dancing. I think we must brace him up a little. We’ll tie a rope
around him!”
Then things were lively for a few minutes. Angemal ran home for a
rope. Baklind put one chair on another, balanced himself on the top
one and tied the stout rope around the stove and then to some big
nails in the wall.
“There! now I think the old fellow is happy!” said Baklind as he
hopped down from the chairs and drew back in the hall to see how the
arrangement looked.
But Baklind had that time reckoned without his hostess. The next
evening Madam Pirk presented herself in the hall, her face wearing an
extraordinarily displeased expression.
“What is that arrangement for?” asked Madam Pirk pointing to the
rope-bound stove.
“I was afraid the old fellow would fall in a swoon,” said Baklind. “I
thought it would be wise to support him a little.”
“No, thank your majesty! My stove can stand alone perfectly well.”
“As Madam will,” said Baklind. So he got up on the chairs again and
took down the rope.
Two evenings later, we were dancing the polka mazurka with great
gusto. Baklind played the violin, the floor rocked, the stove and
even the pipe shook and rattled violently.
At home, I had heard Gunhild, one of the maids, say that to dance the
polka mazurka “with bumps”—that is, bumping into the other couples,
was the greatest fun in the world. I suggested to Angemal that we
should dance that way, and he immediately agreed. We bumped against
all the others, pushed and shoved, and enjoyed ourselves tremendously.
But all at once we heard a crash from the stove—a crash so loud that
it drowned all the uproar we were making. Every one of us stopped
instantly, and stared in terror at the big, old stove. And at that
very moment—well, any one who has never seen a stove break all to
pieces can have but a faint idea of it—at that very moment, it was
as if the legs were struck from under the stove, it sprang apart in
different places, and the big heavy iron pieces toppled, clanked
against each other and fell with a frightful bang on the floor. The
long stovepipe came last. It pitched far out in the room amongst
us, and an avalanche of soot spread like thick smoke through the
drawing-room. We all sprang for the door, Baklind with us. Madam Pirk
and her maid came rushing into the entry. A heavy cloud of soot was
pouring out of the door of the dancing-room.
“What is it?” shrieked Madam Pirk. “What is going on? Are you tearing
the house down?”
“Oh, the old chap fell over. He wouldn’t stand there any longer,”
said Baklind.
Madam Pirk shrieked and wept and scolded, scolded Baklind, shrieked
to us that we should pack ourselves off out of her house. She didn’t
wish to see even a shadow of any of us inside her doors ever again.
But she wept over all the green-robed shepherds around the walls. It
was indeed to be feared that they would never again play their horns
in such rosy red light as heretofore.
“Well, it isn’t my fault,” said Baklind. “You wouldn’t let me tie it
together.”
At this, all Madam Pirk’s wrath poured out on Baklind’s curly head.
“Is it work for a grown man to traipse around, and do nothing but
dance? Well, if you don’t this minute dance out of my house, I shall
call both the mayor and the police.”
Nothing would pacify her. We had danced for the last time in Madam
Pirk’s big room.
During the two weeks that remained of the course, we had to crowd
ourselves together in Baklind’s room at the hotel; and Angemal and I
were not allowed to dance the polka mazurka “with bumps” any more.
VI
OUR BONFIRE ON ST. JOHN’S NIGHT
I don’t know anything more delightful than St. John’s
Night,—beautiful, bright St. John’s Night.
There are, though, three awfully jolly days in the year: Christmas,
my birthday, and St. John’s or Midsummer Day.
Christmas, particularly Christmas Eve, is something very special; it
stands entirely by itself, and seems to mean Father and Mother and
all the family. No one should be with us then except those we are
most fond of—those that belong here at home.
Then my birthday is my very own day. What I like best about that are
the presents I get and also that I am a year older. For, really,
isn’t it tedious to keep on being twelve years old everlastingly?
Of course, when any one asked me last year how old I was, I always
said, “In my thirteenth year.” That sounded older,—not so unspeakably
childish.
But St. John’s Day! Then there is pleasure and sport for everybody.
There is no school; the fields everywhere are bright with spring
flowers, and the houses are decorated outside with little birch-trees
standing beside the doors. Inside, birch leaves trim the stoves,
fresh garlands hang from the ceiling around the walls, buttercups and
daisies and long waving grasses are in bouquets in all the rooms.
And perhaps we have cream porridge for dinner.
Last and best of all, though, are the St. John’s bonfires in the
evening, blazing and shining wherever you look.
