Snowdrop Waltz: Historic Novel

By Dag Gustav and Gundersen Storla

The novel Snowdrop Waltz is a warm defense of poor people in Stavanger in the 1870s.

Ive wanted to describe life stories, struggling young people with an unbending will to live. Just as snowdrops break their way through the snow, says author Dag Gustav Gundersen.

The latter half of the nineteenth century is also a particularly interesting period. The emergence of modern Norway began. And in Stavanger, everything peaked because the economy and living conditions fluctuated far more here than most other places. The herring disappeared, the tall-ship area ended, and the sardine-canning industry emerged.

I describe ordinary people and am trying to portray society as it looked from belowfrom the point of so desperately poor people that we can hardly comprehend now 130 years after, says Storla.

Simultaneously with the distress, Stavanger experienced a major revival, and new beliefs are challenging the old. This also plays a central role in Snowdrop Waltz.

The famous author Alexander Kielland made a unilaterally negative description of the layman movement in his novels, a portrait that in many ways has been allowed to be unchallenged. However, there are a rich source material documenting the importance of the laymantemperanceand later labor movements; they can hardly be overstated when it comes to their importance to social development and democracy. At the chapel, Bethany arose the previously unthinkable communion between people of both sexes and different classes. Ordinary people spoke up in the meetings, and were able to advocate their views and proclaim their faith, says Storla.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Jan 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781512721119

Dag Gustav

Dag Gustav Gundersen Storla (born 1962) is a Norwegian physician, a former medical missionary to Bangladesh. Currently he works as a specialist in internal medicine and infectious diseases at Lovisenberg Diakonale Hospital in Oslo. He has a special interest in the local history of his hometown, Stavanger, as well as the Norwegian pioneers of the West. He has published four novels in Norwegian: The Knight on the White Horse (1995), Snowdrop Waltz (2009), Red Campion (2012) and Consider the Lilies How They Grow (2015).

Book preview

Delirium

The door squeaked as it opened. The light hit him straight in the eyes.

Hallo! Who’s there?

His cry hung in the air like smoke in the cold air, unanswered.

There was a smell of fish waste, and the stench of it was overpowering. Reinert grunted as he lay there under the tarpaulin.

Earwigs! They crept and crawled everywhere.

Lord Jesus! Help me!

Reinert jumped up, twirled round, and staggered about the room as he brushed and brushed himself to remove them. It wasn’t working! More and more of them came. They burrowed into his skin, crept and crawled, all the while deeper into his flesh.

It’s not true. Not true!

A dribbling pig came flying towards him. It squealed and laughed. He ducked at the last minute, fell on his back and banged his head. Pain exploded inside him.

We’ve got you now! Four pigs circled around him and squealed with joy.

Sweetheart, where have you been?

He turned.

Then Alvhild came towards him with her arms wide. What on earth do you look like? she shrieked.

He looked down at himself. His body was still covered in earwigs.

Then one of the pigs landed and stretched itself over him. Kjellberg! It had the face of the person he hated the most, the man who was to blame for all his misery.

So you thought you could get away? Kjellberg smirked meanly and showed sharply pointed teeth. Come on boys, we’ve got him now.

Reinert struggled, threw himself to one side and heard the grinding of teeth when the deadly jaws closed on nothing. Kjellberg roared and raised himself up to attack once more.

In the doorway, Reinert suddenly saw a fragile figure. The boy stared at him.

Andreas! Andreas!

The boy began to cry out, turned and ran.

Wait Andreas! You have to help me! Do you hear?

When Reinert turned again, Kjellberg and the other pigs had vanished. And now he knew where he was. In Drolle Bay.

The water! That would save him. It was the only way.

He struggled to his feet, stormed out of the door, and staggered down to the jetty edge. He was so incredibly thirsty. His stomach growled.

He stood right on the edge of the jetty, swaying. Everything was hurting. Everything was crawling. He had to have some relief.

Jump! Jump then!

The voice came from within himself. Was it his own?"

But something held him back. It was dangerous, mortally dangerous. He could not – must not-

He heard something, and turned. Andreas? He looked into eyes black with hatred. Wait! Andreas, you mustn’t-!

Reinert fell forwards. Hit the water. An ice-cold wall. He fell through. Sank. Deep into the dark green.

Suddenly he was sober. He struggled, had to get up. Up!

But the sunlight grew more and more distant. He drew his breath and was full of seawater.

A blue mist came over his eyes. He could not struggle anymore; he did not want to, could not. It was the end.

