THE TRUE STORY
of MY LIFE:
A SKETCH
By Hans Christian Andersen.
, , , , ,
Translated
by Mary Howitt
To MESSRS.
MUNROE
and CO.
, , , , ,
Gentlemen,
--I take this opportunity
of forwarding
to you,
the proof sheets
of the unpublished Life
of Hans Christian Andersen
--translated
from a copy transmitted
to me
for
that purpose,
by the Author.
It is
as well
to state
that this is the Author’s Edition,
he being participant
in the proceeds
of this work.
, , , , ,
I remain,
gentlemen,
Yours truly,
MARY HOWITT.
, , , , ,
LONDON,
June 29,
1847.
, , , , ,
TO
JENNY LIND
THE ENGLISH TRANSLATION
OF
THE TRUE STORY
of HER FRIEND’S LIFE
IS INSCRIBED
IN ADMIRATION
of HER BEAUTIFUL TALENTS
AND STILL MORE BEAUTIFUL LIFE,
BY
MARY HOWITT.
, , , , ,
Project Gutenberg Editor’s Note:
There are many words
in this file
with missing letters.
These spaces were letters
with diacritic marks which
at the time
of the production
of the digital file were not available
for the character set
of the file.
It is hoped someone
will be interested enough
in this work
to supply the missing letters.
DW
CONTENTS
PREFACE.
, , , , ,
THE TRUE STORY
of MY LIFE
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
, , , , ,
CHAPTER III.
, , , , ,
CHAPTER IV.
, , , , ,
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
, , , , ,
CHAPTER VII.
, , , , ,
CHAPTER VIII.
, , , , ,
PREFACE.
, , , , ,
No literary labor is more delightful
to me
than translating the beautiful thoughts
and fancies
of Hans Christian Andersen.
My heart is
in the work,
and I feel
as
if my spirit were kindred
to his;
just
as our Saxon English seems
to me eminently fitted
to give the simple,
pure,
and noble sentiments
of the Danish mind.
, , , , ,
This True Story
of his Life
will not be found the least interesting
of his writings;
indeed,
to me it seems one
of the most so.
It furnishes the key,
as it were,
to all the rest;
and the treasures
which it unlocks
will be found
to be possessed
of additional value
when viewed
through the medium
of this introduction.
It is gratifying
for me
to be able
to state
that the original Author has a personal interest
in this English version
of his “Life,”
as I have arranged
with my publishers
to pay Mr. Andersen a certain sum
on the publication
of this translation,
and the same
on all future editions.
, , , , ,
M. H.
The Elms,
Clapton,
June 26.
, , , , ,
THE TRUE STORY
of MY LIFE
CHAPTER I.
My life is a lovely story,
happy
and full
of incident.
If,
when I was a boy,
and went forth
into the world poor
and friendless,
a good fairy had met me
and said,
“Choose now thy own course
through life,
and the object
for
which thou wilt strive,
and then,
according
to the development
of thy mind,
and
as reason requires,
I
will guide
and defend thee
to its attainment,”
my fate
could not,
even then,
have been directed more happily,
more prudently,
or better.
The history
of my life
will say
to the world
what it says
to me
--There is a loving God,
who directs all things
for the best.
, , , , ,
My native land,
Denmark,
is a poetical land,
full
of popular traditions,
old songs,
and an eventful history,
which has become bound up
with that
of Sweden
and Norway.
The Danish islands are possessed
of beautiful beech woods,
and corn
and clover fields:
they resemble gardens
on a great scale.
Upon one
of these green islands,
Funen,
stands Odense,
the place
of my birth.
Odense is called after the pagan god Odin,
who,
as tradition states,
lived here:
this place is the capital
of the province,
and lies twenty-two Danish miles
from Copenhagen.
, , , , ,
In the year 1805
there lived here,
in a small mean room,
a young married couple,
who were extremely attached
to each other;
he was a shoemaker,
scarcely twenty-two years old,
a man
of a richly gifted
and truly poetical mind.
His wife,
a few years older
than himself,
was ignorant
of life and
of the world,
but possessed a heart full
of love.
The young man had himself made his shoemaking bench,
and the bedstead
with
which he began housekeeping;
this bedstead he had made out
of the wooden frame
which had borne only a short time
before the coffin
of the deceased Count Trampe,
as he lay
in state,
and the remnants
of the black cloth
on the wood work kept the fact still
in remembrance.
, , , , ,
Instead
of a noble corpse,
surrounded
by crape
and wax-lights,
here lay,
on the second
of April,
1805,
a living
and weeping child,
--that was myself,
Hans Christian Andersen.
During the first day
of my existence my father is said
to have sate
by the bed
and read aloud
in Holberg,
but I cried all the time.
“Wilt thou go
to sleep,
or listen quietly?”
it is reported
that my father asked
in joke;
but I still cried on;
and even
in the church,
when I was taken
to be baptized,
I cried so loudly
that the preacher,
who was a passionate man,
said,
“The young one screams
like a cat!”
which words my mother never forgot.
A poor emigrant,
Gomar,
who stood
as godfather,
consoled her
in the mean time
by saying
that the louder I cried
as a child,
all the more beautifully
should I sing
when I grew older.
, , , , ,
Our little room,
which was
almost filled
with the shoemaker’s bench,
the bed,
and my crib,
was the abode
of my childhood;
the walls,
however,
were covered
with pictures,
and
over the work-bench was a cupboard containing books
and songs;
the little kitchen was full
of shining plates
and metal pans,
and
by means
of a ladder it was possible
to go out
on the roof,
where,
in the gutters between
and the neighbor’s house,
there stood a great chest filled
with soil,
my mother’s sole garden,
and
where she grew her vegetables.
In my story
of the Snow Queen
that garden still blooms.
, , , , ,
I was the only child,
and was extremely spoiled,
but I continually heard
from my mother
how very much happier I was
than she had been,
and
that I was brought up
like a nobleman’s child.
She,
as a child,
had been driven out
by her parents
to beg,
and once
when she was not able
to do it,
she had sate
for a whole day
under a bridge
and wept.
I have drawn her character
in two different aspects,
in old Dominica,
in the Improvisatore,
and
in the mother
of Christian,
in Only a Fiddler.
, , , , ,
My father gratified me
in all my wishes.
I possessed his whole heart;
he lived
for me.
On Sundays,
he made me perspective glasses,
theatres,
and pictures
which
could be changed;
he read
to me
from Holberg’s plays
and the Arabian Tales;
it was only
in such moments
as these
that I
can remember
to have seen him really cheerful,
for he never felt himself happy
in his life and
as a handicrafts-man.
His parents had been country people
in good circumstances,
but upon whom many misfortunes had fallen;
the cattle had died;
the farm house had been burned down;
and lastly,
the husband had lost his reason.
On this the wife had removed
with him
to Odense,
and
there put her son,
whose mind was full
of intelligence,
apprentice
to a shoemaker;
it
could not be otherwise,
although it was his ardent wish
to be able
to attend the Grammar School,
where he might have learned Latin.
A few well-to-do citizens had
at one time spoken
of this,
of clubbing together a sufficient sum
to pay
for his board
and education,
and thus giving him a start
in life;
but it never went beyond words.
My poor father saw his dearest wish unfulfilled;
and he never lost the remembrance
of it.
I recollect
that once,
as a child,
I saw tears
in his eyes,
and it was
when a youth
from the Grammar School came
to our house
to be measured
for a new pair
of boots,
and showed us his books
and told us
what he learned.
, , , , ,
“That was the path upon
which I ought
to have gone!”
said my father,
kissed me passionately,
and was silent the whole evening.
, , , , ,
He very seldom associated
with his equals.
He went out
into the woods
on Sundays,
when he took me
with him;
he did not talk much
when he was out,
but
would sit silently,
sunk
in deep thought,
whilst I ran about
and strung strawberries
on a straw,
or bound garlands.
Only twice
in the year,
and that
in the month
of May,
when the woods were arrayed
in their earliest green,
did my mother go
with us,
and
then she wore a cotton gown,
which she put
on only
on these occasions,
and
when she partook
of the Lord’s Supper,
and which,
as long
as I
can remember,
was her holiday gown.
She always took home
with her
from the wood a great many fresh beech boughs,
which were
then planted
behind the polished stone.
Later
in the year sprigs
of St. John’s wort were stuck
into the chinks
of the beams,
and we considered their growth
as omens whether our lives
would be long
or short.
Green branches
and pictures ornamented our little room,
which my mother always kept neat
and clean;
she took great pride
in always having the bed-linen
and the curtains very white.
, , , , ,
The mother
of my father came daily
to our house,
were it only
for a moment,
in order
to see her little grandson.
I was her joy
and her delight.
She was a quiet
and most amiable old woman,
with mild blue eyes
and a fine figure,
which life had severely tried.
From having been the wife
of a countryman
in easy circumstances she had now fallen
into great poverty,
and dwelt
with her feeble-minded husband
in a little house,
which was the last,
poor remains
of their property.
I never saw her shed a tear.
But it made all the deeper impression upon me
when she quietly sighed,
and told me
about her own mother’s mother,
how she had been a rich,
noble lady
in the city
of Cassel,
and
that she had married a “comedy-player,”
that was
as she expressed it,
and run away
from parents
and home,
for all
of
which her posterity had now
to do penance.
I never
can recollect
that I heard her mention the family name
of her grandmother;
but her own maiden name was Nommesen.
She was employed
to take care
of the garden belonging
to a lunatic asylum,
and every Sunday evening she brought us some flowers,
which they gave her permission
to take home
with her.
These flowers adorned my mother’s cupboard;
but still they were mine,
and
to me it was allowed
to put them
in the glass
of water.
How great was this pleasure!
She brought them all
to me;
she loved me
with her whole soul.
I knew it,
and I understood it.
, , , , ,
She burned,
twice
in the year,
the green rubbish
of the garden;
on such occasions she took me
with her
to the asylum,
and I lay upon the great heaps
of green leaves
and pea-straw.
I had many flowers
to play with,
and
--which was a circumstance upon
which I set great importanceù I had here better food
to eat
than I
could expect
at home.
, , , , ,
All such patients
as were harmless were permitted
to go freely
about the court;
they often came
to us
in the garden,
and
with curiosity
and terror I listened
to them
and followed them about;
nay,
I
even ventured so far as
to go
with the attendants
to those
who were raving mad.
A long passage led
to their cells.
On one occasion,
when the attendants were out
of the way,
I lay down upon the floor,
and peeped
through the crack
of the door
into one
of these cells.
I saw within a lady
almost naked,
lying
on her straw bed;
her hair hung down
over her shoulders,
and she sang
with a very beautiful voice.
All
at once she sprang up,
and threw herself
against the door
where I lay;
the little valve through
which she received her food burst open;
she stared down upon me,
and stretched out her long arm
towards me.
I screamed
for terror
--I felt the tips
of her fingers touching my clothes
--I was half dead
when the attendant came;
and even
in later years
that sight
and
that feeling remained within my soul.
, , , , ,
Close beside the place
where the leaves were burned,
the poor old women had their spinning-room.
I often went
in there,
and was very soon a favorite.
When
with these people,
I found myself possessed
of an eloquence
which filled them
with astonishment.
I had accidentally heard
about the internal mechanism
of the human frame,
of course without understanding anything
about it;
but all these mysteries were very captivating
to me;
and
with chalk,
therefore,
I drew a quantity
of flourishes
on the door,
which were
to represent the intestines;
and my description
of the heart
and the lungs made the deepest impression.
I passed
for a remarkably wise child,
that
would not live long;
and they rewarded my eloquence
by telling me tales
in return;
and thus a world
as rich
as that
of the thousand
and one nights was revealed
to me.
The stories told
by these old ladies,
and the insane figures
which I saw
around me
in the asylum,
operated
in the meantime so powerfully upon me,
that
when it grew dark I scarcely dared
to go out
of the house.
I was therefore permitted,
generally
at sunset,
to lay me down
in my parents’ bed
with its long flowered curtains,
because the press-bed
in
which I slept
could not conveniently be put down so early
in the evening
on account
of the room it occupied
in our small dwelling;
and here,
in the paternal bed,
lay I
in a waking dream,
as
if the actual world did not concern me.
I was very much afraid
of my weak-minded grandfather.
Only once had he ever spoken
to me,
and
then he had made use
of the formal pronoun “you.”
He employed himself
in cutting out
of wood strange figures,
men
with beasts’ heads,
and beasts
with wings;
these he packed
in a basket
and carried them out
into the country,
where he was everywhere well received
by the peasant women,
because he gave
to them
and their children these strange toys.
One day,
when he was returning
to Odense,
I heard the boys
in the street shouting after him;
I hid myself
behind a flight
of steps
in terror,
for I knew
that I was
of his flesh
and blood.
, , , , ,
Every circumstance
around me tended
to excite my imagination.
Odense itself,
in those days
in
which
there was not a single steamboat
in existence,
and
when intercourse
with other places was much more rare
than now,
was a totally different city
to
what it is
in our day;
a person might have fancied himself living hundreds
of years ago,
because so many customs prevailed
then
which belonged
to an earlier age.
The guilds walked
in procession
through the town
with their harlequin
before them
with mace
and bells;
on Shrove Tuesday the butchers led the fattest ox
through the streets adorned
with garlands,
whilst a boy
in a white shirt
and
with great wings
on his shoulders rode upon it;
the sailors paraded
through the city
with music
and all their flags flying,
and
then two
of the boldest
among them stood
and wrestled upon a plank placed
between two boats,
and the one
who was not thrown
into the water was the victor.
, , , , ,
That,
however,
which more particularly stamped itself upon my memory,
and became refreshed
by after often-repeated relations,
was,
the abode
of the Spaniards
in Funen
in 1808.
It is true that
at
that time I was
but three years old;
still I nevertheless perfectly remember the brown foreign men
who made disturbances
in the streets,
and the cannon
which were fired.
I saw the people lying
on straw
in a half-tumbledown church,
which was near the asylum.
One day,
a Spanish soldier took me
in his arms
and pressed a silver image,
which he wore upon his breast,
to my lips.
I remember
that my mother was angry
at it,
because,
she said,
there was something papistical
about it;
but the image,
and the strange man,
who danced me about,
kissed me
and wept,
pleased me:
certainly he had children
at home
in Spain.
I saw one
of his comrades led
to execution;
he had killed a Frenchman.
Many years afterwards this little circumstance occasioned me
to write my little poem,
“The Soldier,”
which Chamisso translated
into German,
and
which afterwards was included
in the illustrated people’s books
of soldier-songs.
[Footnote:
This same little song,
sent
to me
by the author,
was translated
by me
and published
in the 19th No. of Howitt’s Journal.
--M.
H.]
I very seldom played
with other boys;
even
at school I took little interest
in their games,
but remained sitting within doors.
At home I had playthings enough,
which my father made
for me.
My greatest delight was
in making clothes
for my dolls,
or
in stretching out one
of my mother’s aprons
between the wall
and two sticks
before a currant-bush
which I had planted
in the yard,
and thus
to gaze
in
between the sun-illumined leaves.
I was a singularly dreamy child,
and so constantly went about
with my eyes shut,
as
at last
to give the impression
of having weak sight,
although the sense
of sight was especially cultivated
by me.
, , , , ,
Sometimes,
during the harvest,
my mother went
into the field
to glean.
I accompanied her,
and we went,
like Ruth
in the Bible,
to glean
in the rich fields
of Boaz.
One day we went
to a place,
the bailiff
of
which was well known
for being a man
of a rude
and savage disposition.
We saw him coming
with a huge whip
in his hand,
and my mother
and all the others ran away.
I had wooden shoes
on my bare feet,
and
in my haste I lost these,
and
then the thorns pricked me so
that I
could not run,
and thus I was left behind
and alone.
The man came up
and lifted his whip
to strike me,
when I looked him
in the face
and involuntarily exclaimed,
--
“How dare you strike me,
when God
can see it?”
, , , , ,
The strong,
stern man looked
at me,
and
at once became mild;
he patted me
on my cheeks,
asked me my name,
and gave me money.
, , , , ,
When I brought this
to my mother
and showed it her,
she said
to the others,
“He is a strange child,
my Hans Christian;
everybody is kind
to him:
this bad fellow
even has given him money.”
, , , , ,
I grew up pious
and superstitious.
I had no idea
of want
or need;
to be sure my parents had only sufficient
to live
from day
to day,
but I
at least had plenty
of every thing;
an old woman altered my father’s clothes
for me.
Now
and
then I went
with my parents
to the theatre,
where the first representations
which I saw were
in German.
“Das Donauweibchen” was the favorite piece
of the whole city;
there,
however,
I saw,
for the first time,
Holberg’s Village Politicians treated
as an opera.
, , , , ,
The first impression
which a theatre
and the crowd assembled
there made upon me was,
at all events,
no sign
of any thing poetical slumbering
in me;
for my first exclamation
on seeing so many people,
was,
“Now,
if we only had
as many casks
of butter
as
there are people here,
then I
would eat lots
of butter!”
The theatre,
however,
soon became my favorite place,
but,
as I
could only very seldom go there,
I acquired the friendship
of the man
who carried out the playbills,
and he gave me one every day.
With this I seated myself
in a corner
and imagined an entire play,
according
to the name
of the piece
and the characters
in it.
That was my first,
unconscious poetising.
, , , , ,
My father’s favorite reading was plays
and stories,
although he also read works
of history
and the Scriptures.
He pondered
in silent thought afterwards upon
that
which he had read,
but my mother did not understand him
when he talked
with her
about them,
and therefore he grew more
and more silent.
One day,
he closed the Bible
with the words,
“Christ was a man
like us,
but an extraordinary man!”
These words horrified my mother,
and she burst
into tears.
In my distress I prayed
to God
that he
would forgive this fearful blasphemy
in my father.
“There is no other devil than
that
which we have
in our own hearts,”
I heard my father say one day
and I made myself miserable
about him
and his soul;
I was therefore entirely
of the opinion
of my mother
and the neighbours,
when my father,
one morning,
found three scratches
on his arm,
probably occasioned
by a nail,
that the devil had been
to visit him
in the night,
in order
to prove
to him
that he really existed.
My father’s rambles
in the wood became more frequent;
he had no rest.
The events
of the war
in Germany,
which he read
in the newspapers
with eager curiosity,
occupied him completely.
Napoleon was his hero:
his rise
from obscurity was the most beautiful example
to him.
At
that time Denmark was
in league
with France;
nothing was talked
of
but war;
my father entered the service
as a soldier,
in hope
of returning home a lieutenant.
My mother wept.
The neighbours shrugged their shoulders,
and said
that it was folly
to go out
to be shot
when
there was no occasion
for it.
, , , , ,
The morning
on
which the corps were
to march I heard my father singing
and talking merrily,
but his heart was deeply agitated;
I observed that
by the passionate manner
in
which he kissed me
when he took his leave.
I lay sick
of the measles
and alone
in the room,
when the drums beat
and my mother accompanied my father,
weeping,
to the city gate.
As soon
as they were gone my old grandmother came in;
she looked
at me
with her mild eyes
and said,
it
would be a good thing
if I died;
but
that God’s
will was always the best.
, , , , ,
That was the first day
of real sorrow
which I remember.
, , , , ,
The regiment advanced no farther
than Holstein,
peace was concluded,
and the voluntary soldier returned
to his work-stool.
Everything fell
into its old course.
I played again
with my dolls,
acted comedies,
and always
in German,
because I had only seen them
in this language;
but my German was a sort
of gibberish
which I made up,
and
in
which
there occurred only one real German word,
and
that was “Besen,”
a word
which I had picked up out
of the various dialects
which my father brought home
from Holstein.
, , , , ,
“Thou hast indeed some benefit
from my travels,”
said he
in joke.
“God knows whether thou wilt get
as far;
but
that must be thy care.
Think
about it,
Hans Christian!”
But it was my mother’s intention that
as long
as she had any voice
in the matter,
I
should remain
at home,
and not lose my health
as he had done.
, , , , ,
That was the case
with him;
his health had suffered.
One morning he woke
in a state
of the wildest excitement,
and talked only
of campaigns
and Napoleon.
He fancied
that he had received orders
from him
to take the command.
My mother immediately sent me,
not
to the physician,
but
to a so-called wise woman some miles
from Odense.
I went
to her.
She questioned me,
measured my arm
with a woolen thread,
made extraordinary signs,
and
at last laid a green twig upon my breast.
It was,
she said,
a piece
of the same kind
of tree upon
which the Saviour was crucified.
, , , , ,
“Go now,”
said she,
“by the river side
towards home.
If your father
will die this time,
then you
will meet his ghost.”
, , , , ,
My anxiety
and distress may be imagined,
--I,
who was so full
of superstition,
and whose imagination was so easily excited.
, , , , ,
“And thou hast not met anything,
hast thou?”
inquired my mother
when I got home.
I assured her,
with beating heart,
that I had not.
, , , , ,
My father died the third day after that.
His corpse lay
on the bed:
I therefore slept
with my mother.
A cricket chirped the whole night through.
, , , , ,
“He is dead,”
said my mother,
addressing it;
“thou needest not call him.
The ice maiden has fetched him.”
, , , , ,
I understood
what she meant.
I recollected that,
in the winter before,
when our window panes were frozen,
my father pointed
to them
and showed us a figure
as that
of a maiden
with outstretched arms.
“She is come
to fetch me,”
said he,
in jest.
And now,
when he lay dead
on the bed,
my mother remembered this,
and it occupied my thoughts also.
, , , , ,
He was buried
in St. Knud’s churchyard,
by the door
on the left hand side coming
from the altar.
My grandmother planted roses upon his grave.
There are now
in the selfsame place two strangers’ graves,
and the grass grows green upon them also.
, , , , ,
After my father’s death I was entirely left
to myself.
My mother went out washing.
I sate alone
at home
with my little theatre,
made dolls’ clothes
and read plays.
It has been told me
that I was always clean
and nicely dressed.
I had grown tall;
my hair was long,
bright,
and
almost yellow,
and I always went bare-headed.
There dwelt
in our neighborhood the widow
of a clergyman,
Madame Bunkeflod,
with the sister
of her deceased husband.
This lady opened
to me her door,
and hers was the first house belonging
to the educated class
into
which I was kindly received.
The deceased clergyman had written poems,
and had gained a reputation
in Danish literature.
His spinning songs were
at
that time
in the mouths
of the people.
In my vignettes
to the Danish poets I thus sang
of him whom my contemporaries had forgotten:
--
Spindles rattle,
wheels turn round,
Spinning-songs depart;
Songs
which youth sings soon become
Music
of the heart.
, , , , ,
Here it was
that I heard
for the first time the word poet spoken,
and that
with so much reverence,
as proved it
to be something sacred.
It is true
that my father had read Holberg’s play
to me;
but here it was not
of these
that they spoke,
but
of verses
and poetry.
“My brother the poet,”
said Bunkeflod’s sister,
and her eyes sparkled
as she said it.
From her I learned
that it was a something glorious,
a something fortunate,
to be a poet.
Here,
too,
for the first time,
I read Shakspeare,
in a bad translation,
to be sure;
but the bold descriptions,
the heroic incidents,
witches,
and ghosts were exactly
to my taste.
I immediately acted Shakspeare’s plays
on my little puppet theatre.
I saw Hamlet’s ghost,
and lived upon the heath
with Lear.
The more persons died
in a play,
the more interesting I thought it.
At this time I wrote my first piece:
it was nothing less
than a tragedy,
wherein,
as a matter
of course,
everybody died.
The subject
of it I borrowed
from an old song
about Pyramus
and Thisbe;
but I had increased the incidents
through a hermit
and his son,
who both loved Thisbe,
and
who both killed themselves
when she died.
Many speeches
of the hermit were passages
from the Bible,
taken out
of the little catechism,
especially
from our duty
to our neighbors.
To the piece I gave the title “Abor
and Elvira.”
, , , , ,
“It ought
to be called ‘Perch
(Aborre)
and Stockfish,’” said one
of our neighbors wittily
to me,
as I came
with it
to her after having read it
with great satisfaction
and joy
to all the people
in our street.
This entirely depressed me,
because I felt
that she was turning both me
and my poem
to ridicule.
With a troubled heart I told it
to my mother.
, , , , ,
“She only said so,”
replied my mother,
“because her son had not done it.”
I was comforted,
and began a new piece,
in
which a king
and queen were
among the dramatis personae.
I thought it was not quite right
that these dignified personages,
as
in Shakspeare,
should speak
like other men
and women.
I asked my mother
and different people
how a king ought properly
to speak,
but no one knew exactly.
They said
that it was so many years
since a king had been
in Odense,
but
that he certainly spoke
in a foreign language.
I procured myself,
therefore,
a sort
of lexicon,
in
which were German,
French,
and English words
with Danish meanings,
and this helped me.
I took a word out
of each language,
and inserted them
into the speeches
of my king
and queen.
It was a regular Babel-like language,
which I considered only suitable
for such elevated personages.
, , , , ,
I desired now
that everybody
should hear my piece.
It was a real felicity
to me
to read it aloud,
and it never occurred
to me
that others
should not have the same pleasure
in listening
to it.
, , , , ,
The son
of one
of our neighbors worked
in a cloth manufactory,
and every week brought home a sum
of money.
I was
at a loose end,
people said,
and got nothing.
I was also now
to go
to the manufactory,
“not
for the sake
of the money,”
my mother said,
“but
that she might know
where I was,
and
what I was doing.”
, , , , ,
My old grandmother took me
to the place,
therefore,
and was very much affected,
because,
said she,
she had not expected
to live
to see the time
when I
should consort
with the poor ragged lads
that worked there.
, , , , ,
Many
of the journeymen
who were employed
in the manufactory were Germans;
they sang
and were merry fellows,
and many a coarse joke
of theirs filled the place
with loud laughter.
I heard them,
and I
there learned that,
to the innocent ears
of a child,
the impure remains very unintelligible.
It took no hold upon my heart.
I was possessed
at
that time
of a remarkably beautiful
and high soprano voice,
and I knew it;
because
when I sang
in my parents’ little garden,
the people
in the street stood
and listened,
and the fine folks
in the garden
of the states-councillor,
which adjoined ours,
listened
at the fence.
When,
therefore,
the people
at the manufactory asked me whether I
could sing,
I immediately began,
and all the looms stood still:
all the journeymen listened
to me.
I had
to sing again
and again,
whilst the other boys had my work given them
to do.
I now told them
that I also
could act plays,
and
that I knew whole scenes
of Holberg
and Shakspeare.
Everybody liked me;
and
in this way,
the first days
in the manufactory passed
on very merrily.
One day,
however,
when I was
in my best singing vein,
and everybody spoke
of the extraordinary brilliancy
of my voice,
one
of the journeymen said
that I was a girl,
and not a boy.
He seized hold
of me.
I cried
and screamed.
The other journeymen thought it very amusing,
and held me fast
by my arms
and legs.
I screamed aloud,
and was
as much ashamed
as a girl;
and then,
darting
from them,
rushed home
to my mother,
who immediately promised me
that I
should never go
there again.
, , , , ,
I again visited Madame Bunkeflod,
for whose birthday I invented
and made a white silk pincushion.
I also made an acquaintance
with another old clergyman’s widow
in the neighborhood.
She permitted me
to read aloud
to her the works
which she had
from the circulating library.
One
of them began
with these words:
“It was a tempestuous night;
the rain beat
against the window-panes.”
, , , , ,
“That is an extraordinary book,”
said the old lady;
and I quite innocently asked her
how she knew
that it was.
“I
can tell
from the beginning,”
said she,
“that it
will turn out extraordinary.”
, , , , ,
I regarded her penetration
with a sort
of reverence.
