Moe, a Norwegian writer, who has penetrated into many of the out-of-the-way valleys of this part of the country and Thelemarken, states that the peasants are provided with a large budget of traditional melodies; but more than this, these genuine and only representatives of the ancient “smoothers and polishers of language” (scalds), not only use the very strophe of those ancient improvisatores, but have also a knack of improvising songs on the spur of the moment, or, at all events, of grafting bits of local colouring into old catches.
The peasants around tipped me one or two of these staves. When the company are all assembled, one sings a verse, and challenging another to contend with him in song, another answers, and, after a few alternate verses, the two voices chime in together. What I heard was not extempore, but traditional in the valley.
One young fellow commenced a stave which seemed to be a great favourite, for directly he began it, the others said, “To be sure, we all know that; sing it, Thorkil.”
In the evening, true to his promise, old Solomon appeared. He had called to mind a tale that would perhaps please me.
“There was once on a time a shooter looking for fowl on the heights (heio) above Sætersdal. Well, on he went, doing nothing but looking up into the tree-tops for the fowl, when, all of a sudden, he found himself in a house he had never seen before. There were large chambers all round, and long corridors, and so many doors he could not number them. He went seeking about all over till he was tired. Folk he could see none, nor could he find his way out. At last he came to one chamber where he thought he could hear people, so he opened the door and looked in; and there sat a lassie alone (eisemo); so he spoke to her, and asked who lived there. So she answered they were Tuss folk, and that the house was so placed that nobody could see it till they got into it, and then one could not get out again. ‘That’s the way it went with me,’ said she, mournfully; ‘I have been here a long time now, but don’t think I shall ever get out again.’ The shooter on this got very frightened, and asked her if she could not tell him some way of escape. ‘Well,’ answered the girl, ‘I’ll tell you how you can do it, but you must first promise me to come back to the gaard and take me away.’ This he promised at once to do without fail. ‘Now, then, follow me, and open the door I point out. They are sitting at the board and eating (aa eta), and he who sits at the top is the king, and he’s bigger and brawer than all the others, so that you’ll know him directly. You must take your rifle, and aim at the king—only aim, you mustn’t shoot. They’ll be in such a fright they’ll drive you out directly you heave up the gun; so you’ll be all safe, and then you must think of me. You must come here next Thursday evening[21] as ever is, and the next, and the third; and then I’ll follow you home—of that you may be certain.’ So she went and showed him the door, and he opened it and went in, and saw them all eating and drinking, and he up with his gun and pointed it at the one at the top of the table. Up they all jumped in alarm; he sprung out, they after him, and so he got clean out and safe home. On the first Thursday evening away he went to the Fell, and the second, and talked each time with the girl; but the third Thursday, on which all depended, he didn’t come. I don’t know why it was he did not keep his promise. Perhaps he thought if he took her home he should have to marry her. Anyhow it was base ingratitude. Some three or four years after the shooter was on the heights again, when he heard a girl’s voice greet (gret), and lament that she was so dowie (dauv) and lonely, and could not get away to her home. He knew the voice at once—it was the girl he had deserted. He looked round and round, and about on all sides, but could see nothing but rocks and trees, and so nothing could be done for the poor lassie.”
“Now I think of it,” continued Solomon, “there is a tuss story I’ve heard about this Rigegaard where you are stopping.”
“Delightful!” thought I; “I never did yet sleep in a haunted house—it will be a capital adventure for the journal.”
“It’s a long time ago since, though. The ‘hill-folks’ used to come and take up their quarters here at Yule. It was every Yule the same; they never missed. They did keep it up, I believe you, in grand style, eating, and drinking, and clattering till they made the old house ring again. At last, Arne—he lived here in those days—gave the underground people notice to quit; he would not put up with it any longer. So off they went. In the hurry of departure they left some of their chattels, and, among others, a little copper horse, which Arne put out of sight, though he had no idea what it was used for. Next day, a Troll came down from the hill above yonder, into which the whole pack had retired for the present, and claimed the property. Arne, however, had taken a fancy to the horse, and would not give it up. They might have that little drinking-beaker of strange workmanship, but the copper horse he was determined to keep. ‘Well,’ said the Troll, ‘keep it then; but, mind this, never you part with it. If ever you do, this house will never be free from poverty and bad luck to the end of the present race.’[22] ‘Good!’ replied Arne, ‘I’ll take care of that, and my son will keep the horse after me, and hand it down as an heir-loom.’
“After this, the house went on prosperously, and no more was heard of the Trolls. Many years after, when Arne and his son were dead, the grandson parted with the horse. He had heard of the story, but he did not care; he did not want such trash—not he. After this, nothing went well with him. Poverty overtook him, and the family fell into the utmost distress.”
“But,” interposed I, “the people seem very well-to-do. I see no symptoms of poverty. The woman is a filthy creature, and that towel is disgusting [all travellers in Norway, mind and take a towel with you], and the food she gives me is uneatable; but I hear they are rich.”