| abstract
| - Translated from the Danish by Hanna Astrup Larsen and Published in Twelve stories as De tre Helligaftener, En jydsk Röverhistorie, 1841 EASTER EVE IF YOU, dear reader, have ever been on Snabs Hill where the assizes were held in olden times, and if you have looked toward the south, you may have seen a scattered little hamlet called Uannet. None but peasants live there now or have lived there in the past. A couple of hundred years ago there lived a man called Ib. What his wife's name was I have never been able to find out, but so much I know that he had an only daughter whose name was Maren, and for everyday use they called her Ma-Ibs. She was a comely and dapper young woman, and wherever she went the young men looked after her, but she had eyes only for Sejer. He, too, was an only child, and his father, too, lived in Uannet. As I was about to tell you, it happened on Saturday before Easter that a stranger called at Ib's house. He was dressed as a peasant, was well-grown and strapping, and had an air of assurance; his age might be about thirty. There was no one at Ib's who knew him, but he said he was a Wood-Louning, [Footnote: A man from the wooded region of Lou near Silkeborg.] that he had lately leased his father's farm, and that he was on his way north to see about selling his charcoal. The silver buttons on his coat and vest showed well enough that he was no beggarly lout. Well, they gave him both food and drink, and while he was eating he talked of one thing and another. So then he said to Ib, and smirked a little as he said it, "My mother's getting old, and it's about time I get someone in. Can't you put me on the track of a handy woman? It doesn't matter so much about money, we can always agree on that, but she must have a pair of brisk, capable hands, and she oughtn't to be too old either." Ib didn't let on that he understood; he scratched himself behind the ear, and said, "Hm, such a one doesn't grow up from the heather-tufts every day." He glanced at his daughter, and simpered slyly. But the daughter was none too well pleased with such talk, and made an excuse to leave the room. When the stranger was about to go, they asked him what his name was. "Oh," he said, "my father was called Ole Breadless, and I suppose I'll have the same name." With that he left, but when he had gone a little ways, he met Ma-Ibs, who had been over to Sejer's, and he said to her, "It's no use handing out a lot of talk. I am here to see you and for nothing else. At Whitsun I'll be back, so you can think it over in the meantime. And now, good-bye." Ma-Ibs was not very happy about that suitor. When she came in, she took a seat at the lower end of the table, crossed her hands on her lap, and sighed from the bottom of her heart. "What's the matter?" asked her father. "I don't like that Wood-Louning--or whatever he is," she replied. "Can't Sejer and I ever get married?" "On what?" said the old man. And that was the end of that. Father and daughter both took their knitting. A little later Sejer came in. "God's peace," he said. "Thanks," said they. "Now I am going up to the house," said he, "to talk to the squire, for it's no use beating about the bush any longer." "It won't do any good," said Ib. "The squire is set against you, and he'll perhaps send you for a soldier." "That may be," said Sejer, "but anyway we'll put it to the test." With that he went away. Now when he came to Aunsbjerg and went in at the gate, he met the squire himself. The squire's name was Jörgen Marsviin. "Have you come to see about leasing a farm again?" he said. "It's no use--I've told you that so many times." "Oh, please, master," said Sejer, "I beg you--" The squire looked angrily at him, drew his eyebrows together, and frowned. One might have thought he was ready to fly at the man and beat him. But then he seemed to think better of it, and his face took on a milder expression, as he said, "Listen! You have heard about the robbers that have been plundering and killing people so long. They're said to have their den somewhere here on the heath. If you can hunt them down for me and bind them, you shall get your lease and not have to pay a penny for it. And you shall marry Ma-Ibs, and on top of that I'll let you take a cart and two horses out of Aunsbjerg. Now you know my mind." "Then God have mercy upon me," said Sejer, and slunk away, looking very downcast. He didn't eat anything that night, and Ma-Ibs was none too happy either. It was a miserable Holiday Eve for them both. WHITSUN EVE By Steen Steensen Blicher Translated from the Danish by Hanna Astrup Larsen and Published in Twelve stories as Thee eves 1841 So then the time passed as best it might from Easter to Whitsuntide, and with the two young