Читать книгу O. T., A Danish Romance - Ганс Христиан Андерсен - Страница 7

Early the following morning, whilst Wilhelm still slept and dreamed of his beloved sisters, well-known footsteps sounded on the stairs, the door opened, and Otto stepped into the sleeping-room. Wilhelm opened his eyes. Otto was pale; a sleepless night and sorrow of heart had breathed upon his brow and eyes.

“Thostrup!” cried Wilhelm, with joyous surprise, and stretched forth his hand toward him, but it again sank; Otto seized it, and pressed it firmly in his own, adding at the same time, with gravity,—“You have humbled me! Is that sufficient satisfaction for you?”

“We are then friends!” said Wilhelm. “Friends must be very indulgent toward each other. Yesterday you were a little strange, to-morrow I may be so; that is the way in which one retaliates.”

Otto pressed his hand. “We will never speak again of the occurrence of yesterday!”

“Never!” repeated Wilhelm, affected by the strange gravity of his friend.

“You are a noble, a good creature!” said Otto, and bent over him; his lips touched Wilhelm’s forehead.

Wilhelm seized his hand, and gazed frankly into his eye. “You are not happy!” exclaimed he. “If I cannot assist you, I can, at least, dear Otto, honestly share the grief of a friend!”

“Even on that very point we may never speak!” replied Otto. “Farewell! I have determined on travelling home; we have only vacation for a few weeks, and I have not been in Jutland since I became a student. Even a month’s sojourn there cannot throw me back; I am well prepared for the philosophicum.”

“And when will you set out?” asked Wilhelm.

“To-morrow, with the steamboat. It is hot and sultry here in the city: my blood becomes heated: it will, also, soon be a year since I saw my family.”

“Thostrup!” exclaimed Wilhelm, through whom a thought suddenly flashed, “I should also like to see my family; they have written to me to come. Listen: make your journey through Funen, and only remain three or four days with us. My mother’s carriage shall convey you then to Middelfart. Say ‘Yes,’ and we will set out this evening.”

“That cannot be done!” replied Otto; but half an hour later, as both sat together over the tea-table, and Wilhelm repeated his wish, Otto consented, but certainly more through a feeling of obligation than through any pleasure of his own. Toward evening, therefore, they set out in the beautiful summer night to travel through Zealand.

Smartly dressed families wandered pleasantly through the city gate toward the summer theatre and Fredericksberg. The evening sun shone upon the column of Liberty; the beautiful obelisk, around which stand Wiedewelt’s statues, one of which still weeps,

where were closed the eyes of the artist. Was it the remembrance which here clouded Otto’s glance, as his eye rested upon the statues as they drove past, or did his own soul, perhaps, mirror itself in his eyes?

“Here it is gay and animated!” said Wilhelm, wishing to commence a conversation. “Vesterbro is certainly your most brilliant suburb. It forms a city by itself,—a little state! There upon the hill lies the King’s Castle, and there on the left, between the willows, the poet’s dwelling, where old Rahbek lived with his Kamma!”

“Castle and poet’s dwelling!” repeated Otto; “the time will be when they will inspire equal interest!”

“That old place will soon be pulled down!” said Wilhelm; “in such a beautiful situation, so near the city, a splendid villa will be raised, and nothing more remind one of Philemon and Baucis!”

“The old trees in the park will be spared!” said Otto; “in the garden the flowers will scent the air, and remind one of Kamma’s flowers. Rahbek was no great poet, but he possessed a true poet’s soul, labored faithfully in the great vineyard, and loved flowers as Kamma loved them.”

The friends hail left Fredericksberg behind them. The white walls of the castle glanced through the green boughs; behind Söndermark, the large, wealthy village stretched itself out. The sun had set before they reached the Dam-house, where the wild swans, coming from the ocean, build in the fresh water fake. This is the last point of beauty; nothing but lonely fields, with here and there a cairn, extend to the horizon.

The clear summer’s night attracted their gaze upward; the postilion blew his horn, and the carriage rolled toward the town of Roeskilde, the St. Denis of Denmark, where kings turn to dust; where Hroar’s spring still flows, and its waters mingle with those of Issefjords.

They drove to a public-house to change horses. A young girl conducted the friends into the public room; she lighted the way for them. Her slender figure and her floating gait drew Wilhelm’s attention toward her; his hand touched her shoulder, she sprang aside and fixed her beautiful grave eyes upon him; but their expression became milder, she smiled and colored at the same time.

“You are the sister of little Jonas!” cried Wilhelm, recognizing the young girl he had seen with him at Christmas.