, , , , ,
Once
in the harvest time my mother took me
with her many miles
from Odense
to a nobleman’s seat
in the neighborhood
of Bogense,
her native place.
The lady
who lived there,
and
with whose parents my mother had lived,
had said
that some time she might come
and see her.
That was a great journey
for me:
we went most
of the way
on foot,
and required,
I believe,
two days
for the journey.
The country here made such a strong impression upon me,
that my most earnest wish was
to remain
in it,
and become a countryman.
It was just
in the hop-picking season;
my mother
and I sat
in the barn
with a great many country people round a great binn,
and helped
to pick the hops.
They told tales
as they sat
at their work,
and every one related
what wonderful things he had seen
or experienced.
One afternoon I heard an old man
among them say
that God knew every thing,
both
what had happened
and
what
would happen.
That idea occupied my whole mind,
and
towards evening,
as I went alone
from the court,
where
there was a deep pond,
and stood upon some stones
which were just within the water,
the thought passed
through my head,
whether God actually knew everything
which was
to happen there.
Yes,
he has now determined
that I
should live
and be so many years old,
thought I;
but,
if I now were
to jump
into the water here
and drown myself,
then it
would not be
as he wished;
and all
at once I was firmly
and resolutely determined
to drown myself.
I ran
to
where the water was deepest,
and
then a new thought passed
through my soul.
“It is the devil
who wishes
to have power
over me!”
I uttered a loud cry,
and,
running away
from the place
as
if I were pursued,
fell weeping
into my mother’s arms.
But neither she nor any one else
could wring
from me
what was amiss
with me.
, , , , ,
“He has certainly seen a ghost,”
said one
of the women;
and I
almost believed so myself.
, , , , ,
My mother married a second time,
a young handicraftsman;
but his family,
who also belonged
to the handicraft class,
thought
that he had married below himself,
and neither my mother nor myself were permitted
to visit them.
My step-father was a young,
grave man,
who
would have nothing
to do
with my education.
I spent my time,
therefore,
over my peep show
and my puppet theatre,
and my greatest happiness consisted
in collecting bright colored pieces
of cloth
and silk,
which I cut out myself
and sewed.
My mother regarded it
as good exercise preparatory
to my becoming a tailor,
and took up the idea
that I certainly was born
for it.
I,
on the contrary,
said
that I
would go
to the theatre
and be an actor,
a wish
which my mother most sedulously opposed,
because she knew
of no other theatre
than those
of the strolling players
and the rope-dancers.
No,
a tailor I must
and
should be.
The only thing which
in some measure reconciled me
to this prospect was,
that I should
then get so many fragments
to make up
for my theatre.
, , , , ,
My passion
for reading,
the many dramatic scenes
which I knew
by heart,
and my remarkably fine voice,
had turned upon me
in some sort the attention
of several
of the more influential families
of Odense.
I was sent for
to their houses,
and the peculiar characteristics
of my mind excited their interest.
Among others
who noticed me was the Colonel Hoegh-Guldberg,
who
with his family showed me the kindest sympathy;
so much so,
indeed,
that he introduced me
to the present king,
then Prince Christian.
, , , , ,
I grew rapidly,
and was a tall lad,
of whom my mother said
that she
could not let him any longer go
about without any object
in life.
I was sent,
therefore,
to the charity school,
but learned only religion,
writing,
and arithmetic,
and the last badly enough;
I
could also scarcely spell a word correctly.
On the master’s birthday I always wove him a garland
and wrote him a poem;
he received them half
with smiles
and half
as a joke;
the last time,
however,
he scolded me.
The street lads had also heard
from their parents
of my peculiar turn
of mind,
and
that I was
in the habit
of going
to the houses
of the gentry.
I was therefore one day pursued
by a wild crowd
of them,
who shouted after me derisively,
“There runs the play-writer!”
I hid myself
at home
in a corner,
wept,
and prayed
to God.
, , , , ,
My mother said
that I must be confirmed,
in order
that I might be apprenticed
to the tailor trade,
and thus do something rational.
She loved me
with her whole heart,
but she did not understand my impulses
and my endeavors,
nor indeed
at
that time did I myself.
The people
about her always spoke
against my odd ways,
and turned me
to ridicule.
, , , , ,
We belonged
to the parish
of St. Knud,
and the candidates
for confirmation
could either enter their names
with the prevost
or the chaplain.
The children
of the so-called superior families
and the scholars
of the grammar school went
to the first,
and the children
of the poor
to the second.
I,
however,
announced myself
as a candidate
to the prevost,
who was obliged
to receive me,
although he discovered vanity
in my placing myself
among his catechists,
where,
although taking the lowest place,
I was still
above those
who were
under the care
of the chaplain.
I would,
however,
hope
that it was not alone vanity
which impelled me.
I had a sort
of fear
of the poor boys,
who had laughed
at me,
and I always felt
as it were an inward drawing
towards the scholars
of the grammar school,
whom I regarded
as far better
than other boys.
When I saw them playing
in the church-yard,
I
would stand outside the railings,
and wish
that I were
but
among the fortunate ones,
--not
for the sake
of play,
but
for the sake
of the many books they had,
and
for
what they might be able
to become
in the world.
With the prevost,
therefore,
I
should be able
to come together
with them,
and be
as they were;
but I do not remember a single one
of them now,
so little intercourse
would they hold
with me.
I had daily the feeling
of having thrust myself
in
where people thought
that I did not belong.
One young girl,
however,
there was,
and one
who was considered too
of the highest rank,
whom I shall afterwards have
to mention;
she always looked gently
and kindly
at me,
and
even once gave me a rose.
I returned home full
of happiness,
because
there was one being
who did not overlook
and repel me.
, , , , ,
An old female tailor altered my deceased father’s great coat
into a confirmation suit
for me;
never
before had I worn so good a coat.
I had also
for the first time
in my life a pair
of boots.
My delight was extremely great;
my only fear was
that everybody
would not see them,
and therefore I drew them up
over my trousers,
and thus marched
through the church.
The boots creaked,
and
that inwardly pleased me,
for thus the congregation
would hear
that they were new.
My whole devotion was disturbed;
I was aware
of it,
and it caused me a horrible pang
of conscience
that my thoughts
should be
as much
with my new boots
as
with God.
I prayed him earnestly
from my heart
to forgive me,
and
then again I thought
about my new boots.
, , , , ,
During the last year I had saved together a little sum
of money.
When I counted it
over I found it
to be thirteen rix dollars banco
(about thirty shillings)
I was quite overjoyed
at the possession
of so much wealth,
and
as my mother now most resolutely required
that I
should be apprenticed
to a tailor,
I prayed
and besought her
that I might make a journey
to Copenhagen,
that I might see the greatest city
in the world.
“What wilt thou do there?”
asked my mother.
, , , , ,
“I
will become famous,”
returned I,
and I
then told her all
that I had read
about extraordinary men.
“People have,”
said I,
“at first an immense deal
of adversity
to go through,
and
then they
will be famous.”
, , , , ,
It was a wholly unintelligible impulse
that guided me.
I wept,
I prayed,
and
at last my mother consented,
after having first sent
for a so-called wise woman out
of the hospital,
that she might read my future fortune
by the coffee-grounds
and cards.
, , , , ,
“Your son
will become a great man,”
said the old woman,
“and
in honor
of him,
Odense
will one day be illuminated.”
, , , , ,
My mother wept
when she heard that,
and I obtained permission
to travel.
All the neighbors told my mother
that it was a dreadful thing
to let me,
at only fourteen years
of age,
go
to Copenhagen,
which was such a long way off,
and such a great
and intricate city,
and
where I knew nobody.
, , , , ,
“Yes,”
replied my mother,
“but he lets me have no peace;
I have therefore given my consent,
but I am sure
that he
will go no further
than Nyborg;
when he gets sight
of the rough sea,
he
will be frightened
and turn back again.”
, , , , ,
During the summer
before my confirmation,
a part
of the singers
and performers
of the Theatre Royal had been
in Odense,
and had given a series
of operas
and tragedies there.
The whole city was taken
with them.
I,
who was
on good terms
with the man
who delivered the play-bills,
saw the performances
behind the scenes,
and had
even acted a part
as page,
shepherd,
etc.,
and had spoken a few words.
My zeal was so great
on such occasions,
that I stood
there fully apparelled
when the actors arrived
to dress.
By these means their attention was turned
to me;
my childlike manners
and my enthusiasm amused them;
they talked kindly
with me,
and I looked up
to them as
to earthly divinities.
Everything
which I had formerly heard
about my musical voice,
and my recitation
of poetry,
became intelligible
to me.
It was the theatre
for
which I was born:
it was there
that I
should become a famous man,
and
for
that reason Copenhagen was the goal
of my endeavors.
I heard a deal said
about the large theatre
in Copenhagen,
and
that
there was
to be soon
what was called the ballet,
a something
which surpassed both the opera
and the play;
more especially did I hear the solo-dancer,
Madame Schall,
spoken
of
as the first
of all.
She therefore appeared
to me
as the queen
of everything,
and
in my imagination I regarded her
as the one
who
would be able
to do everything
for me,
if I
could only obtain her support.
Filled
with these thoughts,
I went
to the old printer Iversen,
one
of the most respectable citizens
of Odense,
and who,
as I heard,
had had considerable intercourse
with the actors
when they were
in the town.
He,
I thought,
must
of necessity be acquainted
with the famous dancer;
him I
would request
to give me a letter
of introduction
to her,
and
then I
would commit the rest
to God.
, , , , ,
The old man saw me
for the first time,
and heard my petition
with much kindness;
but he dissuaded me most earnestly
from it,
and said
that I might learn a trade.
, , , , ,
“That
would actually be a great sin,”
returned I. He was startled
at the manner
in
which I said that,
and it prepossessed him
in my favor;
he confessed
that he was not personally acquainted
with the dancer,
but still
that he
would give me a letter
to her.
I received one
from him,
and now believed the goal
to be nearly won.
, , , , ,
My mother packed up my clothes
in a small bundle,
and made a bargain
with the driver
of a post carriage
to take me back
with him
to Copenhagen
for three rix dollars banco.
The afternoon
on
which we were
to set out came,
and my mother accompanied me
to the city gate.
Here stood my old grandmother;
in the last few years her beautiful hair had become grey;
she fell upon my neck
and wept,
without being able
to speak a word.
I was myself deeply affected.
And thus we parted.
I saw her no more;
she died
in the following year.
, , , , ,
I do not
even know her grave;
she sleeps
in the poor-house burial-ground.
, , , , ,
The postilion blew his horn;
it was a glorious sunny afternoon,
and the sunshine soon entered
into my gay child-like mind.
I delighted
in every novel object
which met my eye,
and I was journeying
towards the goal
of my soul’s desires.
When,
however,
I arrived
at Nyborg
on the great Belt,
and was borne
in the ship away
from my native island,
I
then truly felt
how alone
and forlorn I was,
and
that I had no one else except God
in heaven
to depend upon.
, , , , ,
As soon
as I set foot
on Zealand,
I stepped
behind a shed,
which stood
on the shore,
and falling upon my knees,
besought
of God
to help
and guide me aright;
I felt myself comforted
by so doing,
and I firmly trusted
in God
and my own good fortune.
The whole day
and the following night I travelled
through cities
and villages;
I stood solitarily
by the carriage,
and ate my bread
while it was repacked.
--I thought I was far away
in the wide world.
, , , , ,
CHAPTER II.
, , , , ,
On Monday morning,
September 5th,
1819,
I saw
from the heights
of Frederiksburg,
Copenhagen,
for the first time.
At this place I alighted
from the carriage,
and
with my little bundle
in my hand,
entered the city
through the castle garden,
the long alley
and the suburb.
, , , , ,
The evening
before my arrival had been made memorable
by the breaking out
of the so-called Jews quarrel,
which spread
through many European countries.
The whole city was
in commotion
[Footnote:
This remarkable disturbance makes a fine incident
in Anderson’s romance
of “Only a Fiddler.”
--M.
H.];
every body was
in the streets;
the noise
and tumult
of Copenhagen far exceeded,
therefore,
any idea
which my imagination had formed
of this,
at
that time,
to me great city.
, , , , ,
With scarcely ten dollars
in my pocket,
I turned
into a small public-house.
My first ramble was
to the theatre.
I went round it many times;
I looked up
to its walls,
and regarded them almost
as a home.
One
of the bill-sellers,
who wandered
about here each day,
observed me,
and asked me
if I
would have a bill.
I was so wholly ignorant
of the world,
that I thought the man wished
to give me one;
I therefore accepted his offer
with thankfulness.
He fancied I was making fun
of him
and was angry;
so
that I was frightened,
and hastened
from the place
which was
to me the dearest
in the city.
Little did I
then imagine
that ten years afterwards my first dramatic piece
would be represented there,
and that
in this manner I
should make my appearance
before the Danish public.
On the following day I dressed myself
in my confirmation suit,
nor were the boots forgotten,
although,
this time,
they were worn,
naturally,
under my trousers;
and thus,
in my best attire,
with a hat on,
which fell half
over my eyes,
I hastened
to present my letter
of introduction
to the dancer,
Madame Schall.
Before I rung
at the bell,
I fell
on my knees
before the door
and prayed God
that I here might find help
and support.
A maid-servant came down the steps
with her basket
in her hand;
she smiled kindly
at me,
gave me a skilling
(Danish),
and tripped on.
Astonished,
I looked
at her
and the money.
I had
on my confirmation suit,
and thought I must look very smart.
How
then
could she think
that I wanted
to beg?
I called after her.
, , , , ,
“Keep it,
keep it!”
said she
to me,
in return,
and was gone.
, , , , ,
At length I was admitted
to the dancer;
she looked
at me
in great amazement,
and
then heard
what I had
to say.
She had not the slightest knowledge
of him
from whom the letter came,
and my whole appearance
and behavior seemed very strange
to her.
I confessed
to her my heartfelt inclination
for the theatre;
and upon her asking me
what characters I thought I
could represent,
I replied,
Cinderella.
This piece had been performed
in Odense
by the royal company,
and the principal characters had so greatly taken my fancy,
that I
could play the part perfectly
from memory.
In the mean time I asked her permission
to take off my boots,
otherwise I was not light enough
for this character;
and
then taking up my broad hat
for a tambourine,
I began
to dance
and sing,
--
“Here below,
nor rank nor riches,
Are exempt
from pain
and woe.”
, , , , ,
My strange gestures
and my great activity caused the lady
to think me out
of my mind,
and she lost no time
in getting rid
of me.
, , , , ,
From her I went
to the manager
of the theatre,
to ask
for an engagement.
He looked
at me,
and said
that I was “too thin
for the theatre.”
, , , , ,
“Oh,”
replied I,
“if you
will only engage me
with one hundred rix dollars banco salary,
then I shall soon get fat!”
The manager bade me gravely go my way,
adding,
that they only engaged people
of education.
, , , , ,
I stood
there deeply wounded.
I knew no one
in all Copenhagen
who
could give me either counsel
or consolation.
I thought
of death
as being the only thing,
and the best thing
for me;
but even
then my thoughts rose upwards
to God,
and
with all the undoubting confidence
of a child
in his father,
they riveted themselves upon Him.
I wept bitterly,
and
then I said
to myself,
“When everything happens really miserably,
then he sends help.
I have always read so.
People must first
of all suffer a great deal
before they
can bring anything
to accomplishment.”
, , , , ,
I now went
and bought myself a gallery-ticket
for the opera
of Paul
and Virginia.
The separation
of the lovers affected me
to such a degree,
that I burst
into violent weeping.
A few women,
who sat near me,
consoled me
by saying
that it was only a play,
and nothing
to trouble oneself about;
and
then they gave me a sausage sandwich.
I had the greatest confidence
in everybody,
and therefore I told them,
with the utmost openness,
that I did not really weep
about Paul
and Virginia,
but
because I regarded the theatre
as my Virginia,
and that
if I must be separated
from it,
I
should be just
as wretched
as Paul.
They looked
at me,
and seemed not
to understand my meaning.
I
then told them
why I had come
to Copenhagen,
and
how forlorn I was there.
One
of the women,
therefore,
gave me more,
bread andebutter,
with fruit
and cakes.
, , , , ,
On the following morning I paid my bill,
and
to my infinite trouble I saw
that my whole wealth consisted
in one rix dollar banco.
It was necessary,
therefore,
either
that I
should find some vessel
to take me home,
or put myself
to work
with some handicraftsman.
I considered
that the last was the wiser
of the two,
because,
if I returned
to Odense,
I must
there also put myself
to work
of a similar kind;
besides which,
I knew very well
that the people
there
would laugh
at me
if I came back again.
It was
to me a matter
of indifference
what handicraft trade I learned,
--I only
should make use
of it
to keep life within me
in Copenhagen.
I bought a newspaper,
therefore.
I found
among the advertisements
that a cabinet maker was
in want
of an apprentice.
The man received me kindly,
but said
that
before I was bound
to him he must have an attestation,
and my baptismal register
from Odense;
and
that
till these came I
could remove
to his house,
and try
how the business pleased me.
At six o’clock the next morning I went
to the workshop:
several journeymen were there,
and two
or three apprentices;
but the master was not come.
They fell
into merry
and idle discourse.
I was
as bashful
as a girl,
and
as they soon perceived this,
I was unmercifully rallied upon it.
Later
in the day the rude jests
of the young fellows went so far,
that,
in remembrance
of the scene
at the manufactory,
I took the resolute determination not
to remain a single day longer
in the workshop.
I went down
to the master,
therefore,
and told him
that I
could not stand it;
he tried
to console me,
but
in vain:
I was too much affected,
and hastened away.
, , , , ,
I now went
through the streets;
nobody knew me;
I was quite forlorn.
I
then bethought myself
of having read
in a newspaper
in Odense the name
of an Italian,
Siboni,
who was the director
of the Academy
of Music
in Copenhagen.
Everybody had praised my voice;
perhaps he
would assist me
for its sake;
if not,
then
that very evening I must seek out the master
of some vessel
who
would take me home again.
At the thoughts
of the journey home I became still more violently excited,
and
in this state
of suffering I hastened
to Siboni’s house.
, , , , ,
It happened
that very day
that he had a large party
to dinner;
our celebrated composer Weyse was there,
the poet Baggesen,
and other guests.
The housekeeper opened the door
to me,
and
to her I not only related my wish
to be engaged
as a singer,
but also the whole history
of my life.
She listened
to me
with the greatest sympathy,
and
then she left me.
I waited a long time,
and she must have been repeating
to the company the greater part
of
what I had said,
for,
in a while,
the door opened,
and all the guests came out
and looked
at me.
They
would have me
to sing,
and Siboni heard me attentively.
I gave some scenes out
of Holberg,
and repeated a few poems;
and then,
all
at once,
the sense
of my unhappy condition so overcame me
that I burst
into tears;
the whole company applauded.
, , , , ,
“I prophesy,”
said Baggesen,
“that one day something
will come out
of him;
but do not be vain when,
some day,
the whole public shall applaud thee!”
and
then he added something
about pure,
true nature,
and
that this is too often destroyed
by years and
by intercourse
with mankind.
I did not understand it all.
, , , , ,
Siboni promised
to cultivate my voice,
and
that I therefore
should succeed
as singer
at the Theatre Royal.
It made me very happy;
I laughed
and wept;
and
as the housekeeper led me out
and saw the excitement under
which I labored,
she stroked my cheeks,
and said that
on the following day I
should go
to Professor Weyse,
who meant
to do something
for me,
and upon whom I
could depend.
, , , , ,
I went
to Weyse,
who himself had risen
from poverty;
he had deeply felt
and fully comprehended my unhappy situation,
and had raised
by a subscription seventy rix dollars banco
for me.
I
then wrote my first letter
to my mother,
a letter full
of rejoicing,
for the good fortune
of the whole world seemed poured upon me.
My mother
in her joy showed my letter
to all her friends;
many heard
of it
with astonishment;
others laughed
at it,
for
what was
to be the end
of it?
In order
to understand Siboni it was necessary
for me
to learn something
of German.
A woman
of Copenhagen,
with whom I travelled
from Odense
to this city,
and
who gladly,
according
to her means,
would have supported me,
obtained,
through one
of her acquaintance,
a language-master,
who gratuitously gave me some German lessons,
and thus I learned a few phrases
in
that language.
Siboni received me
into his house,
and gave me food
and instruction;
but half a year afterwards my voice broke,
or was injured,
in consequence
of my being compelled
to wear bad shoes
through the winter,
and having
besides no warm under-clothing.
There was no longer any prospect
that I
should become a fine singer.
Siboni told me
that candidly,
and counselled me
to go
to Odense,
and
there learn a trade.
, , , , ,
I,
who
in the rich colors
of fancy had described
to my mother the happiness
which I actually felt,
must now return home
and become an object
of derision!
Agonized
with this thought,
I stood
as
if crushed
to the earth.
Yet,
precisely amid this apparently great un-happiness lay the stepping-stones
of a better fortune.
, , , , ,
As I found myself again abandoned,
and was pondering
by myself upon
what was best
for me next
to do,
it occurred
to me
that the Poet Guldberg,
a brother
of the Colonel
of
that name
in Odense,
who had shown me so much kindness,
lived
in Copenhagen.
He lived
at
that time near the new church-yard outside the city,
of
which he has so beautifully sung
in his poems.
I wrote
to him,
and related
to him everything;
afterwards I went
to him myself,
and found him surrounded
with books
and tobacco pipes.
The strong,
warm-hearted man received me kindly;
and
as he saw
by my letter
how incorrectly I wrote,
he promised
to give me instruction
in the Danish tongue;
he examined me a little
in German,
and thought
that it
would be well
if he
could improve me
in this respect also.
More
than this,
he made me a present
of the profits
of a little work
which he had just
then published;
it became known,
and I believe they exceeded one hundred rix dollars banco;
the excellent Weyse
and others also supported me.
, , , , ,
It was too expensive
for me
to lodge
at a public house;
I was therefore obliged
to seek
for private lodgings.
My ignorance
of the world led me
to a widow
who lived
in one
of the most disreputable streets
of Copenhagen;
she was inclined
to receive me
into her house,
and I never suspected
what kind
of world it was
which moved
around me.
She was a stern,
but active dame;
she described
to me the other people
of the city
in such horrible colors
as made me suppose
that I was
in the only safe haven there.
I was
to pay twenty rix dollars monthly
for one room,
which was nothing
but an empty store-room,
without window
and light,
but I had permission
to sit
in her parlor.
I was
to make trial
of it
at first
for two days,
meantime
on the following day she told me
that I
could decide
to stay
or immediately go.
I,
who so easily attach myself
to people,
already liked her,
and felt myself
at home
with her;
but more
than sixteen dollars per month Weyse had told me I must not pay,
and this was the sum
which I had received
from him
and Guldberg,
so
that no surplus remained
to me
for my other expenses.
This troubled me very much;
when she was gone out
of the room,
I seated myself
on the sofa,
and contemplated the portrait
of her deceased husband.
, , , , ,
I was so wholly a child,
that
as the tears rolled down my own cheeks,
I wetted the eyes
of the portrait
with my tears,
in order
that the dead man might feel
how troubled I was,
and influence the heart
of his wife.
She must have seen
that nothing more was
to be drained out
of me,
for
when she returned
to the room she said
that she
would receive me
into her house
for the sixteen rix dollars.
I thanked God
and the dead man.
I found myself
in the midst
of the mysteries
of Copenhagen,
but I did not understand how
to interpret them.
There was
in the house
in
which I lived a friendly young lady,
who lived alone,
and often wept;
every evening her old father came
and paid her a visit.
I opened the door
to him frequently;
he wore a plain sort
of coat,
had his throat very much tied up,
and his hat pulled
over his eyes.
He always drank his tea
with her,
and nobody dared
to be present,
because he was not fond
of company:
she never seemed very glad
at his coming.
[Footnote:
This character
will be recognised
in Steffen Margaret,
in Only a Fiddler.
--M.
H.]
Many years afterwards,
when I had reached another step
on the ladder
of life,
when the refined world
of fashionable life was opened
before me,
I saw one evening,
in the midst
of a brilliantly lighted hall,
a polite old gentleman covered
with orders
--that was the old father
in the shabby coat,
he whom I had let in.
He had little idea
that I had opened the door
to him
when he played his part
as guest,
but I,
on my side,
then had also no thought
but
for my own comedy-playing;
that is
to say,
I was
at
that time so much
of a child
that I played
with my puppet-theatre
and made my dolls’ clothes;
and
in order
that I might obtain gaily-colored fragments
for this purpose,
I used
to go
to the shops
and ask
for patterns
of various kinds
of stuffs
and ribbons.
I myself did not possess a single farthing;
my landlady received all the money each month
in advance;
only now
and then,
when I did any errands
for her,
she gave me something,
and
that went
in the purchase
of paper
or
for old play-books.
I was now very happy,
and was doubly so
because Professor Guldberg had induced Lindgron,
the first comic actor
at the theatre,
to give me instruction.
He gave me several parts
in Holberg
to learn,
such
as Hendrik,
and the Silly Boy,
for
which I had shown some talent.
My desire,
however,
was
to play the Correggio.
I obtained permission
to learn this piece
in my own way,
although Lindgron asked,
with comic gravity,
whether I expected
to resemble the great painter?
I,
however,
repeated
to him the soliloquy
in the picture gallery
with so much feeling,
that the old man clapped me
on the shoulder
and said,
“Feeling you have;
but you must not be an actor,
though God knows
what else.
Speak
to Guldberg
about your learning Latin:
that always opens the way
for a student.”
, , , , ,
I a student!
That was a thought
which had never come before
into my head.
The theatre lay nearer
to me,
and was dearer too;
but Latin I had also always wished
to learn.
But
before I spoke
on the subject
to Guldberg,
I mentioned it
to the lady
who gave me gratuitous instruction
in German;
but she told me
that Latin was the most expensive language
in the world,
and
that it was not possible
to gain free instruction
in it.
Guldberg,
however,
managed it so
that one
of his friends,
out
of kindness,
gave me two lessons a week.
, , , , ,
The dancer,
Dahlen,
whose wife
at
that time was one
of the first artistes
on the Danish boards,
opened his house
to me.
I passed many an evening there,
and the gentle,
warm-hearted lady was kind
to me.
The husband took me
with him
to the dancing-school,
and
that was
to me one step nearer
to the theatre.
There stood I
for whole mornings,
with a long staff,
and stretched my legs;
but notwithstanding all my good-will,
it was Dahlen’s opinion
that I
should never get beyond a figurante.
One advantage,
however,
I had gained;
I might
in an evening make my appearance
behind the scenes
of the theatre;
nay,
even sit upon the farthest bench
in the box
of the figurantes.
It seemed
to me
as
if I had got my foot just within the theatre,
although I had never yet been upon the stage itself.
, , , , ,
One night the little opera
of the Two Little Savoyards was given;
in the market scene every one,
even the mechanists,
might go up
to help
in filling the stage;
I heard them say so,
and rouging myself a little,
I went happily up
with the others.
I was
in my ordinary dress;
the confirmation coat,
which still held together,
although,
with regard
to brushing
and repairs,
it lookedebut miserably,
and the great hat
which fell down
over my face.
I was very conscious
of the ill condition
of my attire,
and
would have been glad
to have concealed it;
but,
through the endeavor
to do so,
my movements became still more angular.
I did not dare
to hold myself upright,
because,
by so doing,
I exhibited all the more plainly the shortness
of my waistcoat,
which I had outgrown.
I had the feeling very plainly
that people
would make themselves merry
about me;
yet,
at this moment,
I felt nothing
but the happiness
of stepping
for the first time
before the foot-lamps.