people things were very much as they had been; they were not utterly downcast, for they put their faith in the future and in Him who is the Lord of the future. Whitsun Eve Sejer went over to Ib's--as he often did, I dare say--to ask if his sweetheart might go with him to Aunsbjerg wood the following afternoon when they came from Sörslev church. For it was an old custom in those parts--and is yet, I dare say--that on the first day of Whitsuntide the young people would gather in the woods for a dance. The Saturday in question Sejer found his sweetheart already decked out in her best. "Good-day, Maren," he said, "what's going to happen that you're so fine today?" "It came over me," she said, "that perhaps I should go up and see the mistress and get her to say a good word for us to the master." "Hm," he said, "that might turn out well. I'll go with you and wait outside while you're in the house." While she went up to the manor, he sat on a stone by the driveway. As he was sitting there, a cart came from the woods with a huge oak log that was going to the sawmill. But the horses were small and worn out, and right outside the gate they stopped. The man--it was a peasant who was doing his socage-service--whipped the poor nags, but they couldn't budge the cart. Then the forester came, and he grumbled, and then the bailiff, and then the honorable and well-born Jörgen Marsviin himself. And they all scolded the peasant for coming to do his socage with such miserable jades--I dare say they were the best he had. Sejer sat and looked at this, and now and again he smiled to himself at the fuss they were making. The master noticed it, and said, "What are you grinning at?" "It looks to me," he said, "that the load isn't so heavy but that I could pull it alone." "Hey, unharness the horses!" cried the squire to the driver. And when that was done, he turned to Sejer, "Now you take hold! and if you can pull the cart, I'll give you what's on it, but if you can't, you shall take a ride on the wooden horse." The young man began to excuse himself, saying that he was only joking. But the master said that he would teach him not to joke in his presence, and it was one or the other. "Well, if I must, I must," said Sejer. With that he went over to the cart, took off the pole, grabbed the traces, bent forward, and tugged--and the cart moved; but his wooden shoes were splintered, so hard did he set his feet on the ground. "You're no weakling," said the squire, and for the matter of that he was none himself; for they still tell of him that he could catch hold of an iron ring in the crossbeam over the gate and lift his horse up from the ground with his legs. "Now take the log, but you'll have to get it home yourself. And as for the lease, we'll see about it." Happy was Sejer! He thanked the squire, rolled the log off the cart, sat down on it, and looked in through the gate after his Maren. He waited and waited, and when at last she came, she looked woebegone. "God help us miserable people!" she said, and she could hardly speak for weeping. "We can never get married." "That's bad tidings you're bringing," said Sejer. "The squire just now half promised me--what's got into him?" "And the mistress the same," she said. "But now I'll tell you what bad luck I had. Just as I came up the steps and into a narrow hall, I met a bigwig, and he looked closely at me--I couldn't get past him, for he stood in front of me--and then he said, 'You're'--and how he swore!--'the prettiest maid or wife, whatever you are, I've seen in the country. Listen, will you love me?'--'No,' I said, 'I mayn't.'--'If you will,' he said, 'then you may. I am Baron'--now I don't remember what he called himself. 'You just come here this evening, my servant will be on the lookout for you and take you in to me.'--'No,' I said, 'it would be a sin, and besides I have a sweetheart, and I can't be unfaithful to him.' Then he took out a handful of money and jingled before me, but I slipped past him and in to the mistress. She was very gracious to me, and the squire came in, and it seemed that he was going to grant what I asked. But then that baron had been listening at the door, and he came in and said, 'If it's a decent fellow she wants to marry, he ought not to take her, for she's a shameless creature; I saw how she stood and flirted with one of the servants out there in the hall.' So after that wretch had lied about me, the squire and the mistress scolded me and told me to be gone and never show myself there again." "Good God, Maren," said Sejer, "is that all you get for your honesty and your faithfulness to me? Poor girl! But God still lives. We'll not be downcast; I feel sure somehow that we'll get married yet--even if there were as many lords