Anna Hansdatter: Hunger In the Dale

Chapter 6

The next morning, the Father Nygaard and Ole presented themselves at the temporary offices the prelate used when visiting Tretten. The bishop’s secretary was unhelpful. “Bishop Hovde cannot possibly see you today,” he said.

“Please tell him that I am here on a matter of urgency concerning Mari Nelsdatter of Froen,” said Father Nygaard. Ole paled a little. It was somehow frightening that Mari’s name should be known to the bishop.

“I will tell him,” said the secretary, “but it may be some time before I have the opportunity.”

“We don’t mind waiting,” Father Nygaard said.

The secretary sat at his desk, writing, for about a half hour, until a small bell rang. He picked up several papers, his pen and inkwell, and went into another room. A few minutes later, he reappeared, looking rather sheepish, “Bishop Hovde will see you now.” Behind him in the doorway was the bishop himself, in full raiment. He stepped into the room.

The men stood and bowed. Father Nygaard said, “Your grace … ”

The bishop called him by his first name, “My old friend Thomas …” and offered his hand, which the priest shook warmly. Inar Hovde was a short man, round faced, with kind eyes and a sincere smile. Not at all what Ole had imagined for a bishop.

“This is my parishioner and friend, Ole Flaate,” said Father Nygaard.

“I am pleased,” said Bishop Hovde, smiling at Ole as they shook hands. “Will you both please come into our study?” Ole and Father Nygaard sat on a couch, and the bishop on a chair close by, as Ole related Mari’s arrest, and the harassment of the others by Father Magnussen weeks earlier.

The bishop remembered the letter from the Froen priest, forwarded to him by the magistrate, and quickly made the connection. “Thomas, we agree with you,” he said. “Father Magnussen surely has suffered a breakdown of some kind. His use of the passport law to arrest this innocent woman is unconscionable. We must act quickly.” He rang for his secretary. “We need our carriage and six, driver and footman, and four mounted guards, ready to carry us to Froen, in two hours, please.”

“Two hours … yes, your grace,” said the secretary, astonished. This was quite unlike the Inar Hovde he knew, who prayed four hours a day, worked at least twelve hours, but rarely traveled on short notice,. He had never called for such an entourage in two hours time. “Anything else?”

“Yes. Tell the cook that Father Nygaard and Mister Flaate are staying for dinner. We will dine in one hour.”

“One hour … yes, your grace. Anything else?”

“Yes, please send for the magistrate at once. We must confer with him before we depart. That is all for now, thank you.” The secretary departed.

Father Nygaard said, “You will do all this, your grace, for a country midwife, the daughter of a peasant?”

Bishop Hovde cast a glance aside, as if checking for eavesdroppers. Then he laughed out loud and clapped his companions’ shoulders, looking from one to the other. He even abandoned the ‘royal we’ for a moment. “Thomas, you test me. You know that deep in my heart, I hold a peasant in as high regard as a prince. One is as much a child of God as the other. As for being a midwife, we don’t subscribe to the old fears about witchcraft. Bringing comfort to the suffering, and saving the lives of newborns and mothers, cannot be the work of the Devil. Dear Thomas, you have told us often of this woman, and how your parishioners cherish her. She has suffered a wrong which we can right, and we must. It is not without risk, but it is our duty.”

The magistrate arrived, with his clerk. He first spoke privately with the bishop, then took sworn statements from Father Nygaard and from Ole. Next, he dictated an order for Mari’s immediate release. When the dictation was finished, he said to Bishop Hovde, “Her arrest was indeed a travesty. No reasonable person could interpret the passport law in such a way. That priest should be relieved of his duties.”

“Quite so. Thank you kindly, your honor. Will you stay for dinner?”

“Thank you, but I must be in court in a half-hour. Godspeed, my friend.” The two shook hands, and the magistrate took his leave.

After a hearty dinner, the entourage departed. Father Nygaard and Ole rode in the coach with the bishop, while their horses were led by the guardsmen. They reached Ringebu by late evening, and lodged at Father Nygaard’s farm. In the morning, the bishop laid out his plan. “It will be simpler if I confront Father Magnussen alone,” he said. “Ole, you ride to Skurdal and wait there for Mari. Thomas, you may remain here.” The two readily agreed. Father Nygaard gave the bishop a beautiful woolen stole that Mari had woven for him. The stole is normally a ceremonial garment only, but this one was cleverly fashioned, in such a way that it could easily be worn for warmth if needed.

Father Magnussen’s gatekeeper spotted the bishop’s carriage and guard a long way off. They entered without stopping. The constable stayed home with his dogs. At the house, when the bishop dismounted the coach, the priest approached him, bowed, and kissed his hand. “Your grace,” he said, “what a pleasant surprise …”

“My dear Waldemar Magnussen,” replied the bishop, “you might not think it pleasant once we tell you why we have come. We seek the widow Mari Nelsdatter.”