“I must also thank you,” said she, “for your kindness toward the poor boy!” She quickly placed the lights on the table, and left the room with a gentle glance.

“She is beautiful, very beautiful!” exclaimed Wilhelm. “That was really quite a pleasant meeting.”

“Is it then you, Herr Baron, who honor me thus?” cried the host, stepping in—an elderly man with a jovial countenance. “Yes, the Baron will doubtless visit his dear relations in hunch? It is now some little time since you were there.”

“This is our host!” said Wilhelm to Otto. “He and his wife were born upon my parent’s estate.”

“Yes,” said the host, “in my youth I have shot many a snipe and wild duck with the Herr Baron’s father. But Eva should spread the table; the gentlemen will certainly take supper, and a glass of good punch the Herr Baron will certainly not despise, if he is like his blessed father.”

The young girl spread the cloth in an adjoining room.

“She is pretty!” Wilhelm whispered to the old man.

“And just as pious and innocent as she is pretty!” returned he; “and that is saying much, as she is a poor girl, and from Copenhagen. She is of good service to us, and my wife says Eva shall not leave us until she is well married.”

Wilhelm invited the host to join them at a glass. The old man became more animated, and now confided to him, half mysteriously, what made Eva so honorable in the eyes of his wife, and what was, indeed, really very nice of her. “My old woman,” said he, “was in Copenhagen, in search of a waiting-girl. Yes, there are enough to be had, and they are fine girls; but mother has her own thoughts and opinions: she has good eyes—that she has! Now, there came many, and among others Eva; but, good Lord! she was very poorly clad, and she looked feeble and weak, and what service could one get out of her! But she had a good countenance, and the poor girl wept and besought mother to take her, for she was not comfortable at home, and would not remain at Copenhagen. Now, mother knows how to make use of her words: it is unfortunate that she is not at home to-night; how pleased she would have been to see the Herr Baron! Yes, what I would say is, she so twisted her words about, that Eva confessed to her why she wished to leave home. You see the girl is petty; and the young gallant gentlemen of Copenhagen had remarked her smooth face,—and not alone the young, but the old ones also! So an old gentleman—I could easily name him, but that has nothing to do with the affair—a very distinguished man in the city, who has, besides, a wife and children, had said all sorts of things to her parents; and, as eight hundred dollars is a deal of money to poor people, one can excuse them: but Eva wept, and said she would rather spring into the castle-ditch. They represented all sorts of things to the poor girl; she heard of the service out here with us. She wept, kissed my old woman’s hand, and thus came to us; and since then we have had a deal of service from Eva, and joy also!”

Some minutes after Eva stepped in, Otto’s eye rested with a melancholy expression upon the beautiful form: never had he before so gazed upon a woman. Her countenance was extraordinarily fine, her nose and forehead nobly formed, the eyebrows dark, and in the dark-blue eyes lay something pensive, yet happy: one might employ the Homeric expression, “smiling through tears,” to describe this look. She announced that the carriage was ready.

A keen observer would soon have remarked what a change the host’s relation had worked in the two friends. Wilhelm was no longer so free toward poor Eva. Otto, on the contrary, approached her more,—and at their leave-taking they offered her a greater present than they would otherwise have given.

She stood with Otto at the door, and assisted him on with his travelling cloak.

“Preserve your heart pure!” said he, gravely; “that is more than beauty!”

The young girl blushed, and gazed at him with astonishment; in such a manner had no one of his age ever before spoken to her.

“The poor girl!” said Otto; “but I think she is come to good people.”

“She has a strange glance!” said Wilhelm. “Do you know that there is really a certain affinity between you and her? It was to me quite striking.”

“That is a compliment which I cannot accept,” returned Otto, smiling. “Yet, perhaps, I might resemble her.”

It was not yet three o’clock when the friends reached Ringsted.

“I have never before been so far in Zealand,” said Otto.