No one stays at home on St. John’s Night except the very old folks.
The other people of the town row out to the islands with big
lunch-baskets and bottles of fruit-juice.
Many take accordions with them, and the music, coming over the water,
sounds sad and joyful at the same time. It wouldn’t seem like St.
John’s Night at all if Agent Levorsen did not play “Sons of Norway”
out in the summer night on Green Island. The sailor boys at the Point
play such tunes as:
“_Naa kommer jenta med kjolen grön.
Aa hei du, aa haa!_”[2]
And everything is oh, so jolly and gay!
On the hills round about in the town the old people sit among the
small houses and look at the blazing fires and think of the days when
they were young and had jolly times out on the islands on St. John’s
Night.
“Yes, yes!” say the old women, sitting with their hands under their
aprons and wagging their heads sideways.
One after another the fires are lighted. “See there!” “And see
there!” “And there!” The air is warm and soft and still. The islands
are swarming with people who eat cake and drink fruit-juice and laugh
and dance and sometimes fight.
The bonfires crackle and flash up against the dark sky and the sparks
fly around far and near. Suddenly a piece of board or a charred
butter-firkin tumbles down from the fire and the boys make wagers
as to which of them can come nearest to the fire without burning
himself. Their faces are so black with soot that they look like
chimney-sweeps.
O bright, jolly St. John’s Night!
But now you shall hear how we celebrated it once. I shall never
forget that celebration, for it ended in terror.
We shouldn’t have thought of having a bonfire if it hadn’t been for
Andreas, a boy who came from near Stavanger last spring. His father,
Oscar Eisland, works at the wharf in Espeviken, and he and his wife
and five children live in a tiny red house on our hill. That is why I
know the family so well.
In their house there are two beds, one bench, and one table, and
nothing more except newspaper pictures on the walls; pictures of
murders, weddings in Russia, kings, and so on.
Although Oscar and his family are surely not rich, I have never seen
any people as happy as they are. That is why I like so much to be up
there.
Well, it was Andreas who suggested that we children who lived on the
hill should have a St. John’s Night bonfire of our very own. Children
where he came from did that, he said; and my brother Karsten and I
thought it would be awfully good fun.
We were not going to say a word to any one about it. It was to be a
glorious surprise for the whole town when all at once a big bonfire
blazed out on our hill.
But it wasn’t easy to find things to burn, I can tell you. All that
we collected we were to hide in a place on the hill that we called
“Sahara.” We had many places on the hill that we had given names
to, “Nagasaki,” “Paris,” and so on; but “Sahara” was the best for a
hiding-place.
Andreas, Karsten, and I each had our particular work to do. Karsten
was to get kerosene for us to pour over the fire to make it burn
very briskly. And just think! He took an empty bottle and went around
to all the cooks on our street and asked them for a few drops of
kerosene. That was stupid, I thought, for naturally the maids would
tattle—but Karsten said no, cooks never tattled.
I did nothing but spy around in all the woodsheds and lofts I could
get into for things to burn. You see, we couldn’t expect to get hold
of old boats as the people on the islands did. A few bits of board I
found, of course, but nothing of any account.
Andreas was the handiest person you can imagine, swift as a chamois
and very strong. Every day he, with dirty bare legs, appeared in
our hall and asked if there was something for him to carry up to
“Sahara,” for that was his business; but usually there was nothing.
Day after day went by, and still the store of fuel up in “Sahara” was
not very big. Then one day my eyes fell on an old bedstead that stood
in Mrs. Petersen’s woodshed. It was very dirty and had stood there a
long time, surely half a year.
I could not get that bedstead out of my mind. Mrs. Petersen couldn’t
care the least bit about it, since it had stood in the woodshed so
long. It was very old, and painted red, and would burn gloriously.
Probably Mrs. Petersen would only be thankful if we took it, dirty as
it was, out of her way.
I consulted with Andreas and Karsten. “Oh, yes, we’ll take it,” said
Andreas. I rather think Andreas would have taken the two beds out of
his house, if he could, so as to have something to burn.
“If Mrs. Petersen were only not so severe, we might ask her for the
bed,” said Karsten. Karsten always says people are “severe” when they
are cross or angry.
No, ask Mrs. Petersen for the bed we dared not, that was sure. But
we couldn’t have a bonfire without fuel, so if you’ll believe it, we
took the old bedstead one evening without so much as saying “by your
leave” to any one.
Andreas took it apart and carried it all up to “Sahara” as if it were
a feather!
