[4]"Lœrke," which generally means "lark," is the name given among the lower classes in Denmark to a spirit bottle of a peculiar shape. There is no word that corresponds with it in English.—Trans.
[4]"Lœrke," which generally means "lark," is the name given among the lower classes in Denmark to a spirit bottle of a peculiar shape. There is no word that corresponds with it in English.—Trans.
But this time was passed, and it had lain long neglected in a corner. It did not know whether it was on the voyage out or homewards; for it had never been on shore anywhere. One day a great storm arose; the black, heavy waves rolled mountains high, and heaved the ship up and cast it down by turns; the mast came down with a crash; the sea stove in a plank; the pumps were no longer of any avail. It was a pitch-dark night. The ship sank; but at the last minute the young mate wrote on a slip of paper, "In the name of Jesus—we are lost!" He wrote down the name of his bride, his own name, and that of his ship; then he thrust the note into an empty bottle that was within reach, pressed in the cork tightly, and cast the bottle out into the raging sea. Little did he know that it was the identical bottle which had contained the wine in which had been drunk the toasts of joy and hope for him and her, that was now tossing on thebillows with these last remembrances, and the message of death.
The ship sank—the crew sank—but the bottle skimmed the waves like a sea-fowl. It had a heart then—the letter of love within it. And the sun rose, and the sun set. This sight recalled to the bottle the scene of its earliest life—the red glowing furnace, to which it had once longed to return. It encountered calms and storms; but it was not dashed to pieces against any rocks. It was not swallowed by any shark. For more than a year and a day it drifted on—now towards the north, now towards the south—as the currents carried it. In other respects it was its own master; but one can become tired even of that.
The written paper—the last farewell from the bridegroom to his bride—would only bring deep sorrow if it ever reached the proper hands. But where were these hands, that had looked so white when they spread the tablecloth on the fresh grass in the green wood on the betrothal-day? Where was the furrier's daughter? Nay, where was her country? and to what country was it nearest? The bottle knew not. It drifted and drifted, and it was so tired of always drifting on; but it could not help itself. Still, still it had to drift, until at last it reached the land; but it was a foreign country. It did not understand a word that was said, for the language was not such as it had been formerly accustomed to hear; and one feels quite lost if one does not understand the language spoken around.
The bottle was taken up and examined; the slip of paper in it was observed, taken out, and opened; but nobody could make out what was written on it, though every one knew that the bottle must have been cast overboard, and that some informationwas contained in the paper; but whatthatwas remained a mystery, and it was put back into the bottle, and the latter laid by in a large press, in a large room, in a large house.
Whenever any stranger came the slip of paper was taken out, opened, and examined, so that the writing, which was only in pencil, became more and more illegible from the frequent folding and unfolding of the paper, till at length the letters could no longer be discerned. After the bottle had remained about a year in the press it was removed to the loft, and was soon covered with dust and cobwebs. Ah! then it thought of its better days, when red wine was poured from it in the shady wood, and when it swayed about upon the waves, and had a secret to carry—a letter, a farewell sigh.
It now remained in the loft for twenty mortal years, and it might have remained longer, had not the house been going to be rebuilt. The roof was taken off, the bottle discovered and talked about; but it did not understand what was said. One does not learn languages, living up alone in a loft, even in twenty years. "Had I but been down in the parlour," it thought, and with truth, "I would, of course, have learned it."
It was now washed and rinsed. It certainly wanted cleaning sadly, and very clear and transparent it felt itself after it—indeed, quite young again in its old age; but the slip of paper committed to its charge, that was lost in the washing. The bottle was now filled with seeds. Such contents were new to it. Well stopped up and wrapped up it was, and it could see neither a lantern nor a candle, not to mention the sun or the moon. "One ought to see something when one goes on a journey," thought the bottle; but it did not, however,until it reached the place it was going to, and was there unpacked.
"What trouble these people abroad have taken about it!" was remarked; "yet no doubt it is cracked." But it was not cracked. The bottle understood every word that was said, for they were spoken in the language it had heard at the furnace, at the wine merchant's, in the wood, and on board ship—the only right good old language, one which could be understood. The bottle had returned to its own country, and in its joy had nearly jumped out of the hands that were holding it. It scarcely observed that the cork had been removed, its contents shaken out, and itself put away in the cellar to be kept and forgotten. But home is dearest, even in a cellar. It had enough to think over, and time enough to think, for it lay there for years; but at last one day folks came down there to look for some bottles, and took this one with them.
