Ганс Христиан Андерсен
O. T., A Danish Romance
CHAPTER XXV
“These poetical letters are so similar to those of Baggesen, that we could be almost tempted to consider the news of his death as false, although so well affirmed that we must acknowledge it.”—Monthly Journal of Literature. “She is as slender as the poplar-willow, as fleet as the hastening waters. A Mayflower odorous and sweet.”—H. P. HOLST.
“Ah, where is the rose?”—Lulu, by GUNTELBURG.
The evening before Otto was to travel with the merchant’s family to Roeskelde he called upon the family where Miss Sophie was staying. Her dear mamma had left three days before. Wilhelm had wished to accompany him to Roeskelde, but the mother did not desire it.
“We have had a pleasure to-day,” said Sophie, “a pleasure from which we shall long have enjoyment. Have you seen the new book, the ‘Letters of a Wandering Ghost?’ It is Baggesen himself in his most perfect beauty, a music which I never believed could have been given in words. This is a poet! He has made July days in the poetry of Denmark. Natural thoughts are so strikingly, and yet so simply expressed; one has the idea that one could write such verses one’s self, they fall so lightly.”
“They are like prose,” said the lady, “and yet the most beautifully perfect verse I know. You must read the book, Mr. Thostrup!”
“Perhaps you will read to us this evening?” said Sophie. “I should very much like to hear it again.”
“In a second reading one shall enter better into the individual beauties,” said the lady of the house.
“I will remain and listen,” said the host.
“This must be a masterpiece!” exclaimed Otto,”—a true masterpiece, since all are so delighted with it.”
“It is Baggesen himself; and truly as he must sing in that world where everything mortal is ennobled.”
“‘Meadows all fragrance, the strongholds of pleasure, Heaven blue streamlets,
That speed through the green woods in musical measure,’” began Otto, and the spiritual battle-piece with beauty and tone developed itself more and more; they found themselves in the midst of the winter camp of the Muses, where the poet with
…“lyre on his shoulder and sword at....
Hastened to fight with the foes of the Muses.” Otto’s gloomy look won during the perusal a more animated expression. “Excellent!” exclaimed he; “this is what I myself have thought and felt, but, alas! have been unable to express.”
“I am a strange girl,” said Sophie; “whenever I read a new poet of distinguished talent, I consider that he is the greatest. It was so with Byron and Victor Hugo. ‘Cain’ overwhelmed me, ‘Notre Dame’ carried me away with it. Once I could imagine no greater poet than Walter Scott, and yet I forget him over Oehlenschläger; yes, I remember a time when Heiberg’s vaudevilles took almost the first place among my chosen favorites. Thus I know myself and my changeable disposition, and yet I firmly believe that I shall make an exception with this work. Other poets showed me the objects of the outer world, this one shows me my own mind: my own thoughts, my own being he presents before me, and therefore I shall always take the same interest in the Ghost’s Letters.”
“They are true food for the mind,” said Otto; “they are as words in season; there must be movement in the lake, otherwise it will become a bog.”
“The author is severe toward those whom he has introduced,” said the lady; “but he carries, so to say, a sweet knife. A wound from a sharp sword-blade is not so painful as that from a rusty, notched knife.”
“But who may the author be?” said Sophie.
“May we never learn!” replied Otto. “Uncertainty gives the book something piquant. In such a small country as ours it is good for the author to be unknown. Here we almost tread upon each other, and look into each other’s garments. Here the personal conditions of the author have much to do with success; and then there are the newspapers, where either friend or enemy has an assistant, whereas the being anonymous gives it the patent of nobility. It is well never to know an author. What does his person matter to us, if his book is only good?
“‘Crush and confound the rabble dissolute That desecrate thy poet’s grave?’” read Otto, and the musical poem was at an end. All were enchanted with it. Otto alone made some small objections: “The Muses ought not to come with ‘trumpets and drums,’ and so many expressions similar to ‘give a blow on the chaps,’ etc., ought not to appear.”