My heart beat;
I stepped forward;
there came up one
of the singers,
who
at
that time was much thought of,
but now is forgotten;
he took me
by the hand,
and jeeringly wished me happiness
on my debut.
“Allow me
to introduce you
to the Danish public,”
said he,
and drew me forward
to the lamps.
The people
would laugh
at me
--I felt it;
the tears rolled down my cheeks;
I tore myself loose,
and left the stage full
of anguish.
, , , , ,
Shortly after this,
Dahlen arranged a ballet
of Armida,
in
which I received a little part:
I was a spirit.
In this ballet I became acquainted
with the lady
of Professor Heiberg,
the wife
of the poet,
and now a highly esteemed actress
on the Danish stage;
she,
then a little girl,
had also a part
in it,
and our names stood printed
in the bill.
That was a moment
in my life,
when my name was printed!
I fancied I
could see it a nimbus
of immortality.
I was continually looking
at the printed paper.
I carried the programme
of the ballet
with me
at night
to bed,
lay
and read my name
by candle light
--in short,
I was happy.
, , , , ,
I had now been two years
in Copenhagen.
The sum
of money
which had been collected
for me was expended,
but I was ashamed
of making known my wants
and my necessities.
I had removed
to the house
of a woman whose husband,
when living,
was master
of a trading-vessel,
and
there I had only lodging
and breakfast.
Those were heavy,
dark days
for me.
, , , , ,
The lady believed
that I went out
to dine
with various families,
whilst I only ate a little bread
on one
of the benches
in the royal garden.
Very rarely did I venture
into some
of the lowest eating-houses,
and choose
there the least expensive dish.
I was,
in truth,
very forlorn;
but I did not feel the whole weight
of my condition.
Every person
who spoke
to me kindly I took
for a faithful friend.
God was
with me
in my little room;
and many a night,
when I have said my evening prayer,
I asked
of Him,
like a child,
“Will things soon be better
with me?”
I had the notion,
that
as it went
with me
on New Year’s Day,
so
would it go
with me
through the whole year;
and my highest wishes were
to obtain a part
in a play.
, , , , ,
It was now New Year’s Day.
The theatre was closed,
and only a half-blind porter sat
at the entrance
to the stage,
on
which
there was not a soul.
I stole past him
with beating heart,
got
between the movable scenes
and the curtain,
and advanced
to the open part
of the stage.
Here I fell down upon my knees,
but not a single verse
for declamation
could I recall
to my memory.
I
then said aloud the Lord’s Prayer,
and went out
with the persuasion,
that
because I had spoken
from the stage
on New Year’s Day,
I should
in the course
of the year succeed
in speaking still more,
as well as
in having a part assigned
to me.
, , , , ,
During the two years
of my residence
in Copenhagen I had never been out
into the open country.
Once only had I been
in the park,
and
there I had been deeply engrossed
by studying the diversions
of the people
and their gay tumult.
In the spring
of the third year,
I went out
for the first time amid the verdure
of a spring morning.
It was
into the garden
of the Fredericksberg,
the summer residence
of Frederick VI.
I stood still suddenly
under the first large budding beech tree.
The sun made the leaves transparent
--there was a fragrance,
a freshness
--the birds sang.
I was overcome
by it
--I shouted aloud
for joy,
threw my arms
around the tree
and kissed it.
, , , , ,
“Is he mad?”
said a man close
behind me.
It was one
of the servants
of the castle.
I ran away,
shocked
at
what I had heard,
and
then went thoughtfully
and calmly back
to the city.
, , , , ,
My voice had,
in the mean time,
in part regained its richness.
The singing master
of the choir-school heard it,
offered me a place
in the school,
thinking that,
by singing
with the choir,
I
should acquire greater freedom
in the exercise
of my powers
on the stage.
I thought
that I
could see
by this means a new way opened
for me.
I went
from the dancing-school
into the singing-school,
and entered the choir,
now
as a shepherd,
and now
as a warrior.
The theatre was my world.
I had permission
to go
in the pit,
and thus it fared ill
with my Latin.
I heard many people say
that
there was no Latin required
for singing
in the choir,
and
that without the knowledge
of this language it was possible
to become a great actor.
I thought
there was good sense
in that,
and very often,
either with
or without reason,
excused myself
from my Latin evening lesson.
Guldberg became aware
of this,
and
for the first time I received a reprimand
which
almost crushed me
to the earth.
I fancy
that no criminal
could suffer more
by hearing the sentence
of death pronounced upon him.
My distress
of mind must have expressed itself
in my countenance,
for he said “Do not act any more comedy.”
But it was no comedy
to me.
, , , , ,
I was now
to learn Latin no longer.
I felt my dependence upon the kindness
of others
in such a degree
as I had never done before.
Occasionally I had had gloomy
and earnest thoughts
in looking forward
to my future,
because I was
in want
of the very necessaries
of life;
at other times I had the perfect thoughtlessness
of a child.
, , , , ,
The widow
of the celebrated Danish statesman,
Christian Colbj÷rnsen,
and her daughter,
were the first ladies
of high rank
who cordially befriended the poor lad;
who listened
to me
with sympathy,
and saw me frequently.
Mrs. von Colbj÷rnsen resided,
during the summer,
at Bakkehus,
where also lived the poet Rahbek
and his interesting wife.
Rahbek never spoke
to me;
but his lively
and kind-hearted wife often amused herself
with me.
I had
at
that time again begun
to write a tragedy,
which I read aloud
to her.
Immediately
on hearing the first scenes,
she exclaimed,
“But you have actually taken whole passages out
of Oehlenschl ger
and Ingemann.”
, , , , ,
“Yes,
but they are so beautiful!”
replied I
in my simplicity,
and read on.
, , , , ,
One day,
when I was going
from her
to Mrs. von Colbj÷rnsen,
she gave me a handful
of roses,
and said,
“Will you take them up
to her?
It
will certainly give her pleasure
to receive them
from the hand
of a poet.”
These words were said half
in jest;
but it was the first time
that anybody had connected my name
with that
of poet.
It went
through me,
body
and soul,
and tears filled my eyes.
I know that,
from this very moment,
my mind was awoke
to writing
and poetry.
Formerly it had been merely an amusement
by way
of variety
from my puppet-theatre.
, , , , ,
At Bakkehus lived also Professor Thiele,
a young student
at
that time,
but even
then the editor
of the Danish popular legends,
and known
to the public
as the solver
of Baggesen’s riddle,
and
as the writer
of beautiful poetry.
He was possessed
of sentiment,
true inspiration,
and heart.
He had calmly
and attentively watched the unfolding
of my mind,
until we now became friends.
He was one
of the few who,
at
that time,
spoke the truth
of me,
when other people were making themselves merry
at my expense,
and having only eyes
for
that
which was ludicrous
in me.
People had called me,
in jest,
the little orator,
and,
as such,
I was an object
of curiosity.
They found amusement
in me,
and I mistook every smile
for a smile
of applause.
One
of my later friends has told me
that it probably was
about this period
that he saw me
for the first time.
It was
in the drawing-room
of a rich tradesman,
where people were making themselves very merry
with me.
They desired me
to repeat one
of my poems,
and,
as I did this
with great feeling,
the merriment was changed
into sympathy
with me.
, , , , ,
I heard it said every day,
what a good thing it
would be
for me
if I
could study.
People advised me
to devote myself
to science,
but no one moved one step
to enable me
to do so;
it was labor enough
for me
to keep body
and soul together.
It therefore occurred
to me
to write a tragedy,
which I
would offer
to the Theatre Royal,
and would
then begin
to study
with the money
which I
should thus obtain.
Whilst Guldberg instructed me
in Danish,
I had written a tragedy
from a German story,
called The Chapel
in the Wood;
yet
as this was done merely
as an exercise
in the language,
and,
as he forbade me
in the most decided manner
to bring it out,
I
would not do so.
I originated my own material,
therefore;
and within fourteen days I wrote my national tragedy called the Robbers
in Wissenberg
(the name
of a little village
in Funen.)
There was scarcely a word
in it correctly written,
as I had no person
to help me,
because I meant it
to be anonymous;
there was,
nevertheless,
one person admitted
into the secret,
namely,
the young lady whom I had met with
in Odense,
during my preparation
for confirmation,
the only one who
at
that time showed me kindness
and good-will.
It was
through her
that I was introduced
to the Colbj÷rnsen family,
and thus known
and received
in all those circles
of
which the one leads
into the other.
She paid some one
to prepare a legible copy
of my piece,
and undertook
to present it
for perusal.
After an interval
of six weeks,
I received it back,
accompanied
by a letter
which said the people did not frequently wish
to retain works
which betrayed,
in so great a degree,
a want
of elementary knowledge.
, , , , ,
It was just
at the close
of the theatrical season,
in May,
1823,
that I received a letter
from the directors,
by
which I was dismissed
from the singing
and dancing school,
the letter adding also,
that my participation
in the school-teaching
could lead
to no advantage
for me,
but
that they wished some
of my many friends
would enable me
to receive an education,
without which,
talent availed nothing.
I felt myself again,
as it were,
cast out
into the wide world without help
and without support.
It was absolutely necessary
that I
should write a piece
for the theatre,
and
that must be accepted;
there was no other salvation
for me.
I wrote,
therefore,
a tragedy founded
on a passage
in history,
and I called it Alfsol.
I was delighted
with the first act,
and
with this I immediately went
to the Danish translator
of Shakspeare,
Admiral Wulff,
now deceased,
who good-naturedly heard me read it.
In after years I met
with the most cordial reception
in his family.
At
that time I also introduced myself
to our celebrated physician Oersted,
and his house has remained
to me
to this day an affectionate home,
to
which my heart has firmly attached itself,
and
where I find my oldest
and most unchangeable friends.
, , , , ,
A favorite preacher,
the rural dean Gutfeldt,
was living
at
that time,
and he it was
who exerted himself most earnestly
for my tragedy,
which was now finished;
and having written a letter
of recommendation,
he sent it
to the managers
of the theatre.
I was suspended
between hope
and fear.
In the course
of the summer I endured bitter want,
but I told it
to no one,
else many a one,
whose sympathy I had experienced,
would have helped me
to the utmost
of their means.
A false shame prevented me
from confessing
what I endured.
Still happiness filled my heart.
I read then
for the first time the works
of Walter Scott.
A new world was opened
to me:
I forgot the reality,
and gave
to the circulating library
that
which
should have provided me
with a dinner.
, , , , ,
The present conference councillor,
Collin,
one
of the most distinguished men
of Denmark,
who unites
with the greatest ability the noblest
and best heart,
to whom I looked up
with confidence
in all things,
who has been a second father
to me,
and
in whose children I have found brothers
and sisters;
--this excellent man I saw now
for the first time.
He was
at
that time director
of the Theatre Royal,
and people universally told me
that it
would be the best thing
for me
if he
would interest himself
on my behalf:
it was either Oersted
or Gutfeldt
who first mentioned me
to him;
and now
for the first time I went
to
that house
which was
to become so dear
to me.
Before the ramparts
of Copenhagen were extended,
this house lay outside the gate,
and served
as a summer residence
to the Spanish Ambassador;
now,
however,
it stands,
a crooked,
angular frame-work building,
in a respectable street;
an old-fashioned wooden balcony leads
to the entrance,
and a great tree spreads its green branches
over the court
and its pointed gables.
It was
to become a paternal house
to me.
Who does not willingly linger
over the description
of home?
, , , , ,
I discovered only the man
of business
in Collin;
his conversation was grave and
in few words.
I went away,
without expecting any sympathy
from this man;
and yet it was precisely Collin who
in all sincerity thought
for my advantage,
and
who worked
for it silently,
as he had done
for others,
through the whole course
of his active life.
But
at
that time I did not understand the apparent calmness
with
which he listened,
whilst his heart bled
for the afflicted,
and he always labored
for them
with zeal
and success,
and knew how
to help them.
He touched so lightly upon my tragedy,
which had been sent
to him,
and
on account
of
which many people had overwhelmed me
with flattering speeches,
that I regarded him rather
as an enemy
than a protector.
, , , , ,
In a few day I was sent for
by the directors
of the theatre,
when Rahbek gave me back my play
as useless
for the stage;
adding,
however,
that
there were so many grains
of corn scattered
in it,
that it was hoped,
that perhaps,
by earnest study,
after going
to school
and the previous knowledge
of all
that is requisite,
I might,
some time,
be able
to write a work
which
should be worthy
of being acted
on the Danish stage.
, , , , ,
In order therefore
to obtain the means
for my support
and the necessary instruction,
Collin recommended me
to King Frederick the Sixth,
who granted
to me a certain sum annually
for some years;
and,
by means
of Collin also,
the directors
of the high schools allowed me
to receive free instruction
in the grammar school
at Slagelse,
where just
then a new,
and,
as was said,
an active rector was appointed.
I was
almost dumb
with astonishment:
never had I thought
that my life
would take this direction,
although I had no correct idea
of the path
which I had now
to tread.
I was
to go
with the earliest mail
to Slagelse,
which lay twelve Danish miles
from Copenhagen,
to the place
where also the poets Baggesen
and Ingemann had gone
to school.
I was
to receive money quarterly
from Collin;
I was
to apply
to him
in all cases,
and he it was
who was
to ascertain my industry
and my progress.
, , , , ,
I went
to him the second time
to express
to him my thanks.
Mildly
and kindly he said
to me,
“Write
to me without restraint
about everything
which you require,
and tell me
how it goes
with you.”
From this hour I struck root
in his heart;
no father
could have been more
to me
than he was,
and is;
none
could have more heartily rejoiced
in my happiness,
and my after reception
with the public;
none have shared my sorrow more kindly;
and I am proud
to say
that one
of the most excellent men
which Denmark possesses feels
towards me
as
towards his own child.
His beneficence was conferred without his making me feel it painful either
by word
or look.
That was not the case
with every one
to whom,
in this change
of my fortunes,
I had
to offer my thanks;
I was told
to think
of my inconceivable happiness
and my poverty;
in Collin’s words was expressed the warm-heartedness
of a father,
and
to him it was
that properly I was indebted
for everything.
, , , , ,
The journey was hastily determined upon,
and I had yet
for myself some business
to arrange.
I had spoken
to an acquaintance
from Odense
who had the management
of a small printing concern,
for a widow,
to get “Alfsal” printed,
that I might,
by the sale
of the work,
make a little money.
Before,
however,
the piece was printed,
it was necessary
that I
should obtain a certain number
of subscribers;
but these were not obtained,
and the manuscript lay
in the printing-office,
which,
at the time I went
to fetch it away,
was shut up.
Some years afterwards,
however,
it suddenly made its appearance
in print without my knowledge
or my desire,
in its unaltered shape,
but without my name.
, , , , ,
On a beautiful autumn day I set off
with the mail
from Copenhagen
to begin my school-life
in Slagelse.
A young student,
who a month
before had passed his first examination,
and now was travelling home
to Jutland
to exhibit himself there
as a student,
and
to see once more his parents
and his friends,
sate
at my side
and exulted
for joy
over the new life
which now lay
before him;
he assured me
that he
should be the most unhappy
of human beings
if he were
in my place,
and were again beginning
to go
to the grammar school.
But I travelled
with a good heart
towards the little city
of Zealand.
My mother received a joyful letter
from me.
I only wished
that my father
and the old grandmother yet lived,
and
could hear
that I now went
to the grammar school.
, , , , ,
CHAPTER III.
, , , , ,
When,
late
in the evening,
I arrived
at the inn
in Slagelse,
I asked the hostess
if
there were anything remarkable
in the city.
, , , , ,
“Yes,”
said she,
“a new English fire-engine
and Pastor Bastholm’s library,”
and those probably were all the lions
in the city.
A few officers
of the Lancers composed the fine-gentleman world.
Everybody knew
what was done
in everybody’s house,
whether a scholar was elevated
or degraded
in his class,
and the like.
A private theatre,
to which,
at general rehearsal,
the scholars
of the grammar school
and the maid-servants
of the town had free entrance,
furnished rich material
for conversation.
The place was remote
from woods,
and still farther
from the coast;
but the great post-road went
through the city,
and the post-horn resounded
from the rolling carriage.
, , , , ,
I boarded
with a respectable widow
of the educated class,
and had a little chamber looking out
into the garden
and field.
My place
in the school was
in the lowest class,
among little boys:
--I knew indeed nothing
at all.
, , , , ,
I was actually
like a wild bird
which is confined
in a cage;
I had the greatest desire
to learn,
but
for the moment I floundered about,
as
if I had been thrown
into the sea;
the one wave followed another;
grammar,
geography,
mathematics
--I felt myself overpowered
by them,
and feared
that I
should never be able
to acquire all these.
The rector,
who took a peculiar delight
in turning everything
to ridicule,
did not,
of course,
make an exception
in my case.
To me he stood then
as a divinity;
I believed unconditionally every word
which he spoke.
One day,
when I had replied incorrectly
to his question,
and he said
that I was stupid,
I mentioned it
to Collin,
and told him my anxiety,
lest I did not deserve all
that people had done
for me;
but he consoled me.
Occasionally,
however,
on some subjects
of instruction,
I began
to receive a good certificate,
and the teachers were heartily kind
to me;
yet,
notwithstanding
that I advanced,
I still lost confidence
in myself more
and more.
On one
of the first examinations,
however,
I obtained the praise
of the rector.
He wrote the same
in my character-book;
and,
happy
in this,
I went a few days afterwards
to Copenhagen.
Guldberg,
who saw the progress I had made,
received me kindly,
and commended my zeal;
and his brother
in Odense furnished me the next summer
with the means
of visiting the place
of my birth,
where I had not been
since I left it
to seek adventures.
I crossed the Belt,
and went
on foot
to Odense.
When I came near enough
to see the lofty old church tower,
my heart was more
and more affected;
I felt deeply the care
of God
for me,
and I burst
into tears.
My mother rejoiced
over me.
The families
of Iversen
and Guldberg received me cordially;
and
in the little streets I saw the people open their windows
to look after me,
for everybody knew
how remarkably well things had fared
with me;
nay,
I fancied I actually stood upon the pinnacle
of fortune,
when one
of the principal citizens,
who had built a high tower
to his house,
led me up there,
and I looked out thence
over the city,
and the surrounding country,
and some old women
in the hospital below,
who had known me
from childhood,
pointed up
to me.
, , , , ,
As soon,
however,
as I returned
to Slagelse,
this halo
of glory vanished,
as well
as every thought
of it.
I may freely confess
that I was industrious,
and I rose,
as soon
as it was possible,
into a higher class;
but
in proportion
as I rose did I feel the pressure upon me more strongly,
and
that my endeavors were not sufficiently productive.
Many an evening,
when sleep overcame me,
did I wash my head
with cold water,
or run
about the lonely little garden,
till I was again wakeful,
and
could comprehend the book anew.
The rector filled up a portion
of his hours
of teaching
with jests,
nicknames,
and not the happiest
of witticisms.
I was
as
if paralyzed
with anxiety
when he entered the room,
and from
that cause my replies often expressed the opposite
of
that
which I wished
to say,
and thereby my anxiety was all the more increased.
What was
to become
of me?
, , , , ,
In a moment
of ill-humor I wrote a letter
to the head master,
who was one
of those
who was most cordially opposed
to me.
I said
in this letter
that I regarded myself
as a person so little gifted
by nature,
that it was impossible
for me
to study,
and
that the people
in Copenhagen threw away the money
which they spent upon me:
I besought him therefore
to counsel me
what I
should do.
The excellent man strengthened me
with mild words,
and wrote
to me a most friendly
and consolatory letter;
he said
that the rector meant kindly
by me
--that it was his custom
and way
of acting
--that I was making all the progress
that people
could expect
from me,
and
that I need not doubt
of my abilities.
He told me
that he himself was a peasant youth
of three
and twenty,
older
than I myself was,
when he began his studies;
the misfortune
for me was,
that I ought
to have been treated differently
to the other scholars,
but
that this
could
hardly be done
in a school;
but
that things were progressing,
and
that I stood well both
with the teachers
and my fellow students.
, , , , ,
Every Sunday we had
to attend the church
and hear an old preacher;
the other scholars learned their lessons
in history
and mathematics
while he preached;
I learned my task
in religion,
and thought that,
by so doing,
it was less sinful.
The general rehearsals
at the private theatre were points
of light
in my school life;
they took place
in a back building,
where the lowing
of the cows might be heard;
the street-decoration was a picture
of the marketplace
of the city,
by
which means the representation had something familiar
about it;
it amused the inhabitants
to see their own houses.
, , , , ,
On Sunday afternoons it was my delight
to go
to the castle
of Antvorskov,
at
that time only half ruinous,
and once a monastery,
where I pursued the excavating
of the ruined cellars,
as
if it had been a Pompeii.
I also often rambled
to the crucifix
of St. Anders,
which stands upon one
of the heights
of Slagelse,
and
which is one
of the wooden crosses erected
in the time
of Catholicism
in Denmark.
St. Anders was a priest
in Slagelse,
and travelled
to the Holy Land;
on the last day he remained so long praying
on the holy grave,
that the ship sailed away without him.
Vexed
at this circumstance,
he walked
along the shore,
where a man met him riding
on an ass,
and took him up
with him.
Immediately he fell asleep,
and
when he awoke he heard the bells
of Slagelse ringing.
He lay upon the
(Hvileh÷i)
hill
of rest,
where the cross now stands.
He was
at home a year
and a day
before the ship returned,
which had sailed away without him,
and an angel had borne him home.
The legend,
and the place
where he woke,
were both favorites
of mine.
From this spot I
could see the ocean
and Funen.
Here I
could indulge my fancies;
when
at home,
my sense
of duty chained my thoughts only
to my books.
, , , , ,
The happiest time,
however,
was when,
once
on a Sunday,
whilst the wood was green,
I went
to the city
of Sor÷,
two
(Danish)
miles
from Slagelse,
and
which lies
in the midst
of woods,
surrounded
by lakes.
Here is an academy
for the nobility,
founded
by the poet Holberg.
Everything lay
in a conventual stillness.
I visited here the poet Ingemann,
who had just married,
and
who held a situation
as teacher;
he had already received me kindly
in Copenhagen;
but here his reception
of me was still more kind.
His life
in this place seemed
to me
like a beautiful story;
flowers
and vines twined
around his window;
the rooms were adorned
with the portraits
of distinguished poets,
and other pictures.
We sailed upon the lake
with an Aeolian harp made fast
to the mast.
Ingemann talked so cheerfully,
and his excellent,
amiable wife treated me
as
if she were an elder sister:
--I loved these people.
Our friendship has grown
with years.
I have been from
that time
almost every summer a welcome guest there,
and I have experienced
that
there are people
in whose society one is made better,
as it were;
that
which is bitter passes away,
and the whole world appears
in sunlight.
, , , , ,
Among the pupils
in the academy
of nobles,
there were two
who made verses;
they knew
that I did the same,
and they attached themselves
to me.
The one was Petit,
who afterwards,
certainly
with the best intention,
but not faithfully,
translated several
of my books;
the other,
the poet Karl Bagger,
one
of the most gifted
of men
who has come forward
in Danish literature,
but
who has been unjustly judged.
His poems are full
of freshness
and originality;
his story,
“The Life
of my Brother,”
is a genial book,
by the critique
on
which the Danish Monthly Review
of Literature has proved
that it does not understand how
to give judgment.
These two academicians were very different
from me:
life rushed rejoicingly
through their veins;
I was sensitive
and childlike.
In my character-book I always received,
as regarded my conduct,
“remarkably good.”
On one occasion,
however,
I only obtained the testimony
of “very good;”
and so anxious
and childlike was I,
that I wrote a letter
to Collin
on
that account,
and assured him
in grave earnestness,
that I was perfectly innocent,
although I had only obtained a character
of “very good.”
, , , , ,
The rector grew weary
of his residence
in Slagelse;
he applied
for the vacant post
of rector
in the grammar-school
of Helsing÷r,
and obtained it.
He told me
of it,
and added kindly,
that I might write
to Collin
and ask leave
to accompany him thither;
that I might live
in his house,
and could
even now remove
to his family;
I
should then
in half a year become a student,
which
could not be the case
if I remained behind,
and
that
then he
would himself give me some private lessons
in Latin
and Greek.
On this same occasion he wrote also
to Collin;
and this letter,
which I afterwards saw,
contained the greatest praise
of my industry,
of the progress I had made,
and
of my good abilities,
which last I imagined
that he thoroughly mistook,
and
for the want
of which,
I myself had so often wept.
I had no conception
that he judged
of me so favorably;
it
would have strengthened
and relieved me had I known it;
whereas,
on the contrary,
his perpetual blame depressed me.
I,
of course,
immediately received Collin’s permission,
and removed
to the house
of the rector.
But that,
alas!
was an unfortunate house.
, , , , ,
I accompanied him
to Helsing÷r,
one
of the loveliest places
in Denmark,
close
to the Sound,
which is
at this place not
above a mile
(Danish)
broad,
and
which seems
like a blue,
swelling river
between Denmark
and Sweden.
The ships
of all nations sail past daily
by hundreds;
in winter the ice forms a firm bridge
between the two countries,
and when
in spring this breaks up,
it resembles a floating glacier.
The scenery here made a lively impression upon me,
but I dared only
to cast stolen glances
at it.
When the school hours were over,
the house door was commonly locked;
I was obliged
to remain
in the heated school-room
and learn my Latin,
or else play
with the children,
or sit
in my little room;
I never went out
to visit anybody.
My life
in this family furnishes the most evil dreams
to my remembrance.
I was
almost overcome
by it,
and my prayer
to God every evening was,
that he
would remove this cup
from me
and let me die.
I possessed not an atom
of confidence
in myself.
I never mentioned
in my letters
how hard it went
with me,
because the rector found his pleasure
in making a jest
of me,
and turning my feelings
to ridicule.
I never complained
of any one,
with the exception
of myself.
I knew
that they
would say
in Copenhagen,
“He has not the desire
to do any thing;
a fanciful being
can do no good
with realities.”
, , , , ,
My letters
to Collin,
written
at this time,
showed such a gloomy despairing state
of mind,
that they touched him deeply;
but people imagined
that was not
to be helped;
they fancied
that it was my disposition,
and not,
as was the case,
that it was the consequence
of outward influences.
My temper
of mind was thoroughly buoyant,
and susceptible
of every ray
of sunshine;
but only
on one single holiday
in the year,
when I
could go
to Copenhagen,
was I able
to enjoy it.
, , , , ,
What a change it was
to get
for a few days out
of the rector’s rooms
into a house
in Copenhagen,
where all was elegance,
cleanliness,
and
full
of the comforts
of refined life!
This was
at Admiral Wulff’s,
whose
wife felt
for me the kindness
of a mother,
and whose children met me
with cordiality;
they dwelt
in a portion
of the Castle
of Amalienburg,
and my chamber looked out
into the square.
I remember the first evening
there;
Aladdin’s words passed
through my mind,
when he looked down from
his splendid castle
into the square,
and said,
“Here came I
as a poor
lad.”
My soul was full
of gratitude.
, , , , ,
During my whole residence
in Slagelse I had scarcely written more than
four
or five poems;
two
of which,
“The Soul,”
and “To my Mother,”
will be found printed
in my collected works.
During my school-time at
Helsing÷r I wrote only one single poem,
“The Dying Child;”
a poem which,
of all my after works,
became most popular
and most widely circulated.
I
read it
to some acquaintance
in Copenhagen;
some were struck
by it,
but
most
of them only remarked my Funen dialect,
which drops the d
in every
word.
I was commended
by many;
but
from the greater number I received
a lecture
on modesty,
and
that I
should not get too great ideas of
myself
--I
who really
at
that time thought nothing
of myself.