Outside, in the garden, there were great doings; coloured lamps hung in festoons; paper lanterns, formed like large tulips, gave forth their subdued light. It was also a charming evening; the air was calm and clear; the stars began, one after the other, to shine in the deep blue heavens above; while the round moon looked like a pale bluish-grey ball, with a golden border encircling it.
There were also some illuminations in the side walks, at least enough to let people see their way; bottles with lights in them were placed here and there among the hedges; and amidst these stood the bottle we know, the one that was destined to end as the mere neck of a bottle and the glass of a bird-cage. At the period just named, however, it found everything so exquisitely charming. It was again among flowers andverdure, again surrounded by joy and festivity; it again heard singing and musical instruments, and the hum and buzz of a crowd of people, especially from that part of the gardens which were most brilliantly illuminated. It had a good situation itself, and stood there useful and happy, bearing its appointed light. During such a pleasant time it forgot the twenty years up in the loft, and it is good to be able to forget.
Close by it passed a couple arm-in-arm, like the happy pair in the wood, the mate and the furrier's daughter. It seemed to the bottle as if it were living that time over again. Guests and visitors of different ages wandered up and down, gazing upon the illuminations; and among these was an old maid, without relations, but not without friends. Probably her thoughts were occupied, as were those of the bottle; for she was thinking of the green woods, and of a young couple just betrothed. Thesesouvenirsaffected her much, for she had been a party in them—a prominent party. This was in her happier hours; and one never forgets these, even when one becomes a very old maid. But she did not recognise the bottle, and it did not recognise her. So it is we wear out of each other's knowledge in this world, until people meet again as these two did.
The bottle passed from the public gardens to the wine merchant's; it was there again filled with wine, and sold to an aëronaut, who was to go up in a balloon the following Sunday. There was a multitude of people to witness the ascent, there was a regimental band, and there were many preparations going on. The bottle saw all this from a basket, in which it lay with a living rabbit, who was very much frightened when it saw it was to go up in the parachute. The bottle did not know where it was to go; it beheld the balloon extendingwider and wider, and becoming so large that it could not be larger; then lifting itself up higher and higher, and rolling restlessly until the ropes that held it were cut, when it arose majestically into the air, with the aëronaut, the basket, the bottle, and the rabbit; then the music played loudly, and the assembled crowd shouted, "Hurra! hurra!"
"It is droll to go aloft," thought the bottle; "it is a novel sort of a voyage. Up yonder one cannot run away."
Many thousand human beings gazed up at the balloon, and the old maid gazed among the rest. She stood by her open garret window, where a cage hung with a little linnet, which at that time had no water-glass, but had to content itself with a cup. Just within the window stood a myrtle tree, that was moved a little aside, that it might not come in the way while the old maid was leaning out to look at the balloon. And she could perceive the aëronaut in it; she saw him let the rabbit down in the parachute, and then, having drunk the health of the crowd below, throw the bottle high up in the air. Little did she think that it was just the same bottle she had seen thrown up high in honour of herself and her lover, on a well-remembered happy day amidst the green wood, when she was young.
The bottle had no time to think, it was so unexpectedly exalted to the highest position it had ever attained in its life. The roofs and the spires lay far below, and the people looked as small as pigmies.
It now descended, and that at a different rate of speed from the rabbit. The bottle cast somersaults in the air—it felt itself so young, so buoyant. It was half full of wine, but not long. What a trip that was! The sun shone upon the bottle, and all the crowd looked up at it. The balloon wassoon far away, and the bottle was soon also out of sight, for it fell upon a roof and broke in two; but the fragments rebounded again, and leaped and rolled till they reached the yard below, where they lay in smaller pieces; for only the neck of the bottle escaped destruction, and it looked as if it had been cut round by a diamond.
"It may still serve as a glass for a bird's cage," said the man in the cellar.
But he himself had neither a bird nor a cage, and it would have cost too much to buy these because he had found the neck of a bottle that would answer for a glass. The old maid, however, up in the garret, might make use of it; and so the neck of the bottle was sent up to her. A cork was fitted to it, and, as first mentioned, after its many changes, it was filled with fresh water, and was hung in front of the cage of the little bird, that sang until its warbling became almost overpowering.
"Yes, you may well sing," was what the neck of the bottle had said.
It was somewhat of a wonder, as it had been up in a balloon; but with more of its history no one was acquainted. Now it hung as a bird's glass, it could hear the people driving and walking in the street below, and it could hear the old maid talking in her room to a female friend of her youthful days. They were chatting together, but speaking of the myrtle plant in the window, not of the neck of the bottle.
