Therefore they loved him as they loved Christmastime, pleasure, the spring sun. And when little Ruster came, their Christmas peace was destroyed. They had worked in vain if he was coming to tempt away their master. It was unjust that the drunkard should sit at the Christmas table in a happy house and spoil the Christmas pleasure.
On the forenoon of Christmas Eve little Ruster had his music written out, and he said something about going, although of course he meant to stay.
Liljekrona had been influenced by the general feeling, and therefore said quite lukewarmly and indifferently that Ruster had better stay where he was over Christmas.
Little Ruster was inflammable and proud. He twirled his moustache and shook back the black artist’s hair that stood like a dark cloud over his head. What did Liljekrona mean? Should he stay because he had nowhere else to go? Oh, only think how they stood and waited for him in the big ironworks in the parish of Bro! The guest room was in order, the glass of welcome filled. He was in great haste. He only did not know to which he ought to go first.
“Very well,” answered Liljekrona, “you may go if you will.”
After dinner little Ruster borrowed horse and sleigh, coat and furs. The stable boy from Löfdala was to take him to some place in Bro and drive quickly back, for it threatened snow.
No one believed that he was expected, or that there was a single place in the neighborhood where he was welcome. But they were so anxious to be rid of him that they put the thought aside and let him depart. “He wished it himself,” they said; and then they thought that now they would be glad.
But when they gathered in the dining room at five o’clock to drink tea and to dance around the Christmas tree, Liljekrona was silent and out of spirits. He did not seat himself on the bench; he touched neither tea nor punch; he could not remember any polka; the violin was out of order. Those who could play and dance had to do it without him.
Then his wife grew uneasy; the children were discontented, everything in the house went wrong. It was the most lamentable Christmas Eve.
The porridge turned sour; the candles sputtered; the wood smoked; the wind stirred up the snow and blew bitter cold into the rooms. The stable boy who had driven Ruster did not come home. The cook wept; the maids scolded.
Finally Liljekrona remembered that no sheaves had been put out for the sparrows, and he complained aloud of all the women about him who abandoned old customs and were newfangled and heartless. They understood well enough that what tormented him was remorse that he had let little Ruster go away from his home on Christmas Eve.
After a while he went to his room, shut the door, and began to play as he had not played since he had ceased roaming. It was full of hate and scorn, full of longing and revolt. “You thought to bind me, but you must forge new fetters. You thought to make me as small-minded as yourselves, but I turn to larger things, to the open. Commonplace people, slaves of the home, hold me prisoner if it is in your power!”
When his wife heard the music, she said: “Tomorrow he is gone, if God does not work a miracle in the night. Our inhospitableness has brought on just what we thought we could avoid.”
In the meantime little Ruster drove about in the snowstorm. He went from one house to the other and asked if there was any work for him to do, but he was not received anywhere. They did not even ask him to get out of the sledge. Some had their houses full of guests, others were going away on Christmas Day. “Drive to the next neighbor,” they all said.
He could come and spoil the pleasure of an ordinary day, but not of Christmas Eve. Christmas Eve came but once a year, and the children had been rejoicing in the thought of it all the autumn. They could not put that man at a table where there were children. Formerly they had been glad to see him, but not since he had become a drunkard. Where should they put the fellow, moreover? The servants’ room was too plain and the guest room too fine.
So little Ruster had to drive from house to house in the blinding snow. His wet moustache hung limply down over his mouth; his eyes were bloodshot and blurred, but the brandy was blown out of his brain. He began to wonder and to be amazed. Was it possible, was it possible that no one wished to receive him?
Then all at once he saw himself. He saw how miserable and degraded he was, and he understood that he was odious to people. “It is the end of me,” he thought. “No more copying of music, no more flute playing. No one on earth needs me; no one has compassion on me.”
