The old dwelling houses on the farms were built of logs and thatched with turf—snug and warm in winter, and airy and cool in summer when the heat of the imprisoned sun between the mountainsides turned the air in the valleys suffocatingly hot. Now the peasants began letting these old houses fall into ruin or tearing them down to build houses of clapboard instead, with verandas and tiled roofs—flimsy, ugly, cold in winter, and all too warm in summer. They bought cheap furniture of town style and moved their fine old things into the attic or sold them to antique dealers from town or from outside. They began wearing clothing from the stores and discarded their homespun things—the strong, practical working clothes and the gloriously colorful garments they had for festive occasions. Worst of all, they gave up their old food and their plain cooking. Instead of hard, coarse bread and a rich abundance of milk and butter and cheese, and meat and fish from their own brine barrels, they began drinking coffee many times a day and eating soft white bread and margarine, and bought canned goods when things were to be particularly fine. It was not strange there was work enough for a dentist in the valley.
Anders Sandvig realized that something was wrong. He looked at the old farmhouses rotting away. How skillful the carpenter’s work had been, how beautiful they were in every way, how cheerful it must have looked inside, where a few heavy pieces of furniture, carved and painted in gold and many colors, shone against the unpainted log-brown walls. He bought such an old house and moved it down to town, rebuilding it in his garden. He bought others. It became a passion with him to collect, bring home, and salvage all he could of the old glory that had been in the valley. He bought everything he could lay his hands on that was old—clothing, furniture, old tools, the peasant’s plows, the housewife’s milk pails and her loom, the cobbler’s awl and boot tree, the carpenter’s ax, weapons from the early days—the archer’s bow, swords, and old flintlock muskets, hunter’s rifles, and soldier’s gear. Soon he had no more room for it all in his own home. So he bought Maihaugen, a wooded knoll beyond the edge of town, moved his collection there, and the community museum for Gudbrandsdal had been created.
It grew year by year. The town took it over, and Sandvig became the director, living for it, expanding it, and enriching it as a picture of the valley’s life in the old days. He rebuilt the large farm called Björnstad—a farm larger and grander than many a nobleman’s estate elsewhere in Europe, with its four dwelling houses, its barns and stables for all kinds of farm animals, its storehouses, threshing rooms, and granaries. There were almost thirty buildings altogether. He rebuilt also a poor little farm from the very summit of the ridge, from the mountain’s edge, that gave evidence that skill in handicraft, good taste, and a feeling for everything that was fine and beautiful was shared by rich and poor alike in those days. He reconstructed houses that displayed the development of Norwegian home architecture from the Middle Ages to the Motor Age; he reconstructed an old church and a chapel from Catholic times; he set up and equipped the old craftsmen’s workshops, the hunting lodges, fishing huts, gristmills and querns. At Maihaugen the Norwegian people could learn what they should cherish of their inheritance at the same time that they advanced and learned and discovered new things—learning why and how it was that they were at one and the same time the most conservative people in Europe and the most audaciously progressive. Maihaugen became a model for other outdoor community museums in Norway, with Sandvig gradually training a school of young men and women scientists to carry on his work.
But it costs money to run and develop such a museum. The townspeople did what they could to support Maihaugen and one of the most effective means they had devised was the event that took place at St. Swithin’s.
St. Swithin’s is in actuality the period that lies between the end of haying and the beginning of harvest—a few weeks when the peasants have their only breathing spell of the summer season. But Sandvig had moved St. Swithin’s up a few weeks, to the beginning of the summer vacation period, when the stream of tourists would be passing through by train, or car, or afoot, on their way to the mountains or the seashore.
This year both Anders and Hans were allowed to “assist” at the St. Swithin’s festival. Mother brought Anders Dr. Sandvig’s suggestion that he take part in the dancing of the quadrille in a uniform of 1814. One of the numbers of the program this year was to be an exhibition of old dances. But Anders smiled regretfully and shook his head—and Mother, who knew he was a mediocre dancer and a worse actor, was in full agreement with him. He could certainly “assist” much more effectively by serving as an orderly along with the other Scouts.
But Hans had enthusiastically accepted a role in the play that was to be given, and Anders observed dryly that since that youngster never did anything but clown, he should be a great success when he really had a part to play. Instantly Hans assailed his brother.
“Oh, you! Mother, why may Anders always be so disagreeable toward me? . . . You! You say that just because you stood around like a stick-in-the-mud and looked dumb that time you were in a play.”
So they tussled a bit, and then they made up again, and Anders gave Hans that old bowie knife with the brass mountings as a contribution to his brother’s costume. It would certainly look fine on his rear!
It was not precisely a leading role in which Hans had been cast, nor was it a particularly difficult one. He was to be one of the children of Gudbrand of Lia, and Mother was to be his mother in the play as well. But Mother had succeeded in borrowing a gorgeous child’s costume for him from the museum—a jacket and pants of white homespun, all the seams bound with green and embroidered with black and a red-checked vest with brass buttons. Headgear was unnecessary, for the children of Gudbrand of Lia certainly never had unnecessary clothing. And naturally they went barefoot. . . .
