's, the hottest dishes and the nicest
bits were found, all supper-time, close to his elbow. Madame Erlingsen,
he decided, with all her experience, did not do the duties of the table
so well; and the young ladies, kind and good-tempered as they were,
would never, by any experience, become so graceful as Erica.
At last appeared the final dish of the long feast--the sweet cake, with
which dinner and supper in Norway usually conclude. While this was
sliced and handed round, Rolf observed that Erica looked anxiously
towards him. He took no notice, hoping that she would come and speak to
him, and that he should thus be the gainer of a few of her sweet words.
She did come, and just said,
"The cake and ale are here, Rolf. Will you carry them?"
"O, the treat for old Nipen. Yes, I will carry them," replied Rolf,
rising from his seat.
It is the custom in the country regions of Norway to give the spirit
Nipen a share at festival times. His Christmas cake is richer than that
prepared for the guests; and, before the feast is finished, it is laid
in some place out of doors, where, as might be expected, it is never to
be found in the morning. Everybody knew therefore why Rolf rose from
his seat, though some were too far off to hear him say that he would
carry out the treat for old Nipen.
"Now, pray do not speak so,--do not call him those names," said Erica,
anxiously. "It is quite as easy to speak so as not to offend him.
Pray, Rolf, to please me, do speak respectfully. And promise me to play
no tricks, but just set the things down, and come straight in, and do
not look behind you. Promise me, Rolf."
Rolf did promise, but he was stopped by two voices, calling upon him.
Oddo, the herd-boy, came running to claim the office of carrying out
Nipen's cake; and M. Kollsen, from his seat, declared that he could not
countenance any superstitious observances,--would not indeed permit any
so gross as this in his presence. He requested that the company might
have the benefit of the cake, and made a speech in ridicule of all
spirits and fairies so very bold and contemptuous, that all present who
had to go home that night looked in consternation at their host. If
such language as M. Kollsen's were allowed, they looked for nothing
less than to have their way beset by offended spirits; so that Erlingsen
might hear in the morning of some being frozen, some being lost in the
fiord, and others tumbled from precipices. M. Erlingsen made haste to
speak. He did not use any scruples with the young clergyman. He told
him that every one present would be happy at all times to hear him speak
on the matters belonging to his office. He had discharged his office in
the morning, in betrothing Rolf and Erica he was now resting from his
business as a guest at that table; and he would, of course, allow that
the direction of the festivity rested with the host and hostess, whose
desire it was that everything should be done which was agreeable to the
feelings and habits of the greater number of the guests.
It was settled in a moment that Nipen should have his cake; which so
shocked and annoyed M. Kollsen that he declared he would not remain to
sanction anything so impious, and requested that his boatmen might be
called from their suppers, and desired to have his boat ready
immediately. No entreaties would soften him: go he would.
It appeared, however, that he could not go. Not a man would row him,
after what he had just said of Nipen. All were sure that a gust would
blow the boat over, the minute she was out of reach of land; or that a
rock would spring up in deep water, where no rock was before; or that
some strong hand would grasp the boat from below, and draw it down under
the waters. A shudder went round as these things were prophesied, and,
of course, M. Kollsen's return home that night was out of the question,
unless he would row himself. At first, he declared he should do this;
but he was so earnestly entreated to attempt nothing so rash, that he
yielded the point, with a supercilious air which perhaps concealed more
satisfaction than he chose to avow to himself. He insisted on retiring
immediately, however, and was shown to his chamber at once by Erlingsen
himself, who found, on his return, that the company were the better for
the pastor's absence, though unable to recover the mirth which he had
put to flight. Erica had been shedding a few tears, in spite of strong
efforts to restrain them. Here was a bad omen already,--on the very day
of her betrothment; and she saw that Hund thought so; for there was a
gloomy satisfaction in his eye, as he sat silently watching all that
passed.
She could not help being glad that Oddo renewed his request to be
allowed to carry out Nipen's cake and ale. She eagerly put the ale-can
into his hand, and the cake under his arm; and Oddo was going out, when
his blind grandfather, hearing that he was to be the messenger, observed
that he should be better pleased if it _were_ somebody else; for Oddo,
though a good boy, was inquisitive, and apt to get into mischief by
looking too closely into everything,--having never a thought of fear.
Everybody knew this to be true, though Oddo himself declared that he was
as frightened as anybody sometimes. Moreover, he asked what there was
to pry into, on the present occasion, in the middle of the night, and
appealed to the company whether Nipen was not best pleased to be served
by the youngest of a party. This was allowed, and he was permitted to
go, when Peder's consent was obtained, his mistress going to the door
with him, and seeing him off, putting him in mind that the dancing could
not begin again till he returned to take up his clarionet.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note 1. The rite of confirmation is thought much more of in Norway than
with us. The preparation for it is longer and more strict; and the
destiny of young people for life depends much on how they pass through
it. A person who has not been confirmed is looked upon as one without a
character and without knowledge; while those who pass well stand high in
credit; and if they have to earn their living, are sure of good
situations.--In the newspapers in Norway you may see among the
advertisements, "A _confirmed_ shop-boy wants a place." "Wanted a
_confirmed_ girl, who can cook;" which means that their having been
confirmed proves that they are considered respectable, and not deficient
in capacity or knowledge.
Note 2. A hundred years ago Nordland was included in the diocese of
Tronyem.