“The gun has been fired, the vessel must flyTo the town from the green wood shady.Come, friends, now we to the table will hie,A gentleman and a fair lady.”
And now all rushed with the speed of a steamboat downstairs, and soon sat in gay rows around the covered tables.
Wilhelm was Otto’s lady—the Baron was called the Baroness; the glasses resounded, and the song commenced:—
“These will drink our good king’s health,Will drink it here, his loyal students.”
And that patriotic song:—
“I know a land up in the NorthWhere it is good to be.”
It concluded with—
“An hurrahFor the king and the rescript!”
In joy one must embrace everything joyful, and that they did. Here was the joy of youth in youthful hearts.
“No condition’s like the student’s;He has chosen the better way!”
so ran the concluding verse of the following song, which ended with the toast,—
“For her of whom the heart dreams ever,But whom the lips must never name!”
It was then that Wilhelm seemed to glow with inward fire; he struck his glass so violently against Otto’s that it broke, and the wine was spilt.
“A health to the ladies!” cried one of the signors.
“A health to the ladies!” resounded from the different rooms, which were all converted into the banquet-hall.
The ladies rose, stood upon their chairs, some even upon the table, bowed, and returned thanks for the toast.
“No, no,” whispered Otto to Wilhelm, at the same time pulling him down. “In this dress you resemble your sister so much, that it is quite horrible to me to see you act a part so opposed to her character!”
“And your eyes,” Said Wilhelm, smiling, “resemble two eyes which have touched my heart. A health to first love!” cried he, and struck his glass against Otto’s so that the half of his wine was again lost.
The champagne foamed, and amidst noise and laughter, as during thecarnival joy, a new song refreshed the image of the nark which they hadjust left:— “Here if green trees were not growingFresh as on yon little hill,Heard we not the fountains flowing,We in sooth should see them still!Tents were filled below, above,Filled with everything but love!***Here went gratis brushing-boys— Graduated have they all!Here stood, who would think it, sir?A student as a trumpeter!”
“A health to the one whose eyes mine resemble!” whispered Otto, carried along with the merriment.
“That health we have already drunk!” answered Wilhelm, “but we cannot do a good thing too often.”
“Then you still think of Eva?”
“She was beautiful! sweet! who knows what might have happened had she remained here? Her fate has fallen into mamma’s hands, and she and the other exalted Nemesis must now conduct the affair: I wash my hands of it.”
“Are you recovered?” asked Otto. “But when you see Eva again in the summer?”
“I hope that I shall not fall sick,” replied Wilhelm; “I have a strong constitution. But we must now hasten up to the dance.”
All rushed from the tables, and up-stairs, where the park was arranged. There was now only the green wood to be seen. Theatres and booths had been removed. Gay paper-lamps hung among the branches, a large orchestra played, and a half-bacchanalian wood-ball commenced. Wilhelm was Otto’s partner, but after the first dance the lady sought out for herself a more lively cavalier.
Otto drew back toward the wall where the windows were concealed by the boughs of Fir-tree. His eye followed Wilhelm, whose great resemblance to Sophie made him melancholy; his hand accidentally glided through the branches and touched the window-seat; there lay a little bird—it was dead!
To increase the illusion they had bought a number of birds, which should fly about during the park-scene, but the poor little creatures had died from fright at the wild uproar. In the windows and corners they lay dead. It was one of these birds that Otto found.
“It is dead!” said he to Wilhelm, who approached him.
“Now, that is capital!” returned the friend; “here you have something over which you may be sentimental!”
Otto would not reply.
“Shall we dance a Scotch waltz?” asked Wilhelm laughing, and the wine and his youthful blood glowed in his cheeks.
“I wish you would put on your own dress!” said Otto. “You resemble, as I said before, your sister”—
“And I am my sister,” interrupted Wilhelm, in his wantonness. “And as a reward for your charming readings aloud, for your excellent conversation, and the whole of your piquant amiability, you shall now be paid with a little kiss!” He pressed his lips to Otto’s forehead; Otto thrust him back and left the company.
Several hours passed before he could sleep; at length he was forced to laugh over his anger: what mattered it if Wilhelm resembled his sister?
