Both the botanists and Tante were delighted with the place. Tante, who
adored limitless space, had not quite liked the idea of coming to a
valley.
"You know I have always hated restraints of any kind, dear ones," she
said. "And even at the age of seventy, I desire to continue in the
straight path of blessed uncontrol. Valleys make me shudder a
little--like conventions! Bah!"
But even she was content when she saw the immense proportions of her
prison.
"Well," she said, with a twinkle in her eye, "there is space and freedom
enough for me, for a little while. All is well with me, dear ones. Go
and find your shrubs and be happy. It is true that you have brought your
poor stout relation to a place on the mountain-side where she can
neither go up nor down. Nothing could have been more cruel. But no
matter. She will look at the view and try to feel chastened by patience
and all the other dull virtues. And she will go on knitting socks for
the dear English soldiers. They will never get them, of course. Still,
she will do her best for them, hoping that King Red Tape will allow them
to be delivered. Yes, dear ones, hasten to your shrubs and have some
stimulating quarrels over them. Tante is content for a minute or two."
And she really was happy, and deeply interested in the owners of the
Gaard, rich landowners, Bönder, aristocrats of Norway, direct
descendants of kings and chieftains--Vikinger, in fact; proud and
reserved: proud of their noble lineage, and reserved of feeling and in
manner, and yet, when tactfully approached, capable of the greatest
kindness and appreciative understanding: dignified in behaviour, and
refined in form and feature, bearing on them, indeed, the royal seal of
good birth and good breeding. The Solli family was one of the oldest and
noblest in the valley, and had the most important and most highly
decorated and carved pew in the old brown church. There were three
girls: stately Ragnhild, lovely Ingeborg, and gentle little Helga, the
pet of the family. And there were two sons, Karl and Jens. Karl, being
the elder, would in time inherit the Gaard, paying his brothers and
sisters a share, and giving to his father and mother mysterious dues
called Föderaad. But as Solli and his wife were strong and active, and
Karl was not even betrothed, there was no occasion for the older people
to retire; and meanwhile an older couple still, the grandparents, were
eking out their lives in the comfortable old black dower-house in the
court of the Gaard. Grandmother (Bedstemor) had never wanted to retire,
and bore on her face a settled look of disappointment which had been
accentuated by the coming and going of twenty years. Grandfather
(Bedstefar) had been ailing for many years. He lay in the big bedroom of
the black house, and waited for the caressing hand of Death.
Solli's wife, whose Christian name was Inga, and who in accordance with
custom was called Mor (mother) Inga, was, in her stately way, greatly
attracted to the old Danish lady, and told her many interesting details
about the Gaard. Tante had such perfect tact, and was such a comfortable
easy creature to be with, that she found herself soon _en rapport_ with
the family. A glass of gooseberry-wine, followed on the next day by some
corn-brandy, seemed to indicate that a delightful acquaintanceship was
ripening; and when Mor Inga took her to the Stabur (the storehouse),
that most sacred precinct of every self-respecting Norwegian Gaard, and
showed her the treasures and mysteries of Norwegian housekeeping, every
one felt that Fröken Knudsgaard "had arrived." Even the disagreeable old
magistrate (Sorenskriver)[D] from S----, one of the eight or ten guests,
admitted that.
"She has seen the Stabur," he said, with a grim smile, and he actually
forgot to help himself first to cheese, but passed her a few delicate
shavings; a sure sign from him of even passing respect.
After an introduction to the Stabur, any other honour on earth was easy
of attainment; and no one was surprised to learn that Ragnhild was going
to put up her loom and teach the Danish lady to weave. And Mor Inga
fetched great-grandmother's old painted spinning-wheel from the top room
of the Stabur and put it in the little balcony which overlooked the
courtyard; and she brought some fresh wool from the wool-room--another
sacred spot--and sent for old Kari, who was especially clever at carding
the wool. And Tante sat and knitted, whilst old Kari carded the wool and
Mor Inga span. This was Tante's first introduction to old Kari, eighty
years old, and full of fairy lore.