“But if the poet will attack what is coarse,” said Sophie, “he must call things by their proper names. He presents us with a specimen of the prosaic filth, but in a soap-bubble. We may see it, but not seize upon it. I consider that you are wrong!”
“The conception of idea and form,” said Otto, “does not seem to be sufficiently presented to one; both dissolve into one. Even prose is a form.”
“But the form itself is the most important,” said the lady of the house; “with poetry as with sculpture, it is the form which gives the meaning.”
“No, pardon me!” said Otto; “poetry is like the tree which God allows to grow. The inward power expresses itself in the form; both are equally important, but I consider the internal as the most holy. This is here the poet’s thought. The opinion which he expresses affects us as much as the beautiful dress in which he has presented it.”
Now commenced a contest upon form and material, such as was afterward maintained throughout the whole of Copenhagen.
“I shall always admire the ‘Letters of a Wandering Ghost,’” said Sophie,—“always rave about these poems. To-night I shall dream of nothing but this work of art.”
How little men can do that which they desire, did this very moment teach.
When we regard the fixed star through a telescope and lose ourselves in contemplation, a little hair can conceal the mighty body, a grain of dust lead us from these sublime thoughts. A letter came for Miss Sophie; a traveller brought it from her mother: she was already in Funen, and announced her safe arrival.
“And the news?” said the hostess.
“Mamma has hired a new maid, or, rather, she has taken to be with her an amiable young girl—the pretty Eva in Roeskelde. Mr. Thostrup and Wilhelm related to us this summer several things about her which make her interesting. We saw her on our journey hither, when mamma was prepossessed by her well-bred appearance. Upon her return, the young girl has quite won her heart. It really were a pity if such a pretty, respectable girl remained in a public-house. She is very pretty; is she not, Mr. Thostrup?”
“Very pretty!” answered Otto, becoming crimson, for Sophie said this with an emphasis which was not without meaning.
The following day, at an early hour, Otto found himself at the merchant’s.
Spite of the changeable weather of our climate, all the ladies were in their best dresses. Three persons must sit upon each seat. Hans Peter and the lover had their place beside the coachman. It was a long time before the cold meat, the provision for several days, was packed up, and the whole company were seated. At length, when they had got out of the city, Christiane recollected that they had forgotten the umbrellas, and that, after all, it would be good to have them. The coachman must go back for them, and meantime the carriage drew up before the Column of Liberty. The poor sentinel must now become an object of Miss Grethe’s interest. Several times the soldier glanced down upon his regimentals. He was a Krähwinkler, who had an eye to his own advantage. A man who rode past upon a load of straw occupied a high position. That was very interesting.
Otto endeavored to give the conversation another direction. “Have not you seen the new poem which has just appeared, the ‘Letters of a Wandering Ghost?’” asked he, and sketched out their beauty and tendency.
“Doubtless, very heavy blows are dealt!” said Mr. Berger, “the man must be witty—Baggesen to the very letter.”
“The ‘Copenhagen Post’ is called the pump!” said Hans Peter.
“That is superb!” cried Grethe. “Who does it attack besides?”
“Folks in Soroe, and this ‘Holy Andersen,’ as they call him.”
“Does he get something?” said Laide. “That I will grant him for his milk and water. He was so impolite toward the ladies!”
“I like them to quarrel in this way!” said the merchant’s lady. “Heiberg will doubtless get his share also, and then he will reply in something merry.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Berger, “he always knows how to twist things in such a manner that one must laugh, and then it is all one to us whether he is right or not.”
“This book is entirely for Heiberg,” said Otto. “The author is anonymous, and a clever man.”
“Good Heavens! you are not the author, Mr. Thostrup?” cried Julle, and looked at him with a penetrating gaze. “You can manage such things so secretly! You think so highly of Heiberg: I remember well all the beautiful things you said of his ‘Walter the Potter’ and his ‘Psyche.’”
Otto assured her that he could not confess to this honor.