The following morning Otto paid her a visit. All listened with lively interest to his description of the merry St. John’s day in February. He also related how much Wilhelm had resembled his sister, and how unpleasant this had been to him; and they laughed. During the relation, however, Otto could not forbear drawing a comparison. How great a difference did he now find! Sophie’s beauty was of quite another kind! Never before had he regarded her in this light. Of the kisses which Wilhelm had given him, of course, they did not speak; but Otto thought of them, thought of them quite differently to what he had done before, and—the ways of Cupid are strange! We will now see how affairs stand after advancing fourteen days.
“Huzza for Copenhagen and for Paris! may they both flourish!”The Danes in Paris by HEIBERG.
Wilhelm’s cousin, Joachim, had arrived from Paris. We remember the young officer, out of whose letters Wilhelm had sent Otto a description of the struggle of the July days. As an inspired hero of liberty had he returned; struggling Poland had excited his lively interest, and he would willingly have combated in Warsaw’s ranks. His mind and his eloquence made him doubly interesting. The combat of the July days, of which he had been an eye-witness, he described to them. Joachim was handsome; he had an elegant countenance with sharp features, and was certainly rather pale—one might perhaps have called him worn with dissipation, had it not been for the brightness of his eyes, which increased in conversation. The fine dark eyebrow, and even the little mustache, gave the countenance all expression which reminded one of fine English steel-engravings. His figure was small, almost slender, but the proportions were beautiful. The animation of the Frenchman expressed itself in every motion, but at the same time there was in him a certain determination which seemed to say: “I am aware of my own intellectual superiority!”
He interested every one: Otto also listened with pleasure when Cousin Joachim related his experiences, but when all eyes were turned toward the narrator, Otto fixed his suddenly upon Sophie, and found that she could moderate his attentions. Joachim addressed his discourse to all, but at the points of interest his glance rested alone on the pretty cousin! “She interests him!” said Otto to himself. “And Cousin Joachim?” Yes, he relates well; but had we only traveled we should not be inferior to him!”
“Charles X. was a Jesuit!” said Joachim; “he strove after an unrestrained despotism, and laid violent hands on the Charter. The expedition against Algiers was only a glittering fire-work arranged to flatter the national pride—all glitter and falseness! Like Peirronnet, through an embrace he would annihilate the Charter.”
The conversation now turned from the Jesuits to the Charter and Polignac. The minute particulars, which only an eyewitness can relate, brought the struggle livingly before their eyes. They saw the last night, the extraordinary activity in the squares where the balls were showered, and in the streets where the barricades were erected. Overturned wagons and carts, barrels and stones, were heaped upon each other—even the hundred year-old trees of the Boulevards were cut down to form barricades: the struggle began, Frenchman fought against Frenchman—for liberty and country they sacrificed their life.
[Note:“Ceux qui pieusement sont morts pour la patrieOnt droit qu’à leur cerceuil la foule vienne et prie:Entre le plus beaux noms, leur nom est le plus beau.Toute gloire, près d’eux, passe et tombe éphèmereEt, comme ferait une mère,La voix d’un peuple entier les berce en leur tombeau!”—VICTOR HUGO.]
And he described the victory and Louis Philippe, whom he admired and loved.
“That was a world event,” said the man of business. “It electrified both king and people. They still feel the movement. Last year was an extraordinary year!”
“For the Copenhageners also,” said Otto, “there were three colors. These things occupied the multitude with equal interest: the July Revolution, the ‘Letters of a Wandering Ghost,’ and Kellermann’s ‘Berlin Wit.’”
“Now you are bitter, Mr. Thostrup,” said the lady of the house. “The really educated did not occupy themselves with these Berlin ‘Eckensteher’ which the multitude have rendered national!”
“But they hit the right mark!” said Otto; “they met with a reception from the citizens and people in office.”
“That I can easily believe,” remarked Joachim; “that is like the people here!”
“That is like the people abroad!” said the hostess. “In Paris they pass over still more easily from a revolution, in which they themselves have taken part, to a review by Jules Janin, or to a new step of Taglioni’s, and from that to ‘une histoire scandaleuse!’”
“No, my gracious lady, of the last no one takes any notice—it belongs to the order of the day!”
“That I can easily believe!” said Miss Sophie.
The man of business now inquired after the Chamber. The cousin’s answer was quite satisfactory. The lady of the house wished to hear of the flower-markets, and of the sweet little inclosed gardens in the Places. Sophie wished to hear of Victor Hugo. She received a description of him, of his abode in the Place Royale, and of the whole Europe littéraire beside. Cousin Joachim was extremely interesting.