"Ah," whispered Mor Inga to Tante, "Kari can tell thee many stories of
the Gudbrandsdal if she likes. But it must be in secret, when there is
no young person near to laugh and disbelieve. One day thou shalt give
her a little coffee in a packet--all for herself--and then thou wilt
hear all sorts of things."
But to-day Kari only carded the wool, smiling amusedly at being in the
company of the big Danish lady, who spoke to her so kindly and treated
her as though she were a lady herself and not an old parish-woman who
had no home of her own. Ja, ja, that was very nice, and Kari scratched
her head, and smiled more and more, until even the furrows on her grim
old face were filled up with smiles, and her eyes seemed almost young
and very bright.
"Ah," said Tante, with a friendly nod, "I know some one who has been
very pretty. Oh, I have eyes--sharp, sharp eyes. I can see!"
And Mor Inga laughed and said:
"Kari was beautiful, and she could dance too. They say that in the old
days no one could dance the spring-dance like Kari."
"Nei, nei!" said Kari, smiling more and more still. And her thoughts
wandered back to her Ole--dead these twenty years and more. He had
always said that no one could dance like Kari.
All this kept Fröken Knudsgaard busy; and indeed her distractions
increased as the days went on. Sometimes she sat in the balcony which
looked over the splendid view, and, seized by a sudden enthusiasm for
nature, watched the ever-changing colours of the rivers, and the shadows
on the hillsides, and listened to the music of the waterfall down below
in the Vinstra gorge. But she did not pretend to be able to live on
Nature's great wonders alone. She was delightfully candid about it.
"No, my dear ones," she said to Ejnar and Gerda, "I am the wicked
product of a beautifully wicked world. I need my fellow-sinners. It
would never have contented me to lie flat on my stomach looking for
flowers and grasses, and so forth. Nor would it have been desirable for
me. I should never have got up!"
Nevertheless, when her botanists came back from their wanderings, with
their green tin wallets full of mystic treasures unguessed at by the
uninitiated, she was eagerness itself to know whether they had had "good
hunting." And when Gerda said:
"Wicked old Tante, you know you are interested in these things," she
answered gaily:
"No, no; but I have accepted my fate. Since my best beloved ones are all
scientific sillies, I have to appear to be interested in what they do."
She felt it to be her duty to secure, on behalf of science, a big study
for her botanists, and Mor Inga let her have a vast room in one of the
out-buildings.
"They must have plenty of room to quarrel in," she explained to Mor
Inga. "Everything goes so much more easily if there is generous space."
"And," she added to herself, "it is my experience that scientific people
are safer caged up in their laboratories and studies. You know they are
all right then. When they are wandering about, they might get lost; but
when they are shut up, they are comparatively safe, barring brain fever
and explosions, of course."
So she caged her botanists, and felt herself free to amuse herself with
human nature whilst they were immersed in the study of nature.
"Well, then, good-bye for the moment," she said, when she shut them up
for the first time. "I will now go and have a few disagreeable words
with that horrid Sorenskriver, who dislikes my belovèd English. I will
go and sit quite near him, and knit my stockings for the dear English
soldiers. That annoys him beyond everything. What a delight to see his
irritation! Poor Sorenskriver! He suffers, and I enjoy. That is the way
in life, and very amusing too. My poor dear ones, what a pity you cannot
have a little fun too. Well, I suppose you do get it through your
microscopes."
But they had a great deal of fun in a quiet way. No one could be long
with Tante without catching a little of her gaiety; and even Ejnar was
heard to laugh sometimes over matters which had nothing to do with his
work. And Gerda left her cage and went singing in the birch-woods above
the Gaard, and along the mountain paths. She was content, too, and had
forgotten about the saxifrage. And Tante attempted short little strolls
along the easiest road, and always stopped by the black hay-barn near
the group of mountain-ashes, which rejoiced her eyes. Here she sat down
and took out her opera-glasses, really to observe the clouds, though she
pretended always to be looking at the numberless Gaards and barns which
covered the hillsides and mountain-slopes. But once she forgot her
_rôle_ of indifference to nature, and cried enthusiastically to Gerda:
"By St Olaf! I never saw such soft clouds in my life, nor such colours!