The priest blanched. “The mute? Surely, your grace, there are greater matters, more deserving of your attention …”

“We can judge that for ourselves, thank you. At the moment, there are none. You arrested her two days ago.”

“Your grace, please let me explain. I know it was not a major infraction, about the passport, but it is for her own good. She belongs in hospital, as you yourself agreed three years ago.”

“Back then, you described to us a helpless idiot; unproductive, and unable to care for herself or her family. Yet for three years, she and her children have lived and thrived in your nearest neighboring parish.” He held out the stole Father Nygaard had sent with him. “She spun, dyed, and wove this garment, and made it a gift to the priest there. Where is the woman?”

The priest stared at the colorful, intricately woven fabric. Beads of sweat formed on his brow. “In my carriage house,” he mumbled.

“Show us there at once.”

As they walked to the stables, the priest blurted out, “And am I to let these Hernhutters invade my parish, subvert the Church’s authority, and question every word that comes from my pulpit?”

The bishop stopped and faced him squarely. “Waldemar, we know how you feel about the revivalists. You have made it more than clear at every opportunity. But firstly, the position of the Council of Bishops is also clear. Parish priests are not to forbid or interfere with any meetings or activities, provided they do not include slander or outright lies against the church or its representatives, nor advocate violence or political subversion. Secondly, to arrest a person by twisting a totally unrelated statute because of those activities amounts to subterfuge and dishonesty.

“Now, we personally do not like nor agree with many tenets of this movement. But we anticipate that over time, it will disintegrate from within, as the lay-preachers begin to squabble and accuse each other based on personal differences between them.”

The men continued on to the carriage house. They found Mari in a makeshift holding cell fashioned from a stall. There were several more like it in the building, which also served as the parish’s jail. The others were empty. The floor of her cell was covered with straw; the only furniture was a small stool where Mari was seated. When she saw the bishop, her eyes widened. She stood and curtseyed deeply.

“Good morning, my child,” said Bishop Hovde, although he was several years Mari’s junior. He turned to Father Magnussen and handed him the court order. “This woman is wrongfully imprisoned. Please release her now.”

Gritting his teeth, the priest nodded to his servant, who unlocked the cell and opened the door. Mari approached the bishop, knelt before him and kissed his hand. “Rise, my child,” he said. Mari stood up and looked into his eyes, smiling broadly. Returning her smile, the bishop continued, “Please ride with us to Skurdal, where your friend is waiting for you.” He turned again toward the priest, his smile fading away. “Waldemar Magnussen, wait here and prepare to travel. You will be returning to Oslo with us. Two of our guards will remain here to assist you. We shall be back for you in two hours.”

The priest drew in his breath. “Please, your grace …” but Hovde silenced him with a raised hand.

“You have served this parish for a very long time, Waldemar. You have earned your retirement, and we have decided you shall have it.” With that, he turned to Mari, escorted her into the carriage, and drove away.

On the way to Skurdal, Bishop Hovde said, “I am pleased to meet you, Mari Nelsdatter. You are well loved in Ringebu. They will miss you there.” Mari smiled and blushed. “We are told you can speak a little?” He paused.

Mari nodded. “Y … y … y …” The charisma of the bishop, exhaustion from her ordeal, and the shaking of the carriage all made it harder than ever. She shrugged.

The bishop continued, “And that your eyes and your hands speak very well for you.”

She blushed again, making the universal “tiny”gesture with thumb and finger.

“I speak not only of your gestures, my child, but of such as this.” He handed her the stole. “Please return this to Father Nygaard when next you see him, and give him our thanks for its use. Until then, hold it as a token of our blessing on you and your family.”

Mari’s tired eyes shone as she smiled and nodded her thanks to the bishop.

Skurdal was an important travel and trading center on the main road. The four farms together formed the largest community upstream from Ringebu. Even so, the arrival of the bishop’s carriage and six, plus guard, created quite a stir. By the time the carriage stopped at South Skurdal, a small crowd had gathered. The footman opened the door, and Mari stepped out. The people wept with joy, embracing her and each other. When the bishop emerged behind her, they bowed and scraped.

“Rise, people, we merely bring you one of your own,” he said. “We regret that we cannot stay longer with you, but there are pressing matters to the south. So to master and mistress, and to all of the people, we wish you God’s blessing and peace.” He made the sign of the cross over them and departed.

Johannes Skurdal sent a buggy and driver to take Mari and Ole to Flaate. When they arrived, Mari’s children ran with open arms to greet her. “Mother, Mother, we missed you so! Are you all right?” they all clamored. Mari smiled and nodded, embracing each of them in turn, then all of them together. For the first time, Poul and Nels washed their mother’s feet. Also for the first time, Mari met Anders Amundsen’s family.