Otto did not pay another visit for two days.
“Where have you been for so long?” asked Sophie, when he came again.
“With my books!” replied he: there lay a gloomy expression in his eyes.
“O, you should have come half an hour earlier—our cousin was here! He was describing to me the Jardin des Plantes in Paris. O, quite excellently!”
“He is an interesting young man!” said Otto.
“The glorious garden!” pursued Sophie, without remarking the emphasis with which Otto had replied. “Do you not remember, Mr. Thostrup, how Barthélemi has spoken of it? ‘Où tout homme, qui rêve à son pays absent, Retrouve ses parfums et son air caressant.’ In it there is a whole avenue with cages, in which are wild beasts,—lions and tigers! In small court-yards, elephants and buffaloes wander about at liberty! Giraffes nibble the branches of high trees! In the middle of the garden are the courts for bears, only there is a sort of well in which the bears walk about; it is surrounded by no palisades, and you stand upon the precipitous edge! There our cousin stood!”
“But he did not precipitate himself down!” said Otto, with indifference.
“What is the matter?” asked Sophie. “Are you in your elegiac mood? You look as I imagine Victor Hugo when he has not made up his mind about the management of his tragic catastrophe!”
“That is my innate singularity!” replied Otto. “I should have pleasure in springing down among the bears of which you relate!”
“And in dying?” asked Sophie. “No, you must live. ‘C’est le bonheur de vivre Qui fait la gloire de mourir.’”
“You speak a deal of French to-day,” said Otto, with a friendliness of manner intended to soften the bitterness of the tone. “Perhaps your conversation with the lieutenant was in that language?”
“French interests me the most!” replied she. “I will ask our cousin to speak it often with me. His accent is excellent, and he is himself a very interesting man!”
“No doubt of it!” answered Otto.
“You will remain and dine with us?” said the lady of the house, who now entered.
Otto did not feel well.
“These are only whims,” said Sophie.
The ladies made merry, and Otto remained. Cousin Joachim came and was interesting—very interesting, said all. He related of Paris, spoke also of Copenhagen, and drew comparisons. The quietness of home had made an especial impression on him.
“People here,” said he, “go about as if they bore some heavy grief, or some joy, which they might not express. If one goes into a coffee-house, it is just as if one entered a house of mourning. Each one seats himself, a newspaper in his hand, in a corner. That strikes one when one comes from Paris! One naturally has the thought,—Can these few degrees further north bring so much cold into the blood? There is the same quiet in our theatre. Now I love this active life. The only boldness the public permits itself is hissing a poor author; but a wretched singer, who has neither tone nor manner, a miserable actress, will be endured, nay, applauded by good friends—an act of compassion. She is so fearful! she is so good! In Paris people hiss. The decoration master, the manager, every one there receives his share of applause or blame. Even the directors are there hissed, if they manage badly.”
“You are preaching a complete revolution in our theatrical kingdom!” said the lady of the house. “The Copenhageners cannot ever become Parisians, and neither should they.”
“The theatre is here, as well as there, the most powerful organ of the people’s life. It has the greatest influence, and ours stands high, very high, when one reflects in what different directions it must extend its influence. Our only theatre must accommodate itself, and represent, at the same time, the Theatre Français, the grand Opera, the Vaudeville, and Saint-Martin; it must comprehend all kinds of theatrical entertainments. The same actors who to-day appear in tragedy, must to-morrow show themselves in a comedy or vaudeville. We have actors who might compare themselves with the best in Paris—onlyoneis above all ours, but, also, above all whom I have seen in Europe, and this one is Mademoiselle Mars. You will, doubtless, consider the reason extraordinary which gives this one, in my opinion, the first place. This is her age, which she so completely compels you to forget. She is still pretty; round, without being called fat. It is not through rouge, false hair, or false teeth, that she procures herself youth; it lies in her soul, and from thence it flows into every limb—every motion becomes charming! She fills you with astonishment! her eyes are full of expression, and her voice is the most sonorous which I know! It is indeed music! How can one think of age when one is affected by an immortal soul? I rave about Léontine Fay, but the old Mars has my heart. There is also a third who stands high with the Parisians—Jenny Vertprè, at the Gymnase Dramatique, but she would be soon eclipsed were the Parisians to see our Demoiselle Pätges. She possesses talent which will shine in every scene. Vertprè has her loveliness, her whims, but not her Proteus-genius, her nobility. I saw Vertprè in ‘La Reine de Seize Ans,’—a piece which we have not yet; but she was only a saucy soubrette in royal splendor—a Pernille of Holberg’s, as represented by a Parisian. We have Madame Wexschall, and we have Frydendal! Were Denmark only a larger country, these names would sound throughout Europe!”