[Footnote:
How beautifully is all this part
of the author’s experience reflected
in that
of Antonio,
the Improvisatore,
whose highly sensitive nature was
too often wounded
by the well-meant lectures
of patrons
and common-place
minds.
--M.
H.]
At the house
of Admiral Wulff I saw many men
of the most distinguished talent,
and
among them all my mind paid the greatest homage
to one
--that was the poet Adam Oehlenschl ger.
I heard his praise resound
from every mouth
around me;
I looked up
to him
with the most pious faith:
I was happy
when one evening,
in a large brilliantly-lighted drawing room
--where I deeply felt
that my apparel was the shabbiest there,
and
for
that reason I concealed myself
behind the long curtains
--Oehlenschl ger came
to me
and offered me his hand.
I
could have fallen
before him
on my knees.
I again saw Weyse,
and heard him improvise upon the piano.
Wulff himself read aloud his translations
of Byron;
and Oehlenschl ger’s young daughter Charlotte surprised me
by her joyous,
merry humor.
, , , , ,
From such a house
as this,
I,
after a few days,
returned
to the rector,
and felt the difference deeply.
He also came direct
from Copenhagen,
where he had heard it said
that I had read
in company one
of my own poems.
He looked
at me
with a penetrating glance,
and commanded me
to bring him the poem,
when,
if he found
in it one spark
of poetry,
he
would forgive me.
I tremblingly brought
to him “The Dying Child;”
he read it,
and pronounced it
to be sentimentality
and idle trash.
He gave way freely
to his anger.
If he had believed
that I wasted my time
in writing verses,
or
that I was
of a nature
which required a severe treatment,
then his intention
would have been good;
but he
could not pretend this.
But
from this day forward my situation was more unfortunate
than ever;
I suffered so severely
in my mind
that I was very near sinking
under it.
That was the darkest,
the most unhappy time
in my life.
, , , , ,
Just
then one
of the masters went
to Copenhagen,
and related
to Collin exactly
what I had
to bear,
and immediately he removed me
from the school
and
from the rector’s house.
When,
in taking leave
of him,
I thanked him
for the kindness
which I had received
from him,
the passionate man cursed me,
and ended
by saying
that I
should never become a student,
that my verses
would grow mouldy
on the floor
of the bookseller’s shop,
and
that I myself
should end my days
in a mad-house.
I trembled
to my innermost being,
and left him.
, , , , ,
Several years afterwards,
when my writings were read,
when the Improvisatore first came out,
I met him
in Copenhagen;
he offered me his hand
in a conciliatory manner,
and said
that he had erred respecting me,
and had treated me wrong;
but it now was all the same
to me.
The heavy,
dark days had also produced their blessing
in my life.
A young man,
who afterwards became celebrated
in Denmark
for his zeal
in the Northern languages and
in history,
became my teacher.
I hired a little garret;
it is described
in the Fiddler;
and
in The Picture Book without Pictures,
people may see
that I often received
there visits
from the moon.
I had a certain sum allowed
for my support;
but
as instruction was
to be paid for,
I had
to make savings
in other ways.
A few families
through the week-days gave me a place
at their tables.
I was a sort
of boarder,
as many another poor student
in Copenhagen is still:
there was a variety
in it;
it gave an insight
into the several kinds
of family life,
which was not without its influence
on me.
I studied industriously;
in some particular branches I had considerably distinguished myself
in Helsing÷r,
especially
in mathematics;
these were,
therefore,
now much more left
to myself:
everything tended
to assist me
in my Greek
and Latin studies;
in one direction,
however,
and
that the one
in
which it
would least have been expected,
did my excellent teacher find much
to do;
namely,
in religion.
He closely adhered
to the literal meaning
of the Bible;
with this I was acquainted,
because
from my first entrance
in the school I had clearly understood
what was said
and taught
by it.
I received gladly,
both
with feeling
and understanding,
the doctrine,
that God is love:
everything
which opposed this
--a burning hell,
therefore,
whose fire endured forever
--I
could not recognize.
Released
from the distressing existence
of the school-bench,
I now expressed myself
like a free man;
and my teacher,
who was one
of the noblest
and most amiable
of human beings,
but
who adhered firmly
to the letter,
was often quite distressed
about me.
We disputed,
whilst pure flames kindled within our hearts.
It was nevertheless good
for me
that I came
to this unspoiled,
highly-gifted young man,
who was possessed
of a nature
as peculiar
as my own.
, , , , ,
That which,
on the contrary,
was an error
in me,
and
which became very perceptible,
was a pleasure
which I had,
not
in jesting with,
but
in playing
with my best feelings,
and
in regarding the understanding
as the most important thing
in the world.
The rector had completely mistaken my undisguisedly candid
and sensitive character;
my excitable feelings were made ridiculous,
and thrown back upon themselves;
and now,
when I
could freely advance upon the way
to my object,
this change showed itself
in me.
From severe suffering I did not rush
into libertinism,
but
into an erroneous endeavor
to appear other
than I was.
I ridiculed feeling,
and fancied
that I had quite thrown it aside;
and yet I
could be made wretched
for a whole day,
if I met
with a sour countenance
where I expected a friendly one.
Every poem
which I had formerly written
with tears,
I now parodied,
or gave
to it a ludicrous refrain;
one
of
which I called “The Lament
of the Kitten,”
another,
“The Sick Poet.”
The few poems
which I wrote
at
that time were all
of a humorous character:
a complete change had passed
over me;
the stunted plant was reset,
and now began
to put forth new shoots.
, , , , ,
Wulff’s eldest daughter,
a very clever
and lively girl,
understood
and encouraged the humor,
which made itself evident
in my few poems;
she possessed my entire confidence;
she protected me
like a good sister,
and had great influence
over me,
whilst she awoke
in me a feeling
for the comic.
, , , , ,
At this time,
also,
a fresh current
of life was sent
through the Danish literature;
for this the people had an interest,
and politics played no part
in it.
, , , , ,
Heiberg,
who had gained the acknowledged reputation
of a poet
by his excellent works,
“Psyche”
and “Walter the Potter,”
had introduced the vaudeville upon the Danish stage;
it was a Danish vaudeville,
blood
of our blood,
and was therefore received
with acclamation,
and supplanted
almost everything else.
Thalia kept carnival
on the Danish stage,
and Heiberg was her secretary.
I made his acquaintance first
at Oersted’s.
Refined,
eloquent,
and the hero
of the day,
he pleased me
in a high degree;
he was most kind
to me,
and I visited him;
he considered one
of my humorous poems worthy
of a place
in his most excellent weekly paper,
“The Flying Post.”
Shortly
before I had,
after a deal
of trouble,
got my poem
of “The Dying Child” printed
in a paper;
none
of the many publishers
of journals,
who otherwise accept
of the most lamentable trash,
had the courage
to print a poem
by a schoolboy.
My best known poem they printed
at
that time,
accompanied
by an excuse
for it.
Heiberg saw it,
and gave it
in his paper an honorable place.
Two humorous poems,
signed H.,
were truly my debut
with him.
, , , , ,
I remember the first evening
when the “Flying Post” appeared
with my verses
in it.
I was
with a family
who wished me well,
but
who regarded my poetical talent
as quite insignificant,
and
who found something
to censure
in every line.
The master
of the house entered
with the “Flying Post”
in his hand.
, , , , ,
“This evening,”
said he,
“there are two excellent poems:
they are
by Heiberg;
nobody else
could write anything
like them.”
And now my poems were received
with rapture.
The daughter,
who was
in my secret,
exclaimed,
in her delight,
that I was the author.
They were all struck
into silence,
and were vexed.
That wounded me deeply.
, , , , ,
One
of our least esteemed writers,
but a man
of rank,
who was very hospitable,
gave me one day a seat
at his table.
He told me
that a new year’s gift
would come out,
and
that he was applied
to
for a contribution.
I said
that a little poem
of mine,
at the wish
of the publisher,
would appear
in the same new year’s gift.
, , , , ,
“What,
then,
everybody
and anybody are
to contribute
to this book!”
said the man
in vexation:
“then he
will need nothing
from me;
I certainly
can
hardly give him anything.”
, , , , ,
My teacher dwelt
at a considerable distance
from me.
I went
to him twice each day,
and
on the way
there my thoughts were occupied
with my lessons.
On my return,
however,
I breathed more freely,
and
then bright poetical ideas passed
through my brain,
but they were never committed
to paper;
only five
or six humorous poems were written
in the course
of the year,
and these disturbed me less
when they were laid
to rest
on paper than
if they had remained
in my mind.
, , , , ,
In September,
1828,
I was a student;
and
when the examination was over,
the thousand ideas
and thoughts,
by
which I was pursued
on the way
to my teacher,
flew
like a swarm
of bees out
into the world,
and,
indeed,
into my first work,
“A Journey
on Foot
to Amack;”
a peculiar,
humorous book,
but one
which fully exhibited my own individual character
at
that time,
my disposition
to sport
with everything,
and
to jest
in tears
over my own feelings
--a fantastic,
gaily-colored tapestry-work.
No publisher had the courage
to bring out
that little book;
I therefore ventured
to do it myself,
and,
in a few days after its appearance,
the impression was sold.
Publisher Keitzel bought
from me the second edition;
after a
while he had a third;
and
besides this,
the work was reprinted
in Sweden.
, , , , ,
Everybody read my book;
I heard nothing
but praise;
I was “a student,”
--I had attained the highest goal
of my wishes.
I was
in a whirl
of joy;
and
in this state I wrote my first dramatic work,
“Love
on the Nicholas Tower,
or,
What says the Pit?”
It was unsuccessful,
because it satirized
that
which no longer existed amongst us,
namely,
the shows
of the middle ages;
besides which,
it rather ridiculed the enthusiasm
for the vaudeville.
The subject
of it was,
in short,
as follows:
--The watchman
of the Nicholas Tower,
who always spoke
as a knight
of the castle,
wished
to give his daughter
to the watchman
of the neighboring church-tower;
but she loved a young tailor,
who had made a journey
to the grave
of Eulenspiegel,
and was just now returned,
as the punch-bowl steamed,
and was
to be emptied
in honor
of the young lady’s consent being given.
The lovers escape together
to the tailor’s herberg,
where dancing
and merriment are going forward.
The watchman,
however,
fetches back his daughter;
but she had lost her senses,
and she assured them
that she never
would recover them,
unless she had her tailor.
The old watchman determines
that Fate
should decide the affair;
but,
then,
who was Fate?
The idea
then comes
into his head
that the public shall be his Pythia,
and
that the public shall decide whether she
should have the tailor
or the watchman.
They determine,
therefore,
to send
to one
of the youngest
of the poets,
and beg him
to write the history
in the style
of the vaudeville,
a kind
of writing
which was the most successful
at
that time,
and
when the piece was brought upon the stage,
and the public either whistled
or hissed,
it
should be
in no wise considered
that the work
of the young author had been unsuccessful,
but
that it
should be the voice
of Fate,
which said,
“She shall marry the watchman.”
If,
on the contrary,
the piece was successful,
it indicated
that she
should have the tailor;
and this last,
remarked the father,
must be said
in prose,
in order
that the public may understand it.
Now every one
of the characters thought himself
on the stage,
where
in the epilogue the lovers besought the public
for their applause,
whilst the watchman begged them either
to whistle,
or
at least
to hiss.
, , , , ,
My fellow students received the piece
with acclamation;
they were proud
of me.
I was the second
of their body who
in this year had brought out a piece
on the Danish stage;
the other was Arnesen,
student
at the same time
with me,
and author
of a vaudeville called “The Intrigue
in the People’s Theatre,”
a piece
which had a great run.
We were the two young authors
of the October examination,
two
of the sixteen poets
which this year produced,
and whom people
in jest divided
into the four great
and the twelve small poets.
, , , , ,
I was now a happy human being;
I possessed the soul
of a poet,
and the heart
of youth;
all houses began
to be open
to me;
I flew
from circle
to circle.
Still,
however,
I devoted myself industriously
to study,
so that
in September,
1829,
I passed my Examen philologicum et philosophicum,
and brought out the first collected edition
of my poems,
which met
with great praise.
Life lay bright
with sunshine
before me.
, , , , ,
CHAPTER IV.
, , , , ,
Until now I had only seen a small part
of my native land,
that is
to say,
a few points
in Funen
and Zealand,
as well
as Moen’s Klint,
which last is truly one
of our most beautiful places;
the beechwoods
there hang
like a garland
over the white chalk cliffs,
from
which a view is obtained far
over the Baltic.
I wished,
therefore,
in the summer
of 1830,
to devote my first literary proceeds
to seeing Jutland,
and making myself more thoroughly acquainted
with my own Funen.
I had no idea
how much solidity
of mind I
should derive
from this summer excursion,
or
what a change was about
to take place
in my inner life.
, , , , ,
Jutland,
which stretches
between the German Ocean
and the Baltic,
until it ends
at Skagen
in a reef
of quicksands,
possesses a peculiar character.
Towards the Baltic extend immense woods
and hills;
towards the North Sea,
mountains
and quicksands,
scenery
of a grand
and solitary character;
and
between the two,
infinite expanses
of brown heath,
with their wandering gipsies,
their wailing birds,
and their deep solitude,
which the Danish poet,
Steen Blicher,
has described
in his novels.
, , , , ,
This was the first foreign scenery
which I had ever seen,
and the impression,
therefore,
which it made upon me was very strong.
[Footnote:
This impressive
and wild scenery,
with its characteristic figures,
of gipsies etc.,
is most exquisitely introduced
into the author’s novel
of “O.
T.”;
indeed it gives a coloring
and tone
to the whole work,
which the reader never
can forget.
In my opinion Andersen never wrote anything finer
in the way
of description
than many parts
of this work,
though
as a story it is not equal
to his others.
--M.
H.]
In the cities,
where my “Journey
on Foot”
and my comic poems were known,
I met
with a good reception.
Funen revealed her rural life
to me;
and,
not far
from my birth-place
of Odense,
I passed several weeks
at the country seat
of the elder Iversen
as a welcome guest.
Poems sprung forth upon paper,
but
of the comic fewer
and fewer.
Sentiment,
which I had so often derided,
would now be avenged.
I arrived,
in the course
of my journey,
at the house
of a rich family
in a small city;
and here suddenly a new world opened
before me,
an immense world,
which yet
could be contained
in four lines,
which I wrote
at
that time:
--
A pair
of dark eyes fixed my sight,
They were my world,
my home,
my delight,
The soul beamed
in them,
and childlike peace,
and never
on earth
will their memory cease.
, , , , ,
New plans
of life occupied me.
I
would give up writing poetry,
--to
what
could it lead?
I
would study theology,
and become a preacher;
I had only one thought,
and
that was she.
But it was self-delusion:
she loved another;
she married him.
It was not
till several years later
that I felt
and acknowledged
that it was best,
both
for her
and
for myself,
that things had fallen out
as they were.
She had no idea,
perhaps,
how deep my feeling
for her had been,
or
what an influence it produced
in me.
She had become the excellent wife
of a good man,
and a happy mother.
God’s blessing rest upon her!
In my “Journey
on Foot,”
and
in most
of my writings,
satire had been the prevailing characteristic.
This displeased many people,
who thought
that this bent
of mind
could lead
to no good purpose.
The critics now blamed me precisely
for
that
which a far deeper feeling had expelled
from my breast.
A new collection
of Poetry,
“Fancies
and Sketches,”
which was published
for the new year,
showed satisfactorily
what my heart suffered.
A paraphrase
of the history
of my own heart appeared
in a serious vaudeville,
“Parting
and Meeting,”
with this difference only,
that here the love was mutual:
the piece was not presented
on the stage
till five years later.
, , , , ,
Among my young friends
in Copenhagen
at
that time was Orla Lehmann,
who afterwards rose higher
in popular favor,
on account
of his political efforts
than any man
in Denmark.
Full
of animation,
eloquent
and undaunted,
his character
of mind was one
which interested me also.
The German language was much studied
at his father’s;
they had received
there Heine’s poems,
and they were very attractive
for young Orla.
He lived
in the country,
in the neighborhood
of the castle
of Fredericksberg.
I went there
to see him,
and he sang
as I came one
of Heine’s verses,
“Thalatta,
Thalatta,
du eviges Meer.”
We read Heine together;
the afternoon
and the evening passed,
and I was obliged
to remain
there all night;
but I had
on this evening made the acquaintance
of a poet,
who,
as it seemed
to me,
sang
from the soul;
he supplanted Hoffman,
who,
as might be seen
by my “Journey
on Foot,”
had formerly had the greatest influence
on me.
In my youth
there were only three authors who
as it were infused themselves
into my blood,
--Walter Scott,
Hoffman,
and Heine.
, , , , ,
I betrayed more
and more
in my writings an unhealthy turn
of mind.
I felt an inclination
to seek
for the melancholy
in life,
and
to linger
on the dark side
of things.
I became sensitive
and thought rather
of the blame
than the praise
which was lavished
on me.
My late school education,
which was forced,
and my impulse
to become an author whilst I was yet a student,
make it evident
that my first work,
the “Journey
on Foot,”
was not without grammatical errors.
Had I only paid some one
to correct the press,
which was a work I was unaccustomed to,
then no charge
of this kind
could have been brought
against me.
Now,
on the contrary,
people laughed
at these errors,
and dwelt upon them,
passing
over carelessly that
in the book
which had merit.
I know people
who only read my poems
to find out errors;
they noted down,
for instance,
how often I used the word beautiful,
or some similar word.
A gentleman,
now a clergyman,
at
that time a writer
of vaudevilles
and a critic,
was not ashamed,
in a company
where I was,
to go
through several
of my poems
in this style;
so
that a little girl
of six years old,
who heard
with amazement
that he discovered everything
to be wrong,
took the book,
and pointing out the conjunction and,
said,
“There is yet a little word about
which you have not scolded.”
He felt
what a reproof lay
in the remark
of the child;
he looked ashamed
and kissed the little one.
All this wounded me;
but I had,
since my school-days,
become somewhat timid,
and
that caused me
to take it all quietly:
I was morbidly sensitive,
and I was good-natured
to a fault.
Everybody knew it,
and some were
on
that account
almost cruel
to me.
Everybody wished
to teach me;
almost everybody said
that I was spoiled
by praise,
and therefore they
would speak the truth
to me.
Thus I heard continually
of my faults,
the real
and the ideal weaknesses.
In the mean time,
however,
my feelings burst forth;
and
then I said
that I
would become a poet whom they
should see honored.
But this was regarded only
as the crowning mark
of the most unbearable vanity;
and
from house
to house it was repeated.
I was a good man,
they said,
but one
of the vainest
in existence;
and
in
that very time I was often ready wholly
to despair
of my abilities,
and had,
as
in the darkest days
of my school-life,
a feeling,
as
if my whole talents were a self-deception.
I
almost believed so;
but it was more
than I
could bear,
to hear the same thing said,
sternly
and jeeringly,
by others;
and
if I
then uttered a proud,
an inconsiderate word,
it was addressed
to the scourge
with
which I was smitten;
and
when those
who smite are those we love,
then do the scourges become scorpions.
, , , , ,
For this reason Collin thought
that I
should make a little journey,
--for instance,
to North Germany,
--in order
to divert my mind
and furnish me
with new ideas.
, , , , ,
In the spring
of 1831,
I left Denmark
for the first time.
I saw L bek
and Hamburg.
Everything astonished me
and occupied my mind.
I saw mountains
for the first time,
--the Harzgebirge.
The world expanded so astonishingly
before me.
My good humor returned
to me,
as
to the bird
of passage.
Sorrow is the flock
of sparrows
which remains behind,
and builds
in the nests
of the birds
of passage.
But I did not feel myself wholly restored.
, , , , ,
In Dresden I made acquaintance
with Tieck.
Ingemann had given me a letter
to him.
I heard him one evening read aloud one
of Shakspeare’s plays.
On taking leave
of him,
he wished me a poet’s success,
embraced
and kissed me;
which made the deepest impression upon me.
The expression
of his eyes I shall never forget.
I left him
with tears,
and prayed most fervently
to God
for strength
to enable me
to pursue the way after
which my whole soul strove
--strength,
which
should enable me
to express
that
which I felt
in my soul;
and that
when I next saw Tieck,
I might be known
and valued
by him.
It was not
until several years afterwards,
when my later works were translated
into German,
and well received
in his country,
that we saw each other again;
I felt the true hand-pressure
of him
who had given
to me,
in my second father-land,
the kiss
of consecration.
, , , , ,
In Berlin,
a letter
of Oersted’s procured me the acquaintance
of Chamisso.
That grave man,
with his long locks
and honest eyes,
opened the door
to me himself,
read the letter,
and I know not
how it was,
but we understood each other immediately.
I felt perfect confidence
in him,
and told him so,
though it was
in bad German.
Chamisso understood Danish;
I gave him my poems,
and he was the first
who translated any
of them,
and thus introduced me
into Germany.
It was thus he spoke
of me
at
that time
in the Morgenblatt:
“Gifted
with wit,
fancy,
humor,
and a national naivet ,
Andersen has still
in his power tones
which awaken deeper echoes.
He understands,
in particular,
how
with perfect ease,
by a few slight
but graphic touches,
to call
into existence little pictures
and landscapes,
but
which are often so peculiarly local
as not
to interest those
who are unfamiliar
with the home
of the poet.
Perhaps
that
which may be translated
from him,
or
which is so already,
may be the least calculated
to give a proper idea
of him.”
, , , , ,
Chamisso became a friend
for my whole life.
The pleasure
which he had
in my later writings may be seen
by the printed letters addressed
to me
in the collected edition
of his works.
, , , , ,
The little journey
in Germany had great influence upon me,
as my Copenhagen friends acknowledged.
The impressions
of the journey were immediately written down,
and I gave them forth
under the title
of “Shadow Pictures.”
Whether I were actually improved
or not,
there still prevailed
at home the same petty pleasure
in dragging out my faults,
the same perpetual schooling
of me;
and I was weak enough
to endure it
from those
who were officious meddlers.
I seldom made a joke
of it;
but
if I did so,
it was called arrogance
and vanity,
and it was asserted
that I never
would listen
to rational people.
Such an instructor once asked me whether I wrote Dog
with a little d;
--he had found such an error
of the press
in my last work.
I replied,
jestingly,
“Yes,
because I here spoke
of a little dog.”
, , , , ,
But these are small troubles,
people
will say.
Yes,
but they are drops
which wear hollows
in the rock.
I speak
of it here;
I feel a necessity
to do so;
here
to protest
against the accusation
of vanity,
which,
since no other error
can be discovered
in my private life,
is seized upon,
and
even now is thrown
at me
like an old medal.
, , , , ,
From the end
of the year 1828,
to the beginning
of 1839,
I maintained myself alone
by my writings.
Denmark is a small country;
but few books
at
that time went
to Sweden
and Norway;
and
on
that account the profit
could not be great.
It was difficult
for me
to pull through,
--doubly difficult,
because my dress must
in some measure accord
with the circles
into
which I went.
To produce,
and always
to be producing,
was destructive,
nay,
impossible.
I translated a few pieces
for the theatre,
--La Quarantaine,
and La Reine de seize ans;
and as,
at
that time,
a young composer
of the name
of Hartmann,
a grandson
of him
who composed the Danish folks-song
of “King Christian stood
by the tall,
tall mast,”
wished
for text
to an opera,
I was
of course ready
to write it.
Through the writings
of Hoffman,
my attention had been turned
to the masked comedies
of Gozzi:
I read Il Corvo,
and finding
that it was an excellent subject,
I wrote,
in a few weeks,
my opera-text
of the Raven.
It
will sound strange
to the ears
of countrymen
when I say
that I,
at
that time,
recommended Hartmann;
that I gave my word
for it,
in my letter
to the theatrical directors,
for his being a man
of talent,
who
would produce something good.
He now takes the first rank
among the living Danish composers.
, , , , ,
I worked up also Walter Scott’s “Bride
of Lammermoor”
for another young composer,
Bredal.
Both operas appeared
on the stage;
but I was subjected
to the most merciless criticism,
as one
who had stultified the labors
of foreign poets.
What people had discovered
to be good
in me
before seemed now
to be forgotten,
and all talent was denied
to me.
The composer Weyse,
my earliest benefactor,
whom I have already mentioned,
was,
on the contrary,
satisfied
in the highest degree
with my treatment
of these subjects.
He told me
that he had wished
for a long time
to compose an opera
from Walter Scott’s “Kenilworth.”
He now requested me
to commence the joint work,
and write the text.
I had no idea
of the summary justice
which
would be dealt
to me.
I needed money
to live,
and,
what still more determined me
to it,
I felt flattered
to have
to work
with Weyse our most celebrated composer.
It delighted me
that he,
who had first spoken
in my favor
at Siboni’s house,
now,
as artist,
sought a noble connection
with me.
I had scarcely half finished the text,
when I was already blamed
for having made use
of a well-known romance.
I wished
to give it up;
but Weyse consoled me,
and encouraged me
to proceed.
Afterwards,
before he had finished the music,
when I was about
to travel abroad,
I committed my fate,
as regarded the text,
entirely
to his hands.
He wrote whole verses
of it,
and the altered conclusion is wholly his own.
It was a peculiarity
of
that singular man
that he liked no book
which ended sorrowfully.
For
that reason,
Amy must marry Leicester,
and Elizabeth say,
“Proud England,
I am thine.”
I opposed this
at the beginning;
but afterwards I yielded,
and the piece was really half-created
by Weyse.
It was brought
on the stage,
but was not printed,
with the exception
of the songs.
To this followed anonymous attacks:
the city post brought me letters
in
which the unknown writers scoffed
at
and derided me.
That same year I published a new collection
of poetry,
“The Twelve Months
of the Year;”
and this book,
though it was afterwards pronounced
to contain the greater part
of my best lyrical poems,
was
then condemned
as bad.
, , , , ,
At
that time “The Monthly Review
of Literature,”
though it is now gone
to its grave,
was
in its full bloom.
At its first appearance,
it numbered
among its co-workers some
of the most distinguished names.
Its want,
however,
was men
who were qualified
to speak ably
on aesthetic works.
Unfortunately,
everybody fancies himself able
to give an opinion upon these;
but people may write excellently
on surgery
or pedagogical science,
and may have a name
in those things,
and yet be dolts
in poetry:
of this proofs may be seen.
By degrees it became more
and more difficult
for the critical bench
to find a judge
for poetical works.
The one,
however,
who,
through his extraordinary zeal
for writing
and speaking,
was ready
at hand,
was the historian
and states-councillor Molbeck,
who played,
in our time,
so great a part
in the history
of Danish criticism,
that I must speak
of him rather more fully.
He is an industrious collector,
writes extremely correct Danish,
and his Danish dictionary,
let him be reproached
with whatever want he may,
is a most highly useful work;
but,
as a judge
of aesthetic works,
he is one-sided,
and
even fanatically devoted
to party spirit.
He belongs,
unfortunately,
to the men
of science,
who are only one sixty-fourth
of a poet,
and
who are the most incompetent judges
of aesthetics.
He has,
for example,
by his critiques
on Ingemann’s romances,
shown
how far he is below the poetry
which he censures.
He has himself published a volume
of poems,
which belong
to the common run
of books,
“A Ramble
through Denmark,”
written
in the fade,
flowery style
of those times,
and “A Journey
through Germany,
France,
and Italy,”
which seems
to be made up out
of books,
not out
of life.
He sate
in his study,
or
in the Royal Library,
where he has a post,
when suddenly he became director
of the theatre
and censor
of the pieces sent in.
He was sickly,
one-sided
in judgment,
and irritable:
people may imagine the result.