Alvhild! Oh, Alvhild! This was not what I wanted! I love you! Her face, her wonderfully beautiful face with its clear, blue eyes. Now she stood there in front of him, reached out her hands to him and smiled.

Nevertheless, he sank.

Black Sea

1870

E verything was ready. For several months, the coopers had been making new barrels. Salt had been bought and was in place in the warehouses. Deals were made with those who would hopefully soon be up to their knees in herring, earning what they and their families needed to get through another winter. The boats had gone out to scout. Aren’t they coming soon? They were waiting for the spring herring, and now it was high time that it arrived. People began to get worried; it was very unusual that the herring was so late. Day after day large numbers of the locals gathered around the quays in hope. However, when the boats came in again, they lay as light and high on the sea as when they went out, and the fishermen had even grimmer faces.

Alvhild had managed to keep going through the winter. It was just as tight each year. She tried to get some extra washing jobs and offered to do housecleaning for her regular customers at this time of the year. However, competition was hard, and the customers knew how to make the best of it. The well-to-do Stavanger housewives were well known for their thriftiness.

When Alvhild came home in the evening, she was often too worn out to eat. She merely struggled out of her clothes and went straight to bed. Nevertheless, she held out, day after day, for she knew that if only the herring would come in, then everything would be better.

Among the merchants and ship owners, desperation had not come so far. Their three- and four-story houses lay together around Vågen, along Skagen and Nedre Strandgate, and demonstrated a solid wealth. Østervåg was a little less distinguished, but there were some grand houses there too. So close to the sea, the ground was not always solid, so to be on the safe side, there was often a bulwark and a supporting wall of stone built against Vågen.

The merchants’ houses were divided into two. Out toward the sea, they had shops and warehouses. Toward the street was the family’s private quarters, often with beautiful sitting rooms for large parties. Having taken advantage of Stavanger’s golden age, the wealthy had retained their taste for amusement. The Crimean War had been followed by an economic crisis, but then the golden age had arrived. Not only herring salting, but also ship building and large shipping companies had contributed to this. The upper classes had built up considerable fortunes, and many liked to show it off. The social season was hectic, and when people were invited to a banquet, nothing was spared. But all this was far from Alvhild’s world.

She stood up. The upright figure usually moved about effortlessly, but now she had to rest quite often. She was so incredibly tired. The spring-evening air stroked her face softly.

Today she had been lucky and had got work at Berners. Now she turned and looked at the house she had just left. It had rooms right through from Strandgate to Vågen. On the sea side, the wall was cut away to make balconies with stairs between them. From the first floor, there was a little stairway down to the sea. There lay the family’s pleasure boat, Lyssebrødet, moored to a buoy. The boat answered to its name, as it resembled the bread it was named after: as wide as it was long.

Alvhild looked up from Lyssebrødet and out over Vågen. Her long, flax-colored hair was held back with a clip at her neck, but now she had to stroke a loose lock of hair away from her face. The skin on her hands was rough and red from all the washing, but the oval face, with its high forehead and the deep-set blue eyes, was pale and almost without wrinkles.

The sight of all the boats dipping up and down, like black birds of ill omen, made her shudder. In defiance, she turned her gaze to Straen, where the top terrace gardens were visible over the housetops. Alvhild loved to look at the small, well-kept gardens. She liked to walk up there just to enjoy the sight of them, especially now, when crocus, tulips, and lilies exploded in yellow, red, and purple.

However, there it was again – that sad, wistful pain that could overpower her, especially if she thought of something light and beautiful. How often she had dreamed of how her life could be, of being able to buy a house up there on Straen, of white lace curtains and daffodils in the garden. She wept silently.

Alvhild! Is it you? said a voice behind her.

Oh, hello, Anna. She dried her tears on her apron, took hold of her sister’s outstretched hands, and tried to smile.

You don’t look well, said Anna. You’ve been crying. She hugged Alvhild tightly. What’s the matter?

Can’t you see? They are still there. Alvhild pulled herself away and pointed out over Vågen. They haven’t caught anything today, either. She sighed heavily. It’s over, Anna. Do you hear? It’s over!

Have you lost your faith in the herring?

What else? Alvhild looked down. I registered at Berners. It has been tight at our house this spring. So this was to be our salvation.

But Reinert, then? Doesn’t he earn anything?

They don’t want him at the quay anymore. He can’t get small jobs now, either. They say he is unreliable and just causes trouble. It’s just as well that Josephine is in service with the Berles, so she will be all right. Alvhild felt the tears coming again. How are you?