and ladies as there are leaves on the trees in Aunsbjerg wood." Ma-Ibs sighed as if her heart would break, but answered nothing. She hardly spoke till they came to Uannet and were about to part and go their separate ways. Then she said, "Goodnight, Sejer, and thanks for today." "Thanks yourself, Maren," he said. "You're having a bad time for my sake. I don't know how I'm ever to make it up to you--but Our Lord will." "Do you want to go to the dance tomorrow?" the girl asked. "Do you?" he turned her question back. "No," she said, "I don't care for it." "Neither do I," he said. "Then good-night," she said and held out her hand. "Good-night yourself," he said, and so they parted. But there was more trouble waiting for poor Maren before she could get to rest. When she came home, there sat the Wood-Louning, Ole Breadless. "Well, here you are, my little girl," he said. "Have you thought it over?" "Thought over what?" she said. "Have you forgotten that?" he said. "It's no longer ago than last Easter--it was about moving to my place. And see here! So you shan't think I'm courting you with small beer and dry bread, I'll give you this for a betrothal gift," and with that he pulled out a heavy silver necklace with a heart of silver hanging from it. "If you'd known the one who wore it when she was alive, you wouldn't have called her a barefoot wench." With these words he made such a strange sign to the father that the daughter was gripped by a secret terror. The old man looked startled and hardly knew whether he could believe his own eyes. Neither of them said a word. "Well, do you want it?" repeated Ole. "No," stammered the girl, and was about to run out to seek comfort from her sweetheart. But the terrible suitor caught her arm with one hand, and putting away the necklace with the other, he said, "When I come a third time, I won't take No for an answer." And without further farewells he picked up his cap and stick and went his way. "Here's the boy with the cows," said Ib, and sat down on a three-legged stool. Ma-Ibs went out to do the milking, but she didn't sing as she usually did at this work. Sejer was watering his father's horses, but he didn't whistle as he was in the habit of doing. It was a miserable Holiday Eve for them both. CHRISTMAS EVE By Steen Steensen Blicher Translated from the Danish by Hanna Astrup Larsen and Published in Twelve stories as Three Eves 1841 IT was twilight when an old beggar came tottering and dragging himself to Uannet to ask for a little something in God's name. So then he also came to Ib's. They told him to sit down by the kitchen door and promised they would give him something to eat and a little in his bag. When he had eaten, he began to groan about how late it was and how cold; he didn't see how he was going to walk farther that day, and he asked the people to let him stay overnight. They consented and told him to lie down in the oven which was still a bit lukewarm from the baking, and there the old fellow crawled in. It was getting late. They had eaten their sweet porridge and whatever else they had; the animals had received their extra feed; the outside door had been barred, and they had sung a Christmas hymn, as usual, and were getting ready to go to bed. But now you shall hear what the old beggar did. He crawled out of the oven, pulled the bar from the door, and unhooked it, and no sooner had he done so than five tall, sturdy young men entered the room, and the beggar with them, and now he could step on the floor as firmly as any of them. For, you must know, it was the robbers whom the Aunsbjerg squire wanted Sejer to hunt down and bind; and the beggar was the father of the other five. Things looked bad for the poor folk at Ib's. The man and his wife and daughter thought their last hour had come, and were so shaken with fear that they hardly had wits left to beg for their lives. The biggest and oldest of the young robbers--and he was none other than the Wood-Louning--was the spokesman, and said, "Now first dish up whatever you have, and we can talk about the rest later." Ma-Ibs lifted the latch of the door, but the robber said, "You just stay here and let the old woman wait on us. You might take it into your head to run away, and we want to have a little sport with you after we've had something to eat and drink." The girl sat down on a chair and almost fainted with fear. Ib sat on the bed and prayed to God who has power to save whom He will. The old woman set out on the table everything they had of food and drink, and it was all she could do to keep up. But now you shall hear the rest of the story. Ib had a herds-boy, a half-grown little chap. He was sleeping in a turn-up bed behind the stove, and heard everything. Without making a