“Oh, yes, look if you like! Snikkesnak! Snikkesnak!” laughed the witch, her face glowing with exultation at Nina’s trouble.
But an instant after, her countenance became filled with fury, for where Nina had cleared the snow away, there appeared a plant with fresh dark green leaves and white flower buds!
Nina clasped her hands together in great joy and thankfulness; then, breaking off a bud, she lifted it up high toward the witch and rushed away into the hut. The witch, in her disappointment and vexation, sprang about so wildly in the snow that it rose in a cloud all about her, and Nina never saw her again.
Safe at home in the little hut, Nina now told all her adventure; and the grandmother took the little girl’s sweet, frightened face between her two old hands, and kissed her forehead many times.
Faithfully every day Nina went to pay a loving visit to the little “Christmas Rose” in the garden, for that was the flower that had saved her; and the whole winter long, it could be found fresh and beautiful, here and there under the snow.
Though no other blossoms dare come forth to face the snows and frosts of deep winter, the Christmas Rose ventures bravely out into the bleak weather, and with modest and serene courage holds her own against its powers. The snow lying over it keeps it from freezing; and if one brushes away this beautiful covering, the Christmas Rose appears with its lovely, white, gold-centered blossoms, laughing at the frost. It blooms steadily on until it can say “Good day” to spring’s first blossom—the little snowdrop. And so, through all the year, there are flowers blooming in our dear northern land, Denmark.
Thus it was that Nina escaped the witch, who, being a forest witch, did not know of the Christmas Rose, because it is a garden flower.
1916
FATHER CHRISTMAS
Karl Ove Knausgaard
YESTERDAY EVENING I WAS STANDING ON A GRAVEL ROAD, IT WAS DRIZZLING, I was dressed in a red coat, on my feet I wore long woolen stockings over my best shoes, and on my head I wore a mask which seemed to stare up into the damp and compact darkness of the sky. In one hand I held a jute sack, in the other an old-fashioned lantern. As I approached the lit-up house at the end of the road, I stopped, opened the lantern, lit the tea light, closed the little hatch, pulled the mask down over my face, slung the sack over my shoulder, bent my back, and walked with the short steps of an old man over to the window.
Up until now I had felt a little nervous, but the nervousness disappeared the moment I bent over, it was as if I had become an old man and was no longer playing the part. I rapped on the window. There was the sound of running steps from within, and I drew back a little. A child’s face was pressed against the windowpane. I lifted my hand in trembling greeting and continued over to the entrance door, which shortly after was flung open. Merry Christmas to all, I said in a piping voice. The boy stared at me intensely for a few seconds, clearly prepared to expose me, before he rather anxiously withdrew. His parents appeared, they looked smilingly at me and asked whether I wanted something to fortify myself. I shook my head. I’m driving, I said, looking at the boy. What is your name, then? I asked. He said his name. I repeated it, mumbling to myself as I rummaged through the sack. When I handed him his present, he tore off the wrapping in an explosion of movement. Shortly after I was standing outside again, by the short wall of the house, with the mask pulled up over my head and a glowing cigarette in my mouth.
The father came out, peering around him. Over here! I said in a low voice. Well, that went pretty well, he said, stopping in front of me. Yes, I said. It seems he fell for it this year too. Can I bum one off you? the father asked. Sure, I said. We walked along the road to my car, which was parked at the end of it, at the crossroads where the main road went by. We got in. Smart move to park here, the father said. He was sure he was going to find you out because of the car. Yes, I said, and drove into the countryside. The road was completely deserted, even as it passed through the village, there wasn’t a person in sight. I parked near the school, and we got out into the rain. Would you like a whisky? I asked. He nodded, and I got out the glasses and the bottle I had in the car, poured us drinks. It was unusually quiet; on any other evening a car would have passed occasionally. When our glasses were empty, I put mine back in the car, took off my coat and handed it to him. He stuck one arm into the sleeve, took the whisky glass in his other hand and stuck his other arm in. The coattails flapped in the wind. I handed him the mask. So you’ll be along in a couple of minutes then, I said and started toward the house. Two of the children came out when they heard the door open. They had refused to believe that I had really gone out to buy cigarettes, so I held the pack out to them as proof.