Oh, you know, Oscar is at sea as usual. There’s not much to shout about really, but the rent comes in every month. Otherwise, the children have been a bit listless now this spring. We have just had tummy bugs. But it’s nothing compared with what you have to cope with. You really don’t look well, Alvhild! You should go to the doctors.

Alvhild smiled sadly. It’s not the doctor I need, Anna. I need money so that I can give my children food. Now I don’t know how I shall manage.

It’s all wrong that you have to go and work until you drop for those wealthy ladies of yours – and still you don’t have enough to keep hunger from the door.

Alvhild shrugged her shoulders. Hasn’t it always been like this?

But it shouldn’t be like this! Anna’s dark eyes flashed. You are much too good for them; that’s what you are. And what about your own family? Who is it that looks after Tørres for you while you are out at work? Josephine has been in service for two years already, and you can’t rely on Reinert.

You know Andreas is good with him. And when Andreas is at school, I have found a neighbor who looks in on Tørres.

Anna shook her head. Andreas is a fine boy, but he is only eight years old, and Tørres is only three. Has Tørres got rid of that terrible cough yet?

An anxious look came over Alvhild’s face. No, but it is a little better. The worst thing is that he has got so thin lately. He is a bit down in the mouth and won’t eat.

They both thought the same and knew what it could mean, but neither of them could say the terrible word.

Come home with me, said Anna, and we’ll have a cup of coffee. You must get some food in you. I know it’s late, and you have to get up early, but right now you need something.

Alvhild nodded and smiled wanly. It was so good to have Anna and the children. They gave her a last thread of hope.

The herring did not come in 1870. Nor did it come in 1871. Then the people of Stavanger began to realize that it had changed its patterns and went other places to breed. An era was over. But how would the town survive without it? Herring had been the very bedrock in their existence, and it was herring and potatoes that had rescued the poor from hunger and need. What would they do now?

Fortunately, the people of Stavanger had more arrows in their quiver. The craftsmen in the town were skillful boat builders, and there were many large and small yards. The ship-owners here had an unfaltering faith in sail. In the 1870`s Stavanger built whole armadas of sailing ships. Some of the empty space that the barren seas left was filled with a great need for seafaring people.

All the same, there were dark clouds on the horizon. Many had warned against such an exclusive use of sailing. Those who wanted to see it saw more and more clearly that the time of the sailing ships would soon be over. In other countries, the ship-owners were interested in steam, and soon there was less to be earned in sail. The Stavanger ship-owners kept going in the meantime by cutting back where they could, especially in the hiring of seamen. All the same, they had to start borrowing money and surviving on their earlier reputation and connections. Some tried to save themselves by risky speculation. However, even the largest and oldest of the town’s businesses began to shake, and the bankruptcies began to come. Alvhild and others in Stavanger held their breath, tightened their belts, and hoped for better times.

However, it would get worse. Much worse.

Good for Nothing

1874

A lvhild! Do you hear me? Where are you? Come and help me!

The angry voice could be heard all over the neighborhood, as far as Hetland Church. However, nobody answered.

Andreas! Andreas! Do you hear? You aren’t deaf, the whole lot of you. Come and help your father!

Reinert had fallen in the yard, drunk. Now he was struggling to get up again. He stared angrily at the twelve-year-old who hesitated to come nearer.

You good-for-nothing!

As soon as Andreas was within reach, his father pulled his hair.

Ouch! Ouch!

When you’re asked to come, you come! Reinert drew Andreas close into him, his bloodshot eyes looking straight at his son.

Once again, Andreas gave in. His father stank of sweat and stale drink. Andreas nearly retched, but fear took hold of him. He saw the hand that was raised. His stomach churned, but he could not be sick.

What are you messing with? growled his father.

The hand hit the boy on his right ear. A warm, stabbing pain spread through his head.

Help me up!

His father lay his large, inert body against the slight body of the boy and struggled to his feet. Andreas swayed, his father swayed, both scared that they would not hold up, before they staggered in to the kitchen.

The only sound in the house was the perpetual hollow coughing from Tørres up in the loft. Their father slung himself into his bed, and rolled snorting over onto his back. Andreas pulled off his dirty boots.

When the boy came into the living room, Tørres stared in fear down at his big brother. You don’t look well, Andreas. What is it?

Just go to bed. I must go out for a bit.