He now described the decorations in the “Sylphide,” in “Natalia,” and in various other ballets, the whole splendor, the whole magnificence.
“But our orchestra is excellent!” said Miss Sophie.
“It certainly contains several distinguished men,” answered Joachim; “but must one speak of the whole? Yes, you know I am not musical, and cannot therefore express myself in an artistical manner about music, but certain it is that something lay in my ear, in my feeling, which, in Paris, whispered to me, ‘That is excellent!’ Here, on the contrary, it cries, ‘With moderation! with moderation!’ The voice is the first; she is the lady; the instruments, on the contrary, are the cavaliers who shall conduct the former before the public. Gently they should take her by the hand; she must stand quite foremost; but here the instruments thrust her aside, and it is to me as if each instrument would have the first place, and constantly shouted, ‘Here am I! here am I!”
“That sounds very well!” said Sophie; “but one may not believe you! You have fallen in love with foreign countries, and, therefore, at home everything must be slighted.”
“By no means! The Danish ladies, for instance, appear the prettiest, the most modest whom I have known.”
“Appear?” repeated Otto.
“Joachim possesses eloquence,” said the lady of the house.
“That has developed itself abroad!” answered he: “here at home there are only two ways in which it can publicly develop itself—in the pulpit, and at a meeting in the shooting-house. Yet it is true that now we are going to have a Diet and a more political life. I feel already, in anticipation, the effect; we shall only live for this life, the newspapers will become merely political, the poets sing politics the painters choose scenes from political life. ‘C’est un Uebergang!’ as Madame La Flèche says. [Author’s Note: Holberg’s Jean de France.] Copenhagen is too small to be a great, and too great to be a small city. See, there lies the fault!”
Otto felt an irresistible desire to contradict him in most things which he said about home. But the cousin parried every bold blow with a joke.
“Copenhagen must be the Paris of the North,” said he, “and that it certainly would become in fifty, or twice that number of years. The situation was far more beautiful than that of the city of the Seine. The marble church must be elevated, and become a Pantheon, adorned with the works of Thorwaldsen and other artists; Christiansborg, a Louvre, whose gallery you visit; Öster Street and Pedermadsen’s passage, arcades such as are in Paris, covered with glass roofs and flagged, shops on both sides, and in the evening, when thousands of gas-lamps burnt, here should be the promenade; the esplanades would be the Champs Elysées, with swings and slides, music, and mâts de cocagne. [Author’s Note: High smooth poles, to the top of which victuals, clothes, or money are attached. People of the lower classes then try to climb up and seize the prizes. The best things are placed at the very top of the pole.] On the Peblinger Lake, as on the Seine, there should be festive water excursions made. Voilà!” exclaimed he, “that would be splendid!”
“That might be divine!” said Sophie.
Animation and thought lay in the cousin’s countenance; his fine features became striking from their expression. Thus did his image stamp itself in Otto’s soul, thus did it place itself beside Sophie’s image as she stood there, with her large brown eyes, round which played thought and smiles, whilst they rested on the cousin. The beautifully formed white hand, with its taper fingers, played with the curls which fell over her cheeks. Otto would not think of it.
“And if I have wept alone, it is my own sorrow.”—GOETHE
Latterly Otto had been but seldom at Mr. Berger’s. He had no interest about the merchant’s home. The family showed him every politeness and mark of confidence; but his visits became every week more rare. Business matters, however, led him one day there.
Chance or fate, as we call it, if the shadow of a consequence shows itself, caused Maren to pass through the anteroom when Otto was about taking his departure. She was the only one of the ladies at home. In three weeks she would return to Lemvig. She said that she could not boast of having enjoyed Mr. Thostrup’s society too often.