And just look at the reflection in the rivers, Gerda. Sapristi, how
beautiful!"
"What is this I hear?" cried Gerda. "Tante admiring nature!"
"Oh, that's a big Gaard--that yonder," said Tante, correcting herself
with a twinkle in her eye. "I wonder what the name is, and how many
cotters they have, and how many children, how many cows up at the
Saeter, how many goats, how many cheeses they make, how many sheep they
have; whether Bedstefar and Bedstemor are alive, and whether they have
as comfortable quarters as our Bedstefar and Bedstemor. Ah, and that
reminds me that I am drinking coffee with Bedstemor this afternoon. Help
me up, Gerda, and don't stand staring at that cloud as though you had
never seen one in your life before."
So Tante drank coffee with picturesque old Bedstemor in the old
dower-house of the Gaard.
The principal dwelling-place of the Gaard had been considerably added to
in modern times. The old part was in the middle, and new wings had been
built on either side, a whole new storey with a slate roof added, and a
new balcony and porch. So that the Gaard proper, in which Mor Inga
reigned, was a curious mixture of the old and the new: the new part
being painted pink, and the old part keeping its ancient glory intact.
But Bedstemor's house was untouched by modern hands; in fact, all the
houses which formed part of the settlement were just as they had been
for two or three hundred years. Bedstemor's house was the largest of
them all. There were about eight or nine others, all black or dark
brown, all with their roofs covered with long grass, amongst which grew
poppies, corn-flowers, and forget-me-nots. They were grouped together
round the courtyard, as quaint and picturesque a sight as one might see
anywhere. The Stabur stood somewhat apart from the other buildings, and
was raised above the ground by tree-trunks which looked like elephants'
legs. The Stabur had a conceited, self-contained look after the manner
of all true Staburs. It seemed to be saying all the time, "_Behold me, I
am the Stabur!_" The possession of a white bell-tower on its grass-grown
roof, and of an old carved door, encouraged its self-importance, and
gave it an air of distinction not enjoyed by the other houses. Still,
they had their tall white chimneys; and it is obvious that one cannot
have everything in life. And some of them also had a more picturesque
situation than the Stabur: creeping up the hill, indeed, as though they
were thinking of climbing up into the woods, but had stopped to rest by
a mountain-ash, or by a graceful birch; whilst others, mounting higher,
came to a standstill at last and were used for storing wood. Then there
were hay-barns of various sizes and shapes, the most characteristic
being those with sloping bridges leading up to the top floor. And last,
not least, there was the great cowhouse, forsaken now except for five or
six cows which had not gone up to the Saeter. And Ingaros, the most
beautiful cow of all, christened after Mor Inga, was sulking partly
because she had not gone up to the Saeter, but chiefly because she, the
belle of the Gaard and the authorised leader of the herd, had been
deprived of her noble collar and bell. Some wretched upstart of a
creature was wearing it, so that she might be sure to come home to her
calves.
Ingaros had Tante's profound sympathy. She visited her in the cowhouse
at milking-time, and exchanged a few understanding greetings with her.
Old Kari was milking her and singing a soothing little song, something
about a saeter-girl who lost all her cows, and she danced and they all
came back again, and then she sang and sang till they ran away again!
Tante stood and listened delightedly to the clear, sweet voice of the
old woman.
"Ja, ja, Kari," she said, "I believe I have some coffee-berries in my
pocket. Such a song deserves a good cup Of coffee."
"Stakkar!"[E] said Kari, smiling with delight. "Thou art a kind one,
although thou art not Norwegian. Thou shalt hear all the tunes I know."
[Footnote D: _Sorenskriver_, magistrate. He would be addressed always by
his title.]
[Footnote E: _Stakkar_ is a very usual expression of endearment, and
means "poor dear."]