"You must not throw away two rix dollars for a wedding bouquet for your daughter," said the old maid. "You shall have one from me full of flowers. Look how pretty that plant is! Ah! it is a slip of the myrtle tree you gave me the day after my betrothal, that I myself, when the year was past,might take my wedding bouquet from it. But that day never came. The eyes were for ever closed that were to have illumined for me the path of happiness in this life. Away, down in the ocean's depths, he sleeps calmly—that angel soul! The tree became an old tree, but I have become still older; and when it died, I took its last green branch and planted it in the earth. That slip has now grown into a high plant, and will at last appear amidst bridal array, and form a wedding bouquet for my friend's daughter."
And tears started to the old maid's eyes. She spoke of the lover of her youth—of the betrothal in the wood; she thought of the toasts that were there drunk; she thought of the first kiss, but she did not speak of that, for she was now but an old maid. She thought of much—much; but little did she think that outside of her window was even then asouvenirfrom that regretted time—the neck of the very bottle that had been drawn when the unforgotten toasts were drunk! Nor did the bottle-neck know her; for it had not heard all she had said, because it had been thinking only of itself.
T
here is a street in Copenhagen which bears the extraordinary name of "Hyskenstrœde." And why is it so called? and what is the meaning of that name? It is German; but the German has been corrupted. "Häuschen" it ought to be called, and that signifies "small houses." Those which stood there formerly—and, indeed, for several years—were not much larger than the wooden booths that we see now-a-days erected at fairs. Yes, only a little larger, and with windows; but the panes were of horn or stretched bladder, for in these days it was too expensive to have glass windows in all houses; but the time in question was so far back that our grandfathers' grandfathers, when they mentioned it, also spoke of it as "in ancient days," for it was several hundred years ago.
Many rich merchants in Bremen and Lubeck carried on business in Copenhagen. They did not, however, go there themselves—they sent their clerks; and these persons generally resided in the wooden houses in the "Small Houses'Street," and held sales of ale and spices. The German ale was so excellent, and there were so many kinds—"Bremer, Prysing, Emser ale," even "Brunswick Mumme;" also, all sorts of spices, such as saffron, anise, ginger, and especially pepper, that was the most valued; and from this the German commercial travellers acquired the name in Denmark of "Pepper Swains, or Bachelors." They entered into an agreement before they left home not to marry; and many of them lived there to old age. They had to do entirely for themselves, attend to all little domestic matters, even make their own fires if they had any. Several of them became lonely old men, with peculiar thoughts and peculiar habits. Every unmarried man who has arrived at a certain age is now here called after them in derision, "Pebersvend"—old bachelor. It was necessary to relate all this, in order that our story might be understood.
People made great fun of these old bachelors; laughed at their nightcaps, at their drawing them down over their eyes, and so retiring to their couches.
"Saw the firewood, saw it through!Old bachelors, there's work for you.To bed with you your nightcaps go;Put out your lights, and cry, 'O woe!'"
"Saw the firewood, saw it through!Old bachelors, there's work for you.To bed with you your nightcaps go;Put out your lights, and cry, 'O woe!'"
Yes, such songs were made on them. People ridiculed the old bachelor and his nightcap, just because they knew so little about him, or it. Alas! let no one desire such a nightcap. And why not? Listen!
Over in the "Small Houses' Street," in ancient days, there was no pavement; people stepped from hole to hole as in a narrow, cut-up defile; and narrow enough this was, too. The dwellings on the opposite side of the street stood so closetogether, that in summer a sail was spread across the street from one booth to another, and the whole place was redolent of pepper, saffron, ginger, and various spices. Behind the desks stood few young men; no, they were almost all old fellows; and they were by no means, as we would represent them, crowned with a peruke or a nightcap, and equipped in shaggy pantaloons, a vest and coat buttoned tightly up. This was the costume in which our forefathers were painted, it is true; but this community of old bachelors could not afford to have their pictures taken. Yet it would have been worth while now to have preserved a portrait of one of them, as they stood behind their desks, or on festival days, when they wended their way to church. The hat they wore was broad-brimmed, and with a high crown; and sometimes one of the younger men would stick a feather in his. The woollen shirt was concealed by a deep linen collar; the tight-fitting jacket was closely buttoned, a loose cloak over it; and the pantaloons descended almost into the square-toed shoes, for stockings they wore none. In the belt were stuck the eating knife and the spoon; and, moreover, a large knife as a weapon of defence, for such was often needed in these days.