Andreas stormed out into the backyard, tore open the gate and came out onto the street. It was here where the houses stopped. Just a bit away were the Hetland Woods. Andreas ran into them, between bushes and trees.

Then he could no longer control himself. He vomited. Repeatedly sickness surged through his body. He shook and trembled, and the tears ran. With his hand on a rock, he struggled to keep himself on his feet.

Pig! Pig! Pig! he shouted. One day I will –!

He kicked at the stone, hammered at it with his fists. Just as well, that nobody saw him. He, who was so well mannered and friendly.

Finally, he sank down behind the stone. Andreas had several secret places in the Hetland Woods, and this was the nearest. He often came up here to be alone. Especially when his anger overwhelmed him. He was too old to cry, but here he could let go. Here he could find peace, here he could let go of the black demon in him, he could shriek, lash out, and be fierce.

Afterwards – when the fierceness was gone – he was always a bit embarrassed, scared of himself. This deep darkness of his anger frightened him; it was like a volcano under a seemingly calm surface. Now he dried up the snot and tears with the sleeve of the rough shirt his mother had woven and sewn. The hate faded. He looked up at the clear, pale blue sky.

It was early spring, but unusually warm. The ground was damp. A couple of snowdrops had forced themselves up, and stood and shook bravely with their fragile white bells. Once there had been a house here, but now only the remains of the basement were left – and these snowdrops that someone must have planted. The people here had given up on this meagre earth, but the snowdrops had survived the dark and cold.

If they can, so can I, Andreas thought.

Snowdrops were the best flowers in the world, he thought. They were his. He too had a tough strength, indomitable will and stubbornness. He would never ever give up. Nobody would break him. They would see what he was worth.

Suddenly he noticed that he was wet on his backside. The homespun trousers itched and smelt of wet sheep. These trousers were all patches anyway, and had got far too short. He had grown a lot this winter.

His gaze moved to his bare feet. They were beginning to freeze. Andreas was one of those who was given a pair of clogs every autumn from the poor house. He hated the sight of them! Now he got up and went slowly down towards the low houses.

Hetland church towered like a pope with his court around him, newly built and white painted. Andreas stopped by the top house in Towergate. It was an unpainted, dilapidated house, almost a pile of planks. His home. When the north wind blew in the winter, it blew straight through the rooms. They rented half the house from Madam Berge, a bitter old shipmaster’s widow.

Cautiously Andreas approached the door onto the street, sensitive to all sounds. Yes, his father was snoring. It was safe to go in. Even the fire cannons on Valberget could not wake his father when he was sleeping off his drunkenness.

Tørres? Are you there?

No one answered.

Andreas climbed anxiously up to the loft. His brother lay still. The evening sun threw long shadows over his thin face. Andreas felt his forehead. It was sweaty and hot. The anxiety faded in the big brother.

Tørres woke with a start. Andreas? He smiled.

Then he began to cough. Andreas supported him until he was finished, held round him and stroked his back.

I was dreaming. I was flying round like an angel. Then when I woke up, you were here. That was even better!

Andreas laughed sadly. I am no angel!

Yes you are!

Someone came in the door downstairs.

Andreas looked down from the loft. It was his mother.

How are you today? he asked.

His mother waved and attempted a smile. Fine. She sat down heavily on a kitchen chair.

He climbed down the ladder and gave her a hug. He always did when they were alone.

What would I do without you? she said.

Rest now and I’ll make dinner.

It had been quite usual now for his mother to collapse over the table while Andreas made dinner. Her pale face – with deep rings under the eyes – frightened him. At night she watched over Tørres, who was getting weaker all the time.

Tørres, who had been so noisy and teasing. Now the six-year old lay and stared at the ceiling. When his body was not burning with fever, he had cramps from the cold. Then it did not help how many woolen blankets they wrapped round him. He was also getting thinner, his skin was sallow, and his eyes more and more deep-set. Andreas was afraid of that apathetic, questioning look, it made Tørres look like a wise, old man. Lately there had been several nights when Andreas had laid awake for hours, listening to the ominous coughing without letting his mother know. It was sinister enough as it was. When the consumption attacked Tørres’ small body, it was as if the devil himself danced in the shadows from the smoking fish oil lamp. Sometimes his mother would sing hymns and groan prayers. However, they reached no further than the ceiling.

God? thought Andreas bitterly and clenched his fists.

When Tørres cried or coughed too loudly, Madam Berge would knock on the wall. Get that idiot to be quiet! she would shriek.