They reached Roeskelde in the forenoon, but Eva did not receive them. The excursion to Lethraborg was arranged; toward evening they should again return to the inn, and then Eva would certainly appear.
The company walked in the garden at Lethraborg: the prospect from the terrace was beautiful; they looked through the windows of the castle, and at length came to the conclusion that it would be best to go in.
“There are such beautiful paintings, people say!” remarked the lover.
“We must see them,” cried all the ladies.
“Do you often visit the picture-gallery of the Christiansborg?” inquired Otto.
“I cannot say that we do!” returned Mrs. Berger. “You well know that what is near one seldom sees, unless one makes a downright earnest attempt, and that we have not yet done. Besides, not many people go up: that wandering about the great halls is so wearying.”
“There are splendid pieces by Ruysdal!” said Otto.
“Salvator Rosa’s glorious ‘Jonas’ is well worth looking at!”
“Yes, we really must go at once, whilst our little Maja is here. It does not cost more than the Exhibition, and we were there three times last year. The view from the castle windows toward the canal, as well as toward the ramparts, is so beautiful, they say.”
The company now viewed the interior of Lethraborg, and then wandered through the garden and in the wood. The trees had their autumnal coloring, but the whole presented a variety of tints far richer than one finds in summer. The dark fir-trees, the yellow beeches and oaks, whose outermost branches had sent forth light green shoots, presented a most picturesque effect, and formed a splendid foreground to the view over old Leire, the royal city, now a small village, and across the bay to the splendid cathedral.
“That resembles a scene in a theatre!” cried Mrs. Berger, and immediately the company were deep in dramatic affairs.
“Such a decoration they should have in the royal theatre!” said Hans Peter.
“Yes, they should have many such!” said Grethe. “They should have some other pieces than those they have. I know not how it is with our poets; they have no inventive power. Relate the droll idea which thou hadst the other day for a new piece!” said she to her lover, and stroked his cheeks.
“O,” said he, and affected a kind of indifference, “that was only an idea such as one has very often. But it might become a very nice piece. When the curtain is drawn up, one should see close upon the lamps the gable-ends of two houses. The steep roofs must go down to the stage, so that it is only half a yard wide, and this is to represent a watercourse between the two houses. In each garret a poor but interesting family should dwell, and these should step forth into the watercourse, and there the whole piece should be played.”
“But what should then happen?” asked Otto.
“Yes,” said the lover, “I have not thought about that; but see, there is the idea! I am no poet, and have too much to do at the counting-house, otherwise one might write a little piece.”
“Heavens! Heiberg ought to have the idea!” said Grethe.
“No, then it would be a vaudeville,” said the lover, “and I cannot bear them.”
“O, it might be made charming!” cried Grethe. “I see the whole piece! how they clamber about the roofs! The idea is original, thou sweet friend!”
By evening the family were again in Roeskelde.
The merchant sought for Eva. Otto inquired after her, so did Hans Peter also, and all three received the same answer.
“She is no longer here.”
CHAPTER XXVI
“I wish I was air, that I could beat my wings, could chase the clouds, and try to fly over the mountain summits: that would be life.”—F. RÜCKERT.
The first evening after Otto’s return to Copenhagen he spent with Sophie, and the conversation turned upon his little journey. “The pretty Eva has vanished!” said he.
“You had rejoiced in the prospect of this meeting, had you not?” asked Sophie.
“No, not in the least!” answered Otto.
“And you wish to make me believe that? She is really pretty, and has something so unspeakably refined, that a young gentleman might well be attracted by her. With my brother it is not all quite right in this respect; but, candidly speaking, I am in great fear on your account, Mr. Thostrup. Still waters—you know the proverb? I might have spared you the trouble. The letter which I received a few evenings ago informed me of her departure. Mamma has taken her with her. It seemed to her a sin to leave that sweet, innocent girl in a public-house. The host and hostess were born upon our estate, and look very much up to my mother; and as Eva will certainly gain by the change, the whole affair was soon settled. It is well that she is come under mamma’s oversight.”