I’m not Father Christmas, and I’ve been to the gas station to buy cigarettes, just like I said, I said. They didn’t know quite what to believe. Just then there was a knock on the door. Who can it be? I said. The older child gave me an ironic look. I opened the door, and there was Father Christmas with the lantern in his hand and the sack over his shoulder. Are there any good children here? he said. He didn’t have a piping voice, but spoke with a Finland-Swedish accent. Mum, Mum, Father Christmas is here! the youngest shouted. The others at the party came out, and the hall filled with people. We stood in a semicircle staring at Father Christmas, who rummaged slowly through his sack and pulled Karl Ove Knausgaard out presents one by one, handing them solemnly to the children, who stared at him as if in a daze. Would you like something to fortify yourself? I asked, and he nodded, downing the glass of cognac in one go.
After he left, the children were far too engrossed in the presents to notice that I went out after him. He was standing by the car waiting for me, still wearing the mask.
It struck me how sinister he looked, in those familiar surroundings, with the grotesque mask covering his face.
I took out the bottle again and poured two drinks, handing him one.
Well, Merry Christmas, he said, raising his glass. Merry Christmas, I said.
2015
THE LITTLE MATCH GIRL
Hans Christian Andersen
IT WAS DREADFULLY COLD; IT WAS SNOWING FAST, AND WAS ALMOST dark, as evening came on—the last evening of the year. In the cold and the darkness, there went along the street a poor little girl, bareheaded and with naked feet. When she left home she had slippers on, it is true; but they were much too large for her feet—slippers that her mother had used till then, and the poor little girl lost them in running across the street when two carriages were passing terribly fast. When she looked for them, one was not to be found, and a boy seized the other and ran away with it, saying he would use it for a cradle someday, when he had children of his own.
So on the little girl went with her bare feet that were red and blue with cold. In an old apron that she wore were bundles of matches, and she carried a bundle also in her hand. No one had bought so much as a bunch all the long day, and no one had given her even a penny.
Poor little girl! Shivering with cold and hunger she crept along, a perfect picture of misery.
The snowflakes fell on her long flaxen hair, which hung in pretty curls about her throat; but she thought not of her beauty nor of the cold. Lights gleamed in every window, and there came to her the savory smell of roast goose, for it was New Year’s Eve. And it was this of which she thought.
In a corner formed by two houses, one of which projected beyond the other, she sat cowering down. She had drawn under her little feet, but still she grew colder and colder; yet she dared not go home, for she had sold no matches and could not bring a penny of money. Her father would certainly beat her; and, besides, it was cold enough at home, for they had only the roof above them, and though the largest holes had been stopped with straw and rags, there were left many through which the cold wind could whistle.
And now her little hands were nearly frozen with cold. Alas! A single match might do her good if she might only draw it from the bundle, rub it against the wall, and warm her fingers by it. So at last she drew one out. Whisht! How it blazed and
burned! It gave out a warm, bright flame like a little candle, as she held her hands over it. A wonderful little light it was. It really seemed to the little girl as if she sat before a great iron stove with polished brass feet and brass shovel and tongs. So blessedly it burned that the little maiden stretched out her feet to warm them also. How comfortable she was! But lo! The flame went out, the stove vanished, and nothing remained but the little burned match in her hand.
She rubbed another match against the wall. It burned brightly, and where the light fell upon the wall it became transparent like a veil, so that she could see through it into the room. A snow-white cloth was spread upon the table, on which was a beautiful china dinner service, while a roast goose, stuffed with apples and prunes, steamed famously and sent forth a most savory smell. And what was more delightful still, and wonderful, the goose jumped from the dish, with knife and fork still in its breast, and waddled along the floor straight to the little girl.
