A Very Scandinavian Christmas

by Hans Christian Andersen

  No one thought of seeking rest that night. All the evening, lights shone from the four huts; later they were extinguished in two of them; but in the house of Hans Olsa four men sat on, grieving over the way things were going at Per Hansa’s. When they could bear the suspense no longer someone proposed going over to get news.

  Tönseten offered to go first. When he came back little sense could be gathered from what he said. He had not been allowed inside; the women were in a frenzy; the house was completely upset; Beret was wailing so loud that it was dreadful to hear. And Per Hansa himself was nowhere to be found. “We must go and look for him, boys! Haven’t you got a Bible or something to read from, Hans Olsa? This is an awful thing!”

  There they sat, each occupied with his own thoughts—but all their thoughts were of the same trend. If Beret died tonight, it would go hard with Per Hansa—indeed it would. In that case he probably wouldn’t stay out here very long. But if he went away, the rest of them might as well pack up and go, too!

  Sam ran over to inquire; then Henry; at last it was Hans Olsa’s turn. He managed to get a couple of words with his wife, who said that Beret would hardly stand it. No one had seen Per Hansa.

  “Can you imagine where the man can be keeping himself?” asked Tönseten, giving voice to the fear that oppressed them all. “May the Lord preserve his wits, even if He chooses to take his wife away!”

  Per Hansa walked to and fro outside the hut all night long; when he heard someone coming he would run away into the darkness. He could not speak to a living soul tonight. As soon as the visitor had gone he would approach the hut again, circle around it, stop, and listen. Tears were streaming down his face, though he was not aware of it. Every shriek that pierced the wall of the hut drove him off as if a whip had struck him; but as soon as it had died out, something would draw him back again. At intervals he went to the door and held it ajar. What did Per Hansa care for custom and decency, now that his Beret lay struggling with death! Each time Sörine came to the door, each time she shook her head sadly, and told him there was no change yet; it was doubtful if Beret would be able to pull through; no person could endure this much longer; God have mercy on all of them!

  That was all the comfort Sörine could give him. Then he would rush off into the darkness again, to continue his endless pacing. When daylight came they found a hard path tramped into the snow around the hut.

  The night was well-nigh spent when the wails in there began to weaken— then died out completely, and did not come again. Per Hansa crept up to the door, laid his ear close to it, and listened. So now the end had come! His breath seemed to leave him in a great sob. The whole prairie began to whirl around with him; he staggered forward a few steps and threw himself face downward on the snow.

  But then suddenly things didn’t seem so bad to him, really not so bad. He saw a rope … a rope … It was a good, strong rope that would hold anything. It hung just inside the barn door—and the crossbeam ran just there! No trick at all to find these things. Per Hansa felt almost happy at the thought; that piece of rope was good and strong—and the crossbeam ran just there!

  A door opened somewhere; a gleam of light flashed across the snow, and vanished. Someone came out of the hut quietly—then stopped, as if searching.

  “Per Hansa!” a low voice called. “Per Hansa, where are you?” He rose and staggered toward Kjersti like a drunken man.

  “You must come in at once!” she whispered, and hurried in before him.

  The light was dim in there; nevertheless it blinded him so strongly that he could not see a thing. He stood a moment leaning against the door until his eyes had grown accustomed to it. A snug, cozy warmth enveloped him; it carried with it an odd, pleasant odor. The light, the warmth, and the pleasant smell overcame him like sweet sleep that holds a person who has been roused, but who does not care to awaken just yet.

  “How is it?” he heard a man’s voice ask. Then he came back to his senses. Was that he himself speaking?

  “You’ll have to ask Sörrina,” Kjersti answered.

  Sörine was tending something on the bed; not until now did he discover her—and wake up completely. What was this? … the expression on her face? Wasn’t it beaming with motherly goodness and kindliness?

  “Yes, here’s your little fellow! I have done all I know how. Come and look at him. It’s the greatest miracle I ever saw, Per Hansa, that you didn’t lose your wife tonight, and the child, too! I pray the Lord I never have to suffer so!”