Thus was equipped, on grand occasions, old Anthon, one of the oldest bachelors of the "small houses;" only he did not wear the high-crowned hat, but a fur cap, and under that a knitted cap, a veritable nightcap, to which he had so accustomed himself that it was never off his head: he actually possessed two of the same description. He would have made an excellent subject for a painter; he was so skinny, so wrinkled about the mouth and the eyes; had long fingers, with such large joints; and his grey eyebrows were so thick. A bunch of grey hair from one of these hung over his left eye:it certainly was not pretty, but it made him very remarkable. It was known that he came from Bremen, at least that his master lived there; but he himself was from Thüringen, from the town of Eisenach, close to Wartburg. Old Anthon spoke little of his native place, but he thought of it the more.
The old lodgers in the street did not associate much with each other. Each remained in his own booth, which, was locked early in the evening, and then looked very dismal; for only a glimmering light could be seen through the horn panes of the window in the roof, beneath which sat, most frequently on his bed, the old man with his German psalm-book, and chanted the evening hymn, or else he went out and strolled about at night by way of amusement; but amusement it could hardly be called. To be a stranger in a foreign country is a very sad situation. No notice is taken of him unless he stands in anyone's way.
Often when it was a pitch-dark night, with pouring rain, all around looked woefully gloomy and desolate. No lanterns were to be seen, except the little one that hung at one end of the street, before the image of the Virgin Mary that adorned the wall there. The water was heard dashing and splashing against the wooden work near, out by Slotsholm, on which the other end of the street opened. Such evenings are always long and lonely if there be nothing to interest one. It is not necessary every day to pack and unpack, to make up parcels, and to polish scales; but one must have something to do, and accordingly old Anthon industriously mended his clothes and cleaned his shoes. When at length he retired to rest, it was his custom to keep on his nightcap. At first he would draw it well down, but he would soon push it up again to look if the light were totally extinguished; nor would he be satisfiedwithout getting up and feeling it. He would then lie down again, and turn on the other side, and again draw down the nightcap; but soon the idea would cross his mind that possibly the coals might not have become cold in the little fire-pot beneath—the fire might not be totally out—that a spark might be kindled, fly forth, and do mischief; and he would get out of his bed and creep down the ladder, for it could not be called the stairs; and when, on reaching the fire-pot, he perceived that not a spark was visible, and he might retire to rest in peace, he would stop half way up, being seized with the fear that the iron bolt might not be properly drawn across the door, or the shutters properly secured; and down he would go again, wearying his poor thin legs. By the time he crept back to his humble couch he would be half frozen, and his teeth would be chattering in his head with the cold. Then he would draw the covering higher up around him, and his nightcap lower down over his eyes, and his thoughts would wander from the business and burdens of the day; but ah! not to soothing scenes. His reveries were never fraught with pleasure, for then came old reminiscences, and hung their curtains up; and sometimes they were full of pins, that pricked so severely as to bring tears into his eyes. Such wounds old Anthon often received, and his warm tears fell on the coverlet or the floor, sounding as if one of sorrow's deepest strings had burst; they did not dry up, but kindled into a flame, which cast its light for him on the panorama of a life—a picture which never vanished from his mind. Then he would dry his eyes with his nightcap, and chase away the tears, and endeavour to chase away the picture with them; but it would not go, for it was imbedded in his heart. The panorama did not follow the exact order of events; also thesaddest parts were generally most prominent. And what were these?
"Beautiful are the beech groves in Denmark," it is said; but still more beautiful did the beech trees in the meadows near Wartburg seem to Anthon. Mightier and more majestic seemed to him the old oak up at the proud baronial castle, where the swinging lantern hung over the dark masses of rock; sweeter was the perfume of the apple blossoms there than in the Danish land; he seemed to feel the charming scent even now. A tear trickled down his cheeks, and he saw two little children, a boy and a girl, playing together. The boy had rosy cheeks, yellow waving hair, and honest blue eyes—he was the rich merchant's son, little Anthon himself. The little girl had dark hair and eyes, and she looked bold and clever—she was the burgomaster's daughter Molly. The childish couple were playing with an apple. At length they divided it in two, and each took a half. They also divided the seeds between them, and ate them all to one; and the little girl proposed to plant that in the ground.
"You will see what will come of this—something will come which you can hardly fancy. An apple tree will come up, but not all at once."