But the match went out then, and nothing was left to her but the thick, damp wall.
She lighted another match. And now she was under a most beautiful Christmas tree, larger and far more prettily trimmed than the one she had seen through the glass doors at the rich merchant’s. Hundreds of wax tapers were burning on the green branches, and gay figures, such as she had seen in shop windows, looked down upon her. The child stretched out her hands to them; then the match went out.
Hans Christian Andersen
Still the lights of the Christmas tree rose higher and higher. She saw them now as stars in heaven, and one of them fell, forming a long trail of fire.
“Now someone is dying,” murmured the child softly; for her grandmother, the only person who had loved her, and who was now dead, had told her that whenever a star falls a soul mounts up to God.
She struck yet another match against the wall, and again it was light; and in the brightness there appeared before her the dear old grandmother, bright and radiant, yet sweet and mild, and happy as she had never looked on earth.
“Oh, grandmother,” cried the child, “take me with you. I know you will go away when the match burns out. You, too, will vanish, like the warm stove, the splendid New Year’s feast, the beautiful Christmas tree.” And lest her grandmother should disappear, she rubbed the whole bundle of matches against the wall.
And the matches burned with such a brilliant light that it became brighter than noonday. Her grandmother had never looked so grand and beautiful. She took the little girl in her arms, and both flew together, joyously and gloriously, mounting higher and higher, far above the earth; and for them there was neither hunger, nor cold, nor care—they were with God.
But in the corner, at the dawn of day, sat the poor girl, leaning against the wall, with red cheeks and smiling mouth—frozen to death on the last evening of the old year. Stiff and cold she sat, with the matches, one bundle of which was burned.
“She wanted to warm herself, poor little thing,” people said. No one imagined what sweet visions she had had, or how gloriously she had gone with her grandmother to enter upon the joys of a new year.
1845
THE LEGEND OF THE CHRISTMAS ROSE
Selma Lagerlöf
ROBBER MOTHER, WHO LIVED IN ROBBERS CAVE IN GÖINGE FOREST, went down to the village one day on a begging tour. Robber Father, who was an outlawed man, did not dare to leave the forest, but had to content himself with lying in wait for the wayfarers who ventured within its borders. But at that time travelers were not very plentiful in southern Skåne. If it so happened that the man had had a few weeks of ill luck with his hunt, his wife would take to the road. She took with her five youngsters, and each youngster wore a ragged leathern suit and birch bark shoes and bore a sack on his back as long as himself. When Robber Mother stepped inside the door of a cabin, no one dared refuse to give her whatever she demanded; for she was not above coming back the following night and setting fire to the house if she had not been well received. Robber Mother and her brood were worse than a pack of wolves, and many a man felt like running a spear through them; but it was never done, because they all knew that the man stayed up in the forest, and he would have known how to wreak vengeance if anything had happened to the children or the old woman.
Now that Robber Mother went from house to house and begged, she came one day to Övid, which at that time was a cloister. She rang the bell of the cloister gate and asked for food. The watchman let down a small wicket in the gate and handed her six round bread cakes—one for herself and one for each of the five children.
While the mother was standing quietly at the gate, her youngsters were running about. And now one of them came and pulled at her skirt, as a signal that he had discovered something which she ought to come and see, and Robber Mother followed him promptly.
The entire cloister was surrounded by a high and strong wall, but the youngster had managed to find a little back gate which stood ajar. When Robber Mother got there, she pushed the gate open and walked inside without asking leave, as it was her custom to do.
Övid Cloister was managed at that time by Abbot Hans, who knew all about herbs. Just within the cloister wall he had planted a little herb garden, and it was into this that the old woman had forced her way.
