Ганс Христиан Андерсен
O. T., A Danish Romance
“That is a handsome boy!” exclaimed the two friends at the same time.
“And a lovely melody!” added Otto.
“Yes, but they sing falsely!” answered Wilhelm: “one sings half a tone too low, the other half a tone too high!”
“Now, thank God that I cannot hear that!” said Otto. “It sounds sweetly, and the little one might become a singer. Poor child!” added he gravely: “bare feet, wet to the very skin; and then the elder one will certainly lead him to brandy drinking! Within a month, perhaps, the voice will be gone! Then is the nightingale dead!” He quickly threw down some skillings, wrapped in paper.
“Come up!” cried Wilhelm, and beckoned. The eldest of the boys flew up like an arrow; Wilhelm, however, said it was the youngest who was meant. The others remained standing before the door; the youngest stepped in.
“Whose son art thou?” asked Wilhelm. The boy was silent, and cast down his eyes in an embarrassed manner. “Now, don’t be bashful! Thou art of a good family—that one can see from thy appearance! Art not thou thy mother’s son? I will give thee stockings and—the deuce! here is a pair of boots which are too small for me; if thou dost not get drowned in them they shall be thy property: but now thou must sing.” And he seated himself at the piano-forte and struck the keys. “Now, where art thou?” he cried, rather displeased. The little one gazed upon the ground.
“How! dost thou weep; or is it the rain which hangs in thy black eyelashes?” said Otto, and raised his head: “we only wish to do thee a kindness. There—thou hast another skilling from me.”
The little one still remained somewhat laconic. All that they learned was that he was named Jonas, and that his grandmother thought so much of him.
“Here thou hast the stockings!” said Wilhelm; “and see here! a coat with a velvet collar, a much-to-be-prized keepsake! The boots! Thou canst certainly stick both legs into one boot! See! that is as good as having two pairs to change about with! Let us see!”
The boy’s eyes sparkled with joy; the boots he drew on, the stockings went into his pocket, and the bundle he took under his arm.
“But thou must sing us a little song!” said Wilhelm, and the little one commenced the old song out of the “Woman-hater,” “Cupid never can be trusted!”
The lively expression in the dark eyes, the boy himself in his wet, wretched clothes and big boots, with the bundle under his arm; nay, the whole had something so characteristic in it, that had it been painted, and had the painter called the picture “Cupid on his Wanderings,” every one would have found the little god strikingly excellent, although he were not blind.
“Something might be made of the boy and of his voice!” said Wilhelm, when little Jonas, in a joyous mood, had left the house with the other lads.
“The poor child!” sighed Otto. “I have fairly lost my good spirits through all this. It seizes upon me so strangely when I see misery and genius mated. Once there came to our estate in Jutland a man who played the Pandean-pipes, and at the same time beat the drum and cymbals: near him stood a little girl, and struck the triangle. I was forced to weep over this spectacle; without understanding how it was, I felt the misery of the poor child. I was myself yet a mere boy.”
“He looked so comic in the big boots that I became quite merry, and not grave,” said Wilhelm. “Nevertheless what a pity it is that such gentle blood, which at the first glance one perceives he is, that such a pretty child should become a rude fellow, and his beautiful voice change into a howl, like that with which the other tall Laban saluted us. Who knows whether little Jonas might not become the first singer on the Danish stage? Yes, if he received education of mind and voice, who knows? I could really have, pleasure in attempting it, and help every one on in the world, before I myself am rightly in the way!”
“If he is born to a beggar’s estate,” said Otto, “let him as beggar live and die, and learn nothing higher. That is better, that is more to be desired!”
Wilhelm seated himself at the piano-forte, and played some of his own compositions. “That is difficult,” said he; “every one cannot play that.”
“The simpler the sweeter!” replied Otto.
“You must not speak about music!” returned the friend “upon that you know not how to pass judgment. Light Italian operas are not difficult to write.”
In the evening the friends separated. Whilst Otto took his hat, there was a low knock at the door. Wilhelm opened it. Without stood a poor old woman, with pale sharp features; by the hand she led a little boy—it was Jonas: thus then it was a visit from him and his grandmother.
The other boys had sold the boots and shoes which had been given him. They ought to have a share, they maintained. This atrocious injustice had induced the old grandmother to go immediately with little Jonas to the two good gentlemen, and relate how little the poor lad had received of flint which they had assigned to him alone.