And they planted the seed in a flower-pot: both of them were very eager about it. The boy dug a hole in the mould with his finger; the little girl placed the seed in it, and both of them filled up the hole with earth.
"You must not pull it up to-morrow to see if it has taken root," she said; "that should not be done. I did that with my flower: twice I took it up to see if it was growing. I had very little sense then, and the flower died."
The flower-pot was left in Anthon's care, and every morning,the whole winter through, he looked at it; but nothing was to be seen except the black earth. Then came spring; the sun shone so warmly, and two tiny green leaves at last made their appearance in the flower-pot.
"These are Molly and me," said Anthon. "They are charming—they are lovely."
Soon there came a third leaf. Who did that represent? And leaf after leaf came up; while day by day, and week by week, the plant became larger and stronger, until it grew into quite a tree. And another tear fell again from its fountain—from old Anthon's heart.
There stretched out, near Eisenach, a range of stony hills, one of which, round in shape, was very conspicuous: neither tree, nor bush, nor grass grew on it. It was named Mount Venus. Therein dwelt Venus, a goddess from the heathen ages. She was here called Fru Holle, and she knew and could see every child in Eisenach. She had decoyed into her power the noble knight Tannhäuser, the minnesinger, from the musical circle of Wartburg.
Little Molly and Anthon often went to this hill, and she one day said to him,—
"Would you dare to knock on the side of the hill and cry, 'Fru Holle! Fru Holle! open the gate; here is Tannhäuser?' But Anthon dared not do it. Molly dared, however; yet only these words—"Fru Holle! Fru Holle!"—did she say very loudly and distinctly—the rest seemed to die away on the wind; and she certainly did pronounce the rest of the sentence so indistinctly, that Anthon was sure she had not really added the other words. Yet she looked very confident—as bold as when, in the summer evening, she and several other little girls came to play in the garden with him, andwhen they all wanted to kiss him, just because he would not be kissed, and defended himself from them, she alone ventured to achieve the feat.
"Idare to kiss him!" she used to say, with a proud toss of her little head. Then she would take him round his neck to prove her power, and Anthon would put up with it, and think it all right from her. How pretty and how clever she was! Fru Holle within the hill was also very charming, but her charms, it had been said, sprung from the seducing beauty bestowed on her by the evil one; but still greater beauty was to be found in the holy Elizabeth, the patron saint of the country, the pious Thüringian princess, whose good works, known through traditions and legends, were celebrated in so many places. A picture of her hung in the chapel with a silver lamp before it, but Molly did not resemble her.
The apple tree the two children had planted grew year after year; it became so large that it had to be transferred to the garden, out in the open air, where the dew fell and the sun shone warmly; it became strong enough to withstand the severity of winter, and after winter's hard trials it seemed as if rejoicing in the return of spring: it then put forth blossoms. In August it had two apples, one for Molly and one for Anthon: it would not have been well if it had had less.
The tree had grown rapidly, and Molly had grown as fast as the tree; she was as fresh as an apple blossom, but she was no longer to see that flower. Everything changes in this world. Molly's father left his old home, and Molly went with him—far, far away. In our time it might be only a few hours' journey by railway, but in those days it took more than a day and a night to arrive so far east from Eisenach. It wasto the other extremity of Thüringia they had to go, to a town which is now called Weimar.
And Molly wept, and Anthon wept. All these were now concentrated in one single tear, and it had the happy rosy tinge of joy. Molly had assured him that she cared much more for him than for all the grandeur of Weimar.
One year passed on, two passed, and a third followed, and in all that time there came only two letters. One was brought by the carrier, the other by a traveller, who had taken a circuitous course, besides visiting several cities and other places.
How often had not Anthon and Molly heard together the story of Tristand and Isolde, and how often did not Anthon think of himself and Molly as them! Although the name "Tristand" signified that he was born to sorrow, and that did not apply to Anthon, he never thought as Tristand did, "She has forgotten me!" But Isolde had not forgotten her heart's dear friend; and when they were both dead and buried, one on each side of the church, two linden trees grew out of their graves, and, stretching over the roof of the church, met there in full bloom. This was very delightful, thought Anthon, and yet so sad! But there could be no sadness where he and Molly were concerned. And then he whistled an air of the Minnesinger's "Walther von der Vogelweide,"—
"Under the lime tree by the hedge;"
"Under the lime tree by the hedge;"
and especially that favourite verse,—
"Beyond the wood, in the quiet dale,Tandaradai,Sang the melodious nightingale."