“Your old friends interest you no longer!” added she, somewhat gravely. With this exception she had amused herself very well in the city, had seen everything but the stuffed birds, and these she should see to-morrow. She had been seven times in the theatre, and had seen the “Somnambule” twice. However, she had not seen “Der Frieschütz,” and she had an especial desire to see this on account of the wolf-glen. At Aarhuus there was a place in the wood, said she, called the wolf-glen; this she knew, and now wished to see whether it resembled the one on the stage.
“May I then greet Rosalie from you?” she asked at length.
“You will still remain three weeks here,” said Otto: “it is too soon to speak of leave-taking.”
“But you scarcely ever come here,” returned she. “You have better places to go to! The Baron’s sister certainly sees you oftener; she is said to be a pretty and very clever girl: perhaps one may soon offer one’s congratulations?”
Otto became crimson.
“In spring you will travel abroad,” pursued she; “we shall not then see you in Jutland: yes, perhaps you will never go there again! That will make old Rosalie sad: she thinks so incredibly much of you. In all the letters which I have received here there were greetings to Mr. Thostrup. Yes, I have quite a multitude of them for you; but you do not come to receive them, and I dare not pay a visit to such a young gentleman. For the sake of old friendship let me, at least, be the first who can relate at home of the betrothal!”
“How can you have got such a thought?” replied Otto. “I go to so many houses where there are young ladies; if my heart had anything to do with it, I should have a bad prospect. I have great esteem for Miss Sophie; I speak with her as with you, that is all. I perceive that the air of Copenhagen has affected you; here in the city they are always betrothing people. This comes from the ladies in the house here. How could you believe such stories?”
Maren also joked about it, but after they had parted she seated herself in a corner, drew her little apron over her head and wept; perhaps because she should soon leave the lively city, where she had been seven times to the theatre, and yet had not seen the wolf-glen.
“Betrothed!” repeated Otto to himself, and thought of Sophie, of the cousin, and of his own childhood, which hung like a storm-cloud in his heaven. Many thoughts passed through his mind: he recollected the Christmas Eve on which he had seen Sophie for the first time, when she, as one of the Fates, gave him the number. He had 33, she 34; they were united by the numbers following each other. He received the pedigree, and was raised to her nobility. The whole joke had for him a signification. He read the verse again which had accompanied it. The conclusion sounded again and again in his ears:—“From this hour forth thy soul high rank hath won her, Nor will forget thy knighthood and thy honor!”
“O Sophie!” he exclaimed aloud, and the fire which had long smouldered in his blood now burst forth in flames. “Sophie! thee must I press to my heart!” He lost himself in dreams. Dark shapes disturbed them. “Can she then be happy? Can I? The picture which she received where the covering of ice was broken and the faithful dog watched in vain, is also significant. That is the fulfillment of hopes. I sink, and shall never return!”
The image of the cousin mingled in his dreams. That refined countenance with the little mustache looked forth saucily and loquaciously; and Sophie’s eyes he saw rest upon the cousin, whilst her white hand played with the brown curls which fell over her cheek.
“O Sophie!” sighed Otto, and fell asleep.
...”We live through others,We think we are others; we seemOthers to be... And so think others of us.”SCHEFER.
When the buds burst forth we will burst forth also! had Otto and Wilhelm often said. Their plan was, in the spring to travel immediately to Paris, but on their way to visit the Rhine, and to sail from Cologne to Strasburg.
“Yes, one must see the Rhine first!” said Cousin Joachim; “when one has seen Switzerland and Italy, it does not strike one nearly as much. That must be your first sight; but you should not see it in spring, but toward autumn. When the vines have their full variety of tint, and the heavy grapes hang from the stems, see, it is then the old ruins stand forth. These are the gardens of the Rhine! Another advantage which you have in going there in autumn is that you then enter Paris in winter, and that one must do; then one does not come post festum; then is the heyday of gayety—the theatre, the soirées, and everything which can interest the beau monde.”
Although Otto did not generally consider the cousin’s words of much weight, he this time entered wonderfully into his views. “It would certainly be the most prudent to commence their journey toward autumn,” he thought: “there could be no harm in preparing themselves a little more for it!”