  “Is there any hope?” was all Per Hansa could gasp—and then he clenched his teeth.

  “It looks so, now—but you had better christen him at once. We had to handle him roughly, let me tell you.”

  “Christen him?” Per Hansa repeated, unable to comprehend the words.

  “Why, yes, of course. I wouldn’t wait, if he were mine.”

  Per Hansa heard no more—for now Beret turned her head and a wave of such warm joy welled up in him that all the ice melted. He found himself crying softly, sobbing like a child. He approached the bed on tiptoe, bent over it, and gazed down into the weary, pale face. It lay there so white and still; her hair, braided in two thick plaits, flowed over the pillow. All the dread, all the tormenting fear that had so long disfigured her features, had vanished completely. She turned her head a little, barely opened her eyes, and said, wearily:

  “Oh, leave me in peace, Per Hansa. Now I was sleeping so well.”

  The eyelids immediately closed.

  Per Hansa stood for a long time looking at his wife, hardly daring to believe what he saw. She slept peacefully; a small bundle lay beside her, from which peeped out a tiny, red, wrinkled face. As he continued to gaze at her he sensed clearly that this moment was making him a better man!

  At last he gathered his wits sufficiently to turn to Sörine and ask:

  “Tell me, what sort of a fellow is this you have brought me—a boy or a girl?”

  “Heavens! Per Hansa, how silly you talk!” … Kjersti and Sörine both had to laugh as they looked at Per Hansa; such a foolish, simple expression they had never seen on the face of a living man! But Sörine immediately grew serious once more, and said that this was no time for joking; the way they had tugged and pulled at him during the night, you couldn’t tell what might happen; Per Hansa must get the child christened right away; if he put if off, she refused to be responsible.

  A puzzled expression came over the grinning face.

  “You’d better do that christening yourself, Sörrina!”

  No!—she shook her head emphatically. That wasn’t a woman’s job—he must understand! “And you ought to have it done with proper decorum, and thank the Lord for doing so well by you!”

  Without another word Per Hansa found his cap and went to the door; but there he paused a moment to say:

  “I know only one person around here who is worthy to perform such an act; since you are unwilling, I must go and get him. In the meanwhile, you make ready what we will need; the hymn book you’ll find on the shelf over by the window. I won’t be long!”

  The kindly eyes of Sörine beamed with joy and pride; she knew very well the one he intended to get; this was really handsome of Per Hansa! But then another thought crossed her mind; she followed him out, and closed the door after her.

  “Wait a minute,” she said. “I must tell you that your boy was born with the caul! I think you ought to find a very beautiful name for him!”

  “What are you saying, Sörrina!”

  “Yes, sir—that he had! And you know what that means!”

  Per Hansa drew his sleeve across his face—then turned and walked away. A moisture dimmed his eyes—he could not see.

  Outside it was now broad daylight; the sun stood some distance up in the sky, looking down on a desolate earth. It was going to be cold today, Per Hansa noticed; clouds of frosty mist like huge writhing serpents curled over the surface of the purplish-yellow plain. The sunbeams plunging into them kindled a weird light. He tingled with the cold; his eyelashes
froze together so that he had to rub them with his mittens to keep them free.

  How remarkable—the child had been born with the caul! He quickened his pace; in a moment he was running.

  “Peace be upon this house, and a merry Christmas, folks!” he greeted them as he entered Hans Olsa’s door. The room was cold; the Solum boys lay in one bed, fully dressed; both were so sound asleep that they did not wake up at his coming. His own children and Sofie lay in the other bed, Ole by himself down at the foot, the other three on the pillow; Store-Hans held And-Ongen close, as if trying to protect her. Hans Olsa and Tönseten had moved their chairs up to the stove, and sat hunched over on either side; Tönseten was nodding, the other was wide awake; both men jumped up when Per Hansa came in, and stood staring at him.

  Per Hansa had to laugh outright at them; they were looking at him as if they had seen a ghost. But to the two men his laugh sounded pleasanter than anything they had heard in many a year.

  “How are things coming?” asked Tönseten, excitedly, working his shoulders.