"Beyond the wood, in the quiet dale,Tandaradai,Sang the melodious nightingale."
This song was always on his lips. He hummed it, and he whistled it on the clear moonlight night, when, passing onhorseback through the deep ravine, he rode in haste to Weimar to visit Molly. He wished to arrive unexpectedly, and hedidarrive unexpectedly.
He was well received. Wine sparkled in the goblets; there was gay society, distinguished society. He had a comfortable room and an excellent bed; and yet he found nothing as he had dreamt and thought to find it. He did not understand himself; he did not understand those about him; but we can understand all. One can be in a house, can mingle with a family, and yet be a total stranger. One may converse, but it is like conversing in a stage coach; may know each other as people know each other in a stage coach; be a restraint upon each other; wish that one were away, or that one's good neighbour were away; and it was thus that Anthon felt.
"I will be sincere with you," said Molly to him. "Things have changed much since we were together as children—changed within and without. Habit and will have no power over our hearts. Anthon, I do not wish to have an enemy in you when I am far away from this, as I soon shall be. Believe me, I have a great regard for you; but to love you—as I now know how one can love another human being—that I have never done. You must put up with this. Farewell, Anthon!"
And Anthon also said farewell. No tears sprang to his eyes, but he perceived that he was no longer Molly's friend. If we were to kiss a burning bar of iron, or a frozen bar of iron, we should experience the same sensation when the skin came off our lips.
Within twenty-four hours Anthon had reached Eisenach again, but the horse he rode was ruined.
"What of that?" cried he. "I am ruined, and I will ruin all that can remind me of her. Fru Holle! Fru Holle! Thou heathenish woman! I will tear down and smash the apple tree, and pull it up by the roots. It shall never blossom or bear fruit more."
But the tree was not destroyed; he himself was knocked down, and lay long in a violent fever. What was to raise him from his sick bed? The medicine that did it was the bitterest that could be—one that shook the languid body and the shrinking soul. Anthon's father was no longer the rich merchant. Days of adversity, days of trial, were close at hand. Misfortune rushed in like overwhelming billows—it surged into that once wealthy house. His father became a poor man, and sorrow and calamity paralysed him. Then Anthon found that he had something else to think of than disappointed love, or being angry with Molly. He had now to be both father and mother in his desolate home. He had to arrange everything, look after everything, and to go forth into the world to work for his own and his parents' bread.
He went to Bremen. There he suffered many privations, and passed many melancholy days; and all that he went through sometimes soured his temper, sometimes saddened him, till strength and mind seemed failing. How different were the world and mankind from what he had fancied them in his childhood! What were now to him Minnesingers' poems and songs? They were gall and wormwood. Yes, this was what he often felt; but there were other times when the songs vibrated to his soul, and his mind became calm and peaceful.
"What God wills is always the best," said he then. "It was well that our Lord did not permit Molly's heart to hangon me. What could it have led to, now that prosperity has left me and mine? She gave me up before she knew or dreamed of this reverse from more fortunate days which was hanging over us. It was the mercy of our Lord towards me. Everything is ordained for the best. Yes, all happens wisely. She could not, therefore, have acted otherwise, and yet how bitter have not my feelings been towards her!"
Years passed on. Anthon's father was dead, and strangers dwelt in his paternal home. Anthon, however, was to see it once more; for his wealthy master sent him on an errand of business, which obliged him to pass through his native town, Eisenach. The oldWartburgstood unchanged, high up on the hill above, with "the monk and the nun" in unhewn stone. The mighty oak trees seemed as imposing as in his childish days. The Venus mount looked like a grey mass frowning over the valley. He would willingly have cried,—
"Fru Holle! Fru Holle! open the hill, and let me stay there, upon the soil of my native home!"
It was a sinful thought, and he crossed himself. Then a little bird sang among the bushes, and the old Minnesong came back to his thoughts:—
"Beyond the wood, in the quiet dale,Tandaradai!Sang the melodious nightingale."
"Beyond the wood, in the quiet dale,Tandaradai!Sang the melodious nightingale."
How remembrances rushed upon him as he approached the town where his childhood had been spent, which he now saw through tears! His father's house remained where it used to be, but the garden was altered; a field footpath was made across a portion of the old garden; and the apple tree that he had not uprooted stood there, but no longer within the garden: it was on the opposite side of the road, though the sunshone on it as cheerfully as of old, and the dew fell on it there. It bore such a quantity of fruit that the branches were weighed down to the ground.
"It thrives!" he exclaimed. "Yes,itcan do so."
