I believe it was in the winter of 18— (but it does not matter so much about the time) that the servants on the large estate of Halthorp raised a great ado about something or other. Whereupon the Baron of Halthorp, who was too stout to walk down the stairs on slight provocation, called his steward, in a voice like that of an angry lion, and asked him, “Why in the name of Moses he did not keep the rascals quiet.”
“But, your lordship,” stammered the steward, who was as thin as the baron was stout, “I have kept them quiet for more than a month past, though it has been hard enough. Now they refuse to obey me unless I admit them to your lordship’s presence, that they may state their complaint.”
“Impudent beggars!” growled the old gentleman. “Tell them that I am about to take my after-dinner nap, and that I do not wish to be disturbed.”
“I have told them that a dozen times,” whined the steward, piteously. “But they are determined to leave in a body, unless your lordship consents to hear them.”
“Leave! They can’t leave,” cried his honor. “The law binds them. Well, well, to save talking, fling the doors open and let them come in.”
The steward hobbled away to the great oak-panelled doors (I forgot to tell you that he limped in his left foot), and, cautiously turning the knob and the key, peeped out into the hall. There stood the servants—twenty-eight in all—but, oh! what a sight! They were hollow-cheeked, with hungry eyes and bloodless lips, and deep lines about their mouths, as if they had not seen food for weeks. Their bony hands twitched nervously at the coarse clothes that flapped in loose folds about their lean and awkward limbs. They were indeed a pitiful spectacle. Only a single one of them—and that was of course the cook—looked like an ordinary mortal, or an extraordinary mortal, if you like, for he was nearly as broad as he was long. It was owing to the fact that he walked at the head of the procession, as they filed into the parlor, that the baron did not immediately discover the miserable condition of the rest. But when they had faced about, and stood in a long row from wall to wall—well, you would hardly believe it, but the baron, hard-hearted as he was, came near fainting. There is a limit to all things, and even a heart of steel would have been moved at the sight of such melancholy objects.
“Steward,” he roared, when he had sufficiently recovered himself, “who is the demon who has dared to trifle with my fair name and honor? Name him, sir—name him, and I will strangle him on the spot!”
The steward, even if he had been acquainted with the demon, would have thought twice before naming him under such circumstances. Accordingly he was silent.
“Have I not,” continued the baron, still in a voice that made his subjects quake—“have I not caused ample provisions to be daily distributed among you? Have not you, Mr. Steward, the keys to my store-houses, and have you not my authority to see that each member of my household is properly provided for?”
The steward dared not answer; he only nodded his head in silence.
“If it please your lordship,” finally began a squeaky little voice at the end of the row (it was that of the under-groom), “it isn’t the steward as is to blame, but it’s the victuals. Somehow there isn’t any taste nor fillin’ to them. Whether I eat pork and cabbage or porridge with molasses, it don’t make no difference. It all tastes alike. As I say, your lordship, the old Nick has got into the victuals.”
The under-groom had hardly ceased speaking before the baron, who was a very irascible old gentleman, seized his large gold-headed cane and as quickly as his bulk would allow, rushed forward to give vent to his anger.
“I’ll teach you manners, you impudent clown!” he bawled out, as, with his cane lifted above his head, he rushed into the ranks of the frightened servants, shouting to the under-groom, “Criticise my victuals, will you, you miserable knave!”
The under-groom having on former occasions made the acquaintance of the baron’s cane, and still remembering the unpleasant sensation, immediately made for the door, and slipped nimbly out before a blow had reached him. All the others, who had to suffer for their spokesman’s boldness, tumbled pell-mell through the same opening, jumped, rolled, or vaulted down the steps, and landed in a confused heap at the bottom of the stairs.
The baron, in the meanwhile, marched with long strides up and down the floor, and expressed himself, not in the politest language, concerning the impudence of his domestics.
“However,” he grumbled to himself, “I must look into this affair and find out what fraud there is at the bottom of it. The poor creatures couldn’t get as lean as that unless there was some real trouble.”
About three hours later the baron heard the large bell over the gable of his store-house ring out for dinner. The wood-cutters and the men who drove the snow-plough, and all other laborers on the large estate, as soon as they heard it, flung away their axes and snow-shovels and hurried up to the mansion, their beards and hair and eyebrows all white with hoar-frost, so that they looked like walking snow-men. But as it happened, the under-groom, Nils Tagfat, chanced at that moment to be cutting down a large snow-laden fir-tree which grew on a projecting knoll of the mountain. He pulled off his mittens and blew on his hands (for it was bitter cold), and was about to shoulder his axe, when suddenly he heard a chorus of queer little metallic voices, as it seemed, right under his feet. He stopped and listened.