His wife, Syne Olsdatter, was kind and gracious, and had a beautiful singing voice. When they sang the customary psalm of welcome, Mari was immediately touched by the sweetness and clarity of Syne’s singing. For her part, Syne quickly noticed that Mari was mouthing the words, and seemed to by trying to sing along. The old housekeeper, Rønog, also sang quite well, despite her age. She was a woodcarver, who crafted beautiful miniatures of animals and people, even though she was blind to everything but light and motion. Anders and Syne had three daughters, Marit, Guri, and Rønog, ages six, four, and two.

After the song, and the introductions, Rønog sat next to Mari and said, “I have so looked forward to meeting you. The folks call me Roni. Forgive my poor eyesight. May I touch your face?” Mari nodded, and smiled as the old woman explored her face with gentle fingers. Roni smiled in return, and kissed Mari’s cheeks.

= = =

When the bishop arrived back at the Praestegaard, his lieutenant ran from the house to the carriage. “Your grace,” he cried, “something terrible has happened, and I am to blame!”

“Calm yourself, my child. Please come in and tell me.”

The guard climbed into the carriage and sat across from the bishop. He spoke in a low voice, “Your grace, after you left, the priest asked to be left alone in his house to pack his belongings. I shouldn’t have permitted it. The sergeant and I guarded both sides of the house so he couldn’t slip away, but after a few minutes we heard a suspicious noise, like a rafter creaking and a soft groan. We ran inside and found him hanging, dead. I take full responsibility for this tragedy, your grace.”

“My dear lieutenant, you acted with compassion for the old man. You are not to blame. Do the servants know what happened?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Take us inside, please.”

Several servants had gathered near the carriage. Word had spread quickly about Mari’s release, and the bishop’s order for Father Magnussen to leave the parish. Naturally, they were anxious about their own future. The carriage guards kept them at a distance as the bishop entered the house with the lieutenant.

The guards had laid the priest’s body on the bed. His head lay at a strange angle, but there were only faint marks on his neck, as he had used a velvet sash to hang himself. The bishop made the sign of the cross over the body, and said a rather long prayer in Latin.

To spare the parish from evil gossip, and the priest’s family from shame, the bishop decided to keep secret the exact nature of his death. He moved to the head of the bed, and gently straightened the priest’s head. He pulled the clerical collar up until it nearly covered the rope marks. What remained showing looked like small marks from the collar itself. He said to the guards, “Call the servants together in the courtyard. Do not speak of what has happened. We will announce the death to them, but not the precise circumstances.”

When all were gathered, the bishop stepped out onto the porch. “My friends, it grieves us to tell you that Father Magnussen is dead. His heart … was broken. As you mourn his loss, do not compound your grief with worries over your own well-being. With your help, and by the grace of God, life here will continue much as before. We trust and empower you to manage the farm by yourselves until a new priest arrives. God willing, that shall be very soon.” He turned to the major-domo. “Please prepare a fitting coffin, and a grave at the front of the churchyard. We shall bury Father Magnussen there tomorrow.” He turned back to the crowd. “All who wish may visit Father Magnussen inside. Our tears flow with yours, and our heart goes out to all of you.” With the sign of the cross, the bishop said a blessing, and motioned for one of the guards to follow him to a nearby building, which he entered alone, to pray.

The next night at Flaate, after supper, Anders revealed to the others a secret of his own. “Now that we are all together to live as one family, I have something very private to share with you. It must never be known to anyone outside the family; not to our neighbors, and especially not to the Brethren.” Kari and Ole frowned. “You yourselves will be shocked at first,” he continued, “but please hear me out. Agreed?” They nodded.

Anders opened a plain-looking wooden box, and took out … a fiddle! And not an ordinary fiddle, but one the likes of which none of them had ever seen. The tuning scroll was carved in the shape of a lion’s head. Beautiful pearl inlays adorned the fingerboard and tailpiece. The delicate wooden body was decorated all around with a rose pattern in black ink, and deeply varnished. Beneath the four regular strings (the ones found on a standard fiddle or violin) were five smaller strings, whose purpose was not at all clear.

It was a Hardanger fiddle, from a region just over the mountains from Gudbrandsdal, among the coastal fjords. The extra strings were tuned to several key pitches. When the fiddler played one of these notes on a regular string, the lower string was set in motion by the vibration, and continued to sound as a drone when the player continued the tune. This could occasionally induce a trance-like condition and strange behavior in some listeners, even in some fiddlers.

Ole and Kari were horrified. Even Johan was shocked, but less so, as he resolved to keep an open mind. Fiddles and the Devil were intimately linked in the folklore of Norway, as in all of Europe. Aside from the superstitions, fiddles were by experience associated with dancing, drinking, and fighting. The instruments were banned by the state church from church property or any sacred place. The revivalists were even more vehement; the most extreme of them held public fiddle-burnings. Although no one there but Anders knew it, Hardangers were even more despised than normal fiddles, possibly because of their elaborate decoration, or because of the intense emotional response their playing could evoke.

