The Haymaking Feast

== THE HAYMAKING FEAST ==
=== By Steen Steensen Blicher ===
Translated from the Danish by Hanna Astrup Larsen and Published in Twelve stories as Ak, hvor forandret, 1828
 As I have already said, I make great leaps in the dance, and that no one can object to, but leaps in telling a story may not please the thoughtful reader. Therefore--with due apologies for the hop, skip, and jump my heart did with my pen--I will now return to the sober and orderly description of the feast at Tyreholm.
The first object of our attention shall be the tea-punch. (As the composition of this popular drink is no longer a secret, I shall not dwell on the description of it.) So then: there sat the queen of the feast, Maren Lammestrup, by the steaming urn, brewing and handing out cups to the host, the counsellor, the pastor, and five or six other gentlemen, till they were themselves steaming urns emitting volumes of smoke from their pipes. I could not refuse to sit among them, but when I had consumed my "tart," I hurried out in the open air, for I began to feel sick. The punch, the smoke from the vilest Virginia tobacco, and added to that, the conversation--which was quite bestial, for it dealt with nothing but bullocks, horses, dogs, mallards, and other wild animals--had such an overwhelming effect on me that I had to seek solitude and lean my forehead against the old, venerable walls of Tyreholm.
Inasmuch as I knew that it is honorable to imbibe freely but contemptible not to be able to stand it, I tried to put on a brisk air when I returned to the steam-factory, but I was not very successful. My host, who must have found my sudden disappearance suspicious, looked fixedly at me with his large, milk-blue eyes, took his pipe out of his mouth--which it seemed to leave reluctantly--and said with a broad smile, "Seems to me our good friend is looking pale; I'm afraid Maren has made the brew too strong."
This sally was met with general laughter, first on the part of the originator, then on the part of the whole tea-punch assembly. I kept my countenance and joined in the laughing chorus, but after the finale I declared that my indisposition was due rather to the journey than to the strength of the punch. The arrival of other guests cut short this scene which was so amusing to all but me.
After the newcomers had received their share of the Vendsyssel nectar, the company adjourned to the hayfield. And it was here the battle took place which I have already described in anticipation. I shall therefore go right on to the dance.
The music was very ordinary--one fiddle. Our solo performer, I remember, was more notable for vigorous bowing than grace of execution, and he made up for the lack of other instruments by a kind of double note, the like of which I have never heard from any other master. Besides, he had various mannerisms that by their newness drew half my attention from Maren Terpsichore. He beat time with both his head and his foot and accompanied his instrument with a kind of nasal tone like the low snuffling of a mourning trumpet. Nevertheless we danced merrily to this music till the small hours, when someone suggested that we should play parlor games for a change, and these as usual gave occasion for a great deal of bussing. We played forfeits, and paid all the penalties; we "went to confession," "attended Polish church," "stood on the broad stone," "ground mustard," were "hanged" and "fell into the well," until the carriages came to the door and, with a heart as soft as melted wax, I took my leave of Tyreholm and the charming fairy Maren Lammestrup.
If anyone would like to know how her respected father, the counsellor, the pastor, and the other old gentlemen passed the night, I can only say that from the two card tables in the corners of the ballroom I constantly heard such expressions--puzzling to the uninitiated--as "Clubs, diamonds, spades, hearts, pass, looed, trump, knave of clubs, take your trick in," and so on; and every now and then a blow with a fist on the table, or an oath, or a roar of laughter, or sometimes a moment of deep silence would announce an important event. Two or three times Pastor Ruricolus cried loudly, "Shame on all periwigs!" from which I concluded that his reverence must have been sadly and undeservedly looed.
When the party broke up, the counsellor invited all the gentlemen present to a duck hunt in Svirumgaard lake.
I cannot be content to close this chapter without sharing with the reader a reflection which on such occasions is often forced upon me. True, it is neither cheerful nor pretty, but it is natural and answers to the mood of the soul after a wakeful though not necessarily a dissipated night.
What a change--I have thought--in the space of a few hours! We never notice the flight of time or its effect on us--which ordinarily seems slow, gradual, measured, almost imperceptible--as on the morning after a ball. Where now is that lively gaiety, that childlike joy, that sweet anticipation with which the dancers met, where that formal grace with which they greeted each other when they took their places for the first dance? How neat and smart both ladies and gentlemen were! Not a ribbon, not a flower, not a pin out of place; not a mote of dust either on the white dresses or the black coats; not a crease, not a wrinkle but those that should be there. Every shirt frill, every bit of lace, had just the right fall; not a cravat but it was snow-white and fitted neatly under the chin; not a pompadour but rose properly; not a ringlet but glistened and waved in its right place--a snare for every unwary masculine heart.
With shining eyes and gently flushing cheeks, the lovely row of girls stood there, impatiently waiting for the first signal. Attentive, almost solemn, the gentlemen followed the movements of the leader. Gloves are drawn on--the leader steps back--looks at the orchestra--bows to his partner--claps his hands--and now the music starts and the dance commences.
But look at the same party at the end of the ball! It is day; the sun shines in through misty windowpanes; the candles burn dully and sleepily, like many eyes that a short time ago were sparkling with joy. Where is the neatness, the smartness, the grace of the night before? The clothes of the gentlemen are dusty, their hair is tousled, the shirt frill wrinkled, the cravat no longer fits under the chin, the bow is askew. And the ladies! the once so festively attired, so elegant ladies! The whiteness of the dress is gone and so is the flush of the cheeks.. The glorious ringlets have lost their elasticity and hang disheveled down over the bosom which last night looked like marble and alabaster but today looks like a wall that has not too recently been whitewashed. Here a flounce, there a frill of lace has been torn; here a bow has been lost and there a pin. And what about the sweet faces? Alas, the brightness is gone from the eyes, the smile from the lips, the delicate flush from the cheeks; pale, dull, sluggish (if I may use such an expression), they seem to have enjoyed the fleeting pleasures of youth to the point of satiety, and in a single night to have become experienced, staid, almost sullen matrons.
But my sweet Maren, had she escaped that heart-chilling transformation? Well--yes. As a human being, she was of course subject to the law of change, but not to a heart-chilling degree. Indeed, her just perceptible weariness and the slight disorder of her dress simply gave her a more languishing appearance. I need only say that it was on this occasion, in fact the very same forenoon, that in a fit of stormy ecstasy I composed one of my most successful poems, "To Maren, the Morning after the Wedding."
Category:Blicher
Category:Published