He spoke
of my first poems very favorably;
but my star soon sank
for another,
who was
in the ascendant,
a young lyrical poet,
Paludan Muller;
and,
as he no longer loved,
he hated me.
That is the short history;
indeed,
in the selfsame Monthly Review the very poems
which had formerly been praised were now condemned
by the same judge,
when they appeared
in a new increased edition.
There is a Danish proverb,
“When the carriage drags,
everybody pushes behind;”
and I proved the truth
of it now.
, , , , ,
It happened
that a new star
in Danish literature ascended
at this time.
Heinrich Hertz published his “Letters
from the Dead” anonymously:
it was a mode
of driving all the unclean things out
of the temple.
The deceased Baggesen sent polemical letters
from Paradise,
which resembled
in the highest degree the style
of
that author.
They contained a sort
of apotheosis
of Heiberg,
and
in part attacks upon Oehlenschl ger
and Hauch.
The old story
about my orthographical errors was again revived;
my name
and my school-days
in Slagelse were brought
into connection
with St. Anders.
, , , , ,
I was ridiculed,
or
if people will,
I was chastised.
Hertz’s book went
through all Denmark;
people spoke
of nothing
but him.
It made it still more piquant
that the author
of the work
could not be discovered.
People were enraptured,
and justly.
Heiberg,
in his “Flying Post,”
defended a few aesthetical insignificants,
but not me.
I felt the wound
of the sharp knife deeply.
My enemies now regarded me
as entirely shut out
from the world
of spirits.
I however
in a short time published a little book,
“Vignettes
to the Danish Poets,”
in
which I characterized the dead
and the living authors
in a few lines each,
but only spoke
of
that
which was good
in them.
The book excited attention;
it was regarded
as one
of the best
of my works;
it was imitated,
but the critics did not meddle
with it.
It was evident,
on this occasion,
as had already been the case,
that the critics never laid hands
on those
of my works
which were the most successful.
, , , , ,
My affairs were now
in their worst condition;
and precisely
in
that same year
in
which a stipend
for travelling had been conferred upon Hertz,
I also had presented a petition
for the same purpose.
The universal opinion was
that I had reached the point
of culmination,
and
if I was
to succeed
in travelling it must be
at this present time.
I felt,
what since
then has become an acknowledged fact,
that travelling
would be the best school
for me.
In the mean time I was told that
to bring it
under consideration I must endeavor
to obtain
from the most distinguished poets
and men
of science a kind
of recommendation;
because this very year
there were so many distinguished young men
who were soliciting a stipend,
that it
would be difficult
among these
to put
in an available claim.
I therefore obtained recommendations
for myself;
and I am,
so far
as I know,
the only Danish poet
who was obliged
to produce recommendations
to prove
that he was a poet.
, , , , ,
And here also it is remarkable,
that the men
who recommended me have each one made prominent some very different qualification
which gave me a claim:
for instance,
Oehlenschl ger,
my lyrical power,
and the earnestness
that was
in me;
Ingemann,
my skill
in depicting popular life;
Heiberg declared that,
since the days
of Wessel,
no Danish poet had possessed so much humor
as myself;
Oersted remarked,
every one,
they
who were
against me
as well
as those
who were
for me,
agreed
on one subject,
and this was
that I was a true poet.
Thiele expressed himself warmly
and enthusiastically
about the power
which he had seen
in me,
combating
against the oppression
and the misery
of life.
I received a stipend
for travelling;
Hertz a larger
and I a smaller one:
and
that also was quite
in the order
of things.
, , , , ,
“Now be happy,”
said my friends,
“make yourself aware
of your unbounded good fortune!
Enjoy the present moment,
as it
will probably be the only time
in
which you
will get abroad.
You shall hear
what people say
about you
while you are travelling,
and
how we shall defend you;
sometimes,
however,
we shall not be able
to do that.”
, , , , ,
It was painful
to me
to hear such things said;
I felt a compulsion
of soul
to be away,
that I might,
if possible,
breathe freely;
but sorrow is firmly seated
on the horse
of the rider.
More
than one sorrow oppressed my heart,
and
although I opened the chambers
of my heart
to the world,
one
or two
of them I keep locked,
nevertheless.
On setting out
on my journey,
my prayer
to God was
that I might die far away
from Denmark,
or return strengthened
for activity,
and
in a condition
to produce works
which
should win
for me
and my beloved ones joy
and honor.
, , , , ,
Precisely
at the moment
of setting out
on my journey,
the form
of my beloved arose
in my heart.
Among the few whom I have already named,
there are two
who exercised a great influence upon my life
and my poetry,
and these I must more particularly mention.
A beloved mother,
an unusually liberal-minded
and well educated lady,
Madame L ss c,
had introduced me
into her agreeable circle
of friends;
she often felt the deepest sympathy
with me
in my troubles;
she always turned my attention
to the beautiful
in nature
and the poetical
in the details
of life,
and
as
almost everyone regarded me
as a poet,
she elevated my mind;
yes,
and
if
there be tenderness
and purity
in anything
which I have written,
they are
among those things
for
which I have especially
to be thankful
to her.
Another character
of great importance
to me was Collin’s son Edward.
Brought up
under fortunate circumstances
of life,
he was possessed
of
that courage
and determination
which I wanted.
I felt
that he sincerely loved me,
and I full
of affection,
threw myself upon him
with my whole soul;
he passed
on calmly
and practically
through the business
of life.
I often mistook him
at the very moment
when he felt
for me most deeply,
and
when he
would gladly have infused
into me a portion
of his own character,
--to me
who was
as a reed shaken
by the wind.
In the practical part
of life,
he,
the younger,
stood actively
by my side,
from the assistance
which he gave
in my Latin exercises,
to the arranging the business
of bringing out editions
of my works.
He has always remained the same;
and were I
to enumerate my friends,
he
would be placed
by me
as the first
on the list.
When the traveller leaves the mountains
behind him,
then
for the first time he sees them
in their true form:
so is it also
with friends.
, , , , ,
I arrived
at Paris
by way
of Cassel
and the Rhine.
I retained a vivid impression
of all
that I saw.
The idea
for a poem fixed itself firmer
and firmer
in my mind;
and I hoped,
as it became more clearly worked out,
to propitiate
by it my enemies.
There is an old Danish folks-song
of Agnete
and the Merman,
which bore an affinity
to my own state
of mind,
and
to the treatment
of
which I felt an inward impulse.
The song tells
that Agnete wandered solitarily
along the shore,
when a merman rose up
from the waves
and decoyed her
by his speeches.
She followed him
to the bottom
of the sea,
remained
there seven years,
and bore him seven children.
One day,
as she sat
by the cradle,
she heard the church bells sounding down
to her
in the depths
of the sea,
and a longing seized her heart
to go
to church.
By her prayers
and tears she induced the merman
to conduct her
to the upper world again,
promising soon
to return.
He prayed her not
to forget his children,
more especially the little one
in the cradle;
stopped up her ears
and her mouth,
and
then led her upwards
to the sea-shore.
When,
however,
she entered the church,
all the holy images,
as soon
as they saw her,
a daughter
of sin
and
from the depths
of the sea,
turned themselves round
to the walls.
She was affrighted,
and
would not return,
although the little ones
in her home below were weeping.
, , , , ,
I treated this subject freely,
in a lyrical
and dramatic manner.
I
will venture
to say
that the whole grew out
of my heart;
all the recollections
of our beechwoods
and the open sea were blended
in it.
, , , , ,
In the midst
of the excitement
of Paris I lived
in the spirit
of the Danish folks-songs.
The most heartfelt gratitude
to God filled my soul,
because I felt
that all
which I had,
I had received
through his mercy;
yet
at the same time I took a lively interest
in all
that surrounded me.
I was present
at one
of the July festivals,
in their first freshness;
it was
in the year 1833.
I saw the unveiling
of Napoleon’s pillar.
I gazed
on the world-experienced King Louis Philippe,
who is evidently defended
by Providence.
I saw the Duke
of Orleans,
full
of health
and the enjoyment
of life,
dancing
at the gay people’s ball,
in the gay Maison de Ville.
Accident led
in Paris
to my first meeting
with Heine,
the poet,
who
at
that time occupied the throne
in my poetical world.
When I told him
how happy this meeting
and his kind words made me,
he said
that this
could not very well be the case,
else I
should have sought him out.
I replied,
that I had not done so precisely
because I estimated him so highly.
I
should have feared
that he might have thought it ridiculous
in me,
an unknown Danish poet,
to seek him out;
“and,”
added I,
“your sarcastic smile
would deeply have wounded me.”
In reply,
he said something friendly.
, , , , ,
Several years afterwards,
when we again met
in Paris,
he gave me a cordial reception,
and I had a view
into the brightly poetical portion
of his soul.
, , , , ,
Paul D port met me
with equal kindness.
Victor Hugo also received me.
, , , , ,
During my journey
to Paris,
and the whole month
that I spent there,
I
heard not a single word
from home.
Could my friends perhaps have nothing
agreeable
to tell me?
At length,
however,
a letter arrived;
a large
letter,
which cost a large sum
in postage.
My heart beat
with joy and
yearning impatience;
it was,
indeed,
my first letter.
I opened it,
but
I discovered not a single written word,
nothing
but a Copenhagen
newspaper,
containing a lampoon upon me,
and
that was sent
to me all
that distance
with postage unpaid,
probably
by the anonymous writer
himself.
This abominable malice wounded me deeply.
I have never
discovered
who the author was,
perhaps he was one
of those who
afterwards called me friend,
and pressed my hand.
Some men have base
thoughts:
I also have mine.
, , , , ,
It is a weakness
of my country-people,
that commonly,
when abroad,
during their residence
in large cities,
they
almost live exclusively
in company together;
they must dine together,
meet
at the theatre,
and see all the lions
of the place
in company.
Letters are read
by each other;
news
of home is received
and talked over,
and
at last they
hardly know whether they are
in a foreign land
or their own.
I had given way
to the same weakness
in Paris;
and
in leaving it,
therefore,
determined
for one month
to board myself
in some quiet place
in Switzerland,
and live only
among the French,
so as
to be compelled
to speak their language,
which was necessary
to me
in the highest degree.
, , , , ,
In the little city
of Lodi,
in a valley
of the Jura mountains,
where the snow fell
in August,
and the clouds floated below us,
was I received
by the amiable family
of a wealthy watchmaker.
They
would not hear a word
about payment.
I lived
among them
and their friends
as a relation,
and
when we parted the children wept.
We had become friends,
although I
could not understand their patois;
they shouted loudly
into my ear,
because they fancied I must be deaf,
as I
could not understand them.
In the evenings,
in
that elevated region,
there was a repose
and a stillness
in nature,
and the sound
of the evening bells ascended
to us
from the French frontier.
At some distance
from the city,
stood a solitary house,
painted white
and clean;
on descending
through two cellars,
the noise
of a millwheel was heard,
and the rushing waters
of a river
which flowed
on here,
hidden
from the world.
I often visited this place
in my solitary rambles,
and here I finished my poem
of “Agnete
and the Merman,”
which I had begun
in Paris.
, , , , ,
I sent home this poem
from Lodi;
and never,
with my earlier
or my later works,
were my hopes so high
as they were now.
But it was received coldly.
People said I had done it
in imitation
of Oehlenschl ger,
who
at one time sent home masterpieces.
Within the last few years,
I fancy,
this poem has been somewhat more read,
and has met
with its friends.
It was,
however,
a step forwards,
and it decided,
as it were,
unconsciously
to me,
my pure lyrical phasis.
It has been also
of late critically adjudged
in Denmark,
that,
notwithstanding that
on its first appearance it excited far less attention
than some
of my earlier
and less successful works,
still that
in this the poetry is
of a deeper,
fuller,
and more powerful character
than anything
which I had hitherto produced.
, , , , ,
This poem closes one portion
of my life.
, , , , ,
CHAPTER V.
On the 5th
of September,
1833,
I crossed the Simplon
on my way
to Italy.
On the very day,
on which,
fourteen years before,
I had arrived poor
and helpless
in Copenhagen,
did I set foot
in this country
of my longing and
of my poetical happiness.
It happened
in this case,
as it often does,
by accident,
without any arrangement
on my part,
as
if I had preordained lucky days
in the year;
yet good fortune has so frequently been
with me,
that I perhaps only remind myself
of its visits
on my own self-elected days.
, , , , ,
All was sunshine
--all was spring!
The vine hung
in long trails
from tree
to tree;
never
since have I seen Italy so beautiful.
I sailed
on Lago Maggiore;
ascended the cathedral
of Milan;
passed several days
in Genoa,
and made
from thence a journey,
rich
in the beauties
of nature,
along the shore
to Carrara.
I had seen statues
in Paris,
but my eyes were closed
to them;
in Florence,
before the Venus de Medici,
it was
for the first time
as
if scales fell
from my eyes;
a new world
of art disclosed itself
before me;
that was the first fruit
of my journey.
Here it was
that I first learned
to understand the beauty
of form
--the spirit
which reveals itself
in form.
The life
of the people
--nature
--all was new
to me;
and yet
as strangely familiar
as
if I were come
to a home
where I had lived
in my childhood.
With a peculiar rapidity did I seize upon everything,
and entered
into its life,
whilst a deep northern melancholy
--it was not home-sickness,
but a heavy,
unhappy feeling
--filled my breast.
I received the news
in Rome,
of
how little the poem
of Agnete,
which I had sent home,
was thought
of there;
the next letter
in Rome brought me the news
that my mother was dead.
I was now quite alone
in the world.
, , , , ,
It was
at this time,
and
in Rome,
that my first meeting
with Hertz took place.
In a letter
which I had received
from Collin,
he had said
that it
would give him pleasure
to hear
that Hertz
and I had become friends;
but
even without this wish it
would have happened,
for Hertz kindly offered me his hand,
and expressed sympathy
with my sorrow.
He had,
of all those
with whom I was
at
that time acquainted,
the most variously cultivated mind.
We had often disputations together,
even
about the attacks
which had been made upon me
at home
as a poet.
He,
who had himself given me a wound,
said the following words,
which deeply impressed themselves
on my memory:
“Your misfortune is,
that you have been obliged
to print everything;
the public has been able
to follow you step
by step.
I believe
that even,
a Goethe himself must have suffered the same fate,
had he been
in your situation.”
And
then he praised my talent
for seizing upon the characteristics
of nature,
and giving,
by a few intuitive sketches,
pictures
of familiar life.
My intercourse
with him was very instructive
to me,
and I felt
that I had one merciful judge more.
I travelled
in company
with him
to Naples,
where we dwelt together
in one house.
, , , , ,
In Rome I also became first acquainted
with Thorwaldsen.
Many years before,
when I had not long been
in Copenhagen,
and was walking
through the streets
as a poor boy,
Thorwaldsen was
there too:
that was
on his first return home.
We met one another
in the street.
I knew
that he was a distinguished man
in art;
I looked
at him,
I bowed;
he went on,
and then,
suddenly turning round,
came back
to me,
and said,
“Where have I seen you before?
I think we know one another.”
I replied,
“No,
we do not know one another
at all.”
I now related this story
to him
in Rome;
he smiled,
pressed my hand,
and said,
“Yet we felt
at
that time
that we
should become good friends.”
I read Agnete
to him;
and
that
which delighted me
in his judgment upon it was the assertion,
“It is just,”
said he,
“as
if I were walking
at home
in the woods,
and heard the Danish lakes;”
and
then he kissed me.
, , , , ,
One day,
when he saw
how distressed I was,
and I related
to him
about the pasquinade
which I had received
from home
in Paris,
he gnashed his teeth violently,
and said,
in momentary anger,
“Yes,
yes,
I know the people;
it
would not have gone any better
with me
if I had remained there;
I
should then,
perhaps,
not
even have obtained permission
to set up a model.
Thank God
that I did not need them,
for
then they know how
to torment and
to annoy.”
He desired me
to keep up a good heart,
and
then things
could not fail
of going well;
and
with
that he told me
of some dark passages
in his own life,
where he
in
like manner had been mortified
and unjustly condemned.
, , , , ,
After the Carnival,
I left Rome
for Naples;
saw
at Capri the blue Grotto,
which was
at
that time first discovered;
visited the temple
at Paestum,
and returned
in the Easter week
to Rome,
from whence I went
through Florence
and Venice
to Vienna
and Munich;
but I had
at
that time neither mind nor heart
for Germany;
and
when I thought
on Denmark,
I felt fear
and distress
of mind
about the bad reception
which I expected
to find there.
Italy,
with its scenery
and its people’s life,
occupied my soul,
and
towards this land I felt a yearning.
My earlier life,
and
what I had now seen,
blended themselves together
into an image
--into poetry,
which I was compelled
to write down,
although I was convinced
that it
would occasion me more trouble
than joy,
if my necessities
at home
should oblige me
to print it.
I had written already
in Rome the first chapter.
It was my novel
of “The Improvisatore.”
, , , , ,
At one
of my first visits
to the theatre
at Odense,
as a little boy,
where,
as I have already mentioned,
the representations were given
in the German language,
I saw the Donauweibchen,
and the public applauded the actress
of the principal part.
Homage was paid
to her,
and she was honored;
and I vividly remember thinking
how happy she must be.
, , , , ,
Many years afterwards,
when,
as a student,
I visited Odense,
I saw,
in one
of the chambers
of the hospital
where the poor widows lived
and
where one bed stood
by another,
a female portrait hanging
over one bed
in a gilt frame.
It was Lessing’s Emilia Galotti,
and represented her
as pulling the rose
to pieces;
but the picture was a portrait.
It appeared singular
in contrast
with the poverty
by
which it was surrounded.
, , , , ,
“Whom does it represent?”
asked I. “Oh!”
said one
of the old women,
“it is the face
of the German lady,
the poor lady
who once was an actress!”
And
then I saw a little delicate woman,
whose face was covered
with wrinkles,
and
in an old silk gown
that once had been black.
That was the once celebrated Singer,
who,
as the Donauweibchen,
had been applauded
by every one.
This circumstance made an indelible impression upon me,
and often occurred
to my mind.
, , , , ,
In Naples I heard Malibran
for the first time.
Her singing
and acting surpassed anything
which I had hitherto either heard
or seen;
and yet I thought the while
of the miserably poor singer
in the hospital
of Odense:
the two figures blended
into the Annunciata
of the novel.
Italy was the back ground
for
that
which had been experienced
and
that
which was imagined.
In August
of 1834 I returned
to Denmark.
I wrote the first part
of the book
at Ingemann’s,
in Sor÷,
in a little chamber
in the roof,
among fragrant lime-trees.
I finished it
in Copenhagen.
, , , , ,
At this time my best friends,
even,
had
almost given me up
as a poet;
they said
that they had erred
with regard
to my talents.
It was
with difficulty
that I found a publisher
for the book.
I received a miserable sum
of money
for it,
and the “Improvisatore” made its appearance;
was read,
sold out,
and again published.
The critics were silent;
the newspapers said nothing;
but I heard all
around me
of the interest
which was felt
for the work,
and the delight
that it occasioned.
At length the poet Carl Bagger,
who was
at
that time the editor
of a newspaper,
wrote the first critique upon it,
and began ironically,
with the customary tirade
against me
--”that it was all over
with this author,
who had already passed his heyday;”
--in short,
he went the whole length
of the tobacco
and tea criticism,
in order suddenly
to dash out,
and
to express his extremely warm enthusiasm
for me;
and my book.
People now laughed
at me,
but I wept.
This was my mood
of mind.
I wept freely,
and felt gratitude
to God
and man.
, , , , ,
“To the Conference Councillor Collin and
to his noble wife,
in whom I found parents,
whose children were brethren
and sisters
to me,
whose house was my home,
do I here present the best
of
which I am possessed.”
--So ran the dedication.
Many
who formerly had been my enemy,
now changed their opinion;
and
among these one became my friend,
who,
I hope,
will remain so
through the whole
of my life.
That was Hauch the poet,
one
of the noblest characters
with whom I am acquainted.
He had returned home
from Italy after a residence
of several years abroad,
just
at the time
when Heiberg’s vaudevilles were intoxicating the inhabitants
of Copenhagen,
and
when my “Journey
on Foot” was making me a little known.
He commenced a controversy
with Heiberg,
and somewhat scoffed
at me.
Nobody called his attention
to my better lyrical writings;
I was described
to him
as a spoiled,
petulant child
of fortune.
He now read my Improvisatore,
and feeling
that
there was something good
in me,
his noble character evinced itself
by his writing a cordial letter
to me,
in
which he said,
that he had done me an injustice,
and offered me now the hand
of reconciliation.
From
that time we became friends.
He used his influence
for me
with the utmost zeal,
and has watched my onward career
with heartfelt friendship.
But so little able have many people been
to understand
what is excellent
in him,
or the noble connection
of heart
between us two,
that not long since,
when he wrote a novel,
and drew
in it the caricature
of a poet,
whose vanity ended
in insanity,
the people
in Denmark discovered
that he had treated me
with the greatest injustice,
because he had described
in it my weakness.
People must not believe
that this was the assertion
of one single person,
or a misapprehension
of my character;
no;
and Hauch felt himself compelled
to write a treatise upon me
as a poet,
that he might show
what a different place he assigned
to me.
, , , , ,
But
to return
to the “Improvisatore.”
This book raised my sunken fortunes;
collected my friends again
around me,
nay,
even obtained
for me new ones.
For the first time I felt
that I had obtained a due acknowledgment.
The book was translated
into German
by Kruse,
with a long title,
“Jugendleben und Tr ume eines italienischen Dichter’s.”
I objected
to the title;
but he declared
that it was necessary
in order
to attract attention
to the book.
, , , , ,
Bagger had,
as already stated,
been the first
to pass judgment
on the work;
after an interval
of some time a second critique made its appearance,
more courteous,
it is true,
than I was accustomed to,
but still passing lightly
over the best things
in the book
and dwelling
on its deficiencies,
and
on the number
of incorrectly written Italian words.
And,
as Nicolai’s well-known book,
“Italy
as it really is,”
came out just then,
people universally said,
“Now we shall be able
to see
what it is about
which Andersen has written,
for
from Nicolai a true idea
of Italy may be obtained
for the first time.”
, , , , ,
It was
from Germany
that resounded the first decided acknowledgment
of the merits
of my work,
or rather perhaps its
over estimation.
I bow myself
in joyful gratitude,
like a sick man
toward the sunshine,
when my heart is grateful.
I am not,
as the Danish Monthly Review,
in its critique
of the “Improvisatore,”
condescended
to assert,
an unthankful man,
who exhibits
in his work a want
of gratitude
towards his benefactors.
I was indeed myself poor Antonio
who sighed
under the burden
which I had
to bear,
--I,
the poor lad
who ate the bread
of charity.
From Sweden also,
later,
resounded my praise,
and the Swedish newspapers contained articles
in praise
of this work,
which within the last two years has been equally warmly received
in England,
where Mary Howitt,
the poetess,
has translated it
into English;
the same good fortune also is said
to have attended the book
in Holland
and Russia.
Everywhere abroad resounded the loudest acknowledgments
of its excellence.
, , , , ,
There exists
in the public a power
which is stronger
than all the critics
and cliques.
I felt
that I stood
at home
on firmer ground,
and my spirit again had moments
in
which it raised its wings
for flight.
In this alternation
of feeling
between gaiety
and ill humor,
I wrote my next novel,
“O.
T.,”
which is regarded
by many persons
in Denmark
as my best work;
--an estimation
which I cannot myself award
to it.
It contains characteristic features
of town life.
My first Tales appeared
before “O.
T;”
but this is not the place
in which
to speak
of them.
I felt just
at this time a strong mental impulse
to write,
and I believed
that I had found my true element
in novel-writing.
In the following year,
1837,
I published “Only a Fiddler,”
a book which
on my part had been deeply pondered over,
and the details
of
which sprang fresh
to the paper.
My design was
to show
that talent is not genius,
and that
if the sunshine
of good fortune be withheld,
this must go
to the ground,
though without losing its nobler,
better nature.
This book likewise had its partisans;
but still the critics
would not vouchsafe
to me any encouragement;
they forgot that
with years the boy becomes a man,
and
that people may acquire knowledge
in other
than the ordinary ways.
They
could not separate themselves
from their old preconceived opinions.
Whilst “O.
T.”
was going
through the press it was submitted sheet
by sheet
to a professor
of the university,
who had himself offered
to undertake this work,
and
by two other able men also;
notwithstanding all this,
the Reviews said,
“We find the usual grammatical negligence,
which we always find
in Andersen,
in this work also.”
That
which contributed likewise
to place this book
in the shade was the circumstance
of Heiberg having
at
that time published his Every-day Stories,
which were written
in excellent language,
and
with good taste
and truth.
Their own merits,
and the recommendation
of their being Heiberg’s,
who was the beaming star
of literature,
placed them
in the highest rank.
, , , , ,
I had however advanced so far,
that
there no longer existed any doubt as
to my poetical ability,
which people had wholly denied
to me
before my journey
to Italy.
Still not a single Danish critic had spoken
of the characteristics
which are peculiar
to my novels.
It was not
until my works appeared
in Swedish
that this was done,
and
then several Swedish journals went profoundly
into the subject
and analyzed my works
with good
and honorable intentions.
The case was the same
in Germany;
and
from this country too my heart was strengthened
to proceed.
It was not
until last year that
in Denmark,
a man
of influence,
Hauch the poet,
spoke
of the novels
in his already mentioned treatise,
and
with a few touches brought their characteristics prominently forward.
, , , , ,
“The principal thing,”
says he,
“in Andersen’s best
and most elaborate works,
in those
which are distinguished
for the richest fancy,
the deepest feeling,
the most lively poetic spirit,
is,
of talent,
or
at least
of a noble nature,
which
will struggle its way out
of narrow
and depressing circumstances.
This is the case
with his three novels,
and
with this purpose
in view,
it is really an important state
of existence
which he describes,
--an inner world,
which no one understands better
than he,
who has himself,
drained out
of the bitter cup
of suffering
and renunciation,
painful
and deep feelings
which are closely related
to those
of his own experience,
and
from
which Memory,
who,
according
to the old significant myth,
is the mother
of the Muses,
met him hand
in hand
with them.
That
which he,
in these his works,
relates
to the world,
deserves assuredly
to be listened
to
with attention;
because,
at the same time
that it may be only the most secret inward life
of the individual,
yet it is also the common lot
of men
of talent
and genius,
at least
when these are
in needy circumstances,
as is the case
of those
who are here placed
before our eyes.
In so far as
in his ‘Improvisatore,’
in ‘O.
T.,’
and
in ‘Only a Fiddler,’
he represents not only himself,
in his own separate individuality,
but
at the same time the momentous combat
which so many have
to pass through,
and
which he understands so well,
because
in it his own life has developed itself;
therefore
in no instance
can he be said
to present
to the reader
what belongs
to the world
of illusion,
but only
that
which bears witness
to truth,
and which,
as is the case
with all such testimony,
has a universal
and enduring worth.
, , , , ,
“And still more
than this,
Andersen is not only the defender
of talent
and genius,
but,
at the same time,
of every human heart
which is unkindly
and unjustly treated.
And whilst he himself has so painfully suffered
in
that deep combat
in
which the Laocoon-snakes seize upon the outstretched hand;
whilst he himself has been compelled
to drink from
that wormwood-steeped bowl
which the cold-blooded
and arrogant world so constantly offers
to those
who are
in depressed circumstances,
he is fully capable
of giving
to his delineations
in this respect a truth
and an earnestness,
nay,
even a tragic
and a pain-awakening pathos
that rarely fails
of producing its effect
on the sympathizing human heart.