At this point Grandmother protested. She had come on a visit and had brought with her Little Signe, who was also to have been one of Mother’s children.
“If you will let that boy run barefoot all through Main Street and all around Maihaugen where people drink beer and throw the bottles in the bushes and perhaps break dishes and glasses so that there is broken glass all around he could cut himself on and perhaps get blood poisoning and die—then I can’t stop you from risking your son’s health and perhaps his life, for you are his mother. But I am responsible for Little Signe—her mother has entrusted her to me—and she may not be in your foolish play.”
“Oh, Grandmother . . .” Hans was almost in tears. “Poor Signe! Oh, let her. Why can’t she ever have any fun, just because you have to worry so much about everything?”
But Little Signe remarked patronizingly that she would much rather not have to trudge through town—when she could ride in the car with Grandmother and Thea and Tulla and see the parade, and afterward go to Maihaugen with Grandmother and have hot chocolate.
The theme of the exhibition this year was “The Norwegian Folk Tale.” A professor from Oslo had come up and would lecture on our folk tales, in the street procession that opened St. Swithin’s would pass all the familiar figures of the folk tales, and the comedy that would be staged was a dramatization of the folk tale about Gudbrand of Lia.
“But, mother . . .” Hans cried, completely aghast, as Mother came down dressed in her costume, “you look like a ... a— Your face is dirty! And your apron is torn right in front on your stomach, and the way your hair looks— Mother, you can’t go through town like that!”
“You silly goose,” laughed Anders. “Don’t you know Gudbrand of Lia’s old woman was a dirty slattern?”
But Hans could not quite reconcile himself to the idea of his mother looking so frightful.
“Dear me, mother, you look as if you were on relief,” he groaned.
“Don’t you see, in real life they were on relief,” said Anders. “The rest of it was only make-believe.”
Grandmother said nothing, but she eyed her daughter disapprovingly as she set out with her flock of barefooted children.
THERE WAS ONCE a man
named Gudbrand, and because he lived high up on the mountainside they called him Gudbrand of Lia, or Gudbrand of the Lea. They were very poor but Gudbrand and his wife were so happy and contented with each other that no one had ever heard them exchange an unfriendly word.
One day Gudbrand had to raise some money, and there was nothing for him to do but to take their only cow and go to town and try to sell her.
“Oh, well,” said his wife, “I am really glad of it. Then I won’t have to get up at daybreak every day to care for her and milk her, and go chasing all over the hills looking for her in the evening. Yes, it’s a good thing to be rid of this cow.”
That night as Gudbrand was coming home with his neighbor, telling him what he had done that day, his neighbor slapped his leg and said:
“Well, if your wife never bawled you out in all the years you’re married—when she hears this tale she’ll get so raving mad that it wouldn’t surprise me if she socked you right in the eye.”
Gudbrand said, oh, no, his wife never got angry with him. This the neighbor could not believe, and so they made a wager. The neighbor was to go in with him and hide on the porch and listen to what the woman of Lia said to her husband. And if she was satisfied with the way he had done things this time too, he would pay Gudbrand one hundred crowns, cash in hand.
It was pitch-dark before Gudbrand got home, and his wife was almost beside herself with joy when he stepped into the room.
“Oh, God be praised that you have come! I was just about to be afraid something had happened to you. Come now, and have something to eat— Thank God, I have you home once more. It is so bleak and dreary here when you are away. . . . Well, how much did you get for the cow?”
“Well, as it turned out I didn’t sell the cow for money, for while I was walking around the market place I saw a man standing there with a little glossy yellow mare—and I got such a desire to own this mare that I traded the cow for her.”
“You don’t say! Well, well, so we have a horse here at Lia! Well, it is about time. Now we don’t have to go begging our neighbors to lend their horse every time we are to plow, and we won’t have to carry the hay on our backs. And we can ride to church on Sundays, like other fine folk. Run, children, and put up your father’s mare.”
“But you see, mother, I don’t have the mare with me after all. For when I had walked a little farther at the market and looked around, I saw a man with such a pretty pig for sale. And so I traded the mare for that pig.”
“Well, well, well, so we have a pig! Well, that’s what I always wanted—a pig to feed the scraps to. Then we’ll slaughter it at Christmas and have us a barrel of salt meat, so we’ll have a piece of rind in the house all year. Oh, you Gudbrand, you Gudbrand, the likes of you as a man to think of and care for his wife and children is not to be found. Run, children, and put in our pig, then-”
“No, wait a minute! You see, I don’t have the pig either now, because I traded it away for a sheep, a real, fine, plump sheep.”
“A sheep, you say? Oh, you are so clever and thoughtful I think the likes of you is not to be found in seven parishes. What would we do with a pig, anyway? People would only say that over here at Lia we eat up everything we have. I can shear the sheep twice a year and have her just the same, and I can get lambs from her to slaughter and salt down. Hurry, children, go out and get my sheep.”
“Hm. I don’t have this sheep either now, for I met a man who offered to trade me such a fine goat he was leading—”
“Well, you were exactly right there, Gudbrand. A goat is much more useful. Now I will have milk for the children just as if we had the cow, and socks of goat hair are what we need up here more than wool socks. Children, go get the goat.”