“The girl is almost indifferent to me!” said Otto.
“Almost!” repeated Sophie. “But this almost, how many degrees of warmth does it contain? ‘O Vérité! Où sont les autels et tes prêtres?’” added she, and smiling raised her finger.
“Time will show how much you are in error!” answered Otto with much calmness.
The lady of the house now entered, she had made various calls; everywhere the Ghost’s Letters were the subject of conversation, and now the conversation took the same direction.
It was often renewed. Otto was a very frequent guest at the house. The ladies sat at their embroidery frames and embroidered splendid pieces of work, and Otto must again read the “Letters of the Wandering Ghost;” after this they began “Calderon,” in whom Sophie found something resembling the anonymous author. The world of poetry afforded subjects for discourse, and every-day life intermingled its light, gay scenes; if Wilhelm joined them, he must give them music, and all remarked that his fantasies were become far richer, far softer. He had gained his touch from Weyse, said they. No one thought how much one may learn from one’s own heart. With this exception he was the same joyous youth as ever. No one thought of him and Eva together. Since that evening when the friends had almost quarreled, he had never mentioned her name; but Otto had remarked how when any female figure met them, Wilhelm’s eyes flashed, and how, in society, he singled out the most beautiful. Otto said jokingly to him, that he was getting oriental thoughts. Oehlenschläger’s “Helge,” and Goethe’s Italian sonnets were now Wilhelm’s favorite reading. The voluptuous spirit of these poems agreed with the dreams which his warm feelings engendered. It was Eva’s beauty—her beauty alone which had awoke this feeling in him; the modesty and poverty of the poor girl had captivated him still more, and caused him to forget rank and condition. At the moment when he would approach her, she was gone. The poison was now in his blood. If is gay and happy spirit did not meanwhile let him sink into melancholy and meditation; his feeling for beauty was excited, as he himself expressed it. In thought he pressed beauty to his heart, but only in thought—but even this is sin, says the Gospel.
Otto, on the contrary, moved in the lists of philosophy and poetry. Here his soul conceived beauty—inspired, he expressed it; and Sophie’s eyes flashed, and rested with pleasure on him. This flattered him and increased his inspirations. For many years no winter had been to him so pleasant, had passed away so rich in change as this; he caught at the fluttering joy and yet there were moments when the though pressed upon him—“Life is hastening away, and I do not enjoy it.” In the midst of his greatest happiness he experienced a strange yearning after the changing life of travel. Paris glanced before his eyes like a star of fortune.
“Out into the bustling world!” said he so often to Wilhelm, that the same thought was excited in him. “In the spring we will travel!” Now were plans formed; circumstances were favorable. Thus in the coming spring, in April, the still happier days should begin.
“We will fly to Paris!” said Wilhelm; “to joy and pleasure!”
Joy and pleasure were to be found at home, and were found: we will introduce the evening which brought them; perhaps we shall also find something more than joy and pleasure.
CHAPTER XXVII
“A midsummer day’s entertainment—but how? In February? Yea, some here and behold it!”—DR. BALFUNGO.
With us the students form no Burschenschafts, have no colors. The professors do not alone in the chair come into connection with them; the only difference is that which exists between young and old scholars. Thus they come in contact with each other, thus they participate in their mutual pleasures. We will spend an evening of this kind in the Students’ Club, and then see for ourselves whether Miss Sophie were right when she wished she were a man, merely that she might be a student and member of this club. We choose one evening in particular, not only that we may seek a brilliant moment, but because this evening can afford us more than a description.
An excursion to the park had often been discussed in the club. They wished to hire the Caledonia steam-packet. But during the summer months the number of members is less; the majority are gone to the provinces to visit their relations. Winter, on the contrary, assembles them all. This time, also, is the best for great undertakings. The long talked of excursion to the park was therefore fixed for Carnival Monday, the 14th of February, 1831. Thus ran the invitations to the professors and older members. “It will be too cold for me,” replied one. “Must one take a carriage for one’s self?” asked mother. No, the park was removed to Copenhagen. In the Students’ Club itself, in the Boldhuus Street, No. 225, was the park-hill with its green trees, its swings, and amusements. See, only the scholars of the Black School could have such ideas!