My, but that would make a grand bonfire!
First the bedstead, then a big butter-firkin filled with heather on
top of it, and in the firkin we fixed a tall pole with an enormous
bunch of heather soaked in kerosene tied on its top.
Now people needn’t plume themselves on their grand bonfires out on
the island, for our bonfire would be seen as far away as Jomfruland,
that was certain.
The weather wasn’t very good that St. John’s Night. It had been dingy
and gray all day, getting ready to rain; and that was good surely,
for we hadn’t had rain for four weeks and the grass was stiff and
yellow and the heather as dry as tinder over the whole hill.
But since the rain had waited so long, it might as well wait until
St. John’s Night was over. That is what I thought then, at any rate.
The whole afternoon we stayed up there on the hill, arranging and
improving our pile of fuel, so that everything should be perfect
for the evening. From that height we could see over the whole town,
into the streets and courtyards. Men looked about as big as pins, and
children looked like pinheads; yet we knew every pin and pinhead we
saw down there. We saw the boys rowing out to the islands; and far
beyond the islands we could see Skagerak, gray and billowy, with tiny
white-capped waves, and with heavy gray air lying above its waters.
O dear, O dear! How the time dragged before it grew dark that
evening! At last we could wait no longer but lighted our bonfire
before any others were lighted.
The bunch of heather at the top of the pole blazed up like a great
bouquet of fire. It looked perfectly magnificent, really.
There! Now Mrs. Petersen’s bedstead had caught. Hurrah! What fun!
Greatest fun in the world!
We danced and skipped and shouted, “Hurrah!” looking towards the town
all the time to see whether any one noticed our splendid bonfire.
Hurrah! Hurrah!
The wind began to blow,—to blow very hard. Sparks flew all over the
hill. We could not stand in the lee of the bonfire, for it would have
been like standing in a sea of flame.
Well, if the townsfolk didn’t see that fire now, it must be that
they had no eyes in their heads. Andreas turned somersaults in the
heather. Hurrah! Hurrah!
But all at once I noticed some little flames springing up here and
there.
“The heather is on fire!” I shouted.
“Hurrah!” shouted Andreas and Karsten in high glee.
But at that moment something seemed to tighten in my chest. I was
afraid with a great sudden fear.
“Now all that will be a St. John’s Night bonfire,” said Karsten
gleefully, pointing towards the moor.
“Are you crazy? Put it out! Only put it out!” I shouted.
[Illustration: WE DANCED AND SKIPPED AND SHOUTED, “HURRAH!”
_Page 75._]
The whole hill was covered with heather as far as one could see,
heather as dry as tinder from the long drought. Suppose it should all
get on fire! I rushed forward, tramped in the burning heather and
beat it with a stick.
“Help me put it out! Help me put it out!” I cried. The boys were
frightened, too, now, and we all worked frantically; but the sparks
showered down faster and faster and the fire seemed to blaze up
everywhere at the same instant.
It was terrible. Down in the streets people stopped and looked up
and some began to run. I was ready to throw myself into the burning
heather, so terrified was I. And the wind howled and blew and swarms
of sparks danced about in all directions.
Suppose the whole moor should take fire,—and perhaps the whole world
be burnt up—it would all be our fault. The bonfire crackled and
blazed against the dark sky and the flames hissed in the heather.
Those moments I cannot write about. I don’t believe I thought of
anything, I was so overwhelmed by fear.
I tramped, I shrieked, I ran right into the midst of the burning
heather and shouted I don’t know what.
Over the moor some people came running swiftly, big, smoke-begrimed
men, Constable Midsen, Alexander Brygga, Herman Dilt, and many, many
others.
“What lawlessness and foolery is this?” shouted Constable Midsen.
“There is hard punishment, and fines besides, for such doings. Help
here, fellows. Quick!”
The whole of our beautiful bonfire was thrown down before you could
count three, tramped on and put out, Constable Midsen giving the
orders.
It seems to me I can hear his voice yet, mingled with the noisy
blasts of the wind over the dark moor where the fire still crackled
and snapped in the heather.
And it was all our fault! Such hard work as we had had, and such
grand fun as we had expected to have! It would be best for me to
run away at once, I thought; but no, it would be a shame to do that.
Midsen held Karsten and Andreas as in a vise so that they should not
run away; and it was just as much my fault as theirs.
I sat on a stone and cried hard; Andreas choked and cried and dried
his eyes on his jacket-sleeves, first one and then the other; but
Karsten fairly bellowed—his way of crying.