“Shall I be your guide?” returned Wilhelm. “Ringsted has a street and an inn, and one is very badly served there, as you will soon both see and experience yourself. Meanwhile, one can think of Hagbarth and Signe; not far from here, at Sigersted, he hung his mantle on the oak, and Signelil’s abode stood in flames. Now only remain fields and meadows, a cairn, and the old popular song. Then we rush past the friendly Soroe, that mirrors itself with the wood in the lake, which forms itself into so many bays; but we do not see much of it. We have here another romantic spot, an old castle converted into a church, high up on the hill near the lake, and close to it the dismal place of execution. We then reach Slagelse, an animated little town; with the Antvorskov convent, the poet Frankenau’s grave, and a Latin school, celebrated on account of its poets. It was there Baggesen and Ingemann learned their Latin. When I once questioned the hostess regarding the lions of the town, she would only acknowledge two,—Bastholm’s library, and the English fire-engine. The curtain in the theatre represents an alley with a fountain, the jets of which are painted as if spouting out of the prompter’s box; or is this, perhaps, the English fire-engine? I know not. The scene-decoration for towns represents the market-place of Slagelse itself, so that the pieces thus acquire a home-feeling. This is the modern history of the little town; and, with regard to its older and romantic history, learn that the holy Anders was preacher here! Yes, indeed, that was a man! He has been also sung of by our first poets. We end with Korsöer, where Baggesen was born and Birckner lies buried. In the more modern history of this town, King Solomon and Jörgen the hatter play a considerable rôle. Besides this, I know that the town is said once to have possessed a private theatre; but this soon was done for, and the decorations were sold; a miller bought them, and patched his windmill sails with them. Upon one sail was a piece of a wood, upon another a shred of a room, or a street; and so they rushed round one after the other. Perhaps this is mere slander, for I have my information from Slagelse; and neighboring towns never speak well of each other.”

In this manner Wilhelm gossiped on, and the friends travelled over the way he had described. Slagelse, and the peasant village of Landsgrav, they had already behind them, when Wilhelm ordered the coachman to diverge from the high-road toward the right.

“Where will you take us to?” asked Otto.

“I will give you a pleasure!” returned Wilhelm. “We shall reach the weariful Korsöer early enough: the steamboat leaves at ten, and it is not yet seven. You shall be surprised—I know well that you are half a Catholic; I will conduct you where you may believe yourself carried back several centuries, and may imagine yourself in a Catholic country. That is right pleasant, is it not?”

Otto smiled. The friends alighted from the coach and walked over a corn-field. They found themselves upon a hill, the whole landscape spread itself out before them—they saw the Belt, with Sprogöe and Funen. The surrounding country was certainly flat, but the variety of greens, the near meadow, the dark stretch of wood in the neighborhood of Korsöer, the bay itself, and all this seen in a warm morning light, produced effect. The friends diverged to the right; and before them, upon a hill, stood a large wooden cross, with the figure of the Crucified One. Above the cross was built a small roof to carry off the rain,—such as one may yet find in Bavaria. The figure of the Redeemer was of wood, painted with strong, tawdry colors; a withered garland of corn-flowers still hung around his bowed head.

“It is extraordinary,” said Otto, “to find in our time, in the year 1830, such a Catholic symbol in Lutheran Denmark! And yet—yes, you will laugh at me, but I find it lovely: it affects me, moves me to worship.”

“That tawdry, tasteless figure!” cried Wilhelm. “Only see how coarse! the hair is covered with tar to keep off the rain! The peasants here have their peculiar superstition. If they allow the cross to fall they have no luck with their lands. It was upon this hill that the holy Anders, the celebrated preacher of Slagelse, awoke. He visited the sepulchre of Christ, but through praying there too long the ship sailed without him, and he was forced to stay behind. Then came a man and took him upon his horse, and they would ride to Joppa: the holy Anders fell asleep; but when he awoke he lay here, and heard the bells ringing in Slagelse. Upon a foal, only one night old, he rode round the extensive city lands, whilst King Waldemar lay in his bath. He could hang his glove upon the beams of the sun. This hill, where he awoke, was called Rest-hill; and the cross, with the figure of the Redeemer erected upon it, which still stands here, reminds us of the legend of the holy Anders.”

A little peasant girl at this moment mounted the hill, but paused when she perceived the strangers.

“Don’t be afraid, my child!” said Wilhelm. “What hast thou there? a garland! shall it hang here upon the cross? Only come, we will help thee.”

“It should hang over our Lord,” said the little one, holding, in an embarrassed manner, the garland of pretty blue cornflowers in her hand. Otto took the garland, and hung it up in place of the faded one.

“That was our morning adventure!” said Wilhelm, and soon they were rolling in the deep sand toward Korsöer, toward the hill where the poet watched the sun and moon sink into the sea, and wished that he had wings that he might catch them.

Melancholy and silent lies the town on the flat coast, the old castle turned into a farm-house—high grass grows upon the walls. In a storm, when the wind blows against the city, the surf beats against the outermost houses. High upon the church stands a telegraph; the black wooden plates resemble mourning-flags hung above the sinking town. Here is nothing for the stranger to see, nothing except a grave—that of the thinker Birckner. The friends drove to the public-house on the strand. No human being met them in the street except a boy, who rung a hand-bell.