Who
can read
that scene
in his ‘Only a Fiddler,’
in
which the ‘high-bred hound,’
as the poet expresses it,
‘turned away
with disgust
from the broken victuals
which the poor youth received
as alms,
without recognizing,
at the same time,
that this is no game
in
which vanity seeks
for a triumph,
but
that it expresses much more
--human nature wounded
to its inmost depths,
which here speaks out its sufferings.’”
Thus is it spoken
in Denmark
of my works,
after an interval
of nine
or ten years;
thus speaks the voice
of a noble,
venerated man.
It is
with me
and the critics
as it is
with wine,
--the more years pass
before it is drunk the better is its flavor.
, , , , ,
During the year
in
which “The Fiddler” came out,
I visited
for the first time the neighboring country
of Sweden.
I went
by the G÷ta canal
to Stockholm.
At
that time nobody understood
what is now called Scandinavian sympathies;
there still existed a sort
of mistrust inherited
from the old wars
between the two neighbor nations.
Little was known
of Swedish literature,
and
there were only very few Danes
who
could easily read
and understand the Swedish language;
--people scarcely knew Tegn r’s Frithiof
and Axel,
excepting
through translations.
I had,
however,
read a few other Swedish authors,
and the deceased,
unfortunate Stagnelius pleased me more
as a poet
than Tegn r,
who represented poetry
in Sweden.
I,
who hitherto had only travelled
into Germany
and southern countries,
where
by this means,
the departure
from Copenhagen was also the departure
from my mother tongue,
felt,
in this respect,
almost
at home
in Sweden:
the languages are so much akin,
that
of two persons each might read
in the language
of his own country,
and yet the other understand him.
It seemed
to me,
as a Dane,
that Denmark expanded itself;
kinship
with the people exhibited itself,
in many ways,
more
and more;
and I felt,
livingly,
how near akin are Swedes,
Danes,
and Norwegians.
, , , , ,
I met
with cordial,
kind people,
--and
with these I easily made acquaintance.
I reckon this journey
among the happiest I ever made.
I had no knowledge
of the character
of Swedish scenery,
and therefore I was
in the highest degree astonished
by the Trollh tta-voyage,
and
by the extremely picturesque situation
of Stockholm.
It sounds
to the uninitiated half
like a fairy-tale,
when one says
that the steam-boat goes up
across the lakes
over the mountains,
from whence may be seen the outstretched pine
and beechwoods below.
Immense sluices heave up
and lower the vessel again,
whilst the travellers ramble
through the woods.
None
of the cascades
of Switzerland,
none
in Italy,
not
even that
of Terni,
have
in them anything so imposing
as that
of Trollh tta.
Such is the impression,
at all events,
which it made
on me.
, , , , ,
On this journey,
and
at this last-mentioned place,
commenced a very interesting acquaintance,
and one
which has not been without its influence
on me,
--an acquaintance
with the Swedish authoress,
Fredrika Bremer.
I had just been speaking
with the captain
of the steam-boat
and some
of the passengers
about the Swedish authors living
in Stockholm,
and I mentioned my desire
to see
and converse
with Miss Bremer.
, , , , ,
“You
will not meet
with her,”
said the Captain,
“as she is
at this moment
on a visit
in Norway.”
, , , , ,
“She
will be coming back
while I am there,”
said I
in joke;
“I always am lucky
in my journeys,
and
that
which I most wish
for is always accomplished.
, , , , ,
“Hardly this time,
however,”
said the captain.
, , , , ,
A few hours after this he came up
to me laughing,
with the list
of the newly arrived passengers
in his hand.
“Lucky fellow,”
said he aloud,
“you take good fortune
with you;
Miss Bremer is here,
and sails
with us
to Stockholm.”
, , , , ,
I received it
as a joke;
he showed me the list,
but still I was uncertain.
Among the new arrivals,
I
could see no one
who resembled an authoress.
Evening came on,
and
about midnight we were
on the great Wener lake.
At sunrise I wished
to have a view
of this extensive lake,
the shores
of
which
could scarcely be seen;
and
for this purpose I left the cabin.
At the very moment
that I did so,
another passenger was also doing the same,
a lady neither young nor old,
wrapped
in a shawl
and cloak.
I thought
to myself,
if Miss Bremer is
on board,
this must be she,
and fell
into discourse
with her;
she replied politely,
but still distantly,
nor
would she directly answer my question,
whether she was the authoress
of the celebrated novels.
She asked after my name;
was acquainted
with it,
but confessed
that she had read none
of my works.
She
then inquired whether I had not some
of them
with me,
and I lent her a copy
of the “Improvisatore,”
which I had destined
for Beskow.
She vanished immediately
with the volumes,
and was not again visible all morning.
, , , , ,
When I again saw her,
her countenance was beaming,
and she was full
of cordiality;
she pressed my hand,
and said
that she had read the greater part
of the first volume,
and
that she now knew me.
, , , , ,
The vessel flew
with us
across the mountains,
through quiet inland lakes
and forests,
till it arrived
at the Baltic Sea,
where islands lie scattered,
as
in the Archipelago,
and
where the most remarkable transition takes place
from naked cliffs
to grassy islands,
and
to those
on
which stand trees
and houses.
Eddies
and breakers make it here necessary
to take
on board a skilful pilot;
and
there are indeed some places
where every passenger must sit quietly
on his seat,
whilst the eye
of the pilot is riveted upon one point.
On shipboard one feels the mighty power
of nature,
which
at one moment seizes hold
of the vessel
and the next lets it go again.
, , , , ,
Miss Bremer related many legends
and many histories,
which were connected
with this
or
that island,
or those farm-premises up aloft
on the mainland.
, , , , ,
In Stockholm,
the acquaintance
with her increased,
and year after year the letters
which have passed
between us have strengthened it.
She is a noble woman;
the great truths
of religion,
and the poetry
which lies
in the quiet circumstances
of life,
have penetrated her being.
, , , , ,
It was not
until after my visit
to Stockholm
that her Swedish translation
of my novel came out;
my lyrical poems only,
and my “Journey
on Foot,”
were known
to a few authors;
these received me
with the utmost kindness,
and the lately deceased Dahlgr n,
well known
by his humorous poems,
wrote a song
in my honor
--in short,
I met
with hospitality,
and countenances beaming
with Sunday gladness.
Sweden
and its inhabitants became dear
to me.
The city itself,
by its situation
and its whole picturesque appearance,
seemed
to me
to emulate Naples.
Of course,
this last has the advantage
of fine atmosphere,
and the sunshine
of the south;
but the view
of Stockholm is just
as imposing;
it has also some resemblance
to Constantinople,
as seen
from Pera,
only
that the minarets are wanting.
There prevails a great variety
of coloring
in the capital
of Sweden;
white painted buildings;
frame-work houses,
with the wood-work painted red;
barracks
of turf,
with flowering plants;
fir tree
and birches look out
from
among the houses,
and the churches
with their balls
and towers.
The streets
in S÷dermalm ascend
by flights
of wooden steps up
from the M lar lake,
which is all active
with smoking steam-vessels,
and
with boats rowed
by women
in gay-colored dresses.
, , , , ,
I had brought
with me a letter
of introduction
from Oersted,
to the celebrated Berzelius,
who gave me a good reception
in the old city
of Upsala.
From this place I returned
to Stockholm.
City,
country,
and people,
were all dear
to me;
it seemed
to me,
as I said before,
that the boundaries
of my native land had stretched themselves out,
and I now first felt the kindredship
of the three peoples,
and
in this feeling I wrote a Scandinavian song,
a hymn
of praise
for all the three nations,
for
that
which was peculiar
and best
in each one
of them.
, , , , ,
“One
can see
that the Swedes made a deal
of him,”
was the first remark
which I heard
at home
on this song.
, , , , ,
Years pass on;
the neighbors understand each other better;
Oehlenschl
ger.
Fredrika Bremer,
and Tegn r,
caused them mutually
to read each
other’s authors,
and the foolish remains
of the old enmity,
which had no
other foundation than
that they did not know each other,
vanished.
, , , , ,
There now prevails a beautiful,
cordial relationship
between Sweden and
Denmark.
A Scandinavian club has been established
in Stockholm;
and
with this my song came
to honor;
and it was
then said,
“it
will outlive
everything
that Andersen has written:”
which was
as unjust
as
when they
said
that it was only the product
of flattered vanity.
This song is now
sung
in Sweden
as well as
in Denmark.
, , , , ,
on my return home I began
to study history industriously,
and made
myself still further acquainted
with the literature
of foreign
countries.
Yet still the volume
which afforded me the greatest pleasure
was that
of nature;
and
in a summer residence
among the country-seats of
Funen,
and more especially
at Lykkesholm,
with its highly romantic
site
in the midst
of woods,
and
at the noble seat
of Glorup,
from whose
possessor I met
with the most friendly reception,
did I acquire more
true wisdom,
assuredly,
in my solitary rambles,
than I ever
could have
gained
from the schools.
, , , , ,
The house
of the Conference Councillor Collin
in Copenhagen was
at
that time,
as it has been since,
a second father’s house
to me,
and
there I had parents,
and brothers
and sisters.
The best circles
of social life were open
to me,
and the student life interested me:
here I mixed
in the pleasures
of youth.
The student life
of Copenhagen is,
besides this,
different
from that
of the German cities,
and was
at this time peculiar
and full
of life.
For me this was most perceptible
in the students’ clubs,
where students
and professors were accustomed
to meet each other:
there was
there no boundary drawn
between the youthful
and elder men
of letters.
In this club were
to be found the journals
and books
of various countries;
once a week an author
would read his last work;
a concert
or some peculiar burlesque entertainment
would take place.
It was here
that
what may be called the first Danish people’scomedies took their origin,
--comedies
in
which the events
of the day were worked up always
in an innocent,
but witty
and amusing manner.
Sometimes dramatic representations were given
in the presence
of ladies
for the furtherance
of some noble purpose,
as lately
to assist Thorwaldsen’s Museum,
to raise funds
for the execution
of Bissen’s statue
in marble,
and
for similar ends.
The professors
and students were the actors.
I also appeared several times
as an actor,
and convinced myself
that my terror
at appearing
on the stage was greater
than the talent
which I perhaps possessed.
Besides this,
I wrote
and arranged several pieces,
and thus gave my assistance.
Several scenes
from this time,
the scenes
in the students’ club,
I have worked up
in my romance
of “O.
T.”
The humor
and love
of life observable
in various passages
of this book,
and
in the little dramatic pieces written
about this time,
are owing
to the influence
of the family
of Collin,
where much good was done me
in
that respect,
so
that my morbid turn
of mind was unable
to gain the mastery
of me.
Collin’s eldest married daughter,
especially,
exercised great influence
over me,
by her merry humor
and wit.
When the mind is yielding
and elastic,
like the expanse
of ocean,
it readily,
like the ocean,
mirrors its environments.
, , , , ,
My writings,
in my own country,
were now classed
among those
which were always bought
and read;
therefore
for each fresh work I received a higher payment.
Yet,
truly,
when you consider
what a circumscribed world the Danish reading world is,
you
will see
that this payment
could not be the most liberal.
Yet I had
to live.
Collin,
who is one
of the men
who do more
than they promise,
was my help,
my consolation,
my support.
, , , , ,
At this time the late Count Conrad von Rantzau-Breitenburg,
a native
of Holstein,
was Prime Minister
in Denmark.
He was
of a noble,
amiable nature,
a highly educated man,
and possessed
of a truly chivalrous disposition.
He carefully observed the movements
in German
and Danish literature.
In his youth he had travelled much,
and spent a long time
in Spain
and Italy,
He read my “Improvisatore”
in the original;
his imagination was powerfully seized
by it,
and he spoke both
at court and
in his own private circles
of my book
in the warmest manner.
He did not stop here;
he sought me out,
and became my benefactor
and friend.
One forenoon,
whilst I was sitting solitarily
in my little chamber,
this friendly man stood
before me
for the first time.
He belonged
to
that class
of men
who immediately inspire you
with confidence;
he besought me
to visit him,
and frankly asked me whether
there were no means
by
which he
could be
of use
to me.
I hinted
how oppressive it was
to be forced
to write
in order
to live,
always
to be forced
to think
of the morrow,
and not move free
from care,
to be able
to develop your mind
and thoughts.
He pressed my hand
in a friendly manner,
and promised
to be an efficient friend.
Collin
and Oersted secretly associated themselves
with him,
and became my intercessors.
, , , , ,
Already
for many years
there had existed,
under Frederick VI.,
an institution
which does the highest honor
to the Danish government,
namely,
that beside the considerable sum expended yearly,
for the travelling expenses
of young literary men
and artists,
a small pension shall be awarded
to such
of them
as enjoy no office emoluments.
All our most important poets have had a share
of this assistance,
--Oehlenschl ger,
Ingemann,
Heiberg,
C. Winther,
and others.
Hertz had just
then received such a pension,
and his future life made thus the more secure.
It was my hope
and my wish
that the same good fortune might be mine
--and it was.
Frederick VI.
granted me two hundred rix dollars banco yearly.
I was filled
with gratitude
and joy.
I was nolonger forced
to write
in order
to live;
I had a sure support
in the possible event
of sickness.
I was less dependent upon the people
about me.
A new chapter
of my life began.
, , , , ,
CHAPTER VI.
, , , , ,
From this day forward,
it was
as
if a more constant sunshine had entered my heart.
I felt within myself more repose,
more certainty;
it was clear
to me,
as I glanced back
over my earlier life,
that a loving Providence watched
over me,
that all was directed
for me
by a higher Power;
and the firmer becomes such a conviction,
the more secure does a man feel himself.
My childhood lay
behind me,
my youthful life began properly
from this period;
hitherto it had been only an arduous swimming
against the stream.
The spring
of my life commenced;
but still the spring had its dark days,
its storms,
before it advanced
to settled summer;
it has these
in order
to develop
what shall
then ripen.
That
which one
of my dearest friends wrote
to me
on one
of my later travels abroad,
may serve
as an introduction
to
what I have here
to relate.
He wrote
in his own peculiar style:
--”It is your vivid imagination
which creates the idea
of your being despised
in Denmark;
it is utterly untrue.
You
and Denmark agree admirably,
and you
would agree still better,
if
there were
in Denmark no theatre
--Hinc illae lacrymae!
This cursed theatre.
Is this,
then,
Denmark?
and are you,
then,
nothing
but a writer
for the theatre?”
, , , , ,
Herein lies a solid truth.
The theatre has been the cave out
of
which most
of the evil storms have burst upon me.
They are peculiar people,
these people
of the theatre,
--as different,
in fact,
from others,
as Bedouins
from Germans;
from the first pantomimist
to the first lover,
everyone places himself systematically
in one scale,
and puts all the world
in the other.
The Danish theatre is a good theatre,
it may indeed be placed
on a level
with the Burg theatre
in Vienna;
but the theatre
in Copenhagen plays too great a part
in conversation,
and possesses
in most circles too much importance.
I am not sufficiently acquainted
with the stage
and the actors
in other great cities,
and therefore cannot compare them
with our theatre;
but ours has too little military discipline,
and this is absolutely necessary
where many people have
to form a whole,
even
when
that whole is an artistical one.
The most distinguished dramatic poets
in Denmark
--that is
to say,
in Copenhagen,
for
there only is a theatre
--have their troubles.
Those actors
and actresses who,
through talent
or the popular favor,
take the first rank,
very often place themselves
above both the managers
and authors.
These must pay court
to them,
or they may ruin a part,
or
what is still worse,
may spread abroad an unfavorable opinion
of the piece previous
to its being acted;
and thus you have a coffee-house criticism
before any one ought properly
to know anything
of the work.
It is moreover characteristic
of the people
of Copenhagen,
that
when a new piece is announced,
they do not say,
“I am glad
of it,”
but,
“It
will probably be good
for nothing;
it
will be hissed off the stage.”
That hissing-off plays a great part,
and is an amusement
which fills the house;
but it is not the bad actor
who is hissed,
no,
the author
and the composer only are the criminals;
for them the scaffold is erected.
Five minutes is the usual time,
and the whistles resound,
and the lovely women smile
and felicitate themselves,
like the Spanish ladies
at their bloody bullfights.
All our most eminent dramatic writers have been whistled down,
--as Oehlenschl ger,
Heiberg,
Oversko,
and others;
to say nothing
of foreign classics,
as Moli re.
In the mean time the theatre is the most profitable sphere
of labor
for the Danish writer,
whose public does not extend far beyond the frontiers.
This had induced me
to write the opera-text already spoken of,
on account
of
which I was so severely criticised;
and an internal impulse drove me afterwards
to add some other works.
Collin was no longer manager
of the theatre,
Councillor
of Justice Molbeck had taken his place;
and the tyranny
which now commenced degenerated
into the comic.
I fancy that
in course
of time the manuscript volumes
of the censorship,
which are preserved
in the theatre,
and
in
which Molbeck has certainly recorded his judgments
on received
and rejected pieces,
will present some remarkable characteristics.
Over all
that I wrote the staff was broken!
One way was open
to me
by which
to bring my pieces
on the stage;
and
that was
to give them
to those actors who
in summer gave representations
at their own cost.
In the summer
of 1839 I wrote the vaudeville
of “The Invisible One
on Sprog÷,”
to scenery
which had been painted
for another piece
which fell through;
and the unrestrained merriment
of the piece gave it such favor
with the public,
that I obtained its acceptance
by the manager;
and
that light sketch still maintains itself
on the boards,
and has survived such a number
of representations
as I had never anticipated.
, , , , ,
This approbation,
however,
procured me no further advantage,
for each
of my succeeding dramatic works received only rejection,
and occasioned me only mortification.
Nevertheless,
seized
by the idea
and the circumstances
of the little French narrative,
“Les paves,”
I determined
to dramatise it;
and
as I had often heard
that I did not possess the assiduity sufficient
to work my mat riel well,
I resolved
to labor this drama
--”The Mulatto”
--from the beginning
to the end,
in the most diligent manner,
and
to compose it
in alternately rhyming verse,
as was
then the fashion.
It was a foreign subject
of
which I availed myself;
but
if verses are music,
I
at least endeavored
to adapt my music
to the text,
and
to let the poetry
of another diffuse itself
through my spiritual blood;
so
that people
should not be heard
to say,
as they had done before,
regarding the romance
of Walter Scott,
that the composition was cut down
and fitted
to the stage.
, , , , ,
The piece was ready,
and declared
by able men,
old friends,
and actors
who were
to appear
in it,
to be excellent;
a rich dramatic capacity lay
in the mat riel,
and my lyrical composition clothed this
with so fresh a green,
that people appeared satisfied.
The piece was sent in,
and was rejected
by Molbeck.
It was sufficiently known
that
what he cherished
for the boards,
withered
there the first evening;
but
what he cast away
as weeds were flowers
for the garden
--a real consolation
for me.
The assistant-manager,
Privy Counsellor
of State,
Adler,
a man
of taste
and liberality,
became the patron
of my work;
and
since a very favorable opinion
of it already prevailed
with the public,
after I had read it
to many persons,
it was resolved
on
for representation.
I had the honor
to read it
before my present King
and Queen,
who received me
in a very kind
and friendly manner,
and
from whom,
since
that time,
I have experienced many proofs
of favor
and cordiality.
The day
of representation arrived;
the bills were posted;
I had not closed my eyes
through the whole night
from excitement
and expectation;
the people already stood
in throngs
before the theatre,
to procure tickets,
when royal messengers galloped
through the streets,
solemn groups collected,
the minute guns pealed,
--Frederick VI.
had died this morning!
For two months more was the theatre closed,
and was opened
under Christian VIII.,
with my drama
--”The Mulatto;”
which was received
with the most triumphant acclamation;
but I
could not
at once feel the joy
of it,
I felt only relieved
from a state
of excitement,
and breathed more freely.
, , , , ,
This piece continued
through a series
of representations
to receive the same approbation;
many placed this work far
above all my former ones,
and considered that
with it began my proper poetical career.
It was soon translated
into the Swedish,
and acted
with applause
at the royal theatre
in Stockholm.
Travelling players introduced it
into the smaller towns
in the neighboring country;
a Danish company gave it
in the original language,
in the Swedish city Malm÷,
and a troop
of students
from the university town
of Lund,
welcomed it
with enthusiasm.
I had been
for a week previous
on a visit
at some Swedish country houses,
where I was entertained
with so much cordial kindness
that the recollection
of it
will never quit my bosom;
and there,
in a foreign country,
I received the first public testimony
of honor,
and
which has left upon me the deepest
and most inextinguishable impression.
I was invited
by some students
of Lund
to visit their ancient town.
Here a public dinner was given
to me;
speeches were made,
toasts were pronounced;
and
as I was
in the evening
in a family circle,
I was informed
that the students meant
to honor me
with a serenade.
, , , , ,
I felt myself actually overcome
by this intelligence;
my heart throbbed feverishly
as I descried the thronging troop,
with their blue caps,
and arm-in-arm approaching the house.
I experienced a feeling
of humiliation;
a most lively consciousness
of my deficiencies,
so
that I seemed bowed
to the very earth
at the moment others were elevating me.
As they all uncovered their heads
while I stepped forth,
I had need
of all my thoughts
to avoid bursting
into tears.
In the feeling
that I was unworthy
of all this,
I glanced round
to see whether a smile did not pass
over the face
of some one,
but I
could discern nothing
of the kind;
and such a discovery would,
at
that moment,
have inflicted
on me the deepest wound.
, , , , ,
After an hurrah,
a speech was delivered,
of
which I clearly recollect the following words:
--”When your native land,
and the natives
of Europe offer you their homage,
then may you never forget
that the first public honors were conferred
on you
by the students
of Lund.”
, , , , ,
When the heart is warm,
the strength
of the expression is not weighed.
I felt it deeply,
and replied,
that
from this moment I became aware
that I must assert a name
in order
to render myself worthy
of these tokens
of honor.
I pressed the hands
of those nearest
to me,
and returned them thanks so deep,
so heartfelt,
--certainly never was an expression
of thanks more sincere.
When I returned
to my chamber,
I went aside,
in order
to weep out this excitement,
this overwhelming sensation.
“Think no more
of it,
be joyous
with us,”
said some
of my lively Swedish friends;
but a deep earnestness had entered my soul.
Often has the memory
of this time come back
to me;
and no noble-minded man,
who reads these pages
will discover a vanity
in the fact,
that I have lingered so long
over this moment
of life,
which scorched the roots
of pride rather
than nourished them.
, , , , ,
My drama was now
to be brought
on the stage
at Malm÷;
the students wished
to see it;
but I hastened my departure,
that I might not be
in the theatre
at the time.
With gratitude
and joy fly my thoughts
towards the Swedish University city,
but I myself have not been
there again since.
In the Swedish newspapers the honors paid me were mentioned,
and it was added
that the Swedes were not unaware that
in my own country
there was a clique
which persecuted me;
but
that this
should not hinder my neighbors
from offering me the honors
which they deemed my due.
, , , , ,
It was
when I had returned
to Copenhagen
that I first truly felt
how cordially I had been received
by the Swedes;
amongst some
of my old
and tried friends I found the most genuine sympathy.
I saw tears
in their eyes,
tears
of joy
for the honors paid me;
and especially,
said they,
for the manner
in
which I had received them.
There is
but one manner
for me;
at once,
in the midst
of joy,
I fly
with thanks
to God.
, , , , ,
There were certain persons
who smiled
at the enthusiasm;
certain voices raised themselves already
against “The Mulatto;”
--”the mat riel was merely borrowed;”
the French narrative was scrupulously studied.
That exaggerated praise
which I had received,
now made me sensitive
to the blame;
I
could bear it less easily
than before,
and saw more clearly,
that it did not spring out
of an interest
in the matter,
but was only uttered
in order
to mortify me.
For the rest,
my mind was fresh
and elastic;
I conceived precisely
at this time the idea
of “The Picture-Book without Pictures,”
and worked it out.
This little book appears,
to judge
by the reviews
and the number
of editions,
to have obtained an extraordinary popularity
in Germany;
it was also translated
into Swedish,
and dedicated
to myself;
at home,
it was here less esteemed;
people talked only
of The Mulatto;
and finally,
only
of the borrowed mat riel
of it.
I determined,
therefore
to produce a new dramatic work,
in
which both subject
and development,
in fact,
everything
should be
of my own conception.
I had the idea,
and now wrote the tragedy
of The Moorish Maiden,
hoping
through this
to stop the mouths
of all my detractors,
and
to assert my place
as a dramatic poet.
I hoped,
too,
through the income
from this,
together
with the proceeds
of The Mulatto,
to be able
to make a fresh journey,
not only
to Italy,
but
to Greece
and Turkey.
My first going abroad had more
than all
besides operated
towards my intellectual development;
I was therefore full
of the passion
for travel,
and
of the endeavor
to acquire more knowledge
of nature and
of human life.
, , , , ,
My new piece did not please Heiberg,
nor indeed my dramatic endeavors
at all;
his wife
--for whom the chief part appeared
to me especially
to be written
--refused,
and
that not
in the most friendly manner,
to play it.
Deeply wounded,
I went forth.
I lamented this
to some individuals.
Whether this was repeated,
or whether a complaint
against the favorite
of the public is a crime,
enough:
from this hour Heiberg became my opponent,
--he whose intellectual rank I so highly estimated,
--he
with whom I
would so willingly have allied myself,
--and he
who so often
--I
will venture
to say it
--I had approached
with the whole sincerity
of my nature.
I have constantly declared his wife
to be so distinguished an actress,
and continue still so entirely
of this opinion,
that I
would not hesitate one moment
to assert
that she
would have a European reputation,
were the Danish language
as widely diffused
as the German
or the French.
In tragedy she is,
by the spirit
and the geniality
with
which she comprehends
and fills any part,
a most interesting object;
and
in comedy she stands unrivalled.
, , , , ,
The wrong may be
on my side
or not,
--no matter:
a party was opposed
to me.
I felt myself wounded,
excited
by many coincident annoyances there.
I felt uncomfortable
in my native country,
yes,
almost ill.
I therefore left my piece
to its fate,
and,
suffering
and disconcerted,
I hastened forth.
In this mood I wrote a prologue
to The Moorish Maiden;
which betrayed my irritated mind far too palpably.
If I
would represent this portion
of my life more clearly
and reflectively it
would require me
to penetrate
into the mysteries
of the theatre,
to analyze our aesthetic cliques,
and
to drag
into conspicuous notice many individuals,
who do not belong
to publicity.
Many persons
in my place would,
like me,
have fallen ill,
or
would have resented it vehemently:
perhaps the latter
would have been the most sensible.
, , , , ,
At my departure,
many
of my young friends amongst the students prepared a banquet
for me;
and amongst the elder ones
who were present
to receive me were Collin,
Oehlenschl ger
and Oersted.
This was somewhat
of sunshine
in the midst
of my mortification;
songs
by Oehlenschl ger
and Hillerup were sung;
and I found cordiality
and friendship,
as I quitted my country
in distress.
This was
in October
of 1840.
, , , , ,
For the second time I went
to Italy
and Rome,
to Greece
and Constantinople
--a journey
which I have described after my own manner
in A Poet’s Bazaar.
, , , , ,
In Holstein I continued some days
with Count Rantzau-Breitenburg,
who had
before invited me,
and whose ancestral castle I now
for the first time visited.
Here I became acquainted
with the rich scenery
of Holstein,
heath
and moorland,
and
then hastened
by Nuremberg
to Munich,
where I again met
with Cornelius
and Schelling,
and was kindly received
by Kaulbach
and Schelling.
I cast a passing glance
on the artistic life
in Munich,
but
for the most part pursued my own solitary course,
sometimes filled
with the joy
of life,
but oftener despairing
of my powers.