The evening of the 114th of February drew near. The guests assembled in the rooms on the first floor. Meanwhile all was arranged in the second story. Those who represented jugglers were in their places. A thundering cracker was the steamboat signal, and now people hastened to the park, rushing up-stairs, where two large rooms had, with great taste and humor, been converted into the park-hill. Large fir-trees concealed the walls—you found yourself in a complete wood. The doors which connected the two rooms were decorated with sheets, so that it looked as if you were going through a tent. Hand-organs played, drums and trumpets roared, and from tents and stages the hawkers shouted one against the other. It was a noise such as is heard in the real park when the hubbub has reached its height. The most brilliant requisites of the real park were found here, and they were not imitated; they were the things themselves. Master Jakel’s own puppets had been hired; a student, distinguished by his complete imitation of the first actors, represented them by the puppets. The fortress of Frederiksteen was the same which we have already seen in the park. “The whole cavalry and infantry,—here a fellow without a bayonet, there a bayonet without a fellow!” The old Jew sat under his tree where he announced his fiftieth park jubilee: here a student ate flax, there another exhibited a bear; Polignac stood as a wax figure outside a cabinet. The Magdalene convent exhibited its little boxes, the drum-major beat most lustily, and from a near booth came the real odor of warm wafer-cakes. The spring even, which presented itself in the outer room, was full of significance. Certainly it was only represented by a tea-urn concealed between moss and stones, but the water was real water, brought from the well in Christiansborg. Astounding and full of effect was the multitude of sweet young girls who showed themselves. Many of the youngest students who had feminine features were dressed as ladies; some of them might even be called pretty. Who that then saw the fair one with the tambourine can have forgotten her? The company crowded round the ladies. The professors paid court to them with all propriety, and, what was best of all, some ladies who were less successful became jealous of the others. Otto was much excited; the noise, the bustle, the variety of people, were almost strikingly given. Then came the master of the fire-engines, with his wife and little granddaughter; then three pretty peasant girls; then the whole Botanical Society, with their real professor at their head. Otto seated himself in a swing; an itinerant flute-player and a drummer deafened him with dissonances. A young lady, one of the beauties, in a white dress, and with a thin handkerchief over her shoulders, approached and threw herself into his arms. It was Wilhelm! but Otto found his likeness to Sophie stronger than he had ever before noticed it to be; and therefore the blood rushed to his cheeks when the fair one threw her arms around him, and laid her cheek upon his: he perceived more of Sophie than of Wilhelm in this form. Certainly Wilhelm’s features were coarser—his whole figure larger than Sophie’s; but still Otto fancied he saw Sophie, and therefore these marked gestures, this reeling about with the other students, offended his eyes. When Wilhelm seated himself on his knee, and pressed his cheek to his, Otto felt his heart beat as in fever; it sent a stream of fire through his blood: he thrust him away, but the fair one continued to overwhelm him with caresses.
There now commenced, in a so-called Krähwinkel theatre, the comedy, in which were given the then popular witticisms of Kellerman.
The lady clung fast to Otto, and flew dancing with him through the crowd. The heat, the noise, and, above all, the exaggerated lacing, affected Wilhelm; he felt unwell. Otto led him to a bench and would have unfastened his dress, but all the young ladies, true to their part, sprang forward, pushed Otto aside, surrounded their sick companion and concealed her, whilst they tore up the dress behind so that she might have air: but, God forbid! no gentleman might see it.
Toward evening a song was commenced, a shot was heard, and the last verse announced:—
“The gun has been fired, the vessel must fly
To 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 North
Where it is good to be.”
It concluded with—
“An hurrah
For 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 the carnival joy, a new song refreshed the image of the nark which they had just left:—
“Here if green trees were not growing
Fresh 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.