One of its well-laden boughs was broken. Wanton hands had done this, for the tree was now on the side of the public road.
"Its blossoms are carried off without thanks; its fruit is stolen, its branches are broken. It may be said of a tree as of a man, 'It was not sung at the tree's cradle that things should turn out thus.' This one began its life so charmingly; and what has now become of it? Forsaken and forgotten—a garden tree standing in a common field, close to a public road, and bending over a miserable ditch! There it stood now, unsheltered, ill-used, and disfigured! It was not, indeed, withered by all this; but as years advanced its blossoms would become fewer—its fruit, if it bore any, late; and so it is all over with it."
Thus thought Anthon under the tree, and thus he thought many a night in the little lonely chamber of the wooden house in the "Small Houses' Street," in Copenhagen, whither his rich master had sent him, having stipulated that he was not to marry.
"Hemarry!" He laughed a strange and hollow laugh.
The winter had commenced early. There was a sharp frost, and without there was a heavy snow storm, so that all who could do so kept within doors. Therefore it was that Anthon's neighbours did not observe that his booth had not been opened for two whole days, and that he had not shown himself during that time. But who would go out in such weather when he could stay at home?
These were dark, dismal days; and in the booth, wherethe window was not of glass, it looked like twilight, if not sombre night. Old Anthon had scarcely left his bed for two days. He had not strength to get up. The intensely cold weather had brought on a severe fit of rheumatism in his limbs, and the old bachelor lay forsaken and helpless, almost too feeble to stretch out his hand to the pitcher of water which he had placed near his bed; and if he could have done so, it would have been of no avail, for the last drop had been drained from it. It was not the fever, not illness alone that had thus prostrated him; it was also old age that had crept upon him. It seemed to be constant night up yonder where he lay. A little spider, which he could not see, spun contentedly its gossamer web over his face. It was soon to stretch like a crepe veil across the features, when the old man closed his eyes.
He dozed a good deal; yet time seemed long and weary. He shed no tears, and had but little suffering. Molly was scarcely ever in his thoughts. He had a conviction that this world and its bustle were no more for him. At one time he seemed to feel hunger and thirst. He did feel them; but no one came to give him nourishment or drink—no one would come. He thought of those who might be fainting or dying of want. He remembered how the pious Elizabeth, while living on this earth—she who had been the favourite heroine of his childish days at home, the magnanimous Duchess of Thüringia—had herself entered the most miserable abodes, and brought to the sick and wretched refreshments and hope. His thoughts dwelt with pleasure on her good deeds. He remembered how she went to feed the hungry, to speak words of comfort to those who were suffering, and to bind up their wounds, although her austerehusband was angry at these works of mercy. He recalled to memory the legend about her, that, as she was going on one of her charitable errands, with a basket well filled with food and wine, her husband, who had watched her steps, rushed out on her, and demanded in high wrath what she was carrying; that, in her fear of him, she replied, "Roses which I have plucked in the garden;" whereupon he dragged the cover off of her basket, and lo! a miracle was worked in favour of the charitable lady, for the wine and bread, and everything in the basket, lay turned into roses.
Thus old Anthon's thoughts wandered to the heroine in history whom he had always so much admired, until her image seemed to stand before his dimming sight, close to his humble pallet in the poor wooden hut in a foreign land. He uncovered his head, looked in fancy into her mild eyes, and all around him seemed a mingling of lustre and of roses redolent with sweet perfume. Then he felt the charming scent of the apple blossom, and he beheld an apple tree spreading its blooming branches above him. Yes, it was the very tree, the seeds of which he and Molly had planted together.
And the tree swept its fragrant leaves over his hot brow, and cooled it; they touched his parched lips, and they were like refreshing wine and bread; they fell upon his breast, and he felt himself softly sinking into a calm slumber.
"I shall sleep now," he whispered feebly to himself. "Sleep restores strength—to-morrow I shall be well and up again. Beautiful, beautiful! The apple tree planted in love I see again in glory."
And he slept.
The following day—it was the third day the booth had beenshut up—the snow drifted no longer, and the neighbours went to see about Anthon, who had not yet shown himself. They found him lying stiff and dead, with his old nightcap pressed between his hands. They did not put it upon him in his coffin—he had also another which was clean and white.