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The town grew fast, and the town boundaries were being extended all the time. But still Tower gate – with Madam Berge’s hovel – belonged to Hetland council, which surrounded Stavanger. Only a stone’s throw from the Berge house lay the newly built Hetland school.

Andreas sauntered into the playground, apparently relaxed. Nevertheless, every fiber of his body was taut.

Suddenly they were there.

It smells so bad here! Is it the pig that’s made its way up here?

Andreas stared scornfully back at him, without a word. It was his last triumph. He succeeded in holding his anger for himself. He turned unaffected and walked away. He would not let them see how much it hurt. He had built a wall without any cracks.

How he hated Sivert! Why could he not leave him in peace? What had he done wrong? However, he knew the answer. Everyone else bowed himself to that creep. The great Sivert, the merchant’s son, who gave away caramels and candies.

Sivert’s three chief rats wanted to fetch Andreas back for more fun. However, the school bell saved him.

Sivert could not say that Andreas smelled bad. It was nonsense. Andreas had learnt to wash his clothes himself. Twice a week he washed them and hung them carefully up to dry before he went to bed at night. Every morning he washed all over with soap and hot water; he scoured and rubbed until the skin was red and sore. All the same, he was never clean. He had a painstaking order in his possessions; he hated mess and went round tidying and washing after the others. The rough rooms shone. All the same, they were never clean enough.

Andreas loved and hated school. Hated Sivert and his rats. Loved to learn and understand. The school was a free place of reason. He absorbed knowledge, and buried himself in all the books he found.

Pedersen tapped his desk with a ruler. Come to order!

The old teacher squinted sourly at the class. Ah well, another day nearer the grave, he sighed. Remember that you are mortal. He had begun like this every day that the pupils could remember.

For Andreas the ritual had more meaning than just words. Remember that you are mortal. They were the words that the Roman generals were met with when they rode in triumph through a town after a victory. One day Sivert would see!

We continue with right-angled triangles. Explain Pythagoras rule for finding out the hypotenuse.

There was silence.

Nobody? Dumb skulls! Sivert?.

I don’t know Pedersen. My head is so stuffed full of knowledge that there’s no room for more.

The class laughed. Even Pedersen, although unwillingly.

"You don’t know? There is no such thing as don’t know. Have you not been following in the lessons, boy? Is there really nobody that can help him?"

Andreas got up. The sum of the other two sides squared is equal to the hypotenuse squared, he said calmly – and sat down.

Good, said Pedersen flatly. Andreas was the cleverest in the class, but here it was the teacher who was to shine.

Andreas smiled carefully. This was his revenge, every time he could say his homework by heart, every time he got everything right in a test. For hours and hours, he sweated over his books, often until late at night, until he was certain that he had understood it all. All the same, he was never content, he never had peace.

Mathematics and Science were Andreas’ favorite subjects. To struggle away to find the answers, to understand how things connected together, that was what he liked best. He never made short cuts, and always had to check to see if the teacher was right. Andreas thought about things, and compared them with what he had learned earlier, before he made up his mind. Then he was unshakeable. He realized quickly when Pedersen was careless or had prepared himself badly.

Carelessness irritated Andreas greatly. Sometimes he could not help expressing it. Not that he was in open opposition. He knew the key ring, the cane and in the worst case the birch rod far too well. Nevertheless, Andreas’s irritation and his knowing better shone through so often that most teachers perceived him to be ill mannered, arrogant and stubborn; yes, even a threat against their authority. Therefore, other pupils were often favored, while Andreas seldom received any recognition of his hard work.

Especially Sivert was Pedersen’s favorite. He was everything that Andreas was not. Not thoughtful, serious and critical, but worldly, cheerful and charming in a way that meant he often received undeserved praise.

If there was something Andreas hated, it was injustice, when somebody got something easily when they did not deserve it. At the same time, he was wise enough not to start quarrelling with anyone, and put on a friendly, distant tone. He was polite and correct in his relationship with others, as long as he did not compromise truth and justice. Therefore, it was difficult to fault Andreas. He closed himself in. Nobody would see him get angry or lose control. No matter how much they humiliated him, they would not get to know of the violent anger that simmered below the surface, which tore at him like an angry animal and wanted to slip free. However, Andreas never forgot an injustice that had been done to him. He kept a record of all of them.

Moreover, he hated Sivert most of all. He had fantasies about how he would take revenge on the scumbag. He even dreamed about it at night.

They had come to break time. Andreas stood as usual by himself and watched the others playing. Most of them were playing cops and robbers, some of them rolled