I possessed a peculiar talent,
that
of lingering
on the gloomy side
of life,
of extracting the bitter
from it,
of tasting it;
and understood well,
when the whole was exhausted,
how
to torment myself.
, , , , ,
In the winter season I crossed the Brenner,
remained some days
in Florence,
which I had
before visited
for a longer time,
and
about Christmas reached Rome.
Here again I saw the noble treasures
of art,
met old friends,
and once more passed a Carnival
and Moccoli.
But not alone was I bodily ill;
nature
around me appeared likewise
to sicken;
there was neither the tranquillity nor the freshness
which attended my first sojourn
in Rome.
The rocks quaked,
the Tiber twice rose
into the streets,
fever raged,
and snatched numbers away.
In a few days Prince Borghese lost his wife
and three sons.
Rain
and wind prevailed;
in short,
it was dismal,
and
from home cold lotions only were sent me.
My letters told me
that The Moorish Maiden had several times been acted through,
and had gone quietly off the stage;
but,
as was seen beforehand,
a small public only had been present,
and therefore the manager had laid the piece aside.
Other Copenhagen letters
to our countrymen
in Rome spoke
with enthusiasm
of a new work
by Heiberg;
a satirical poem
--A Soul after Death.
It was
but just out,
they wrote;
all Copenhagen was full
of it,
and Andersen was famously handled
in it.
The book was admirable,
and I was made ridiculous
in it.
That was the whole
which I heard,
--all
that I knew.
No one told me
what really was said
of me;
wherein lay the amusement
and the ludicrous.
It is doubly painful
to be ridiculed
when we
don’t know wherefore we are so.
The information operated
like molten lead dropped
into a wound,
and agonized me cruelly.
It was not
till after my return
to Denmark
that I read this book,
and found
that
what was said
of me
in it,
was really nothing
in itself
which was worth laying
to heart.
It was a jest
over my celebrity “from Schonen
to Hundsr ck”,
which did not please Heiberg;
he therefore sent my Mulatto
and The Moorish Maiden
to the infernal regions,
where
--and
that was the most witty conceit
--the condemned were doomed
to witness the performance
of both pieces
in one evening;
and
then they
could go away
and lay themselves down quietly.
I found the poetry,
for the rest,
so excellent,
that I was half induced
to write
to Heiberg,
and
to return him my thanks
for it;
but I slept upon this fancy,
and
when I awoke
and was more composed,
I feared lest such thanks
should be misunderstood;
and so I gave it up.
, , , , ,
In Rome,
as I have said,
I did not see the book;
I only heard the arrows whizz
and felt their wound,
but I did not know
what the poison was
which lay concealed
in them.
It seemed
to me
that Rome was no joy-bringing city;
when I was
there before,
I had also passed dark
and bitter days.
I was ill,
for the first time
in my life,
truly
and bodily ill,
and I made haste
to get away.
, , , , ,
The Danish poet Holst was then
in Rome;
he had received this year a travelling pension.
Hoist had written an elegy
on King Frederick VI.,
which went
from mouth
to mouth,
and awoke an enthusiasm,
like that
of Becker’s contemporaneous Rhine song
in Germany.
He lived
in the same house
with me
in Rome,
and showed me much sympathy:
with him I made the journey
to Naples,
where,
notwithstanding it was March,
the sun
would not properly shine,
and the snow lay
on the hills around.
There was fever
in my blood;
I suffered
in body and
in mind;
and I soon lay so severely affected
by it,
that certainly nothing
but a speedy blood-letting,
to
which my excellent Neapolitan landlord compelled me,
saved my life.
, , , , ,
In a few days I grew sensibly better;
and I now proceeded
by a French war steamer
to Greece.
Holst accompanied me
on board.
It was now
as
if a new life had risen
for me;
and
in truth this was the case;
and
if this does not appear legibly
in my later writings,
yet it manifested itself
in my views
of life,
and
in my whole inner development.
As I saw my European home lie far
behind me,
it seemed
to me
as
if a stream
of forgetfulness flowed
of all bitter
and rankling remembrances:
I felt health
in my blood,
health
in my thoughts,
and freshly
and courageously I again raised my head.
, , , , ,
Like another Switzerland,
with a loftier
and clearer heaven
than the Italian,
Greece lay
before me;
nature made a deep
and solemn impression upon me;
I felt the sentiment
of standing
on the great battle field
of the world,
where nation had striven
with nation,
and had perished.
No single poem
can embrace such greatness;
every scorched-up bed
of a stream,
every height,
every stone,
has mighty memoirs
to relate.
How little appear the inequalities
of daily life
in such a place!
A kingdom
of ideas streamed
through me,
and
with such a fulness,
that none
of them fixed themselves
on paper.
I had a desire
to express the idea,
that the godlike was here
on earth
to maintain its contest,
that it is thrust backward,
and yet advances again victoriously
through all ages;
and I found
in the legend
of the Wandering Jew an occasion
for it.
For twelve months this fiction had been emerging
from the sea
of my thoughts;
often did it wholly fill me;
sometimes I fancied
with the alchemists
that I had dug up the treasure;
then again it sank suddenly,
and I despaired
of ever being able
to bring it
to the light.
I felt
what a mass
of knowledge
of various kinds I must first acquire.
Often
at home,
when I was compelled
to hear reproofs
on
what they call a want
of study,
I had sat deep
into the night,
and had studied history
in Hegel’s Philosophy
of History.
I said nothing
of this,
or other studies,
or they
would immediately have been spoken of,
in the manner
of an instructive lady,
who said,
that people justly complained
that I did not possess learning enough.
“You have really no mythology” said she;
“in all your poems
there appears no single God.
You must pursue mythology;
you must read Racine
and Corneille.”
That she called learning;
and
in
like manner every one had something peculiar
to recommend.
For my poem
of Ahasuerus I had read much
and noted much,
but yet not enough;
in Greece,
I thought,
the whole
will collect itself
into clearness.
The poem is not yet ready,
but I hope
that it
will become so
to my honor;
for it happens
with the children
of the spirit,
as
with the earthly ones,
--they grow
as they sleep.
, , , , ,
In Athens I was heartily welcomed
by Professor Ross,
a native
of Holstein,
and
by my countrymen.
I found hospitality
and a friendly feeling
in the noble Prokesch-Osten;
even the king
and queen received me most graciously.
I celebrated my birthday
in the Acropolis.
, , , , ,
From Athens I sailed
to Smyrna,
and
with me it was no childish pleasure
to be able
to tread another quarter
of the globe.
I felt a devotion
in it,
like
that
which I felt
as a child
when I entered the old church
at Odense.
I thought
on Christ,
who bled
on this earth;
I thought
on Homer,
whose song eternally resounds hence
over the earth.
The shores
of Asia preached
to me their sermons,
and were perhaps more impressive
than any sermon
in any church
can be.
, , , , ,
In Constantinople I passed eleven interesting days;
and according
to my good fortune
in travel,
the birthday
of Mahomet itself fell exactly during my stay there.
I saw the grand illumination,
which completely transported me
into the Thousand
and One Nights.
, , , , ,
Our Danish ambassador lived several miles
from Constantinople,
and I had therefore no opportunity
of seeing him;
but I found a cordial reception
with the Austrian internuntius,
Baron von St rmer.
With him I had a German home
and friends.
I contemplated making my return
by the Black Sea
and up the Danube;
but the country was disturbed;
it was said
there had been several thousand Christians murdered.
My companions
of the voyage,
in the hotel
where I resided,
gave up this route
of the Danube,
for
which I had the greatest desire,
and collectively counselled me
against it.
But
in this case I must return again
by Greece
and Italy
--it was a severe conflict.
, , , , ,
I do not belong
to the courageous;
I feel fear,
especially
in little dangers;
but
in great ones,
and
when an advantage is
to be won,
then I have a will,
and it has grown firmer
with years.
I may tremble,
I may fear;
but I still do
that
which I consider the most proper
to be done.
I am not ashamed
to confess my weakness;
I hold that
when out
of our own true conviction we run counter
to our inborn fear,
we have done our duty.
I had a strong desire
to become acquainted
with the interior
of the country,
and
to traverse the Danube
in its greatest expansion.
I battled
with myself;
my imagination pointed
to me the most horrible circumstances;
it was an anxious night.
In the morning I took counsel
with Baron St rmer;
and
as he was
of opinion
that I might undertake the voyage,
I determined upon it.
From the moment
that I had taken my determination,
I had the most immovable reliance
on Providence,
and flung myself calmly
on my fate.
Nothing happened
to me.
The voyage was prosperous,
and after the quarantine
on the Wallachian frontier,
which was painful enough
to me,
I arrived
at Vienna
on the twenty-first day
of the journey.
The sight
of its towers,
and the meeting
with numerous Danes,
awoke
in me the thought
of being speedily again
at home.
The idea bowed down my heart,
and sad recollections
and mortifications rose up within me once more.
, , , , ,
In August,
1841,
I was again
in Copenhagen.
There I wrote my recollections
of travel,
under the title
of A Poet’s Bazaar,
in several chapters,
according
to the countries.
In various places abroad I had met
with individuals,
as
at home,
to whom I felt myself attached.
A poet is
like the bird;
he gives
what he has,
and he gives a song.
I was desirous
to give every one
of those dear ones such a song.
It was a fugitive idea,
born,
may I venture
to say,
in a grateful mood.
Count Rantzau-Breitenburg,
who had resided
in Italy,
who loved the land,
and was become a friend
and benefactor
to me
through my Improvisatore,
must love
that part
of the book
which treated
of his country.
To Liszt
and Thalberg,
who had both shown me the greatest friendship,
I dedicated the portion
which contained the voyage up the Danube,
because one was a Hungarian
and the other an Austrian.
With these indications,
the reader
will easily be able
to trace out the thought
which influenced me
in the choice
of each dedication.
But these appropriations were,
in my native country,
regarded
as a fresh proof
of my vanity;
--”I wished
to figure
with great names,
to name distinguished people
as my friends.”
, , , , ,
The book has been translated
into several languages,
and the dedications
with it.
I know not
how they have been regarded abroad;
if I have been judged
there as
in Denmark,
I hope
that this explanation
will change the opinion concerning them.
In Denmark my Bazaar procured me the most handsome remuneration
that I have
as yet received,
--a proof
that I was
at length read there.
No regular criticism appeared upon it,
if we except notices
in some daily papers,
and afterwards
in the poetical attempt
of a young writer who,
a year before,
had testified
to me
in writing his love,
and his wish
to do me honor;
but
who now,
in his first public appearance,
launched his satirical poem
against his friend.
I was personally attached
to this young man,
and am so still.
He assuredly thought more
on the popularity he
would gain
by sailing
in the wake
of Heiberg,
than
on the pain he
would inflict
on me.
The newspaper criticism
in Copenhagen was infinitely stupid.
It was set down
as exaggerated,
that I
could have seen the whole round blue globe
of the moon
in Smyrna
at the time
of the new moon.
That was called fancy
and extravagance,
which
there every one sees
who
can open his eyes.
The new moon has a dark blue
and perfectly round disk.
, , , , ,
The Danish critics have generally no open eye
for nature:
even the highest
and most cultivated monthly periodical
of literature
in Denmark censured me once because,
in a poem I had described a rainbow
by moonlight.
That too was my fancy,
which,
said they,
carried me too far.
When I said
in the Bazaar,
“if I were a painter,
I
would paint this bridge;
but,
as I am no painter,
but a poet,
I must therefore speak,”
&c.
Upon this the critic says,
“He is so vain,
that he tells us himself
that he is a poet.”
There is something so pitiful
in such criticism,
that one cannot be wounded
by it;
but even
when we are the most peaceable
of men,
we feel a desire
to flagellate such wet dogs,
who come
into our rooms
and lay themselves down
in the best place
in them.
There might be a whole Fool’s Chronicle written
of all the absurd
and shameless things which,
from my first appearance
before the public
till this moment,
I have been compelled
to hear.
, , , , ,
In the meantime the Bazaar was much read,
and made
what is called a hit.
I received,
connected
with this book,
much encouragement
and many recognitions
from individuals
of the highest distinction
in the realms
of intellect
in my native land.
, , , , ,
The journey had strengthened me both
in mind
and body;
I began
to show indications
of a firmer purpose,
a more certain judgment.
I was now
in harmony
with myself
and
with mankind
around me.
, , , , ,
Political life
in Denmark had,
at
that time,
arrived
at a higher development,
producing both good
and evil fruits.
The eloquence
which had formerly accustomed itself
to the Demosthenic mode,
that
of putting little pebbles
in the mouth,
the little pebbles
of every day life,
now exercised itself more freely
on subjects
of greater interest.
I felt no call thereto,
and no necessity
to mix myself up
in such matters;
for I
then believed
that the politics
of our times were a great misfortune
to many a poet.
Madame,
politics are
like Venus;
they whom she decoys
into her castle perish.
It fares
with the writings
of these poets
as
with the newspapers:
they are seized upon,
read,
praised,
and forgotten.
In our days every one wishes
to rule;
the subjective makes its power
of value;
people forget
that that
which is thought
of cannot always be carried out,
and
that many things look very different
when contemplated
from the top
of the tree,
to
what they did
when seen
from its roots.
I
will bow myself
before him
who is influenced
by a noble conviction,
and
who only desires
that
which is conducive
to good,
be he prince
or man
of the people.
Politics are no affair
of mine.
God has imparted
to me another mission:
that I felt,
and
that I feel still.
I met
in the so-called first families
of the country a number
of friendly,
kind-hearted men,
who valued the good
that was
in me,
received me
into their circles,
and permitted me
to participate
in the happiness
of their opulent summer residences;
so that,
still feeling independent,
I
could thoroughly give myself up
to the pleasures
of nature,
the solitude
of woods,
and country life.
There
for the first time I lived wholly
among the scenery
of Denmark,
and
there I wrote the greater number
of my fairy tales.
On the banks
of quiet lakes,
amid the woods,
on the green grassy pastures,
where the game sprang past me
and the stork paced along
on his red legs,
I heard nothing
of politics,
nothing
of polemics;
I heard no one practising himself
in Hagel’s phraseology.
Nature,
which was
around me
and within me,
preached
to me
of my calling.
I spent many happy days
at the old house
of Gisselfeld,
formerly a monastery,
which stands
in the deepest solitude
of the woods,
surrounded
with lakes
and hills.
The possessor
of this fine place,
the old Countess Danneskjold,
mother
of the Duchess
of Augustenburg,
was an agreeable
and excellent lady,
I was
there not
as a poor child
of the people,
but
as a cordially-received guest.
The beeches now overshadow her grave
in the midst
of
that pleasant scenery
to
which her heart was allied.
, , , , ,
Close
by Gisselfeld,
but
in a still finer situation,
and
of much greater extent,
lies the estate
of Bregentoed,
which belongs
to Count Moltke,
Danish Minister
of Finance.
The hospitality
which I met with
in this place,
one
of the richest
and most beautiful
of our country,
and the happy,
social life
which surrounded me here,
have diffused a sunshine
over my life.
, , , , ,
It may appear,
perhaps,
as
if I desired
to bring the names
of great people prominently forward,
and make a parade
of them;
or
as
if I wished
in this way
to offer a kind
of thanks
to my benefactors.
They need it not,
and I
should be obliged
to mention many other names still
if this were my intention.
I speak,
however,
only
of these two places,
and
of Nys÷,
which belongs
to Baron Stampe,
and
which has become celebrated
through Thorwaldsen.
Here I lived much
with the great sculptor,
and here I became acquainted
with one
of my dearest young friends,
the future possessor
of the place.
, , , , ,
Knowledge
of life
in these various circles has had great influence
on me:
among princes,
among the nobility,
and
among the poorest
of the people,
I have met
with specimens
of noble humanity.
We all
of us resemble each other
in
that
which is good
and best.
, , , , ,
Winter life
in Denmark has likewise its attractions
and its rich variety.
I spent also some time
in the country during this season,
and made myself acquainted
with its peculiar characteristics.
The greatest part
of my time,
however,
I passed
in Copenhagen.
I felt myself
at home
with the married sons
and daughters
of Collin,
where a number
of amiable children were growing up.
Every year strengthened the bond
of friendship
between myself
and the nobly-gifted composer,
Hartmann:
art
and the freshness
of nature prospered
in his house.
Collin was my counsellor
in practical life,
and Oersted
in my literary affairs.
The theatre was,
if I may so say,
my club.
I visited it every evening,
and
in this very year I had received a place
in the so-called court stalls.
An author must,
as a matter
of course,
work himself up
to it.
After the first accepted piece he obtains admission
to the pit;
after the second greater work,
in the stalls,
where the actors have their seats;
and after three larger works,
or a succession
of lesser pieces,
the poet is advanced
to the best places.
Here were
to be found Thorwaldsen,
Oehlenschl ger,
and several older poets;
and here also,
in 1840,1 obtained a place,
after I had given
in seven pieces.
Whilst Thorwaldsen lived,
I often,
by his own wish,
sate
at his side.
Oehlenschl ger was also my neighbor,
and
in many an evening hour,
when no one dreamed
of it,
my soul was steeped
in deep humility,
as I sate
between these great spirits.
The different periods
of my life passed
before me;
the time
when I sate
on the hindmost bench
in the box
of the female figurantes,
as well
as that
in which,
full
of childish superstition,
I knelt down
there upon the stage
and repeated the Lord’s Prayer,
just
before the very place
where I now sate
among the first
and the most distinguished men.
At the time,
perhaps,
when a countryman
of mine thus thought
of
and passed judgment upon me,
--”there he sits,
between the two great spirits,
full
of arrogance
and pride;”
he may now perceive
by this acknowledgment
how unjustly he has judged me.
Humility,
and prayer
to God
for strength
to deserve my happiness,
filled my heart.
May He always enable me
to preserve these feelings?
I enjoyed the friendship
of Thorwaldsen
as well as
of Oehlenschl ger,
those two most distinguished stars
in the horizon
of the North.
I may here bring forward their reflected glory
in
and
around me.
, , , , ,
There is
in the character
of Oehlenschl ger,
when he is not seen
in the circles
of the great,
where he is quiet
and reserved,
something so open
and child-like,
that no one
can help becoming attached
to him.
As a poet,
he holds
in the North a position
of
as great importance
as Goethe did
in Germany.
He is
in his best works so penetrated
by the spirit
of the North,
that
through him it has,
as it were,
ascended upon all nations.
In foreign countries he is not so much appreciated.
The works
by
which he is best known are “Correggio”
and “Aladdin;”
but assuredly his masterly poem
of “The Northern Gods” occupied a far higher rank:
it is our “Iliad.”
It possesses power,
freshness
--nay,
any expression
of mine is poor.
It is possessed
of grandeur;
it is the poet Oehlenschl ger
in the bloom
of his soul.
Hakon,
Jarl,
and Palnatoke
will live
in the poetry
of Oehlenschl ger
as long
as mankind endures.
Denmark,
Norway,
and Sweden have fully appreciated him,
and have shown him
that they do so,
and whenever it is asked
who occupies the first place
in the kingdom
of mind,
the palm is always awarded
to him.
He is the true-born poet;
he appears always young,
whilst he himself,
the oldest
of all,
surpasses all
in the productiveness
of his mind.
He listened
with friendly disposition
to my first lyrical outpourings;
and he acknowledged
with earnestness
and cordiality the poet
who told the fairy-tales.
My Biographer
in the Danish Pantheon brought me
in contact
with Oehlenschl ger,
when he said,
“In our days it is becoming more
and more rare
for any one,
by implicitly following those inborn impulses
of his soul,
which make themselves irresistibly felt,
to step forward
as an artist
or a poet.
He is more frequently fashioned
by fate
and circumstances
than apparently destined
by nature herself
for this office.
With the greater number
of our poets an early acquaintance
with passion,
early inward experience,
or outward circumstances,
stand instead
of the original vein
of nature,
and this cannot
in any case be more incontestably proved
in our own literature than
by instancing Oehlenschl ger
and Andersen.
And
in this way it may be explained
why the former has been so frequently the object
for the attacks
of the critics,
and
why the latter was first properly appreciated
as a poet
in foreign countries
where civilization
of a longer date has already produced a disinclination
for the compulsory rule
of schools,
and has occasioned a reaction towards
that
which is fresh
and natural;
whilst we Danes,
on the contrary,
cherish a pious respect
for the yoke
of the schools
and the worn-out wisdom
of maxims.”
, , , , ,
Thorwaldsen,
whom,
as I have already said,
I had become acquainted with
in Rome
in the years 1833
and 1834,
was expected
in Denmark
in the autumn
of 1838,
and great festive preparations were made
in consequence.
A flag was
to wave upon one
of the towers
of Copenhagen
as soon
as the vessel
which brought him
should come
in sight.
It was a national festival.
Boats decorated
with flowers
and flags filled the Rhede;
painters,
sculptors,
all had their flags
with emblems;
the students’ bore a Minerva,
the poets’ a Pegasus.
It was misty weather,
and the ship was first seen
when it was already close
by the city,
and all poured out
to meet him.
The poets,
who,
I believe,
according
to the arrangement
of Heiberg,
had been invited,
stood
by their boat;
Oehlenschl ger
and Heiberg alone had not arrived.
And now guns were fired
from the ship,
which came
to anchor,
and it was
to be feared
that Thorwaldsen might land
before we had gone out
to meet him.
The wind bore the voice
of singing over
to us:
the festive reception had already begun.
, , , , ,
I wished
to see him,
and therefore cried out
to the others,
“Let us put off!”
“Without Oehlenschl ger
and Heiberg?”
asked some one.
, , , , ,
“But they are not arrived,
and it
will be all over.”
, , , , ,
One
of the poets declared that
if these two men were not
with us,
I
should not sail under
that flag,
and pointed up
to Pegasus.
, , , , ,
“We
will throw it
in the boat,”
said I,
and took it down
from the staff;
the others now followed me,
and came up just
as Thorwaldsen reached land.
We met
with Oehlenschl ger
and Heiberg
in another boat,
and they came over
to us
as the enthusiasm began
on shore.
, , , , ,
The people drew Thorwaldsen’s carriage
through the streets
to his house,
where everybody
who had the slightest acquaintance
with him,
or
with the friends
of a friend
of his,
thronged
around him.
In the evening the artists gave him a serenade,
and the blaze
of the torches illumined the garden
under the large trees,
there was an exultation
and joy
which really
and truly was felt.
Young
and old hastened
through the open doors,
and the joyful old man clasped those whom he knew
to his breast,
gave them his kiss,
and pressed their hands.
There was a glory round Thorwaldsen
which kept me timidly back:
my heart beat
for joy
of seeing him
who had met me
when abroad
with kindness
and consolation,
who had pressed me
to his heart,
and had said
that we must always remain friends.
But here
in this jubilant crowd,
where thousands noticed every movement
of his,
where I too
by all these
should be observed
and criticised
--yes,
criticised
as a vain man
who now only wished
to show
that he too was acquainted
with Thorwaldsen,
and
that this great man was kind
and friendly
towards him
--here,
in this dense crowd,
I drew myself back,
and avoided being recognized
by him.
Some days afterwards,
and early
in the morning,
I went
to call upon him,
and found him
as a friend
who had wondered
at not having seen me earlier.
, , , , ,
In honor
of Thorwaldsen a musical-poetic academy was established,
and the poets,
who were invited
to do so
by Heiberg,
wrote
and read each one a poem
in praise
of him
who had returned home.
I wrote
of Jason
who fetched the golden fleece
--that is
to say,
Jason-Thorwaldsen,
who went forth
to win golden art.
A great dinner
and a ball closed the festival,
in which,
for the first time
in Denmark,
popular life
and a subject
of great interest
in the realms
of art were made public.
, , , , ,
From this evening I saw Thorwaldsen
almost daily
in company or
in his studio:
I often passed several weeks together
with him
at Nys÷,
where he seemed
to have firmly taken root,
and
where the greater number
of his works,
executed
in Denmark,
had their origin.
He was
of a healthful
and simple disposition
of mind,
not without humor,
and,
therefore,
he was extremely attached
to Holberg the poet:
he did not
at all enter
into the troubles
and the disruptions
of the world.
, , , , ,
One morning
at Nys÷
--at the time
when he was working
at his own statue
--I entered his work-room
and bade him good morning;
he appeared
as
if he did not wish
to notice me,
and I stole softly away again.
At breakfast he was very parsimonious
in the use
of words,
and
when somebody asked him
to say something
at all events,
he replied
in his dry way:
--
“I have said more during this morning than
in many whole days,
but nobody heard me.
There I stood,
and fancied
that Andersen was
behind me,
for he came,
and said good morning
--so I told him a long story
about myself
and Byron.
I thought
that he might give one word
in reply,
and turned myself round;
and
there had I been standing a whole hour
and chattering aloud
to the bare walls.”
, , , , ,
We all
of us besought him
to let us hear the whole story yet once more;
but we had it now very short.
, , , , ,
“Oh,
that was
in Rome,”
said he,
“when I was about
to make Byron’s statue;
he placed himself just opposite
to me,
and began immediately
to assume quite another countenance
to
what was customary
to him.
‘Will not you sit still?’
said I;
‘but you must not make these faces.’
‘It is my expression,’
said Byron.
‘Indeed?’
said I,
and
then I made him
as I wished,
and everybody said,
when it was finished,
that I had hit the likeness.
When Byron,
however,
saw it,
he said,
‘It does not resemble me
at all;
I look more unhappy.’”
“He was,
above all things,
so desirous
of looking extremely unhappy,”
added Thorwaldsen,
with a comic expression.
, , , , ,
It afforded the great sculptor pleasure
to listen
to music after dinner
with half-shut eyes,
and it was his greatest delight when
in the evening the game
of lotto began,
which the whole neighborhood
of Nys÷ was obliged
to learn;
they only played
for glass pieces,
and
on this account I am able
to relate a peculiar characteristic
of this otherwise great man
--that he played
with the greatest interest
on purpose
to win.
He
would espouse
with warmth
and vehemence the part
of those
from whom he believed
that he had received an injustice;
he opposed himself
to unfairness
and raillery,
even
against the lady
of the house,
who
for the rest had the most childlike sentiments
towards him,
and
who had no other thought
than how
to make everything most agreeable
to him.
In his company I wrote several
of my tales
for children
--for example,
“Ole Luck Oin,”
(“Ole Shut Eye,”)
to
which he listened
with pleasure
and interest.
Often
in the twilight,
when the family circle sate
in the open garden parlor,
Thorwaldsen
would come softly
behind me,
and,
clapping me
on the shoulder,
would ask,
“Shall we little ones hear any tales tonight?”
, , , , ,
In his own peculiarly natural manner he bestowed the most bountiful praise
on my fictions,
for their truth;
it delighted him
to hear the same stories over
and
over again.
Often,
during his most glorious works,
would he stand
with laughing countenance,
and listen
to the stories
of the Top
and the Ball,
and the Ugly Duckling.
I possess a certain talent
of improvising
in my native tongue little poems
and songs.
This talent amused Thorwaldsen very much;
and
as he had modelled,
at Nys÷,
Holberg’s portrait
in clay,
I was commissioned
to make a poem
for his work,
and he received,
therefore,
the following impromptu:
--
“No more shall Holberg live,”
by Death was said,
“I crush the clay,
his soul’s bonds heretofore.”
, , , , ,
“And
from the formless clay,
the cold,
the dead,”
Cried Thorwaldsen,
“shall Holberg live once more.”
, , , , ,
One morning,
when he had just modelled
in clay his great bas-relief
of the Procession
to Golgotha,
I entered his study.
, , , , ,
“Tell me,”
said he,
“does it seem
to you
that I have dressed Pilate properly?”