“That calls to church,” said Wilhelm. “Because there are no bells in the tower, they have here such a wandering bell-ringer as this. Holla! there lies the inn!”

“Baron Wilhelm!” cried a strong voice, and a man in a green jacket with pockets in the breast, the mighty riding-boots splashed above the tops, and with whip in hand, approached them, pulled his horse-hair cap, and extended his hand to Wilhelm.

“The Kammerjunker from Funen!” said Wilhelm; “my mother’s neighbor, one of the most industrious and rich noblemen in all Funen.”

“You will come one of the first days to me!” said the Kammerjunker; “you shall try my Russian steam-bath: I have erected one upon my estate. All who visit me, ladies and gentlemen without any exception, must try it!”

“And do the cherry-trees bear well this year?” asked Wilhelm.

“No, no,” answered the Kammerjunker, “they are good for nothing; but the apples are good! All the old trees in the hill-garden stand in full splendor: I’ve brought them into condition! Two years ago there was not, on all the trees together, a bushel of fruit. But I had all the horses which had to be bled led under the trees, and had the warm blood sprinkled upon the roots; this happened several times, and it has been a real inoculation for life.”

“The wind is certainly favorable,” said Otto, whom this conversation began to weary.

“No, just the contrary!” said the Kammerjunker. “The vane upon the little house yonder lies; it points always to Nyborg, always shows a good wind for us when we want to leave. In Nyborg is also a vane, which stands even as firmly as this, and prates to the folk there of good wind. I regard both vanes as a kind of guide-post, which merely says, There goes the way! No, if we had had a wind I should have gone with the boat, and not with the little splashing thing, as the seamen call the steamboat. The carriage is doubtless awaiting the young gentleman in Nyborg?” pursued he. “I will join company with you—my brown horse waits for me at Schalburg. You should see him! He has sinews like steel springs, and legs like a dancing-master! He is my own brown.”

“No one knows that we are coming,” answered Wilhelm. “We shall, therefore, take a carriage from Nyborg.”

“We will join company,” said the Kammerjunker, “and then you will pay me a visit with the young gentleman. You shall sleep in the black chamber! Yes, you will give me the pleasure?” said he to Otto. “If you are a lover of the antique, my estate will afford you pleasure; you find there moats, towers, guard-rooms, ghosts, and hobgoblins, such as belong to an old estate. The black chamber! after all, it is not quite secure there; is it, Herr Baron?”

“No, the deuce remain a night with you!” said Wilhelm; “one gets to bed late, and even then it is not permitted one to close one’s eyes. You, your sister, and the Mamsell,—yes, you are a pretty clover-leaf! Yes, Thostrup, you cannot believe what pranks are hatched upon the Kammerjunker’s estate! One must be prepared for it! It is said to be haunted, but if the dead will not take that trouble the living do. The Kammerjunker is in the plot with his women-folk. They sewed me lately live cockchafers into my pillow, and they crawled and scrambled about till I did not know what the deuce it could be! A live cock they had also placed under my bed, and just in the morning, when I would go to sleep, the creature began to crow!”

“The women-folk had done that,” said the Kammerjunker. “Did they not the very same night fasten a door-bell to the head of my bed? I never thought of it; fat Laender slept in the same room, and had fastened along the wall a string to the bell. I awoke with the ringing. ‘What the devil is that bell?’ said I, and glanced about the room, for I could not conceive what it was. ‘Bell?’ asked Laender—‘there is no bell here!’ The ringing also ceased. I thought I must have dreamed, or that our merry evening must have left some buzzing in my ears. Again it began to ring. Laender looked so innocent all the time, I could not comprehend myself; I thought it must be my imagination. I became quite fainthearted, I denied my own hearing, and said, ‘No, I have only dreamed!’ and commenced reckoning and counting to employ my mind; but that did no good, and it nearly drove me mad! I sprang out of bed, and then I found out the trick: but how Laender grinned! he was swollen and red in the face with his mirth.”

“Do you play such jokes on your estate?” inquired Otto, addressing himself to Wilhelm.

“No, not such refined ones!” returned the Kammerjunker; “perhaps a piece of wood, or a silly mask, is laid in your bed. Miss Sophie gives us other clever things for amusement—tableaux and the magic-lantern. I was once of the party. Yes, what was it I represented? Ah, I played, Heaven help me! King Cyrus: had a paper crown on my head, and Miss Sophie’s cloak about me, the wrong side turned outward, for it is lined with sable. I looked like Satan!”

The steamboat passengers were summoned on board, the company went down to the vessel, and soon it was cutting through the waves of the Belt.