“Oh, but— There was a man who had such a fine goose he wanted to sell . . . and I wanted so to taste roast goose for once in my life. It’s wonderful, I’ve heard.”
“Yes, why shouldn’t we treat ourselves to a little roast goose for once? You did exactly right when you traded yourself this goose. We’ll have goose grease afterwards and I’ll have the feathers and the down for my little head pillow. Children, run out and bring in our goose, then.”
“Hold on a bit, there, and I’ll tell you something. I traded the goose for a rooster—such a fine rooster he was, and I thought it would be nice to have a rooster on the farm.”
“Yes, that’s true. A rooster crows every blessed morning, so it is as if you had bought an eight-day clock. We certainly will be just as happy even if we never taste roast goose, and I can fill my pillow with sedge grass. So go out and bring in the rooster, children.”
“The only thing is, I don’t have the rooster with me, either, mother. There was a man at the market selling such fine apples. And I thought it would be fun to bring some apples home for the children, so he gave me a peck of them for the rooster.”
“Oh, oh, oh, did you hear that, children? No children in the world have a kinder father than you. What would we do with a rooster, anyway? We are our own masters and can stay in bed as long as we like in the morning and the rest of the time we can go by the sun. We will have to see to getting these apples in, so the children can taste one tonight.”
“Hm, that’s a little bothersome, you see, but since I’d been walking all day in town without a bite to eat, either wet or dry, I was so hungry that at last I went into Kaffistova and traded me a meal for the apples.”
“Oh, thank God, you did that! Just think if you should have had to walk all the long way home without having had anything to eat. No, that would have been all too terrible. Thank God, you are home again, safe and sound, you kind, good husband of mine. As long as I have you, I can get along without a cow and horse and pig and sheep and goat and goose and rooster and apples—oh, oh, I am so glad I can’t tell you.”
“So there. What do you say?” cried Gudbrand of Lia, opening the door to the porch and beckoning his neighbor to step in.
Well, the neighbor could do nothing but say that Gudbrand had won the hundred crowns and he laid them on the table. And so they got what they needed this time, anyway—Gudbrand of Lia and his wife.
It had rained early that day, and the three barefoot children had to wade in all the puddles they came to and feel the mud bubble up between their toes. When they arrived at the place where they were going to meet, they looked as if they had lived at Lia all their days.
The meeting place was the general merchandise store at the north end of Main Street. When the pageant started the sun was shining. The musicians led the way with their violins and clarinets playing the fine old bridal march of Dalsbön. First came the king—the professor who was going to give the lecture. To achieve the proper kingly figure he had stuffed himself with pillows and eiderdowns both front and back. With the gilded crown on his head and the long-stemmed pipe in his mouth, he looked truly majestic. Next came the princess, riding a large, dappled-gray horse which Askelad, or Cinderlad, was leading, for of course he was always the one who won the princess and half the kingdom in all the folk tales. She was lovely with a silver-gilt crown on her flowing yellow hair and dressed in the red bridal costume from the museum, resplendent with silk and glimmering gold lace. The pastor, the parish clerk, the sheriff, Gudbjor Langlar, the wisewoman with her following of gypsies, rich Per the Pedlar and the Devil, arm in arm—they were all there. Storekeeper Lie was well cast as Gudbrand. He was tall and thin and wore a long green coat and a black hat with a brim that flapped down over his face. He led the horse and Mother, as Gudbrand’s wife, followed with the cow.
They had assured Mother that the cow was an elderly animal, not in the least nervous, and gentle of disposition. But when the cow came out on the street and saw the solid wall of spectators along the sidewalk she stopped, eyed the crowd distrustfully right and left, and looked as if she did not want to be in the procession. Mother tugged and pulled at the rope, and the huldra, or pixy, who followed behind—the long cow’s tail dragging from underneath her green skirt and with a young pig in her arms—gave
her a slap on the rump. . . . Well, thought the cow, she could try, so she started.
After the huldra and the pig, came the boys and girls with the sheep and the goat and the rooster. At the beginning there had also been a goose, which the young girl in the crinoline costume from Lysgard had offered to carry. But the goose had hissed and fought and struggled so to get loose, flying right in the faces of some of the spectators, that it had created a lively little panic before it got away and disappeared into a side street.
People stood as tightly packed as on the Seventeenth of May, but now they were not only townspeople. There were many strangers in sports clothes—foreigners from the hotels, school classes of children with their teachers from the schools outside town, Oslo people whom Mother knew. They made bad enough worse by shouting words of encouragement to her every time the cow became a problem. For the whole thing had become too much for the old cow. One moment she balked, the next moment she started determinedly up the sidewalk among the people—and at every mood the children screamed most realistically. The musicians played the bridal march, the sheep bleated, and the pig squealed. . . . It became quite an undertaking to walk through all of Main Street and up the hill to Maihaugen. On a corner Mother caught a glimpse of Anders. She got an unhappy impression that the boy was furious because his mother was appearing thus like a clown in the streets of their town. But Anders assured her afterwards that if he had looked glum it was only to keep from laughing, for if he had ever started laughing he would surely have gone into hysterics.