Wilhelm spoke of the boy’s sweet voice, and thought that by might make his fortune at the theatre; but then he ought not now to be left running about with bare feet in the wind and rain.
“But by this means he brings a skilling home,” said the old woman. “That’s what his father and mother look to, and the skilling they can always employ. Nevertheless she had herself already thought of bringing him out at the theatre,—but that was to have been in dancing, for they got shoes and stockings to dance in, and with these they might also run home; and that would be an advantage.”
“I will teach the boy music!” said Wilhelm; “he can come to me sometimes.”
“And then he will, perhaps, get a little cast-off clothing, good sir,” said the grandmother; “a shirt, or a waistcoat, just as it happens?”
“Become a tailor, or shoemaker,” said Otto, gravely, and laid his hand upon the boy’s head.
“He shall be a genius!” said Wilhelm.
CHAPTER IV
“Christmas-tide,
When in the wood the snow shines bright.”
OEHLENSCHLÄGER’S Helge
We again let several weeks pass by; it was Christmas Eve, which brings us the beautiful Christmas festival. We find the two friends taking a walk.
Describe to an inhabitant of the south a country where the earth appears covered with the purest Carrara marble, where the tree twigs resemble white branches of coral sprinkled with diamonds, and above a sky as blue as that belonging to the south, and he will say that is a fairy land. Couldst thou suddenly remove him from his dark cypresses and olive-trees to the north, where the fresh snow lies upon the earth, where the white hoar-frost has powdered the trees over, and the sun shines down from the blue heaven, then would he recognize the description and call the north a fairy land.
This was the splendor which the friends admired. The large trees upon the fortification-walls appeared crystallized when seen against the blue sky. The Sound was not yet frozen over; vessels, illuminated by the red evening sun, glided past with spread sails. The Swedish coast seemed to have approached nearer; one might see individual houses in Landskrona. It was lovely, and on this account there were many promenaders upon the walls and the Langelinie.
“Sweden seems so near that one might swim over to it!” said Wilhelm.
“The distance would be too far,” answered Otto; “but I should love to plunge among the deep blue waters yonder.”
“How refreshing it is,” said Wilhelm, “when the water plays about one’s cheeks! Whilst I was at home, I always swam in the Great Belt. Yes, you are certainly half a fish when you come into the water.”
“I!” repeated Otto, and was silent; but immediately added, with a kind of embarrassment which was at other times quite foreign to him, and from which one might infer how unpleasant confessing any imperfection was to him, “I do not swim.”
“That must be learned in summer!” said Wilhelm.
“There is so much to learn,” answered Otto; “swimming will certainly be the last thing.” He now suddenly turned toward the fortress, and stood still. “Only see how melancholy and quiet!” said he, and led the conversation again to the surrounding scenery. “The sentinel before the prison paces so quietly up and down, the sun shines upon his bayonet! How this reminds me of a sweet little poem of Heine’s; it is just as though he described this fortress and this soldier, but in the warmth of summer: one sees the picture livingly before one, as here; the weapon glances in the sun, and the part ends so touchingly,—‘Ich wollt’, er schösse mich todt!’ It is here so romantically beautiful! on the right the animated promenade, and the view over the Sund; on the left, the desolate square, where the military criminals are shot, and close upon it the prison with its beam-fence. The sun scarcely shines through those windows. Yet, without doubt, the prisoner can see us walking here upon the wall.”
“And envy our golden freedom!” said Wilhelm.
“Perhaps he derides it,” answered Otto. “He is confined to his chamber and the small courts behind the beam-lattice; we are confined to the coast; we cannot fly forth with the ships into the mighty, glorious world. We are also fastened with a chain, only ours is somewhat longer than that of the prisoner. But we will not think of this; let us go down to where the beautiful ladies are walking.”
“To see and to be seen,” cried Wilhelm. “‘Spectatum veniunt; veniunt spectentur ut ipsae,’ as Ovid says.”
The friends quitted the wall.
“There comes my scholar, little Jonas!” cried Wilhelm. “The boy was better dressed than at his last appearance; quickly he pulled his little cap off and stood still: a young girl in a wretched garb held him by the hand.
“Good day, my clever lad!” said Wilhelm, and his glance rested on the girl: she was of a singularly elegant form; had she only carried herself better she would have been a perfect beauty. It was Psyche herself who stood beside Cupid. She smiled in a friendly manner; the little lad had certainly told her who the gentlemen were; but she became crimson, and cast down her eyes when Wilhelm looked back after her: he beckoned to Jonas, who immediately came to him. The girl was his sister, he said, and was called Eva. Wilhelm nodded to her, and the friends went on.
“That was a beautiful girl!” said Wilhelm, and looked back once more. “A rosebud that one could kiss until it became a full blown rose!”
“During the experiment the rosebud might easily be broken!” answered Otto; “at least such is the case with the real flower. But do not look back again, that is a sin!”
“Sin?” repeated Wilhelm; “no, then it is a very innocent sin! Believe me, it flatters the little creature that we should admire her beauty. I can well imagine how enchanting a loving look from a rich young gentleman may be for a weak, feminine mind. The sweet words which one can say are as poison which enters the blood. I have still a clear conscience. Not ONE innocent soul have I poisoned!”
“And yet you are rich and young enough to do so,” returned Otto, not without bitterness. “Our friends precede us with a good example: here come some of our own age; they are acquainted with the roses!”
“Good evening, thou good fellow!” was the greeting Wilhelm received from three or four of the young men.
“Are you on Thou-terms with all these?” inquired Otto.
“Yes,” answered Wilhelm; “we became so at a carouse. There all drank the Thou-brotherhood. I could not draw myself back. At other times I do not willingly give my ‘thou’ to any but my nearest friends. Thou has something to my mind affectionate and holy. Many people fling it to the first person with whom they drink a glass. At the carouse I could not say no.”
“And wherefore not?” returned Otto; “that would never have troubled me.”
The friends now wandered on, arm-in-arm. Later in the evening we again meet with them together, and that at the house of a noble family, whose name and rank are to be found in the “Danish Court Calendar;” on which account it would be wanting in delicacy to mention the same, even in a story the events of which lie so near our hearts.
Large companies are most wearisome. In these there are two kinds of rank. Either you are riveted to a card-table, or placed against the wall where you must stand with your hat in your hand, or, later in the evening, with it at your feet, nay, even must stand during supper. But this house was one of the most intellectual. Thou who dost recognize the house wilt also recognize that it is not to be reckoned with those,—
“Where each day’s gossiping stale fish
Is served up daily for thy dish.”
This evening we do not become acquainted with the family, but only with their beautiful Christmas festival.
The company was assembled in a large apartment; the shaded lamp burned dimly, but this was with the intention of increasing the effect when the drawing-room doors should open and the children joyfully press in together.
Wilhelm now stepped to the piano-forte; a few chords produced stillness and attention. To the sounds of low music there stepped forth from the side-doors three maidens arrayed in white; each wore a long veil depending from the back of her head,—one blue, the other red, and the third white. Each carried in her arms an urn, and thus they represented fortune-tellers from the East. They brought good or ill luck, which each related in a little verse. People were to draw a number, and according to this would he receive his gift from the Christmas-tree. One of the maidens brought blanks—but which of them? now it was proved whether you were a child of fortune. All, even the children, drew their uncertain numbers: exception was only made with the family physician and a few elderly ladies of the family; these had a particular number stuck into their hands—their presents had been settled beforehand.
“Who brings me good luck?” inquired Otto, as the three pretty young girls approached him. The one with a white veil was Wilhelm’s eldest sister, Miss Sophie, who was this winter paying a visit to the family. She resembled her brother. The white drapery about her head increased the expression of her countenance. She rested her gaze firmly upon Otto, and, perhaps, because he was the friend of her brother, she raised her finger. Did she wish to warn or to challenge him? Otto regarded it as a challenge, thrust his hand into the urn, and drew out number 33. All were now provided. The girls disappeared, and the folding-doors of the drawing-room were opened.
A dazzling light streamed toward the guests. A splendid fir-tree, covered with burning tapers, and hung over with tinsel-gold, gilt eggs and apples, almonds and grapes, dazzled the eye. On either side of the tree were grottoes of fir-trees and moss, hung with red and blue paper lamps. In each grotto was an altar; upon one stood John of Bologna’s floating Mercury; upon the other, a reduced cast in plaster of Thorwaldsen’s Shepherd-boy. The steps were covered with presents, to which were attached the different numbers.
“Superbe! lovely!” resounded from all sides; and the happy children shouted for joy. People arranged themselves in a half-circle, one row behind the other. One of the cousins of the family now stepped forth, a young poet, who, if we mistake not, has since then appeared among the Anonymouses in “The New Year’s Gift of Danish Poets.” He was appareled this evening as one of the Magi, and recited a little poem which declared that, as each one had himself drawn out of the urn of Fate, no one could be angry, let him have procured for himself honor or derision—Fate, and not Merit, being here the ruler. Two little boys, with huge butterfly wings and in flowing garments, bore the presents to the guests. A number, which had been purposely given to one of the elder ladies, was now called out, and the boys brought forward a large, heavy, brown earthen jug. To the same hung a direction the length of two sheets of paper, upon which was written, “A remedy against frost.” The jug was opened, and a very nice boa taken out and presented to the lady.
“What number have you?” inquired Otto of Wilhelm’s sister, who, freed from her long veil, now entered the room and took her place near him.
“Number 34,” she answered. “I was to keep the number which remained over when the others had drawn.”
“We are, then, neighbors in the chain of Fate,” returned Otto; “I have number 33.”
“Then one of us will receive something very bad!” said Sophie. “For, as much as I know, only every other number is good.” At this moment their numbers were called out. The accompanying poem declared that only a poetical, noble mind deserved this gift. It consisted of an illuminated French print, the subject a simple but touching idea. You saw a frozen lake, nothing but one expanse of ice as far as the horizon. The ice was broken, and near to the opening lay a hat with a red lining, and beside it sat a dog with grave eyes, still and expectant. Around the broken opening in the ice were seen traces of the dog having scratched into the hard crust of ice. “Il attend toujours” was the simple motto.
“That is glorious!” exclaimed Otto. “An affecting thought! His master has sunk in the depth, and the faithful log yet awaits him. Had that picture only fallen to my lot!”
“It is lovely!” said Sophie, and a melancholy glance made the young girl still more beautiful.
Soon after Wilhelm’s turn came.
“Open the packet, thou shalt see
The very fairest gaze on thee!”
ran the verse. He opened the packet, and found within a small mirror. “Yes, that was intended for a lady,” said he; “in that case it would have spoken the truth! in my hands it makes a fool of me.
“For me nothing certainly remains but my number!” said Otto to his neighbor, as all the gifts appeared to be distributed.
“The last is number 33,” said the cousin, and drew forth a roll of paper, which had been hidden among the moss. It was unrolled. It was an old pedigree of an extinct race. Quite at the bottom lay the knight with shield and armor, and out of his breast grew the many-branched tree with its shields and names. Probably it had been bought, with other rubbish, at some auction, and now at Christmas, when every hole and corner was rummaged for whatever could be converted into fun or earnest, it had been brought out for the Christmas tree. The cousin read the following verse:—
“Art thou not noble?—then it in far better;
This tree unto thy father is not debtor;
Thyself alone is thy ancestral crown.
From thee shall spring forth branches of renown,
And if thou come where blood gives honor’s place,
This tree shall prove thee first of all thy race!
From this hour forth thy soul high rank hath won her,
Not will forget thy knighthood and thy honor.”
“I congratulate you,” said Wilhelm, laughing. “Now you will have to pay the nobility-tax!”
Several of the ladies who stood near him, smiling, also offered a kind of congratulation. Sophie alone remained silent, and examined the present of another lady—a pretty pincushion in the form of a gay butterfly.
The first row now rose to examine more nearly how beautifully the Christmas tree was adorned. Sophie drew one of the ladies away with her.
“Let us look at the beautiful statues,” said she; “the Shepherd-boy and the Mercury.”
“That is not proper,” whispered the lady; “but look there at the splendid large raisins on the tree!”
Sophie stepped before Thorwaldsen’s Shepherd-boy. The lady whispered to a friend, “It looks so odd that she should examine the figures!”
“Ah!” replied the other, “she is a lover of the fine arts, as you well know. Only think! at the last exhibition she went with her brother into the great hall where all the plaster-casts stand, and looked at them!—the Hercules, as well as the other indecent figures! they were excellent, she said. That is being so natural; otherwise she is a nice girl.”
“It is a pity she is a little awry.”
Sophie approached them; both ladies made room for her, and invited her most lovingly to sit clown beside them. “Thou sweet girl!” they flatteringly exclaimed.
CHAPTER V
“Hark to trumpets and beaten gongs,
Squeaking fiddles, shouts and songs.
Hurra! hurra!
The Doctor is here;
And here the hills where fun belongs.”
J. L. HEIBERG.
We will not follow the principal characters of our story step for step, but merely present the prominent moments of their lives to our readers, be these great or small; we seize on them, if they in any way contribute to make the whole picture more worthy of contemplation.
The winter was over, the birds of passage had long since returned; the woods and fields shone in the freshest green, and, what to the friends was equally interesting, they had happily passed through their examen philologicum. Wilhelm, who, immediately after its termination, had accompanied his sister home, was again returned, sang with little Jonas, reflected upon the philosophicum, and also how he would thoroughly enjoy the summer,—the summer which in the north is so beautiful, but so short. It was St. John’s Day. Families had removed from Copenhagen to their pretty country-seats on the coast, where people on horseback and in carriages rushed past, and where the highway was crowded with foot-passengers. The whole road presented a picture of life upon the Paris Boulevard. The sun was burning, the dust flew up high into the air; on which account many persons preferred the pleasanter excursion with the steamboat along the coast, from whence could be seen the traffic on the high-road without enduring the annoyance of dust and heat. Boats skimmed past; brisk sailors, by the help of vigorous strokes of the oar, strove to compete with the steam-packet, the dark smoke from which, like some demon, partly rested upon the vessel, partly floated away in the air.
Various young students, among whom were also Wilhelm and Otto, landed at Charlottenlund, the most frequented place of resort near Copenhagen. Otto was here for the first time; for the first time he should see the park.
A summer’s afternoon in Linken’s Bad, near Dresden, bears a certain resemblance to Charlottenlund, only that the Danish wood is larger; that instead of the Elbe we have the Sound, which is here three miles broad, and where often more than a hundred vessels, bearing flags of all the European nations, glide past. A band of musicians played airs out of “Preciosa;” the white tents glanced like snow or swans through the green beech-trees. Here and there was a fire-place raised of turf, over which people boiled and cooked, so that the smoke rose up among the trees. Outside the wood, waiting in long rows, were the peasants’ vehicles, called “coffee-mills,” completely answering ho the couricolo of the Neapolitan and the coucou of the Parisian, equally cheap, and overladen in the same manner with passengers, therefore forming highly picturesque groups. This scene has been humorously treated in a picture by Marstrand. Between fields and meadows, the road leads pleasantly toward the park; the friends pursued the foot-path.
“Shall I brush the gentlemen?” cried five or six boys, at the same time pressing upon the friends as they approached the entrance to the park. Without waiting for an answer, the boys commenced at once brushing the dust from their clothes and boots.
“These are Kirsten Piil’s pages,” said Wilhelm, laughing; “they take care that people show themselves tolerably smart. But now we are brushed enough!” A six-skilling-piece rejoiced these little Savoyards.
The Champs Elysées of the Parisians on a great festival day, when the theatres are opened, the swings are flying, trumpets and drums overpowering the softer music, and when the whole mass of people, like one body, moves itself between the booths and tents, present a companion piece to the spectacle which the so-called Park-hill affords. It is Naples’ “Largo dei Castello,” with its dancing apes, shrieking Bajazzoes, the whole deafening jubilee which has been transported to a northern wood. Here also, in the wooden booths, large, tawdry pictures show what delicious plays you may enjoy within. The beautiful female horse-rider stands upon the wooden balcony and cracks with her whip, whilst Harlequin blows the trumpet. Fastened to a perch, large, gay parrots nod over the heads of the multitude. Here stands a miner in his black costume, and exhibits the interior of a mine. He turns his box, and during the music dolls ascend and descend. Another shows the splendid fortress of Frederiksteen: “The whole cavalry and infantry who have endured an unspeakable deal; here a man without a weapon, there a weapon without a man; here a fellow without a bayonet, here a bayonet without a fellow; and yet they are merry and contented, for they have conquered the victory.”1 Dutch wafer-cake booths, where the handsome Dutch women, in their national costume, wait on the customers, entice old and young. Here a telescope, there a rare Danish ox, and so forth. High up, between the fresh tree boughs, the swings fly. Are those two lovers floating up there? A current of air seizes the girl’s dress and shawl, the young man flings his arm round her waist; it is for safety: there is then less danger. At the foot of the hill there is cooking and roasting going on; it seems a complete gypsy-camp. Under the tree sits the old Jew—this is precisely his fiftieth jubilee; through a whole half-century has he sung here his comical Doctor’s song. Now that we are reading this he is dead; that characteristic countenance is dust, those speaking eyes are closed, his song forgotten tones. Oehlenschläger, in his “St. John’s Eve,” has preserved his portrait for us, and it will continue to live, as Master Jakel (Punch), our Danish Thespis, will continue to live. The play and the puppets were transferred from father to son, and every quarter of an hour in the day the piece is repeated. Free nature is the place for the spectators, and after every representation the director himself goes round with the plate.
This was the first spectacle which exhibited itself to the friends. Not far off stood a juggler in peasant’s clothes, somewhat advanced in years, with a common ugly countenance. His short sleeves were rolled up, and exhibited a pair of hairy, muscular arms. The crowd, withdrawing from Master Jakel when the plate commenced its wanderings, pushed Otto and Wilhelm forward toward the low fence before the juggler’s table.
“Step nearer, my gracious gentlemen, my noble masters!” said the juggler, with an accentuation which betrayed his German birth. He opened the fence; both friends were fairly pushed in and took their places upon the bench, where they, at all events, found themselves out of the crowd.
“Will the noble gentleman hold this goblet?” said the juggler, and handed Otto one from his apparatus. Otto glanced at the man: he was occupied with his art; but Otto’s cheek and forehead were colored with a sudden crimson, which was immediately afterward supplanted by a deathly paleness: his hand trembled, but this lasted only a moment; he gathered all his strength of mind together and appeared the same as before.
“That was a very good trick!” said Wilhelm.
“Yes, certainly!” answered Otto; but he had seen nothing whatsoever. His soul was strangely affected. The man exhibited several other tricks, and then approached with the plate. Otto laid down a mark, and then rose to depart. The juggler remarked the piece of money: a smile played about his mouth; he glanced at Otto, and a strange malicious expression lay in the spiteful look which accompanied his loudly spoken thanks: “Mr. Otto Thostrup is always so gracious and good!”
“Does he know you?” asked Wilhelm.
“He has the honor!” grinned the juggler, and proceeded.
“He has exhibited his tricks in the Jutland villages, and upon my father’s estate,” whispered Otto.
“Therefore an acquaintance of your childhood?” said Wilhelm.
“Of my childhood,” repeated Otto, and they made themselves a way through the tumult.
They met with several young noblemen, relatives of Wilhelm, with the cousin who had written the verses for the Christmas tree; also several friends from the carouse, and the company increased. They intended, like many others, to pass the night in the wood, and at midnight drink out of Kirsten Piil’s well. “Only with the increasing darkness will it become thoroughly merry here,” thought they: but Otto had appointed to be in the city again toward evening. “Nothing will come out of that!” said the poet; “if you wish to escape, we shall bind you fast to one of us.”
“Then I carry him away with me on my back,” replied Otto; “and still run toward the city. What shall I do here at night in the wood?”
“Be merry!” answered Wilhelm. “Come, give us no follies, or I shall grow restive.”
Hand-organs, drums, and trumpets, roared against each other; Bajazzo growled; a couple of hoarse girls sang and twanged upon the guitar: it was comic or affecting, just as one was disposed. The evening approached, and now the crowd became greater, the joy more noisy.
“But where is Otto?” inquired Wilhelm. Otto had vanished in the crowd. Search after him would help nothing, chance must bring them together again. Had he designedly withdrawn himself? no one knew wherefore, no one could dream what had passed within his soul. It became evening. The highway and the foot-path before the park resembled two moving gay ribbons.
In the park itself the crowd perceptibly diminished. It was now the high-road which was become the Park-hill. The carriages dashed by each other as at a race; the people shouted and sung, if not as melodiously as the barcarole of the fisher men below Lido, still with the thorough carnival joy of the south. The steamboat moved along the coasts. From the gardens surrounding the pretty country-houses arose rockets into the blue sky, the Moccoli of the north above the Carnival of the Park.
Wilhelm remained with his young friends in the wood, and there they intended, with the stroke of twelve, to drink out of Kirsten’s well. Men and women, girls and boys of the lower class, and jovial young men, meet, after this manner, to enjoy St. John’s Eve. Still sounded the music, the swings were in motion, lamps hung out, whilst the new moon shone through the thick tree boughs. Toward midnight the noise died away; only a blind peasant still scratched upon the three strings which were left on his violin; some servant-girls wandered, arm-in-arm, with their sweethearts, and sang. At twelve o’clock all assembled about the well, and drank the clear, ice-cold water. From no great distance resounded, through the still night, a chorus of four manly voices. It was as if the wood gods sang in praise of the nymph of the well.