“That is always good!” said Joachim; “but, what is far more advantageous abroad than all the preparations you can make at home, is said in a few words—give up all intercourse with your own country-people! Nowadays every one travels! Paris is not now further from us than Hamburg was some thirty years ago. When I was in Paris I found there sixteen or seventeen of my countrymen. O, how they kept together! Eleven of them dwelt in the same hôtel: they drank coffee together, walked out together, went to the restaurateur’s together, and took together half a bench in the theatre. That is the most foolish thing a person can do! I consider travelling useful for every one, from the prince to the travelling journeyman. But we allow too many people to travel! We are not rich, therefore restrictions should be made. The creative artist, the poet, the engineer, and the physician must travel; but God knows why theologians should go forth. They can become mad enough at home! They come into Catholic countries, and then there is an end of them! Wherefore should book-worms go forth? They shut themselves up in the diligence and in their chambers, rummage a little in the libraries, but not so much as a pinch of snuff do they do us any good when they return! Those who cost the most generally are of the least use, and bring the country the least honor! I, thank God! paid for my journey myself, and am therefore free to speak my opinion!”
We will now hear what Miss Sophie said, and therefore advance a few days.
“We keep you then with us till August!” said she, once when she was alone with Otto. “That is wise! You can spend some time with us in Funen, and gather strength for your journey. Yes, the journey will do you good!”
“I hope so!” answered Otto. “I am perhaps able to become as interesting as your cousin, as amiable!”
“That would be requiring too much from you!” said Sophie, bantering him. “You will never have his humor, his facility in catching up character. You will only preach against the depravity of the Parisians; you will only be able to appreciate the melancholy grandeur of Switzerland and the solitude of the Hungarian forests.”
“You would make a misanthrope of me, which I by no means am.”
“But you have an innate talent for this character!” answered Sophie. “Something will certainly be polished away by this journey, and it is on account of this change that I rejoice.”
“Must one, then, have a light, fickle mood to please you?” asked Otto.
“Yes, certainly!” answered Sophie, ironically.
“Then it is true what your cousin told me!” said Otto. “If one will be fortunate with the ladies, one must at least be somewhat frivolous, fond of pleasure, and fickle,—that makes one interesting. Yes, he has made himself acquainted with the world, he has experience in everything!”
“Yes, perfectly!” said Sophie, and laughed aloud.
Otto was silent, with contracted brow.
“I wish you sunshine!” said Sophie, and smiling raised her finger. Otto remained unchanged—he wrinkled his brow.
“You must change very much!” said she, half gravely; and danced out of the room.
Three weeks passed by, rich in great events in the kingdom of the heart; it was still a diplomatic secret: the eyes betrayed it by their pantomimic language, the mouth alone was silent, and it is after all the deciding power.
Otto visited the merchant’s family. Maren had departed just the day before. In vain had she awaited his visit throughout the three weeks.
“You quite forget your true friends!” said the ladies. “Believe us, Maja was a little angry with you, and yet we have messages. Now she is sailing over the salt sea.”
This was not precisely the case; she was already on land, and just at this moment was driving over the brown heath, thinking of Copenhagen and the pleasures there, and of the sorrow also—it is so sad to be forgotten by a friend of childhood! Otto was so handsome, so clever—she did not dream at all how handsome and clever she herself would appear at home. Beauty and cleverness they had discovered in her before she left; now she had been in the capital, and that gives relief.
The little birds fluttered round the carriage; perhaps they sang to her what should happen in two years: “Thou wilt be a bride, the secretary’s lovely little bride; thou shalt have both him and the musical-box! Thou wilt be the grandest lady in the town, and yet the most excellent mother. Thy first daughter shall be called Maja—that is a pretty name, and reminds thee of past days!”
“The monastery is still called ‘Andersskov’ (the wood ofAnders) in memory of its being the habitation of the piousAnders.“The hill on which he awoke, comforted by sleep, is stillcalled ‘Hvile höi’ (the hill of rest). A cross having aLatin inscription, half-effaced, marks the spot.”—J. L.HEIBERG.
It was spring, fresh, life-bearing spring! Only one day and one night, and the birds of passage were back again; the woods made themselves once more young with green, odorous leaves; the Sound had its swimming Venice of richly laden vessels; only one day and one night, and Sophie was removed from Otto—they were divided by the salt sea; but it was spring in his heart; from it flew his thoughts, like birds of passage, to the island of Funen, and there sang of summer. Hope gave him more “gold and green woods” than the ships bear through the Sound, more than Zealand’s bays can show. Sophie at parting pressed his hand. In her eyes lay what his heart might hope and dream.