The storm whirled and played, tore apart the drifts and piled them up again, took a pillar of snow in its arms and danced out into the plain, lifted one flake up to the clouds and chased another down into a ditch. “It is so, it is so,” said little Ruster; “while one dances and whirls it is play, but when one must be buried in the drift and forgotten, it is sorrow and grief.” But down they all have to go, and now it was his turn. To think that he had now come to the end!
He no longer asked where the man was driving him; he thought that he was driving in the land of death.
Little Ruster made no offerings to the gods that night. He did not curse flute playing or the life of a pensioner; he did not think that it had been better for him if he had ploughed the earth or sewn shoes. But he mourned that he was now a worn-out instrument, which pleasure could no longer use. He complained of no one, for he knew that when the horn is cracked and the guitar will not stay in tune, they must go. He became all at once a very humble man. He understood that it was the end of him, on this Christmas Eve. Hunger and cold would destroy him, for he understood nothing, was good for nothing, and had no friends.
The sledge stops, and suddenly it is light about him, and he hears friendly voices, and there is someone who is helping him into a warm room, and someone who is pouring warm tea into him. His coat is pulled off him, and several people cry that he is welcome, and warm hands rub life into his benumbed fingers.
He was so confused by it all that he did not come to his senses for nearly a quarter of an hour. He could not possibly comprehend that he had come back to Löfdala. He had not been at all conscious that the stable boy had grown tired of driving about in the storm and had turned home.
Nor did he understand why he was now so well received in Liljekrona’s house. He could not know that Liljekrona’s wife understood what a weary journey he had made that Christmas Eve, when he had been turned away from every door where he had knocked. She felt such compassion on him that she forgot her own troubles.
Liljekrona went on with the wild playing up in his room; he did not know that Ruster had come. The latter sat meanwhile in the dining room with the wife and the children. The servants, who used also to be there on Christmas Eve, had moved out into the kitchen away from their mistress’s trouble.
The mistress of the house lost no time in setting Ruster to work. “You hear, I suppose,” she said, “that Liljekrona does nothing but play all the evening, and I must attend to setting the table and the food. The children are quite forsaken. You must look after these two smallest.”
Children were the kind of people with whom little Ruster had had least intercourse. He had met them neither in the bachelor’s wing nor in the campaign tent, neither in wayside inns nor on the highways. He was almost shy of them, and did not know what he ought to say that was fine enough for them.
He took out his flute and taught them how to finger the stops and holes. There was one of four years and one of six. They had a lesson on the flute and were deeply interested in it. “This is A,” he said, “and this is C,” and then he blew the notes. Then the young people wished to know what kind of an A and C it was that was to be played.
Ruster took out his score and made a few notes.
“No,” they said, “that is not right.” And they ran away for an A B C book.
Little Ruster began to hear their alphabet. They knew it and they did not know it. What they knew was not very much. Ruster grew eager; he lifted the little boys up, each on one of his knees, and began to teach them. Liljekrona’s wife went out and in and listened quite in
amazement. It sounded like a game, and the children were laughing the whole time, but they learned.
Ruster kept on for a while, but he was absent from what he was doing. He was turning over the old thoughts from out in the storm. It was good and pleasant, but nevertheless, it was the end of him. He was worn out. He ought to be thrown away. And all of a sudden he put his hands before his face and began to weep.
Liljekrona’s wife came quickly up to him.
“Ruster,” she said, “I can understand that you think that all is over for you. You cannot make a living with your music, and you are destroying yourself with brandy. But it is not the end, Ruster.”
“Yes,” sobbed the little flute player.
“Do you see that to sit as tonight with the children, that would be something for you? If you would teach children to read and write you would be welcomed everywhere. That is no less important an instrument on which to play, Ruster, than flute and violin. Look at them, Ruster!”
She placed the two children in front of him, and he looked up blinking as if he had looked at the sun. It seemed as if his little blurred eyes could not meet those of the children, which were big, clear, and innocent.
“Look at them, Ruster!” repeated Liljekrona’s wife.
“I dare not,” said Ruster, for it was like a purgatory to look through the beautiful child eyes to the unspotted beauty of their souls.