Where now were the tears he had wept? Where were these pearls? They remained in the nightcap. Such precious things do not pass away in the washing. They were preserved and forgotten with the nightcap. The old thoughts, the old dreams—yes, they remained still inthe old bachelor's nightcap. Wish not for that. It will make your brow too hot, make your pulses beat too violently, bring dreams that seem reality. This was proved by the first person who put it on—and that was not till fifty years after—by the burgomaster himself, who was blessed with a wife and eleven children. He dreamt of unhappy love, bankruptcy, and short commons.
"How warm this nightcap is!" he exclaimed, as he dragged it off. Then pearl after pearl began to fall from it, and they jingled and glittered. "I must have got the rheumatism in my head," said the burgomaster. "Sparks seem falling from my eyes."
They were tears wept half a century before—wept by old Anthon from Eisenach.
Whoever has since worn that nightcap has sure enough had visions and dreams; his own history has been turned into Anthon's; his dream has become quite a tale, and there were many of them. Let others relate the rest. We have now told the first, and with it our last words are—Never covetan old bachelor's nightcap.
"I
will be something," said the oldest of five brothers. "I will be of use in the world, let the position be ever so insignificant which I may fill. If it be only respectable, it will be something. I will make bricks—people can't do without these—and then I shall have done something."
"But something too trifling," said the second brother. "What you propose to do is much the same as doing nothing; it is no better than a hodman's work, and can be done by machinery. You had much better become a mason.Thatis something, and that is what I will be. Yes, that is a good trade. A mason can get into a trade's corporation, become a burgher, have his own colours and his own club. Indeed, if I prosper, I may have workmen under me, and be called 'Master,' and my wife 'Mistress;' and that would be something."
"That is next to nothing," said the third. "There are many classes in a town, and that is about the lowest. It isnothing to be called 'Master.' You might be very superior yourself; but as a master mason you would be only what is called 'a common man.' I know of something better. I will be an architect; enter upon the confines of science; work myself up to a high place in the kingdom of mind. I know I must begin at the foot of the ladder. I can hardly bear to say it—I must begin as a carpenter's apprentice, and wear a cap, though I have been accustomed to go about in a silk hat. I must run to fetch beer and spirits for the common workmen, and let them be 'hail fellow well met' with me. This will be disagreeable; but I will fancy that it is all a masquerade and the freedom of maskers. To-morrow—that is to say, when I am a journeyman—I will go my own way. The others will not join me. I shall go to the academy, and learn to draw and design; then I shall be called an architect. That is something! That is much! I may become 'honourable,' or even 'noble'—perhaps both. I shall build and build, as others have done before me.Thereis something to look forward to—something worth being!"
"But that something I should not care about," said the fourth. "I will not march in the wake of anybody. I will not be a copyist; I will be a genius—will be cleverer than you all put together. I shall create a new style, furnish ideas for a building adapted to the climate and materials of the country—something which shall be a nationality, a development of the resources of our age, and, at the same time, an exhibition of my own genius."
"But if by chance the climate and the materials did not suit each other," said the fifth, "that would be unfortunate for the result. Nationalities may be so amplified as to become affectation. The discoveries of the age, like youth,may leave you far behind. I perceive right well that none of you will, in reality, become anything, whatever may be your expectations. But do all of you what you please; I shall not follow your examples. I shall keep myself disengaged, and shall reason upon what you perform. There is something wrong in everything. I will pick that out, and reason upon it. That will be something."
And so he did; and people said of the fifth, "He has not settled to anything. He has a good head, but he does nothing."
Even this, however, made him something.
This is but a short history; yet it is one which will not end as long as the world stands.
But is there nothing more about the five brothers? What has been told is absolutely nothing. Hear further; it is quite a romance.
The eldest brother, who made bricks, perceived that from every stone, when it was finished, rolled a small coin; and though these little coins were but of copper, many of them heaped together became a silver dollar; and when one knocks with such at the baker's, the butcher's, and other shops, the doors fly open, and one gets what one wants. The bricks produced all this. The damaged and broken bricks were also made good use of.
Yonder, above the embankment, Mother Margrethe, a poor old woman, wanted to build a small house for herself. She got all the broken bricks, and some whole ones to boot; for the eldest brother had a good heart. The poor woman built her house herself. It was very small; the only window was put in awry, the door was very low, and the thatched roof might have been laid better; but it was at least a shelter anda cover for her. There was a fine view from it of the sea, which broke in its might against the embankment. The salt spray often dashed over the whole tiny house, which still stood there when he was dead and gone who had given the bricks:—
The second brother could build in another way. He was also clever in his business. When his apprenticeship was over he strapped on his knapsack, and sang the mechanic's song:—