The men kept on tearing up the heather so as to stop the fire, and
scolding us constantly. I wonder whether you can possibly imagine how
perfectly horrid it was. I shall never again have a bonfire of my
own, if I live to be a hundred years old.
Suddenly I felt a raindrop—then another and another—and then it began
to pour.
“Well, you may thank the Lord for His merciful judgment,” said
Midsen. “Now the fire will be put out by the rain.”
And what do you think? I cried harder than ever then for joy; and in
my heart I thanked God over and over that He had let the rain come
just at that time.
When the fire was entirely out and we trudged down the hill, it was
almost pitch-dark; water trickled from my clothes, my eyes smarted
from the smoke, my hands were scorched, but the worst was, I was
unspeakably afraid of what Father would say.
What he said and what came afterward, I won’t tell of in detail for
it was altogether too horrid. I was dreadfully, dreadfully sorry I
had not asked Mother about having a bonfire, I can tell you.
Father had to pay Mrs. Petersen for her old bedstead. What do you
think of that! Probably he had to pay extra for the dirt on it.
And yet, she was so “severe,” as Karsten would say, that she all but
chased me out of her house with a broom when I went to beg her pardon.
I had to do that. Father said I must.
Ugh! But of course it _was_ wrong to take her bedstead.
FOOTNOTES:
[2]
Now comes the maiden with dress of green.
Oh, heigh, dear! Oh, ho!
VII
IN PECKELL’S HAYLOFT
Every once in a while, a traveling photographer comes to our town.
They take rather spotty pictures in one or another courtyard under
the open sky, seldom pay for the room where they have lodged, and
are suddenly gone. Such traveling photographers look almost alike,
usually having black curly hair with pomade in it, and pale faces;
they parade around in the street, walking quickly as if they were
awfully busy.
But one summer a photographer came who was altogether different. In
the first place, his name was Cavallius, and he was a little bit of
a man; that is, his legs were very short. The upper part of his body
was big enough, and his face was large, with a long golden, curly
beard that reached down over his chest; and the whole time he was in
town, he had big patches of court-plaster behind his ears. He never
looked as if he were busy. He spoke slowly and never walked fast; and
there was a kind of dignity about him, from the court-plaster patches
to his long golden beard and even to his short legs, that was quite
amazing.
That dignified appearance was a real achievement for little
Cavallius; for truly it can’t be very easy to appear dignified with
almost no legs and with plasters behind the ears.
The first time I saw Cavallius on the street I naturally had no idea
who he was, so of course I followed him till I saw that he went into
Stiansen’s bakery. Fortunately I had two _öre_[3] in my pocket, so I
could make an errand in the shop. I had an overwhelming desire, you
see, to find out something about this queer person. Baker Stiansen
was in the shop himself. “Two _öre_ worth of brown barley sugar,
please.”
Stiansen’s barley sugar is never very good,—it is too soft,—but of
course I had to buy something, since I had gone in.
“Who was that who came in here just now, Stiansen, a little man with
a yellow beard?” I asked.
“Oh, he is one who takes pictures of people,” Stiansen answered
carelessly.
“What is his name?”
“His name is nothing less than Cavallius.”
That is the way I found out who Cavallius was. I didn’t like to
ask any more questions, although there was still much I wanted to
know. After this, however, I had a tremendous desire to peep into
Stiansen’s courtyard to see how the little photographer arranged
things there; but I didn’t dare venture through the gate, because
Stiansen is so cross and disagreeable if you even stick your nose in
his courtyard.
But one day it suddenly occurred to me that any one in the loft up in
Peckells’ barn would have the most perfect view over Cavallius in the
courtyard. I went immediately to Massa Peckell.
“Oh, Massa!” I said, “let’s go up into your hayloft. Through that
round window there we can look right down on the little photographer
taking pictures in Stiansen’s courtyard.”
Yes, indeed, Massa would go.
Stiansen’s courtyard is a narrow oblong, and the sun beats down upon
it bright and hot. We had come at a fortunate moment, it seemed, for
Cavallius was just about to photograph fat Barbara who works for
Madam Pirk.
Barbara sat stiffly upright on a chair. Her dress was so tight that
it looked ready to burst open any minute. Her big, red hands were
crossed as if they were tied together at the wrists. Cavallius was
arranging the screw she should have at the back of her neck to hold
her head still.
“Sh, sh!” I whispered. “Keep perfectly quiet so that he will not
notice us.” Massa and I scarcely stirred, up there at the loft window.