At first glance Robber Mother was so astonished that she paused at the gate. It was high summer, and Abbot Hans’s garden was so full of flowers that the eyes were fairly dazzled by the blues, reds, and yellows, as one looked into it. But presently an indulgent smile spread over her features, and she started to walk up a narrow path that lay between many flower beds.
In the garden a lay brother walked about, pulling up weeds. It was he who had left the door in the wall open, that he might throw the weeds and tares on the rubbish heap outside.
When he saw Robber Mother coming in, with all five youngsters in tow, he ran toward her at once and ordered them away. But the beggar woman walked right on as before. She cast her eyes up and down, looking now at the stiff white lilies which spread near the ground, then on the ivy climbing high upon the cloister wall, and took no notice whatever of the lay brother.
He thought she had not understood him, and wanted to take her by the arm and turn her toward the gate. But when the robber woman saw his purpose, she gave him a look that sent him reeling backward. She had been walking with back bent under her beggar’s pack, but now she straightened herself to her full height. “I am Robber Mother from Göinge Forest; so touch me if you dare!” And it was obvious that she was as certain she would be left in peace as if she had announced that she was the Queen of Denmark.
And yet the lay brother dared to oppose her, although now, when he knew who she was, he spoke reasonably to her, “You must know, Robber Mother, that this is a monks’ cloister, and no woman in the land is allowed within these walls. If you do not go away, the monks will be angry with me because I forgot to close the gate, and perhaps they will drive me away from the cloister and the herb garden.”
But such prayers were wasted on Robber Mother. She walked straight ahead among the little flower beds and looked at the hyssop with its magenta blossoms, and at the honeysuckles, which were full of deep orange-colored flower clusters.
Then the lay brother knew of no other remedy than to run into the cloister and call for help.
He returned with two stalwart monks, and Robber Mother saw that now they meant business! With feet firmly planted she stood in the path and began shrieking in strident tones all the awful vengeance she would wreak on the cloister if she couldn’t remain in the herb garden as long as she wished. But the monks did not see why they need fear her and thought only of driving her out. Then Robber Mother let out a perfect volley of shrieks, and, throwing herself upon the monks, clawed and bit at them; so did all the youngsters. The men soon learned that she could overpower them, and all they could do was to go back into the cloister for reinforcements.
As they ran through the passageway which led to the cloister, they met Abbot Hans, who came rushing out to learn what all this noise
was about. Then they had to confess that Robber Mother from Göinge Forest had come into the cloister and that they were unable to drive her out and must call for assistance.
But Abbot Hans upbraided them for using force and forbade their calling for help. He sent both monks back to their work, and although he was an old and fragile man, he took with him only the lay brother.
When Abbot Hans came out in the garden, Robber Mother was still wandering among the flower beds. He regarded her with astonishment. He was certain that Robber Mother had never before seen an herb garden; yet she sauntered leisurely among all the small patches, each of which had been planted with its own species of rare flower, and looked at them as if they were old acquaintances. At some she smiled, at others she shook her head.
Abbot Hans loved his herb garden as much as it was possible for him to love anything earthly and perishable. Wild and terrible as the old woman looked, he couldn’t help liking that she had fought with three monks for the privilege of viewing the garden in peace. He came up to her and asked in a mild tone if the garden pleased her.
Robber Mother turned defiantly toward Abbot Hans, for she expected only to be trapped and overpowered. But when she noticed his white hair and bent form, she answered peaceably, “First, when I saw this, I thought I had never seen a prettier garden; but now I see that it can’t be compared with one I know of.”
Abbot Hans had certainly expected a different answer. When he heard that Robber Mother had seen a garden more beautiful than his, a faint flush spread over his withered cheek. The lay brother, who was standing close by, immediately began to censure the old woman. “This is Abbot Hans,” said he, “who with much care and diligence has gathered the flowers from far and near for his herb garden. We all know that there is not a more beautiful garden to be found in all Skåne, and it is not befitting that you, who live in the wild forest all the year around, should find fault with his work.”
A Very Scandinavian Christmas Page 5