  “Oh, it might have been worse!”

  Hans Olsa grasped his hand: “Will she pull through?”

  “It looks that way.”

  Then Tönseten suddenly seemed to realize that it was cold in the room; he began to walk around, beating goose with his arms. “I’m ready to bet both my horses that it’s a boy! I can see it in your face!” he exclaimed, still beating.

  “All signs point that way, Syvert! But he’s in pretty poor condition, Sörrina tells me. Now look here, Hans Olsa: it’s up to you to come over and christen the boy for me!”

  Hans Olsa looked terror-stricken at his neighbor. “You must be crazy, Per Hansa!”

  “Nothing of the kind, Hans Olsa. You just get yourself ready. It’s all written down in the hymn book—what to say, and how to go about it.”

  “No, no—I couldn’t think of such a thing!” protested Hans Olsa, all atremble with the feeling of awe that had suddenly taken possession of him. “A sinner like me!”

  Then Per Hansa made a remark that Tönseten thought was extremely well put:

  “How you stand with the Lord I don’t know. But this I do know: that a better man either on land or sea, He will have to look a long way to find. And it seems to me that He has got to take that, too, into His reckoning!”

  But Hans Olsa only stood there in terror. “You’d better ask Syvert to do it!”

  Then Tönseten grew alarmed:

  “Don’t stand there talking like a fool! We all know that if one of us two is to tackle this job, it must be you, Hans Olsa. There is nothing for you to do but go at once; this business won’t stand any dillydallying, let me tell you!”

  Hans Olsa gazed straight ahead; his helplessness grew so great that he was funny to look at; but no one thought of laughing, just the same. “If it only won’t be blasphemy!” He finally straggled into his big coat and put on his mittens. Then he turned to Tönseten. “The book says: ‘In an extreme emergency a layman may perform this act’—isn’t that so?”

  “Yes, yes—just so! Whatever else you’ll need, is written there, too!”

  Through the frosty morning the two men walked silently across the prairie, Per Hansa in the lead. When they had covered half the distance he stopped short and said to his neighbor:

  “If it had been a girl, you see, she should have been named Beret—I decided that a long while ago … But seeing that it’s a boy, we’ll have to name him Per, you must say Peder, of course! I’ve thought a good deal about Joseph— he was a pretty fine lad, no doubt. But grandfather’s name was Per, and there wasn’t a braver, worthier man on that part of the coast; so it’ll just have to be Per again this time. But say, now—” Per Hansa paused a moment, pondering; then he looked up at his neighbor, and his eyes began to gleam. “The boy must have a second name—so you’d better christen him Peder Seier, for that means victorious! The last is after your Sörrina. She has done me a greater service this night than I can ever repay! And now the boy is to be named after her!”

  Hans Olsa could think of nothing to say in answer to all this. They walked on in silence.

  When they came into the room, they stepped across the threshold reverently. An air of Sabbath had descended on the room. The sun shone brightly through the window, spreading a golden luster over the white walls; only along the north wall, where the bed stood, a half shadow lingered. The fire crackled in the stove; the coffeepot was boiling. The table had been spread with a white cover; upon it lay the open hymn book, with the page turned down. Beside the hymn book stood a bowl of water; beside that lay a piece of white cloth. Kjersti was tending the stove, piling the wood in diligently. Sörine sat in the corner, crooning over a tiny bundle; out of the bundle at intervals came faint, wheezy chirrups, like the sounds that rise from a nest of young birds.

  An irresistible force drew Per Hansa to the bed. She lay sound asleep. Thank God, that awful look of dread had not come back! He straightened himself up and glanced around the room; never before had he seen anything that looked so beautiful.

  Sörine got up, went to the table, and bared a little rosy human head.

  “If you are going to be the minister here,” she said, turning to her husband, who had remained standing motionless at the door, “then you must hurry up and get ready. First of all you must wash your hands.”

  The next moment they had all gathered around the table.