He forgot that hope and dreams were the opposites of reality.
Cousin Joachim had gone to Stockholm, and would not return either in the spring or summer to Funen. On the contrary, Otto intended to spend a few weeks at the country-seat; not before August would he and Wilhelm travel. There would at least be one happy moment, and many perhaps almost as happy. In his room stood a rose-bush, the first buds formed themselves, and opened their red lips—as pure and tender as these leaves was Sophie’s cheek: he bent over the flower, smiled and read there sweet thoughts which were related to his love. A rose-bud is a sweet mystery.
“The myriad leaves enmazeSmall labyrinthine waysWhere spicy odor flows,Thou lovelv bud o’ the rose!”
The day came on which Otto, after he had comfortably terminated his visits of leave-taking, at midday, in the company of three young students travelled away through Zealand. They had taken a carriage together as far as Slagelse, where, like Abraham’s and Lot’s shepherds, they should separate to the right and left. Otto remained alone, in order to travel post that night to Nyborg. It was only four o’clock in the afternoon, Otto had no acquaintance here, therefore it was but to take a walk.
“There still exist remains of the old Antvorskov convent, [Author’s Note: The convent was founded by Waldemar I., 1177.] do there not?” asked he.
“Yes, but very little!” answered the host. “The convent became a castle, the castle a private house, and now within the last few years, on account of the stones, it has been still more pulled down. You will find nothing old remaining, except here and there in the garden a piece of a red wall standing out. But the situation is beautiful! If you will only take the road toward the large village called Landsgrav, you are on the way to Korsöer, and close to the cross of the holy Anders. It is a right pleasant excursion!”
“Convent ruins and the holy cross!” said Otto; “that sounds quite romantic!” And he commenced his wanderings.
A few scholars from the Latin school, with their books held together by a strait, and then a square built lancer, who greeted in military style an elderly-young lady, who was seated behind a barricade of geraniums and wall flowers, were the only individuals he met with on his way. Yet Otto remarked that the windows were opened as he passed; people wanted to see who the stranger might be who was going up the street.
A long avenue led from the town to the castle. On either side the way lay detached houses, with little gardens. Otto soon reached the remains of old Antvorskov. The way was red from the stones which were flung about, and were now ground to dust. Huge pieces of wall, where the mortar and stone were united in one piece, lay almost concealed among the high nettles. Rather more distant stood a solitary house of two stories. It was narrow, and whitewashed. A thick pilaster, such as one sees in churches, supported the strong wall. This was half of the last wing of the castle,—a mingling of the ancient and incident, of ruin and dwelling-house.
Otto went into the garden, which was laid out upon the hill itself, and its terraces. Here were only young trees; but the walks were everywhere overgrown. The view stretched itself far over the plain, toward the Belt and Funen. He descended from the terrace down to the lowest wall. In this there yet remained a piece of an old tombstone, of the age of the convent, on which you perceived the trace of a female form; and near to this the figure of a skeleton, round which was twined a snake. Otto stood sunk in contemplation, when an old man, with two water-buckets suspended from a yoke on his shoulders, approached a near well.
The old man was very ready to commence a conversation. He told of excavations, and of an underground passage which had not been discovered, but which, according to his opinion, was certainly in existence. So far they had only found a few walled-round spaces, which had most probably been prisons. In one of these was an iron chain fastened into the wall. But with regard to the underground passage, they had only not yet discovered the right place, for it must exist. It led from here, deep under the lake and forest, toward Soröe. There were large iron gates below. At Christmas one could hear how they were swung to and fro. “Whoever should have that which is concealed there,” said the old man, “would be a made man, and need not neither slip nor slide.”
Otto looked at the solitary wing which rose up over the terrace. How splendid it had been here in former times!