“There is the bell of Halthorp ringing! Where is my cap? where is my cap?” he heard distinctly uttered, though he could not exactly place the sound, nor did he see anybody within a mile around. And just for the joke of the thing, Nils, who was always a jolly fellow, made his voice as fine as he could, and, mimicking the tiny voices, squeaked out:
“Where is my cap? Where is my cap?”
But imagine his astonishment when suddenly he heard a voice answer him: “You can take grandfather’s cap!” and at the same moment there was tossed into his hands something soft, resembling a small red-peaked cap. Just out of curiosity, Nils put it on his head to try how it would fit him, and small as it looked, it fitted him perfectly. But now, as the cap touched his head, his eyes were opened to the strangest spectacle he ever beheld. Out of the mountain came a crowd of gnomes, all with little red-peaked caps, which made them invisible to all who were not provided with similar caps. They hurried down the hill-side toward Halthorp, and Nils, who was anxious to see what they were about, followed at a proper distance behind. As he had half expected, they scrambled up on the railings at the door of the servants’ dining-hall, and as soon as the door was opened they rushed in, climbed up on the chairs, and seated themselves on the backs just as the servants took their places on the seats. And now Nils, who, you must remember, had on the cap that made him invisible, came near splitting his sides with laughter. The first course was boiled beef and cabbage. The smell was delicious to Nils’s hungry nostrils, but he had to conquer his appetite in order to see the end of the game. The steward stood at the end of the table and served each with a liberal portion; and at the steward’s side sat the baron himself, in a large, cushioned easy-chair. He did not eat, however; he was there merely to see fair play.
Each servant fell to work greedily with his knife and fork, and just as he had got a delicious morsel half-way to his mouth, the gnome on the back of his chair stretched himself forward and deftly snatched the meat from the end of the fork. Thus, all the way around the table, each man unconsciously put his piece of beef into the wide-open mouth of his particular gnome. And the unbidden guests grinned shrewdly at one another, and seemed to think it all capital fun. Sometimes, when the wooden trays (which were used instead of plates) were sent to be replenished, they made horrrible grimaces, often mimicking their poor victims, who chewed and swallowed and went through all the motions of eating, without obtaining the slightest nourishment. They all would have liked to fling knives and forks and trays out through the windows, but they had the morning’s chastisement freshly in mind, and they did not dare open their mouths, except for the futile purpose of eating.
“Well, my lads and lasses,” said the baron, when he had watched the meal for some minutes; “if you can complain of food like this, you indeed deserve to be flogged and put on prison fare.”
“Very likely, your lordship,” said one of the milkmaids; “but if your lordship would demean yourself to take a morsel with us, we would bless your lordship for your kindness and complain no more.”
The baron, looking around at all the hopeless eyes and haggard faces, felt that there was something besides vanity that prompted the request; and he accordingly ordered the cook to bring his own plate and drew his chair up to the table. Hardly had he seized his knife when Nils saw a gnome, who had hitherto been seated on the floor awaiting his turn, crawl up on the arm of his big chair and, standing on tiptoe, seize between his teeth the first bit the baron was putting to his mouth. The old gentleman looked astounded, mystified, bewildered; but, fearing to make an exhibition of himself, selected another mouthful, and again conducted it the accustomed way. The gnome came near laughing right out, as he despatched this second morsel in the same manner as the first, and all around the table the little monsters held their hands over their mouths and seemed on the point of exploding. The baron put down knife and fork with a bang; his eyes seemed to be starting out of his head, and his whole face assumed an expression of unspeakable horror.
“It is Satan himself who is mocking us!” he cried. “Send for the priest! Send for the priest!”
Just then Nils crept around behind the baron, who soon felt something soft, like a fine skull-cap, pressed on his head, and before he had time to resent the liberty, he started in terror at the sight of the little creature that he saw sitting on the arm of his chair. He sprang up with an exclamation of fright, and pushed the chair back so violently that it was almost upset upon the floor. The gnome dexterously leaped down and stood staring back at the baron for an instant; then, with a spring, he snatched a potato and half a loaf of bread, and disappeared. In his haste, the baron ran against Nils, the under-groom, who (now without a cap) was standing with a smiling countenance calmly surveying all the confusion about him.
“Now, was I right, your lordship?” he asked, with a respectful bow. “Did you find the victuals very filling?”
The baron, who was yet too frightened to answer, stood gazing toward a window-pane, which suddenly and noiselessly broke, and through which the whole procession of gnomes, huddled together in flight, tumbled headlong into the snow-bank without.
“And what shall we do, Nils,” said the baron, the next day, when he had recovered from his shock, “to prevent the return of the unbidden guests?”
“Stop ringing the great bell,” answered Nils. “It is that which invites the gnomes.”
And since that day the dinner-bell has never been rung at Halthorp.
But one day, late in the winter, Nils the groom, as he was splitting wood on the mountain-side, heard a plaintively tinkling voice within, singing:
“Hunger and sorrow each new day is bringing,
Since Halthorp bell has ceased its ringing.”