Liljekrona’s wife laughed loud and joyously.
“Then you must accustom yourself to them, Ruster. You can stay in my house as schoolmaster this year.”
Liljekrona heard his wife laugh and came out of his room.
“What is it?” he said. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” she answered, “but that Ruster has come again, and that I have engaged him as schoolmaster for our little boys.”
Liljekrona was quite amazed. “Do you dare?” he said. “Do you dare? Has he promised to give up—”
“No,” said the wife. “Ruster has promised nothing. But there is much about which he must be careful when he has to look little children in the eyes every day. If it had not been Christmas, perhaps I would not have ventured; but when our Lord dared to place a little child who was his own son among us sinners, so can I also dare to let my little children try to save a human soul.”
Liljekrona could not speak, but every feature and wrinkle in his face twitched and twisted as always when he heard anything noble.
Then he kissed his wife’s hand as gently as a child who asks for forgiveness and cried aloud: “All the children must come and kiss their mother’s hand.”
They did so, and then they had a happy Christmas in Liljekrona’s house.
1910
HANS AANRUD (1863–1953) was a Norwegian author of plays, poetry and stories. He was born into a rural family and many of his stories deal with peasant life, while his later works were more urban in nature.
INGVAR AMBJØRNSEN (1956– ) is a prize-winning Norwegian author. His novel Brødre i blodet (Blood Brothers) was made into a movie nominated for the 2001 Oscar for best foreign film.
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN (1805–1875) was a Danish author of thousands of popular tales, many of them haunting stories inspired by folklore and others that were entirely original. Andersen’s fairy tale “The Brave Tin Soldier,” was part of a nineteenth-century wave of literature depicting a child’s view of the adult world, including E.T.A. Hoffman’s “Nutcracker and the King of Mice,” adapted into the Tchaikovsky ballet traditionally performed at Christmas time.
PETER CHRISTEN ASBJØRNSEN (1812–1885) was a Norwegian scholar and author who trained as a zoologist. He collected Norwegian folklore with Jørgen Engebretsen Moe and they jointly published folktales and legends. His portrait appears on the Norwegian fifty crown banknote.
VIGDIS HJORTH (1959– ) was born in Oslo and is a popular and controversial author in Norway. Much of her writing is autobiographical. Several of her novels deal with contemporary women’s search for identity.
KARL OVE KNAUSGAARD (1968– ) is a Norwegian author best known for a six-volume autobiographical novel, My Struggle. His work has been widely acclaimed, and he is the founder of a publishing house called Pelikanen.
JOHAN KROHN (1841–1925) was a Danish author. His book Peter’s Christmas, first published in 1866, is a children’s classic.
SELMA LAGERLÖF (1858–1940) became the first female author to win the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1909. A Swede, she worked as a teacher in a girls’ secondary school where she honed her storytelling gifts.
JØRGEN ENGEBRETSEN MOE (1813–1882) was a Norwegian church bishop and author who collected folklore together with the scholar and author Peter Christen Asbjørnsen. For Norwegians, their names are synonymous with traditional folktales, much like the Brothers Grimm in Germany.
O. E. RÖLVAAG (1876–1931) was born on a Norwegian island near the Arctic Circle. He migrated to the United States in 1896, settling first in South Dakota. His most famous book, Giants in the Earth, is a realistic novel about the experience of Scandinavian pioneers in the American Midwest. It was written in Norwegian and translated into English, inspiring an opera that won a 1951 Pulitzer Prize.
HJALMAR SÖDERBERG (1869–1941) was a Swedish novelist, playwright, poet and journalist. His books feature melancholy and lovelorn characters in fin de siècle Stockholm. “I believe in the lust of the flesh and the incurable isolation of the soul,” remarks a figure in Söderberg’s most celebrated novel, Dr. Glas.
AUGUST STRINDBERG (1849–1912) was a trailblazing, prolific and versatile Swedish playwright, novelist and painter. He is known for psychological dramas including The Ghost Sonata, Miss Julie and A Dream Play.