  “Here’s the book. Just read it out as well as you can, and we’ll do whatever the book says,” Sörine encouraged her husband. She seemed to have taken charge of the ceremony, and spoke in low, reassuring tones, as if she had done nothing else all her life but attend to such duties; and it was her confidence that gave Hans Olsa the courage he needed. He went up to the table, took the book, and read the ritual in a trembling voice, slowly, with many pauses. And so he christened the child Peder Seier, pronouncing the name clearly. Whereupon he said the Lord’s Prayer so beautifully that Kjersti exclaimed she had never heard the like.

  “There, now!” said Kjersti with great emphasis. “I don’t believe there is a thing lacking to make this christening perfectly correct! Now the coffee is ready and we’re all going to have a cup.”

  But Per Hansa was searching over in the corner; at last he produced a bottle. First he treated Sörine; then Kjersti. “If ever two people have earned something good, you two are it! Come on, now, have another little drop! And hurry up about it, please! Hans Olsa and I feel pretty weak in the knees ourselves!”

  After a while both food and drink were served. “It looks as if we are going to have a real Christmas, after all!” said Per Hansa with a laugh, as they sat around the table enjoying their coffee.

  1924-25

  ROUND THE YULE LOG

  Peter Christen Asbjørnsen

  THE WIND WAS WHISTLING THROUGH THE OLD LIME AND MAPLE TREES opposite my windows, the snow was sweeping down the street, and the sky was black as a December sky can possibly be here in Christiania. I was in just as black a mood. It was Christmas Eve—the first I was to spend away from the cozy fireside of my home. I had lately received my officer’s commission, and had hoped that I should have gladdened my aged parents with my presence during the holidays, and had also hoped that I should be able to show myself in all my glory and splendor to the ladies of our parish. But a fever had brought me to the hospital, which I had left only a week before, and now I found myself in the much-extolled state of convalescence. I had written home for a horse and sledge and my father’s fur coat, but my letter could scarcely reach our valley before the day after Christmas, and the horse could not be in town before New Year’s Eve.

  My comrades had all left town, and I knew no family with whom I could make myself at home during the holidays. The two old maids I lodged with were certainly very kind and friendly people, and they had taken great care of me in the commencement of my illness, but the peculiar ways and habits of these ladies were too much of the old school to prove attractive to the fancies of youth. Their th
oughts dwelled mostly on the past; and when they, as often might occur, related to me some stories of the town, its people and its customs, these stories reminded me, not only by their contents, but also by the simple, unaffected way in which they were rendered, of a past age.

  The antiquated appearance of these ladies was also in the strictest harmony with the house in which they lived. It was one of those old houses on Custom House Street, with deep windows, long dark passages and staircases, gloomy rooms and garrets, where one could not help thinking of ghosts and brownies; in short, just such a house, and perhaps it was the very one, that Mauritz Hansen has described in his story, “The Old Dame with the Hood.” Their circle of acquaintances was very limited; besides a married sister and her children, no other visitors came there but a couple of tiresome old ladies. The only relief to this kind of life was a pretty niece and some merry little cousins of hers, who always made me tell them fairy tales and stories.

  I tried to divert myself in my loneliness and melancholy mood by looking out at all the people who passed up and down the street in the snow and wind, with blue noses and half-shut eyes. It amused me to see the bustle and the life in the apothecary’s shop across the street. The door was scarcely shut for a moment. Servants and peasants streamed in and out, and commenced to study the labels and directions when they came out in the street. Some appeared to be able to make them out, but sometimes a lengthy study and a dubious shake of the head showed that the solution was too difficult. It was growing dusk. I could not distinguish the countenances any longer, but gazed across at the old building. The apothecary’s house, “The Swan,” as it is still called, stood there, with its dark, reddish-brown walls, its pointed gables and towers, with weathercocks and latticed windows, as a monument of the architecture of the time of King Christian the Fourth. The Swan looked then, as now, a most respectable and sedate bird, with its gold ring around its neck, its spur-boots, and its wings stretched out as if to fly. I was about to plunge myself into reflection on imprisoned birds when I was disturbed by noise and laughter proceeding from some children in the adjoining room, and by a gentle, old-maidish knock at my door.