Close to the large wood, several miles in extent, which stretches itself on the other side of Soröe, down to the shore of the King’s Brook, lay the rich convent where Hans Tausen spoke what the Spirit inspired him with. Times changed; the convent vanished;
“Halls of stateTower upon that spot elate;Where the narrow cell once stood;”[Author’s Note: Anders-skov, by Oehlenschläger.]
where the monks sang psalms, knights and ladies danced to the sound of beating drums: but these tone’s ceased; the blooming cheeks became dust. It was again quiet. Many a pleasant time did Holberg ride over from Soröe, through the green wood, to visit the steward of Antvorskov. Otto recollected what one of his daughters, when an old woman, had related to a friend of his. She was a child, and lay in the cradle, when old Holberg came riding there, with a little wheaten loaf and a small pot of preserve in his pocket—his usual provision on such little excursions. The steward’s young wife sat at her spinning-wheel. Holberg paced up and down the room with the husband; they were discussing politics. This interested the wife, and she joined in the conversation. Holberg turned round to her,—“I fancy the distaff speaks!” said he. This the wife could never forget. [Translator’s Note: Rokkehoved, distaff, means also dunce in Danish.]
Otto smiled at this recollection of the witty but ungallant poet, quitted the garden, and went through a winding hollow way, where the luxuriant briers hung in rich masses over the stone fence. Slagelse, with its high hills in the background, looked picturesque. He soon reached Landsgrav. The sun went down as he walked over the field where the wooden cross stands, with its figure of the Redeemer, in memory of the holy Anders. Near it he perceived a man, who appeared to kneel. One hand held fast by the cross; in the other was a sharp knife, with which he was probably cutting out his name. He did not observe Otto. Near the man lay a box covered with green oil-cloth; and in the grass lay a knapsack, a pair of boots, and a knotty stick. It must be a wandering journeyman, or else a pedlar.
Otto was about to return, when the stranger rose and perceived him. Otto stood as if nailed to the earth. It was the German Heinrich whom he saw before him.
“Is not that Mr. Thostrup?” said the man and that horrible grinning smile played around his mouth. “No, that I did not expect!”
“Does it go well with you, Heinrich?” asked Otto.
“There’s room for things to mend!” replied Heinrich “It goes better with you! Good Lord, that you should become such a grand gentleman! Who would have thought it, when you rode on my knee, and I pricked you in the arm? Things go on strangely in this world! Have you heard of your sister? She was not so much spoiled as you! But she was a beautiful child!”
“I have neither seen her nor my parents!” replied he, with a trembling which he strove to conquer. “Do you know where she is?”
“I am always travelling!” said Heinrich; “but thus much I know, that she is still in Funen. Yes, she must take one of us, an unpretending husband! You can choose a genteel young lady for yourself. That’s the way when people are lucky. You will become a landed proprietor. Old Heinrich will then no doubt obtain permission to exhibit his tricks on your estate? But none of its will speak of former times!—of the red house on the Odense water!” This last he whispered quite low. “I shall receive a few shillings from you?” he asked.
“You shall have more!” said Otto, and gave to him. “But I wish us to remain strangers to each other, as we are!”
“Yes, certainly, certainly!” said Heinrich, and nodded affirmatively with his head, whilst his eyes rested on the gift Otto had presented him with. “Then you are no longer angry with my joke in Jutland?” asked he with a simpering smile, and kissed Otto’s hand. “I should not have known you then. Had you not shown me your shoulder, on which I saw the letters O and T which I myself had etched, it would never have occurred to me that we knew each other! But a light suddenly flashed across me. I should have said Otto Thostrup; but I said ‘Odense Tugt-huus.’ [Note: Odense house of correction.] That was not handsome of me, seeing you are such a good gentleman!”
“Yes, now adieu!” said Otto, and extended to him unwillingly his hand.
“There, our Saviour looks down upon us!” said the German Heinrich, and fixed his eyes upon the figure on the cross. “As certainly as He lives may you rely upon the silence of my mouth. He is my Redeemer, who hangs there on the cross, just as he is etched upon my skin, and as he stands along the high-roads in my father-land. Here is the only place in the whole country where the sign of the cross stands under the free heaven; here I worship: for you must know, Mr. Thostrup, I am not of your faith, but of the faith of the Virgin Mary. Here I have cut into the wood the holy sign, such as is placed over every door in my father-land,—an I, an H, and this S. In this is contained my own name; for H stands for Heinrich; I, for I myself; and S means Sinner; that is, I, Heinrich, Sinner. Now I have completed my worship, and you have given me a handsome skilling, I shall now go to my bed at the public-house; and if the girl is pretty, and lets one flatter her, I am still young enough, and shall fancy that I am Mr. Thostrup, and have won that most glorious, elegant young lady! Hurrah! it is a player’s life which we lead!”
Otto left him, but heard how Heinrich sang: