Ганс Христиан Андерсен
O. T., A Danish Romance
CHAPTER XV
“His coal was coarse, its fashion old;
He asked no dress of greater worth
Than that which kept from storm and cold
The Baptist when he preached on earth.”
C. J. BORE.
Not alone of Otto’s affairs, but also of “the city yonder,” as the preacher called Copenhagen, would he speak. Only once a week came the “Viborg Collector” to hint, and the Copenhagen papers were a whole month going their round. “One would willingly advance with the time,” said he. Yesterday, at the interment, he had not found it seemly to gratify his desire of hearing dear Otto talk about the city, but to-day he thought it might well be done, and therefore he would not await Otto’s visit but come over to pay one himself.
“Thou hast certainly seen our good king?” was his first question. “Lord help the anointed one! he is then as vigorous and active as ever—my good King Frederik!” And now he must relate a trait which had touched his heart, and which, in his opinion, deserved a place in the annals of history. This event occurred the last time that the king was in Jutland; he had visited the interior of the country and the western coast also. When he was leaving a public-house the old hostess ran after him, and besought that the Father would, as a remembrance, write his name with chalk upon a beam. The grand gentlemen wished to deter her, but she pulled at the king’s coat; and when he had learned her wish he nodded in a friendly manner, and said, “Very willingly!” and then turned back and wrote his name on the beam. Tears came into the old man’s eyes; he wept, and prayed for his king. He now inquired whether the old tree was still standing in the Regent’s Court, and then spoke of Nyerup and Abrahamson, whom he had known in his student days.
In fact, after all, he was himself the narrator; each of his questions related to this or that event in his own life, and he always returned to this source—his student-days. There was then another life, another activity, he maintained. His royal idea of beauty had been Queen Matilda.7 “I saw her often on horseback,” said he. “It was not then the custom in our country for ladies to ride. In her country it was the fashion; here it gave rise to scandal. God gave her beauty, a king’s crown, and a heart full of love; the world gave her—what it can give—a grave near to the bare heath!”
Whilst he so perpetually returned to his own recollections, his share of news was truly not new, but he was satisfied. Copenhagen appeared to him a whole world—a royal city; but Sodom and Gomorrah had more than one street there.
Otto smiled at the earnestness with which he said this.
“Yes, that I know better than thou, my young friend!” continued the old preacher. “True, the devil does not go about like a roaring lion, but there he has his greatest works! He is well-dressed, and conceals his claws and his tail! Do not rely upon thy strength! He goes about, like the cat in the fable, ‘pede suspenso,’ sneakingly and cautiously! It is, after all, with the devil as it is with a Jutland peasant. This fellow comes to the city, has nothing, runs about, and cleans shoes and boots for the young gentlemen, and by this means he wins a small sum of money. He knows how to spare. He can now hire the cellar of the house in which thou livest, and there commence some small trade. The trade is successful, very successful. It goes on so well that he can hire the lower story; then he gains more profit, and before thou canst look about thee he buys the whole house. See, that is the way with the Jutland peasant, and just the same with the devil. At first he gets the cellar, then the lower story, and at last the whole house!”
CHAPTER XVI
“Sure ‘tis fair in foreign land,
But not so fair as home;
Let me but see thy mountains grand
Glaciers and snowy dome!
Let me but hear the sound that tells
Of climbing cattle, dressed with bells.”
The Switzer’s Homesickness.
Not until after breakfast did the preacher pass over to Otto’s affairs. His grandfather’s will made him the sole heir to the large property; a man in Copenhagen, the merchant Berger, should be his guardian, since the preacher did not wish to undertake the office. Rosalie was not forgotten: her devotion and fidelity had won for her a relative’s right. Her last days should be free from care: she had truly striven to remove all care from the dead whilst yet he lived. An old age free from care awaited her; but Otto wished that she should also have a happy old age. He imparted his plan to the preacher; but the latter shook his head, thought it was not practicable, and regarded it as a mere fancy—a whim. But such it was not.
Some days passed by. One afternoon Rosalie sat upon a small wooden bench under the cherry-trees, and was making mourning for the winter.
“This is the last summer that we shall sit here,” said she; “the last summer that this is our home. Now I am become equally rooted to this spot; it grieves me that I must leave it.”
“Thou wast forced to leave thy dear Switzerland,” said Otto; “that was still harder!”
“I was then young,” answered she. “The young tree may be easily transplanted, but the old one has shot forth deeper roots. Denmark is a good land—a beautiful land!”
“But not the west coast of Jutland!” exclaimed Otto. “For thy green pasture hast thou here heath; for thy mountains, low sand-hills.”
“Upon the Jura Mountains there is also heath,” said Rosalie. “The heath here often reminds me of my home on the Jura. There also is it cold, and snow can fall already in August. The fir-trees then stand as if powdered over.”
“I love Switzerland, which I have never seen,” pursued Otto. “Thy relation has given me a conception of the picturesque magnificence of this mountain-land. I have a plan, Rosalie. I know that in the heart of a mountaineer homesickness never dies. I remember well how thy eyes sparkled when thou toldest of the walk toward Le Locle and Neufchâtel; even as a boy I felt at thy words the light mountain air. I rode with thee upon the dizzy height, where the woods lay below us like potato fields. What below arose, like the smoke from a charcoal-burner’s kiln, was a cloud in the air. I saw the Alpine chain, like floating cloud mountains; below mist, above dark shapes with glancing glaciers.”
“Yes, Otto,” said Rosalie, and her eyes sparkled with youthful fire; “so looks the Alpine chain when one goes from Le Locle to Neulfchâtel: so did I see it when I descended the Jura for the list time. It was in August. The trees, with their autumnal foliage, stood yellow and red between the dark firs; barberries and hips grew among the tall fern. The Alps lay in such a beautiful light, their feet blue as heaven, their peaks snow-white in the clear sunshine. I was in a sorrowful mood; I was leaving my mountains! Then I wrote in my book—O, I remember it so well!—The high Alps appear to me the folded wings of the earth: how if she should raise them! how if the immense wings should unfold, with their gay images of dark woods, glaciers, and clouds! What a picture! At the Last Judgment will the earth doubtless unfold these pinions, soar up to God, and in the rays of His sunlight disappear! I also have been young, Otto,” pursued she, with a melancholy smile. “Thou wouldst have felt still more deeply at the sight of this splendor of nature. The lake at the foot of the mountains was smooth as a mirror; a little boat with white sails swam, like a swan, upon its expanse. On the road along which we drove were the peasants beating down chestnuts; the grapes hung in large black bunches. How an impression such as this can root itself in the memory! It is five and thirty years since, and yet I still see that boat with the white sail, the high Alps, and the black grapes.”
“Thou shalt see thy Switzerland again, Rosalie,” exclaimed Otto; “again hear the bells of the cows upon the green pastures! Thou shalt go once more to the chapel in Franche Compté, shalt visit thy friends at Le Locle, see the subterranean mill, and the Doub fall.”
“The mill wheel yet goes round, the water dashes down as in my youth; but the friends are gone, my relatives dispersed! I should appear a stranger there; and when one has reached my age, nature cannot satisfy—one must have people!”
“Thou knowest, Rosalie, my grandfather has settled a sum upon thee so long as thou livest. Now I have thought thou couldst spend thy latter days with thy beloved ones at home, in the glorious Switzerland. In October I take my philosophicum; the following summer I would then accompany thee. I must also see that splendid mountain-land,—know something more of the world than I have yet known. I know how thy thoughts always dwell upon Switzerland. Thither will I reconduct thee; thou wilt feel thyself less lonely there than here in Denmark.”
“Thou art carried away by the thoughts of youth, as thou shouldst and must be, thou dear, sweet soul!” said Rosalie, smiling. “At my age it is not so easy.”
“We will make short days’ journeys,” said Otto, “go with the steamboat up the Rhine—that is not fatiguing; and from Basel one is soon in Franche Compté on the Jura.”
“No, upon the heath, near Vestervovov, as it is called here, will old Rosalie die; here I have felt myself at home, here I have two or three friends. The family at Lemvig have invited me, have for me a place at table, a little room, and friendly faces. Switzerland would be no longer that Switzerland which I quitted. Nature would greet me as an old acquaintance; it would be to me music, once more to hear the ringing of the cows’ bells; it would affect me deeply, once again to kneel in the little chapel on the mountain: but I should soon feel myself a greater stranger there than here. Had it been fifteen years ago, my sister would still have been living, the dear, pious Adèle! She dwelt with my uncle close on the confines of Neufchâtel, as thou knowest, scarcely a quarter of a mile from Le Locle—the town, as we called it, because it was the largest place in the neighborhood. Now there are only distant relations of mine living, who have forgotten me. I am a stranger there. Denmark gave me bread, it will also give me a grave!”
“I thought of giving thee a pleasure!” said Otto.
“That thou dost by thy love to me!” returned she.
“I thought thou wouldst have shown me thy mountains, thy home, of which thou hast so often spoken!”
“That can I still do. I remember every spot, every tree—all remains so clear in my recollection. Then we ascend together the Jura higher and higher; here are no more vineyards to be found, no maize, no chestnuts only dark pines, huge cliffs, here and there a beech, as green and large as in Denmark. Now we have the wood behind us, we are many feet above the sea; thou canst perceive this by the freshness of the air. Everywhere are green meadows; uninterruptedly reaches our ear the ringing of the cow-bells. Thou as yet seest no town, and yet we are close upon Le Locle. Suddenly the road turns; in the midst of the mountain-level we perceive a small valley, and in this lies the town, with its red roofs, its churches, and large gardens. Close beneath the windows rises the mountain-side, with its grass and flowers; it looks as though the cattle must be precipitated upon the houses. We go through the long street, past the church; the inhabitants are Protestants—it is a complete town of watchmakers. My uncle and Adèle also sat the whole day, and worked at wheels and chains. That was for Monsieur Houriet, in Le Locle. His daughters I know; one is called Rosalie, like myself. Rosalie and Lydia, they will certainly have forgotten me! But it is true that we are upon our own journey! Now, thou seest, at the end of the town we do not follow the broad road—that leads to Besançon; we remain in the lesser one, here in the valley where the town lies. The beautiful valley! The green mountain-sides we keep to our right; on it are scattered houses, with large stones upon their steep wooden roofs, and with little gardens tilled with plum-trees. Steep cliff-walls shut in the valley; there stands up a crag; if thou climbest it thou canst look straight into France: one sees a plain, flat like the Danish plains. In the valley where we are, close under the rock, lies a little house; O, I see it distinctly! white-washed and with blue painted window-frames: at the gate a great chained dog. I hear him bark! We step into that quiet, friendly little house! The children are playing about on the ground. O, my little Henry-Numa-Robert! Ah, it is true that now he is older and taller than thou! We descend the steps toward the cellar. Here stand sacks and chests of flour; under the floor one hears a strange roaring; still a few steps lower, and we must light the lamp, for here it is dark. We find ourselves in a great water-mill, a subterranean mill. Deep below in the earth rushes a river—above no one dreams of it; the water dashes down several fathoms over the rushing wheel, which threatens to seize our clothes and whirl us away into the circle. The steps on which we stand are slippery: the stone walls drip with water, and only a step beyond the depth appears bottomless! O, thou wilt love this mill as I love it! Again having reached the light of day, and under free heaven, one only perceives the quiet, friendly little house. Dost thou know, Otto, often as thou hast sat quiet and dreaming, silent as a statue, have I thought of my mill, and the repose which it presented? and yet how wildly the stream roared in its bosom, how the wheels rushed round, and how gloomy it was in the depth!”
“We will leave the mill!” said Otto, and sought to lead her from her reflections back to her own relation. “We find ourselves in the wood, where the ringing of the evening-bell reaches our ear from the little chapel in Franche Compté.”
“There stands my father’s house!” said Rosalie. “From the corner-window one looks over the wood toward Aubernez,8 where the ridge leads over the Doub. The sun shines upon the river, which, far below, winds along, gleaming like the clearest silver.”
“And the whole of France spreads itself out before us!” said Otto.
“How beautiful! O, how beautiful!” exclaimed Rosalie, and her eyes sparkled as she gazed before her; but soon her glance became sad, and she pressed Otto’s hand. “No one will welcome me to my home! I know neither their joys nor their sorrows—they are not my own family! In Denmark—I am at home. When the cold sea-mist spreads itself over the heath I often fancy I am living among my mountains, where the heather grows. The mist seems to me then to be a snow-cloud which rests over the mountains, and thus, when other people are complaining of the bad weather, I am up among my mountains!”
“Thou wilt then remove to the family at Lemvig?” asked Otto.
“There I am welcome!” returned she.
CHAPTER XVII
“Look at the calming sea. The waves still tremble in the depths, and stem to fear the gale.—Over my head is hovering the shadowy mist.—My curls are wet with the filling dew.”
—OSSIAN.
Otto had not as yet visited the sand-hills on the strand, the fishermen, or the peasants, among whom formerly he had spent all his spare time.
The beautiful summer’s day drove him forth, his heart yearned to drink in the summer warmth.
Only the roads between the larger towns are here tolerable, or rather as tolerable as the country will allow. The by-ways were only to be discerned by the traces of cart-wheels, which ran on beside each other; at certain places, to prevent the wheels sinking into the deep sand, ling had been spread; where this is not the case, and the tracks cross each other, a stranger would scarcely find the way. Here the landmark places its unseen boundary between neighboring possessions.
Every farm, every cottage, every hill, was an old acquaintance to Otto. He directed his steps toward Harbooere, a parish which, one may say, consists of sand and water, but which, nevertheless, is not to be called unfruitful. A few of the inhabitants pursue agriculture, but the majority consists of fishermen, who dwell in small houses and have no land.
His first encounter upon his wandering was with one of those large covered wagons with which the so-called eelmen, between the days of St. John and St. Bartholomew, go with eels toward the small towns lying to the south and east, and then, laden with apples and garden produce, return home—articles which are rapidly consumed by the common people. The eelman stopped when he saw and recognized Otto.
“Welcome, Mr. Otto!” said he. “Yes, you are come over abut a sad affair! That Major Thostrup should have gone off so! But there was nothing else to be expected from him he was old enough.”
“Death demands his right!” replied Otto, and pressed the man’s hand. “Things go, doubtless, well with you, Morten Chraenseu?”
“The whole cart full of eels, and some smoked carp! It is also good to meet with you, Mr. Otto. Upon the land a preacher is very good, but not upon the sea, as they say at home. Yes, you are certainly now a preacher, or will become one?”
“No, I am not studying to become a preacher!” answered Otto.
“No! will you then become a lawyer? It strikes me you are clever enough—you have no need to study any more! You will just go and say a few words to them at home? The grandmother sits and spins yarn for eel-nets. She has now the cataract on the other eye, but her mouth is as well as ever; she does not let herself grow dumb, although she does sit in the dark. Mother provides the baits; she has also enough to do with the hooks.”
“But Maria, the lively little Maria?” said Otto.
“The girl? She has gone this year with the other fishergirls to Ringkjoebing, to be hired for the hay and corn harvest; we thought we could do without her at home. But now, God willing! I must travel on.” Cordially he shook Otto’s hand, and pursued his slow journey.
The brothers of the eelman were active fishermen, as their father had been before them; and although they were all married they lived together. The swarm of children was not insignificant; young and old formed one family, in which the old grandmother had the first voice.
Otto approached the dwelling; before it lay a little plot of land, planted with potatoes and carrots, and also beds of onions and thyme. Two large bull-dogs, with sharp teeth and wicked eyes, rushed toward Otto. “Tyv! Grumsling!” shrieked a voice, and the dogs let fall their tails and drew back, with a low growl, toward the house. Here at the threshold sat an old woman in a red woolen jacket, with a handkerchief of the same material and same color about her neck, and upon her head a man’s black felt hat. She spun. Otto immediately recognized the old blind grandmother.
“God’s peace be in the house!” said he.
“That voice I have not heard for a year and a day!” replied the old woman, and raised her head, as if she would see him with her dead eyes. “Are not you Major Thostrup’s Otto? You resemble him in the voice. I thought, truly, that if you came here you would pay us a visit. Ide shall leave the baits and put on the kettle, that you may have a cup of coffee. Formerly you did not use to despise our entertainment. You have not grown proud with your journey, have you? The coffee-vetch9 is good; it is from Holmsland, and tastes better than the merchant’s beans.” The dogs still growled at Otto. “Cannot you stupid beasts, who have still eyes in your heads to see with, recognize that this is the Major’s Otto?” cried she wrathfully, and gave them several good blows with her hand.
Otto’s arrival created a great stir in the little household that he was welcome, you might see by every countenance.
“Yes,” said the grandmother, “now you are grown much wiser in the town, could, very likely, were it needful, write an almanac! You will very likely have found for yourself a little bride there, or will you fetch one out of Lemvig? for no doubt she must be from a town! Yes, I have known him ever since he was a little fellow; yonder, on the wall, he made, out of herrings’ heads, the living devil, just as he lives and breathes. He thrust our sucking-pig into the eel-cart, between the casks. We sought a whole day after the sucking-pig without finding him, and he was forced to make the journey with them to Holstebro. Yes, he was a wild fellow! Later, when he was obliged to learn so much, he became sad. Yes, yes, within the last years his books have overdone him!”
“Yes, many a time has he put out to sea with my husband!” pursued one of the daughters-in-law. “One night he remained out with him. How anxious the French Mamsell at the hall was about him!”
“He was never haughtty,” said the grandmother. “He nibbled his dried fish with the fresh fish, and drank a little cup of water, although he was used to better things at home. But to-day we have white bread, fresh and good; it came yesterday from Lemvig.”
The brandy-glass, with its wooden, red-painted foot, was placed before Otto. Under the bed there was an anker of brandy,—“a little stock,” as all stranded goods are here called.
Otto inquired after the married sons. They were with their men on the shore, ready to embark on their fishing expedition, The grandmother would accompany him thither; they were not yet departed: she should first take them provisions.
The old woman took her stick, the dog sprang forward, and now commenced their wandering among the sand-hills, where their huts or booths, built with rafters and smeared with earth, stood. Around lay the refuse of fish,—heads and entrails, thrown about. The men were just then busied in carrying the trough and fishing-tackle10 on board.
The open sea lay before them, almost as bright as a mirror, for the wind was easterly. Near to them paused a horseman; he was partly dressed like a peasant, with riding-breeches on, which were buttoned down at the sides.
“Have you heard the news?” he cried to Otto. “I come from Ringkjoebing. At Merchant Cohen’s I have read the German paper; there is a revolution in France! Charles X. is fled with the whole royal family. Yes, in Paris, there is fine work!”
“The French are a wild people!” said the grandmother. “A king and a queen they have beheaded in my time; now they will do the same with these. Will our dear Lord suffer that such things be done to His anointed?”
“There will be war again!” said one of the fishermen.
“Then more horses will go out of the country,” said the stranger, pressed Otto’s hand, and vanished behind the sandhills.
“Was not that the horse-dealer from Varde?” inquired Otto.
“Yes, he understands languages,” said the fisherman; “and thus he is acquainted with foreign affairs sooner than we. Then they are now fighting in France! Blood flows in the streets; it will not be so in Denmark before the Turk binds his horse to the bush in the Viborg Lake. And then, according to the prophecy of the sibyl, it will be near the end of the world.”
Meanwhile, everything was prepared for their embarkation. If Mr. Otto would take the further oar, and was inclined to pass the night on the sea, there was a place for him in the boat. But he had promised Rosalie to be back before evening. The grandmother now prayed, kneeling with the others, and immediately after quick strokes of the oars the flat boat rowed away from the shore. The fate of France was forgotten; their calling occupied the fishermen.
The old woman seemed to listen to the strokes of the oars; her dead eyes rested immovably on the sea. A sea-mew passed close to her in its flight. “That was a bird!” said she. “Is there no one here beside ourselves?”
“No; no one at all,” answered Otto, carelessly.
“Is no one in the hut, no one behind the sand-hills?” again asked the grandmother. “It was not on account of the dried meat that I came here—it was not to wet my face on the shore; I speak with you alone, which I could not do in the house. Give me your hand! Now that the old man rests in the grave, you yourself will guide the rudder; the estate will be sold, and you will not come again to the west coast. Our Lord has made it dark before my eyes before He has closed my ears and given me leave to go. I can no longer see you, but I have you in my thought as you looked before you left our land. That you are handsomer now I can easily imagine; but gayer you are not! Talk you certainly can, and I have heard you laugh; but that was little better than the two last years you were here. Once it was different with you—no fairy could be wilder than you!”
“With years one becomes more quiet,” said Otto, and gazed with astonishment at the blind woman, who did not leave go his hand. “As a boy I was far too merry—that could not continue; and that I should now be grave, I have, as you will see, sufficient reason—I have lost my last support.”
“Yes, truly, truly!” repeated she slowly, and as if pondering; then shook her head. “That is not the reason. Do you not believe in the power of the devil? our Lord Christ forgive me! do not you believe in the power of wicked men? There is no greater difference between the human child and the changeling brat which the underground spirits lay in his stead in the cradle, than there is between you when you were a boy and you as you became during the last year of your stay here. ‘That comes from books, from so much learning,’ said I to other people. Could I only have said so to myself! But you shall become gay; the trouble of your heart shall wither like a poisonous weed. I know whence it sprung, and will, with God’s help, heal it. Will you solemnly promise, that no soul in the world shall learn what we speak of in this hour?”
“What have you to say to me?” asked Otto, affected by the extraordinary earnestness of the old woman.
“The German Heinrich, the player! You remember him well? He is to blame for your grief! Yes, his name drives the blood more quickly through your pulse. I feel it, even if I cannot see your face.”
“The German Heinrich!” repeated Otto, and his hand really trembled. Had Heinrich, then, when he was here three years ago, told her and the fishermen that which no human being must know,—that which had destroyed the gayety of his youth? “What have I to do with the German Heinrich?”
“Nothing more than a pious Christian has to do with the devil!” replied she, and made the sign of the cross. “But Heinrich has whispered an evil word in your ear; he has banished your joyous humor, as one banishes a serpent.”
“Has he told you this?” exclaimed Otto, and breathed more quickly. “Tell me all that he has said!”
“You will not make me suffer for it!” said she. “I am innocent, and yet I have cooperated in it: it was only a word but a very unseemly word, and for it one must account at the day of judgment!”
“I do not understand you!” said Otto, and his eyes glanced around to see whether any one heard. They were quite alone. In the far distance the boat with the fishermen showed itself like a dark speck.
“Do you remember how wild you were as a boy? How you fastened bladders to the cat’s legs and tail, and flung her out of the loft-window that she might fly? I do not say this in anger, for I thought a deal of you; but when you became too insolent one might wall say, ‘Can no one, then, curb this lad?’ See, these words I said!—that is my whole fault, but since then have lain heavy on my heart. Three years ago came the German Heinrich, and stayed two nights in our house; God forgive it us! Tricks he could play, and he understood more than the Lord’s Prayer—more than is useful to a man. With one trick you were to assist him, but when he gave you the goblet you played your own tricks, and he could make nothing succeed. You would also be clever. Then he cast an evil eye upon you, although he was still so friendly and submissive, because you were a gentleman’s child. Do you remember—no, you will certainly have forgotten—how you once took the baits of the hooks off and hung my wooden shoes on instead? Then I said in anger, and the anger of man is never good, ‘Can no one, then, tame this boy for me? He was making downright fun of you to your own face,’ said I to the player. ‘Do you not know some art by which you can tame this wild-cat?’ Then he laughed maliciously, but I thought no more of the matter. The following day, however, he said, ‘Now I have curbed the lad! You should only see how tame he is become; and should he ever again turn unruly, only ask him what word the German Heinrich whispered in his ear, and you shall. Then see how quiet he will become. He shall not mock this trick!’ My heart was filled with horror, but I thought afterward it really meant nothing. Ei! ei! from the hour he was here you are no longer the same as formerly; that springs from the magical word he whispered in your ear. You cannot pronounce the word, he told me; but by it you have been enchanted: this, and not book-learning, has worked the change. But you shall be delivered! If you have faith, and that you must have, you shall again become gay, and I, spite of the evil words which I spoke, be able to sleep peacefully in my grave. If you will only lay this upon your heart, now that the moon is in its wane, the trouble will vanish out of your heart as the disk of the moon decreases!” And saying this she drew out of her pocket a little leather purse, opened it and took out a piece of folded paper. “In this is a bit of the wood out of which our Saviour’s cross was made. This will draw forth the sorrow from your heart, and bear it, as it bore Him who took upon Himself the sorrow of the whole world!” She kissed it with pious devotion, and then handed it to Otto.
The whole became clear to him. He recollected how in his boyish wantonness he had caused Heinrich’s tricks to miscarry, which occasioned much pleasure to the spectators, but in Heinrich displeasure: they soon again became friends, and Otto recognized in him the merry weaver of the manufactory, as he called his former abode. They were alone, Otto asked whether he did not remember his name: Heinrich shook his head. Then Otto uncovered his shoulder, bade him read the branded letters, and heard the unhappy interpretation which gave the death-blow to his gayety. Heinrich must have seen what an impression his words made upon the boy: he gained through them an opportunity of avenging himself, and at the same time of bringing himself again into repute: as a sorcerer. He had tamed him, whispered he to the old woman,—he had tamed the boy with a single word. At any future wantonness of Otto’s, gravity and terror would immediately return should any one ask him, What word did the German Heinrich whisper into thy ear? “Only ask him,” had Heinrich said.