“Will you sit for a full face or for a profile?” Cavallius asked.
He talked in a slow formal way that corresponded well with his
dignified bearing.
“What’s that?” asked Barbara turning herself hastily towards him.
“There, there,” said Cavallius, soothingly. “Will you sit sideways or
straight?”
“Straight,” said Barbara. “Talk decent, you, when you talk to decent
folk!”
Cavallius was humming a little to himself and took hold of her face
to place it in the right position.
He had scarcely put one of his small stumpy fingers against Barbara’s
fat cheek before she pushed her big working-woman’s fist with such
force against Cavallius’ chest that he tumbled backward. It was an
awfully comical sight. Both Massa and I forgot ourselves and shrieked
with laughter. Cavallius threw an astonished glance up at the loft
window where we stood, but he said nothing. Moreover, he did not lose
his air of dignity.
“Are you out of your mind, woman?” asked Cavallius.
“Just you try that again,” said Barbara, looking furious.
Cavallius stooped under the black velvet cloth such as all
photographers have over their cameras.
“Look a little pleasant, now,” he said in a coaxing voice as if to a
child.
“Look pleasant? At you? Humph! I’d like to catch myself!” Her face
was like a thunder-cloud.
“Oh! Oh! I shall split my sides laughing,” said Massa. “Oh! Oh!”
“May I ask the ladies up there to indulge us with their absence?”
said Cavallius.
Oh! how we laughed! No, it was altogether too amusing for us to be
willing to leave. “No, Cavallius, we’re not going; do not imagine
that we are.” Of course we did not dare to say that aloud.
Repeated exhortations to Barbara from Cavallius to look pleasant.
Barbara looked, if possible, still more angry, and assured him most
positively that if there was anything in the world she would not do,
it was to look pleasant “at such a one as you.”
Massa and I laughed till we were worn out with it.
“That’s right, Barbara,” shouted Massa, “look more fierce. Don’t give
in, Barbara.”
“Go away,” said Cavallius, shaking his little stumpy hand
threateningly towards us. “Go away, ladies; I will not endure this,
on my honor I will not. Go!”
Just think, he called us “ladies”! We ducked down behind the window
in silent laughter, then we peeped out again. Cavallius kept on
threatening us.
“Go, I say!” We ducked down but popped up again the next instant.
Cavallius grew more and more angry. We kept popping down and up and
laughing continually, but go away we would not, you may be sure.
At last Barbara’s picture was ready.
“Well, my girl,” said Cavallius, “it isn’t my fault that you look
like a lion-tamer in your picture.”
“What is it I look like?” asked Barbara. “It’s your fault if it’s a
horrid picture.”
“That’s right, Barbara,” called Massa. “Scowl at him. Of course it is
his fault.”
“Go away!” roared Cavallius up at us.
Barbara drew backward towards the door and bumped into old Mrs.
Huus who was just coming in to be photographed. Mrs. Huus wore a
brown silk dress, gold brooch, gold chain, gold bracelets, and some
quivering golden ornaments in her hair. People in the town said that
Mrs. Huus stuffed cotton into her cheeks to fill them out so as to
look younger. I don’t know whether this is true or not, but Mrs. Huus
certainly does speak as if her mouth were full.
Cavallius conducted her most respectfully to a chair, but as he
went, he shook his fist threateningly again up towards us in the
barn window. Mrs. Huus did not see us, but I noticed that she cast a
frightened glance at Cavallius as he shook his fist in the air.
He got down on one knee and arranged the brown silk dress in careful
folds. While he knelt there, he turned and again made the threatening
gesture towards us. Mrs. Huus sent an anxious look heavenward;
evidently she thought he was crazy.
Massa and I tumbled over each other below the window in fits of
laughter, although we choked back the noise. Then we heard Cavallius
talking, and I put my head up cautiously. Cavallius saw me and
threatened again with both fists, but still Mrs. Huus had not seen a
sign of us, so to her his angry gestures were unaccountable.
“No, no, no,” she said hastily, getting up. “I don’t think I am very
well. I don’t think I care to be photographed to-day.” With that
she darted, swift as an arrow, out of the gate without even saying
good-bye.
I heard later that she had been mortally afraid the few minutes she
was in Cavallius’ studio, because of his shaking his fists towards
heaven, and she thought herself fortunate to have come away unharmed.
When Mrs. Huus was gone, Cavallius, with hands at his side, looked up
at us.