“Brother Anders!” Ole gasped, “What is the meaning …”

“Hear me out, Brother,” said Anders, rosining the bow. He raised the fiddle to his chin, tuned it quickly, and played; not a dance tune or a bawdy folksong, but a beautiful church hymn. Syne began to sing.

Bless the Lord, O my soul,
Bless Him, all within me!
Praise Him with the cymbals and the harp,
Praise him with the loud trumpet.
Praise Him with voices raised,
Singing psalms of gladness.
He forgives your iniquity,
He heals your diseases,
Blessed are all His works.
Bless the Lord, O my soul!

Ole, Kari, and Johan listened skeptically. They looked at Mari, and were astonished at her expression. Her eyes were locked on Anders and the fiddle, she was swaying with the rhythm, and her fingers moved in a strange way. No one noticed that her motions mimicked those of Anders on the fingerboard. The sight of her made them all the more suspicious.

Mari herself was most astonished of all. This was the instrument she had seen and heard it in her dreams. The music stirred something in her she didn’t understand, but she knew it was good. She did not know the words to this hymn, but she had heard it played on the organ at Ringebu church. In fact, the ringing of the fiddle’s drone strings reminded Mari of the long pedal tones of the organ. Instead of silently mouthing the words, she began humming the notes of the drone strings as they sounded.

At the end of the song, Syne exclaimed, “Sister Mari, you can sing!” Mari, confused, shook her head. “Yes, you can, I heard you,” Syne insisted. “I’m sure of it! Anders, play the Hundredth Psalm.” Syne sat down close in front of Mari and looked directly into her eyes as she sang.

Make a joyful noise, all you people,
Make a joyful noise to the Lord.

Mari, looking back at Syne’s eyes, silently mouthed the words as usual. But at the second line, a drone string sounded strongly, and Mari sang the words on the drone’s pitch.

Serve the Lord with gladness,
Come before him with singing.

Mari’s eyes came alive as Syne smiled and nodded vigorously. Another drone string sounded; Mari changed to that pitch and continued singing. They continued this way.

Know that the Lord is God,
He has made us, and we are his people.
The lord is good, His love endures forever,
He will be faithful to all generations.

The two voices in harmony, and the fiddle, gave a new richness to the beloved old hymn. More importantly, Mari was singing the words in perfect cadence and rhythm. When the last verse ended, she embraced Syne, and tried to speak. “I … I … I …” Nothing more would come. Her countenance fell in disappointment.

Roni said, “Don’t worry, dear, you will speak again. It may take time, but this day I have heard you sing, and I will live to hear you speak as well.” She sensed that Ole and Kari were still struggling with their conflicted thoughts, and said to them, “Brother, Sister, surely you cannot believe it is the Devil who wants Mari to speak again?” The two had no response.

Anders put away the fiddle and began the story. “As you know, Ole, I was a fiddler years ago, before I was born again into the Brethren. After that, I sold my fiddle and thought no more of it. The next year, our firstborn son died of the fever. Both Syne and I were devastated with grief. We wept, we prayed, we cursed the Lord, then begged forgiveness for our curses, and forgiveness for whatever we had done to cause the tragedy. Neither of us could sleep, nor eat, nor work properly. We quarreled constantly and were completely miserable.

“We were sinking deeper and deeper, when my brother gave me this Hardanger fiddle. A client had given it to him as a payment. He didn’t know how to play it, but was fascinated by its beautiful decoration, and somehow he knew it could help us. When he gave it to me, he looked in my eyes and said, ‘Brother, play it,’ in such a way that I had to try. I had no taste for the old dances and drinking songs; they were surely not what we needed. So I learned to play hymns, and it did help to ease the misery. It was gradual at first, but when Syne began singing along, it soon brought deep healing to both of us. After a lot of prayer and thought, we believe that all healing comes from God’s hand, not Satan’s, and that either one of them can use any instrument for his purposes. It was Roni who first suggested that it might help Mari.”

“Well, I’m convinced,” said Johan. “If this can help Mari to speak, it must be God’s will that we were brought together. Pa, what do you think?”

Ole gave Mari a questioning look. She nodded eagerly. “All right then,” he said. “I still am not sure, but I trust you, Mari. I agree with Anders, though, it must be a strict secret within our family.”

Within a few days, Mari could sing all the hymns she once knew, with or without the fiddle, even singing alone instead of following along with the others. She redoubled her efforts at speaking, but made no progress. Learning new songs was also impossible at first. Syne was determined to teach her, and through long, patient effort, Mari learned to sing one new hymn over a period of several weeks.