noise, he pulled on his breeches and stockings, and sneaked out behind the old woman as she went into the kitchen to light the candle, which one of the robbers had accidentally put out. And he ran over to the neighbor's and in to Sejer and told him what was happening at home. Sejer lost no time making his plan. "Take that mouse-eared horse of ours," he said, "and ride like a streak to Aunsbjerg. Tell them what's happening and tell them to come as fast as they can; then maybe they can catch all the robbers before they leave." The boy out, and up on the horse, and away! Sejer seized a heavy oaken flail and ran over to Ib's. There sat all six scoundrels on one bench with their backs to the windows. "What kind of a fellow are you?" they cried to him. "Maybe you want your stomach ripped up!" At that they were just about to jump up and catch him. But he was too quick for them, grabbed the table top, tipped the oak table over them, and squeezed them against the wall with the edge of it. "Now I'll see if I can squeeze your stomachs," he said; and while he held them fast with one hand, he swung the flail and promised he'd break any arm that stirred. The oldest of them tried to push the table back, but instantly got such a whack across his arm that it hung limp. After that they all sat quiet as mice and only begged Sejer please not to squeeze quite so hard. Now Ib's courage came back; he grabbed an axe and took his place at Sejer's one side, and on the other his sweetheart stood with a poker. Such was the state of things, and it was not very cheerful for either side. The robbers were tortured by fear of how this terrific squeeze was going to end, and they were at a loss to understand what the visitor meant to do or how long it would last--which made the agony all the greater. Ib and his daughter were equally uncertain, for of course Sejer couldn't blurt out the story of what he was waiting for. And you may trust me, it was a long wait; for if the people from the manor should delay too long or shouldn't come at all--the boy might have been thrown from his horse--what then? At last they came, the Aunsbjerg squire with seven or eight men, and he was not the hindmost when the door flew open. But there they stood. The room was quiet, and although there was a moon outside, they couldn't see anything plainly in the house, for the candles had been tipped over with the table. Then Sejer cried, "Where have you got the pine-sticks? Light a couple of them on the hearth." "There are some in the wood box," said the old woman. They were lit and illuminated the room. "There you can see, master," said Sejer. "Now I've found them and bound them, too--in a way. If you want them better tethered, there's a coil of rope over in that corner, I see." They took the rope, and cut it into as many pieces as there were robbers. And then they dragged them out from under the table one by one, tied their hands behind their backs, tied their feet together also, and threw them on the floor in a row. Then the squire began to ask them questions: where they came from, where they had their den, if there were more of them, and so on. But he couldn't get so much as half a word out of them, though he threatened them with gruesome tortures. Then the old robber said--not to the squire, but to his sons, "Let him do what he will, for now he has the power. But as he does to us, so it shall be done to him and his. The three in the hill at home won't forget either him or the good folks in Uannet. And now you keep your mouths shut till the rope opens them." But this threat was of no avail, for when the Christmas days were over, Jörgen Marsviin put them on the rack, first the old man, and then the young fellows. They all held out except the youngest. He confessed all their crimes and told where their cave was. That very same day it was searched and the robber wife and her two remaining sons were taken. They were hanged together with the other six. In the cave were great piles of silver and gold, and among the things was a ring that was recognized as belonging to the baron whose lying charges had done so much harm to Ma-Ibs. Now she got her reward. The squire himself held the wedding for her and Sejer; he did all he had promised them, and in addition gave them a number of the things that had been found in the robbers' den. Strong-Sejer (by which nickname he was known afterwards) lived with his wife for many, many years. Their children and children's children after them kept the nickname. But now it has probably died out, just like the name and the whole noble family of the strong squire. But the Holiday Eve I have told about ended happily at Aunsbjerg, and most happily of all at Uannet.
|
![[RDF Data]](/fct/images/sw-rdf-blue.png)