ZACHRIS TOPELIUS (1818–1898) was a Finnish author who wrote in Swedish. His works, including novels, short stories, lyric poems and the libretto of the first Finnish opera, have become part of Finnish national heritage.
“Another Star”
translated from the Norwegian by May-Brit Akerholt
“Christmas Eve”
translated from the Norwegian by May-Brit Akerholt
“Round the Yule Log”
translated from the Norwegian by H. L. Broekstad
“Father Christmas”
From the essay collection Winter
translated from the Norwegian by Ingvild Burkey
“Giants in the Earth”
From Giants in the Earth
translated from the Norwegian by Lincoln Colcord and O. E. Rölvaag
“The Cat on the Dovrefjell”
translated from the Norwegian by George Webbe Dasent
“A Christmas Guest”
translated from the Swedish by Pauline Bancroft Flach
“The Emperor’s Vision”
translated from the Swedish by Velma Swanston Howard
“The Holy Night”
translated from the Swedish by Velma Swanston Howard
“The Fur Coat”
translated from the Swedish by Edith and Wärner Oland
“The Brave Tin Soldier”
translated from the Danish by H. B. Paull
“The Fir Tree”
translated from the Danish by H. B. Paull
“The Forest Witch”
translated from the Danish by Emilie Poulsson and Laura E. Poulsson
“A Legend of Mercy”
translated from the Swedish by Emilie Poulsson and Laura E. Poulsson
“The Little Match Girl”
translated from the Danish by H. B. Paull
The Stronger
translated from the Swedish by F. I. Ziegler
“The Bird Catchers”
translated from the Norwegian, translator unknown
A VERY FRENCH CHRISTMAS
A continuation of the very popular Very Christmas Series, this collection brings together the best French Christmas stories of all time in an elegant and vibrant collection featuring classics by Guy de Maupassant and Alphonse Daudet, plus stories by the esteemed twentieth century aut
hor Irène Némirovsky and contemporary writers Dominique Fabre and Jean-Philippe Blondel. With a holiday spirit conveyed through sparkling Paris streets, opulent feasts, wandering orphans, flickering desire, and more than a little wine, this collection proves that the French have mastered Christmas.
http://newvesselpress.com/books/a-very-french-christmas/
A VERY ITALIAN CHRISTMAS
This volume brings together the best Italian Christmas stories of all time in a fascinating collection featuring classic tales and contemporary works. With writing that dates from the Renaissance to the present day, from Boccaccio to Pirandello, as well as Anna Maria Ortese, Natalia Ginzburg and Nobel laureate Grazia Deledda, this choice selection delights and intrigues. Like everything the Italians do, this is Christmas with its very own verve and flair, the perfect literary complement to a Buon Natale italiano.
http://newvesselpress.com/books/a-very-italian-christmas/
A VERY RUSSIAN CHRISTMAS
This is Russian Christmas celebrated in supreme pleasure and pain by the greatest of writers, from Dostoevsky and Tolstoy to Chekhov and Teffi. The dozen stories in this collection will satisfy every reader, and with their wit, humor, and tenderness, packed full of sentimental songs, footmen, whirling winds, solitary nights, snow drifts, and hopeful children, the collection proves that Nobody Does Christmas Like the Russians.
http://newvesselpress.com/books/a-very-russian-christmas/
AND THE BRIDE CLOSED THE DOOR
BY RONIT MATALON
A young bride shuts herself up in a bedroom on her wedding day, refusing to get married. In this moving and humorous look at contemporary Israel and the chaotic ups and downs of love everywhere, her family gathers outside the locked door, not knowing what to do. The only communication they receive from behind the door are scribbled notes, one of them a cryptic poem about a prodigal daughter returning home. The harder they try to reach the defiant woman, the more the despairing groom is convinced that her refusal should be respected. But what, exactly, ought to be respected? Is this merely a case of cold feet?
A Very Scandinavian Christmas Page 13