, , , , ,
“You must not say anything
to him,”
said the Baroness,
who was always
with him:
“it is right;
it is excellent;
go away
with you!”
Thorwaldsen repeated his question.
, , , , ,
“Well,
then,”
said I,
“as you ask me,
I must confess
that it really does appear
to me
as
if Pilate were dressed rather
as an Egyptian than
as a Roman.”
, , , , ,
“It seems
to me so too,”
said Thorwaldsen,
seizing the clay
with his hand,
and destroying the figure.
, , , , ,
“Now you are guilty
of his having annihilated an immortal work,”
exclaimed the Baroness
to me
with warmth.
, , , , ,
“Then we
can make a new immortal work,”
said he,
in a cheerful humor,
and modelled Pilate
as he now remains
in the bas-relief
in the Ladies’ Church
in Copenhagen.
, , , , ,
His last birth-day was celebrated there
in the country.
I had written a merry little song,
and it was
hardly dry
on the paper,
when we sang it,
in the early morning,
before his door,
accompanied
by the music
of jingling fire-irons,
gongs,
and bottles rubbed
against a basket.
Thorwaldsen himself,
in his morning gown
and slippers,
opened his door,
and danced round his chamber;
swung round his Raphael’s cap,
and joined
in the chorus.
There was life
and mirth
in the strong old man.
, , , , ,
On the last day
of his life I sate
by him
at dinner;
he was unusually good-humored;
repeated several witticisms
which he had just read
in the Corsair,
a well-known Copenhagen newspaper,
and spoke
of the journey
which he
should undertake
to Italy
in the summer.
After this we parted;
he went
to the theatre,
and I home.
, , , , ,
On the following morning the waiter
at the hotel
where I lived said,
“that it was a very remarkable thing
about Thorwaldsen
--that he had died yesterday.”
, , , , ,
“Thorwaldsen!”
exclaimed I;
“he is not dead,
I dined
with him yesterday.”
, , , , ,
“People say
that he died last evening
at the theatre,”
returned the waiter.
I fancied
that he might be taken ill;
but still I felt a strange anxiety,
and hastened immediately over
to his house.
There lay his corpse stretched out
on the bed;
the chamber was filled
with strangers;
the floor wet
with melted snow;
the air stifling;
no one said a word:
the Baroness Stampe sate
on the bed
and wept bitterly.
I stood trembling
and deeply agitated.
, , , , ,
A farewell hymn,
which I wrote,
and
to
which Hartmann composed the music,
was sung
by Danish students
over his coffin.
, , , , ,
CHAPTER VII.
, , , , ,
In the summer
of 1842,
I wrote a little piece
for the summer theatre,
called,
“The Bird
in the Pear-tree,”
in
which several scenes were acted up
in the pear-tree.
I had called it a dramatic trifle,
in order
that no one might expect either a great work
or one
of a very elaborate character.
It was a little sketch,
which,
after being performed a few times,
was received
with so much applause,
that the directors
of the theatre accepted it;
nay,
even Mrs. Heiberg,
the favorite
of the public,
desired
to take a part
in it.
People had amused themselves;
had thought the selection
of the music excellent.
I knew
that the piece had stood its rehearsal
--and
then suddenly it was hissed.
Some young men,
who gave the word
to hiss,
had said
to some others,
who inquired
from them their reasons
for doing so,
that the trifle had too much luck,
and
then Andersen
would be getting too mettlesome.
, , , , ,
I was not,
on this evening,
at the theatre myself,
and had not the least idea
of
what was going on.
On the following I went
to the house
of one
of my friends.
I had head-ache,
and was looking very grave.
The lady
of the house met me
with a sympathizing manner,
took my hand,
and said,
“Is it really worth while
to take it so much
to heart?
There were only two
who hissed,
the whole house beside took your part.”
, , , , ,
“Hissed!
My part!
Have I been hissed?”
exclaimed I. It was quite comic;
one person assured me
that this hissing had been a triumph
for me;
everybody had joined
in acclamation,
and “there was only one
who hissed.”
, , , , ,
After this,
another person came,
and I asked him
of the number
of those
who hissed.
“Two,”
said he.
The next person said “three,”
and said positively
there were no more.
One
of my most veracious friends now made his appearance,
and I asked him upon his conscience,
how many he had heard;
he laid his hand upon his heart,
and said that,
at the very highest,
they were five.
, , , , ,
“No,”
said I,
“now I
will ask nobody more;
the number grows just
as
with Falstaff;
here stands one
who asserts
that
there was only one person
who hissed.”
, , , , ,
Shocked,
and yet inclined
to set it all right again,
he replied,
“Yes,
that is possible,
but
then it was a strong,
powerful hiss.”
, , , , ,
By my last works,
and
through a rational economy,
I had now saved a small sum
of money,
which I destined
to the purposes
of a new journey
to Paris,
where I arrived
in the winter
of 1843,
by way
of D sseldorf,
through Belgium.
, , , , ,
Marmier had already,
in the R vue de Paris,
written an article
on me,
La Vie d’un Po te.
He had also translated several
of my poems
into French,
and had actually honored me
with a poem
which is printed
in the above-named R vue.
My name had thus reached,
like a sound,
the ears
of some persons
in the literary world,
and I here met
with a surprisingly friendly reception.
, , , , ,
At Victor Hugo’s invitation,
I saw his abused Burggraves.
Mr.
and Mrs. Ancelot opened their house
to me,
and
there I met Martinez della Rosa
and other remarkable men
of these times.
Lamart ne seemed
to me,
in his domestic,
and
in his whole personal appearance,
as the prince
of them all.
On my apologizing
because I spoke such bad French,
he replied,
that he was
to blame,
because he did not understand the northern languages,
in which,
as he had discovered
in late years,
there existed a fresh
and vigorous literature,
and
where the poetical ground was so peculiar
that you had only
to stoop down
to find an old golden horn.
He asked
about the Trollh tta canal,
and avowed a wish
to visit Denmark
and Stockholm.
He recollected also our now reigning king,
to whom,
when
as prince he was
in Castellamare,
he had paid his respects;
besides this,
he exhibited
for a Frenchman,
an extraordinary acquaintance
with names
and places
in Denmark.
On my departure he wrote a little poem
for me,
which I preserve amongst my dearest relics.
, , , , ,
I generally found the jovial Alexander Dumas
in bed,
even long after mid-day:
here he lay,
with paper,
pen,
and ink,
and wrote his newest drama.
I found him thus one day;
he nodded kindly
to me,
and said,
“Sit down a minute;
I have just now a visit
from my muse;
she
will be going directly.”
He wrote on;
spoke aloud;
shouted a viva!
sprang out
of bed,
and said,
“The third act is finished!”
One evening he conducted me round
into the various theatres,
that I might see the life
behind the scenes.
We wandered about,
arm
in arm,
along the gay Boulevard.
, , , , ,
I also have
to thank him
for my acquaintance
with Rachel.
I had not seen her act,
when Alexander Dumas asked me whether I had the desire
to make her acquaintance.
One evening,
when she was
to come out
as Phedra he led me
to the stage
of the Th atre Fran ais.
The Representation had begun,
and
behind the scenes,
where a folding screen had formed a sort
of room,
in
which stood a table
with refreshments,
and a few ottomans,
sate the young girl who,
as an author has said,
understands how
to chisel living statues out
of Racine’s
and Corneille’s blocks
of marble.
She was thin
and slenderly formed,
and looked very young.
She looked
to me there,
and more particularly so afterwards
in her own house,
as an image
of mourning;
as a young girl
who has just wept out her sorrow,
and
will now let her thoughts repose
in quiet.
She accosted us kindly
in a deep powerful voice.
In the course
of conversation
with Dumas,
she forgot me.
I stood
there quite superfluous.
Dumas observed it,
said something handsome
of me,
and
on
that I ventured
to take part
in the discourse,
although I had a depressing feeling
that I stood
before those
who perhaps spoke the most beautiful French
in all France.
I said
that I truly had seen much
that was glorious
and interesting,
but
that I had never yet seen a Rachel,
and that
on her account especially had I devoted the profits
of my last work
to a journey
to Paris;
and as,
in conclusion,
I added an apology
on account
of my French,
she smiled
and said,
“When you say anything so polite
as
that
which you have just said
to me,
to a Frenchwoman,
she
will always think
that you speak well.”
, , , , ,
When I told her
that her fame had resounded
to the North,
she declared
that it was her intention
to go
to Petersburg
and Copenhagen:
“and
when I come
to your city”,
she said,
“you must be my defender,
as you are the only one
there whom I know;
and
in order
that we may become acquainted,
and
as you,
as you say,
are come
to Paris especially
on my account,
we must see each other frequently.
You
will be welcome
to me.
I see my friends
at my house every Thursday.
But duty calls,”
said she,
and offering us her hand,
she nodded kindly,
and
then stood a few paces
from us
on the stage,
taller,
quite different,
and
with the expression
of the tragic muse herself.
Joyous acclamations ascended
to
where we sat.
, , , , ,
As a Northlander I cannot accustom myself
to the French mode
of acting tragedy.
Rachel plays
in this same style,
but
in her it appears
to be nature itself;
it is
as
if all the others strove
to imitate her.
She is herself the French tragic muse,
the others are only poor human beings.
When Rachel plays people fancy
that all tragedy must be acted
in this manner.
It is
in her truth
and nature,
but
under another revelation
to that
with
which we are acquainted
in the north.
, , , , ,
At her house everything is rich
and magnificent,
perhaps too recherch .
The innermost room was blue-green,
with shaded lamps
and statuettes
of French authors.
In the salon,
properly speaking,
the color
which prevailed principally
in the carpets,
curtains,
and bookcases was crimson.
She herself was dressed
in black,
probably
as she is represented
in the well-known English steel engraving
of her.
Her guests consisted
of gentlemen,
for the greater part artists
and men
of learning.
I also heard a few titles amongst them.
Richly apparelled servants announced the names
of the arrivals;
tea was drunk
and refreshments handed round,
more
in the German
than the French style.
, , , , ,
Victor Hugo had told me
that he found she understood the German language.
I asked her,
and she replied
in German,
“ich kann es lesen;
ich bin ja
in Lothringen geboren;
ich habe deutsche B cher,
sehn Sie hier!”
and she showed me Grillparzer’s “Sappho,”
and
then immediately continued the conversation
in French.
She expressed her pleasure
in acting the part
of Sappho,
and
then spoke
of Schiller’s “Maria Stuart,”
which character she has personated
in a French version
of
that play.
I saw her
in this part,
and she gave the last act especially
with such a composure
and tragic feeling,
that she might have been one
of the best
of German actresses;
but it was precisely
in this very act
that the French liked her least.
, , , , ,
“My countrymen,”
said she,
“are not accustomed
to this manner,
and
in this manner alone
can the part be given.
No one
should be raving
when the heart is
almost broken
with sorrow,
and
when he is about
to take an everlasting farewell
of his friends.”
, , , , ,
Her drawing-room was,
for the most part,
decorated
with books
which were splendidly bound
and arranged
in handsome book-cases
behind glass.
A painting hung
on the wall,
which represented the interior
of the theatre
in London,
where she stood forward
on the stage,
and flowers
and garlands were thrown
to her
across the orchestra.
Below this picture hung a pretty little book-shelf,
holding
what I call “the high nobility
among the poets,”
--Goethe,
Schiller,
Calderon,
Shakspeare,
&c.
, , , , ,
She asked me many questions respecting Germany
and Denmark,
art,
and the theatre;
and she encouraged me
with a kind smile
around her grave mouth,
when I stumbled
in French
and stopped
for a moment
to collect myself,
that I might not stick quite fast.
, , , , ,
“Only speak,”
said she.
“It is true
that you do not speak French well.
I have heard many foreigners speak my native language better;
but their conversation has not been nearly
as interesting
as yours.
I understand the sense
of your words perfectly,
and
that is the principal thing
which interests me
in you.”
, , , , ,
The last time we parted she wrote the following words
in my album:
“L’art c’est le vrai!
J’esp re que cet aphorisme ne semblera pas paradoxal un crivain si distingu comme M. Andersen.”
, , , , ,
I perceived amiability
of character
in Alfred de Vigny.
He has married an English lady,
and
that
which is best
in both nations seemed
to unite
in his house.
The last evening
which I spent
in Paris,
he himself,
who is possessed
of intellectual status
and worldly wealth,
came almost
at midnight
to my lodging
in the Rue Richelieu,
ascended the many steps,
and brought me his works
under his arm.
So much cordiality beamed
in his eyes
and he seemed
to be so full
of kindness
towards me,
that I felt affected
by our separation.
, , , , ,
I also became acquainted
with the sculptor David.
There was a something
in his demeanor and
in his straightforward manner
that reminded me
of Thorwaldsen
and Bissen,
especially
of the latter.
We did not meet
till
towards the conclusion
of my residence
in Paris.
He lamented it,
and said
that he
would execute a bust
of me
if I
would remain
there longer.
, , , , ,
When I said,
“But you know nothing
of me
as a poet,
and cannot tell whether I deserve it
or not,”
he looked earnestly
in my face,
clapped me
on the shoulder,
and said,
“I have,
however,
read you yourself
before your books.
You are a poet.”
, , , , ,
At the Countess
--
--’s,
where I met
with Balzac,
I saw an old lady,
the expression
of whose countenance attracted my attention.
There was something so animated,
so cordial
in it,
and everybody gathered
about her.
The Countess introduced me
to her,
and I heard
that she was Madame Reybaud,
the authoress
of Les Epaves,
the little story
which I had made use
of
for my little drama
of The Mulatto.
I told her all
about it,
and
of the representation
of the piece,
which interested her so much,
that she became
from this evening my especial protectress.
We went out one evening together
and exchanged ideas.
She corrected my French
and allowed me
to repeat
what did not appear correct
to her.
She is a lady
of rich mental endowments,
with a clear insight
into the world,
and she showed maternal kindness
towards me.
, , , , ,
I also again met
with Heine.
He had married
since I was last here.
I found him
in indifferent health;
but full
of energy,
and so friendly
and so natural
in his behavior
towards me,
that I felt no timidity
in exhibiting myself
to him
as I was.
One day he had been relating
to his wife my story
of the Constant Tin Soldier,
and,
whilst he said
that I was the author
of this story,
he introduced me
to her.
She was a lively,
pretty young lady.
A troop
of children,
who,
as Heine says,
belonged
to a neighbor,
played about
in their room.
We two played
with them whilst Heine copied out one
of his last poems
for me.
, , , , ,
I perceived
in him no pain-giving,
sarcastic smile;
I only heard the pulsation
of a German heart,
which is always perceptible
in the songs,
and
which must live.
, , , , ,
Through the means
of the many people I was acquainted
with here,
among whom I might enumerate many others,
as,
for instance,
Kalkbrenner,
Gathy,
&c.,
my residence
in Paris was made very cheerful
and rich
in pleasure.
I did not feel myself
like a stranger there:
I met
with a friendly reception
among the greatest
and best.
It was
like a payment
by anticipation
of the talent
which was
in me,
and through
which they expected
that I
would some time prove them not
to have been mistaken.
, , , , ,
Whilst I was
in Paris,
I received
from Germany,
where already several
of my works were translated
and read,
a delightful
and encouraging proof
of friendship.
A German family,
one
of the most highly cultivated
and amiable
with whom I am acquainted,
had read my writings
with interest,
especially the little biographical sketch prefixed
to Only a Fiddler,
and felt the heartiest goodwill
towards me,
with whom they were
then not personally acquainted.
They wrote
to me,
expressed their thanks
for my works
and the pleasure they had derived
from them,
and offered me a kind welcome
to their house
if I
would visit it
on my return home.
There was a something extremely cordial
and natural
in this letter,
which was the first
that I received
of this kind
in Paris,
and it also formed a remarkable contrast
to
that
which was sent
to me
from my native land
in the year 1833,
when I was here
for the first time.
, , , , ,
In this way I found myself,
through my writings,
adopted,
as it were,
into a family
to
which since
then I gladly betake myself,
and
where I know
that it is not only
as the poet,
but
as the man,
that I am beloved.
In
how many instances have I not experienced the same kindness
in foreign countries!
I
will mention one
for the sake
of its peculiarity.
, , , , ,
There lived
in Saxony a wealthy
and benevolent family;
the lady
of the house read my romance
of Only a Fiddler,
and the impression
of this book was such
that she vowed that,
if ever,
in the course
of her life,
she
should meet
with a poor child
which was possessed
of great musical talents,
she
would not allow it
to perish
as the poor Fiddler had done.
A musician
who had heard her say this,
brought
to her soon after,
not one,
but two poor boys,
assuring her
of their talent,
and reminding her
of her promise.
She kept her word:
both boys were received
into her house,
were educated
by her,
and are now
in the Conservatorium;
the youngest
of them played
before me,
and I saw
that his countenance was happy
and joyful.
The same thing perhaps might have happened;
the same excellent lady might have befriended these children without my book having been written:
but notwithstanding this,
my book is now connected
with this
as a link
in the chain.
, , , , ,
On my return home
from Paris,
I went
along the Rhine;
I knew
that the poet Frieligrath,
to whom the King
of Prussia had given a pension,
was residing
in one
of the Rhine towns.
The picturesque character
of his poems had delighted me extremely,
and I wished
to talk
with him.
I stopped
at several towns
on the Rhine,
and inquired after him.
In St. Goar,
I was shown the house
in
which he lived.
I found him sitting
at his writing table,
and he appeared annoyed
at being disturbed
by a stranger.
I did not mention my name;
but merely said
that I
could not pass St. Goar without paying my respects
to the poet Frieligrath.
, , , , ,
“That is very kind
of you,”
said he,
in a very cold tone;
and
then asked
who I was.
, , , , ,
“We have both
of us one
and the same friend,
Chamisso!”
replied I,
and
at these words he leapt up exultantly.
, , , , ,
“You are
then Andersen!”
he exclaimed;
threw his arms
around my neck,
and his honest eyes beamed
with joy.
, , , , ,
“Now you
will stop several days here,”
said he.
I told him
that I
could only stay a couple
of hours,
because I was travelling
with some
of my countrymen
who were waiting
for me.
, , , , ,
“You have a great many friends
in little St. Goar,”
said he;
“it is
but a short time
since I read aloud your novel
of O. T. to a large circle;
one
of these friends I must,
at all events,
fetch here,
and you must also see my wife.
Yes,
indeed,
you do not know
that you had something
to do
in our being married.”
, , , , ,
He
then related
to me
how my novel,
Only a Fiddler,
had caused them
to exchange letters,
and
then led
to their acquaintance,
which acquaintance had ended
in their being a married couple.
He called her,
mentioned
to her my name,
and I was regarded
as an old friend.
Such moments
as these are a blessing;
a mercy
of God,
a happiness
--and
how many such,
how various,
have I not enjoyed!
I relate all these,
to me,
joyful occurrences;
they are facts
in my life:
I relate them,
as I formerly have related
that
which was miserable,
humiliating,
and depressing;
and
if I have done so,
in the spirit
which operated
in my soul,
it
will not be called pride
or vanity;
--neither
of them
would assuredly be the proper name
for it.
But people may perhaps ask
at home,
Has Andersen
then never been attacked
in foreign countries?
I must reply,
--no!
No regular attack has been made upon me,
at least they have never
at home called my attention
to any such,
and therefore
there certainly cannot have been anything
of the kind;
--with the exception
of one
which made its appearance
in Germany,
but
which originated
in Denmark,
at the very moment
when I was
in Paris.
, , , , ,
A certain Mr. Boas made a journey
at
that time
through Scandinavia,
and wrote a book
on the subject.
In this he gave a sort
of survey
of Danish literature,
which he also published
in the journal called Die Grenzboten;
in this I was very severely handled
as a man and
as a poet.
Several other Danish poets also,
as
for instance,
Christian Winter,
have an equally great right
to complain.
Mr. Boas had drawn his information out
of the miserable gossip
of every-day life;
his work excited attention
in Copenhagen,
and nobody
there
would allow themselves
to be considered
as his informants;
nay
even Holst the poet,
who,
as may be seen
from the work,
travelled
with him
through Sweden,
and had received him
at his house
in Copenhagen,
on this occasion published,
in one
of the most widely circulated
of our papers,
a declaration
that he was
in no way connected
with Mr. Boas.
, , , , ,
Mr. Boas had
in Copenhagen attached himself
to a particular clique consisting
of a few young men;
he had heard them full
of lively spirits,
talking during the day,
of the Danish poets
and their writings;
he had
then gone home,
written down
what he had heard
and afterwards published it
in his work.
This was,
to use the mildest term,
inconsiderate.
That my Improvisatore
and Only a Fiddler did not please him,
is a matter
of taste,
and
to
that I must submit myself.
But
when he,
before the whole
of Germany,
where probably people
will presume
that
what he has written is true,
if he declare it
to be,
as is the case,
the universal judgment
against me
in my native land;
when he,
I say,
declared me
before the whole
of Germany,
to be the most haughty
of men,
he inflicts upon me a deeper wound
than he perhaps imagined.
He conveyed the voice
of a party,
formerly hostile
to me,
into foreign countries.
Nor is he true even
in
that
which he represents;
he gives circumstances
as facts,
which never took place.
, , , , ,
In Denmark
what he has written
could not injure me,
and many have declared themselves afraid
of coming
into contact
with any one,
who printed everything
which he heard.
His book was read
in Germany,
the public
of
which is now also mine;
and I believe,
therefore,
that I may here say
how faulty is his view
of Danish literature
and Danish poets;
in
what manner his book was received
in my native land
and
that people
there know
in
what way it was put together.
But after I have expressed myself thus
on this subject I
will gladly offer Mr. Boas my hand;
and if,
in his next visit
to Denmark,
no other poet
will receive him,
I
will do my utmost
for him;
I know
that he
will not be able
to judge me more severely
when we know each other,
than
when we knew each other not.
His judgment
would also have been quite
of another character had he come
to Denmark
but one year later;
things changed very much
in a year’s time.
Then the tide had turned
in my favor;
I
then had published my new children’s stories,
of
which from
that moment
to the present
there prevailed,
through the whole
of my native land,
but one unchanging honorable opinion.
When the edition
of my collection
of stories came out
at Christmas 1843,
the reaction began;
acknowledgment
of my merits were made,
and favor shown me
in Denmark,
and from
that time I have no cause
for complaint.
I have obtained
and I obtain
in my own land
that
which I deserve,
nay perhaps,
much more.
, , , , ,
I
will now turn
to those little stories which
in Denmark have been placed
by every one,
without any hesitation,
higher
than anything else I had hitherto written.
, , , , ,
In the year 1835,
some months after I published the Improvisatore,
I brought out my first volume
of Stories
for Children,
[Footnote:
I find it very difficult
to give a correct translation
of the original word.
The Danish is Eventyr,
equivalent
to the German Abentheur,
or adventure;
but adventures give
in English a very different idea
to this class
of stories.
The German word M rchen,
gives the meaning completely,
and this we may English
by fairy tale
or legend,
but
then neither
of these words are fully correct
with regard
to Andersen’s stories.
In my translation
of his “Eventyr fortalte
for Born,”
I gave
as an equivalent title,
“Wonderful Stories
for Children,”
and perhaps this near
as I
could come.
--M.
H.]
which
at
that time was not so very much thought of.
One monthly critical journal
even complained
that a young author
who had just published a work
like the Improvisatore,
should immediately come out
with anything so childish
as the tales.
I reaped a harvest
of blame,
precisely
where people ought
to have acknowledged the advantage
of my mind producing something
in a new direction.
Several
of my friends,
whose judgment was
of value
to me,
counselled me entirely
to abstain
from writing tales,
as these were a something
for
which I had no talent.
Others were
of opinion
that I had better,
first
of all,
study the French fairy tale.
I
would willingly have discontinued writing them,
but they forced themselves
from me.
, , , , ,
In the volume
which I first published,
I had,
like Mus us,
but
in my own manner,
related old stories,
which I had heard
as a child.
The volume concluded
with one
which was original,
and
which seemed
to have given the greatest pleasure,
although it bore a tolerably near affinity
to a story
of Hoffman’s.
In my increasing disposition
for children’s stories,
I therefore followed my own impulse,
and invented them mostly myself.
In the following year a new volume came out,
and soon after
that a third,
in
which the longest story,
The Little Mermaid,
was my own invention.
This story,
in an especial manner,
created an interest
which was only increased
by the following volumes.
One
of these came out every Christmas,
and
before long no Christmas tree
could exist without my stones.
, , , , ,
Some
of our first comic actors made the attempt
of relating my little stories
from the stage;
it was a complete change
from the declamatory poetry
which had been heard
to satiety.
The Constant Tin Soldier,
therefore,
the Swineherd,
and the Top
and Ball,
were told
from the Royal stage,
and
from those
of private theatres,
and were well received.
In order
that the reader might be placed
in the proper point
of view,
with regard
to the manner
in
which I told the stories,
I had called my first volume Stories told
for Children.
I had written my narrative down upon paper,
exactly
in the language,
and
with the expressions
in
which I had myself related them,
by word
of mouth,
to the little ones,
and I had arrived
at the conviction
that people
of different ages were equally amused
with them.
The children made themselves merry
for the most part
over
what might be called the actors,
older people,
on the contrary,
were interested
in the deeper meaning.
The stories furnished reading
for children
and grown people,
and
that assuredly is a difficult task
for those
who
will write children’s stories.
They met
with open doors
and open hearts
in Denmark;
everybody read them.
I now removed the words “told
for children,”
from my title,
and published three volumes
of “New Stories,”
all
of
which were
of my own invention,
and
which were received
in my own country
with the greatest favor.
I
could not wish it greater;
I felt a real anxiety
in consequence,
a fear
of not being able
to justify afterwards such an honorable award
of praise.
, , , , ,
A refreshing sunshine streamed
into my heart;
I felt courage
and joy,
and was filled,
with a living desire
of still more
and more developing my powers
in this direction,
--of studying more thoroughly this class
of writing,
and
of observing still more attentively the rich wells
of nature out
of
which I must create it.
If attention be paid
to the order
in
which my stories are written,
it certainly
will be seen
that
there is
in them a gradual progression,
a clearer working out
of the idea,
a greater discretion
in the use
of agency,
and,
if I may so speak,
a more healthy tone
and a more natural freshness may be perceived.
, , , , ,
At this period
of my life,
I made an acquaintance
which was
of great moral
and intellectual importance
to me.
I have already spoken
of several persons
and public characters
who have had influence
on me
as the poet;
but none
of these have had more,
nor
in a nobler sense
of the word,
than the lady
to whom I here turn myself;
she,
through whom I,
at the same time,
was enabled
to forget my own individual self,
to feel
that
which is holy
in art,
and
to become acquainted
with the command
which God has given
to genius.
, , , , ,
I now turn back
to the year 1840.
One day
in the hotel
in
which I lived
in Copenhagen,
I saw the name
of Jenny Lind
among those
of the strangers
from Sweden.
I was aware
at
that time
that she was the first singer
in Stockholm.
I had been
that same year,
in this neighbor country,
and had
there met
with honor
and kindness:
I thought,
therefore,
that it
would not be unbecoming
in me
to pay a visit
to the young artist.
She was,
at this time,
entirely unknown out
of Sweden,
so
that I was convinced that,
even
in Copenhagen,
her name was known only
by few.
She received me very courteously,
but yet distantly,
almost coldly.
She was,
as she said,
on a journey
with her father
to South Sweden,
and was come over
to Copenhagen
for a few days
in order
that she might see this city.
We again parted distantly,
and I had the impression
of a very ordinary character
which soon passed away
from my mind.
, , , , ,
In the autumn
of 1843,
Jenny Lind came again
to Copenhagen.
One
of my friends,
our clever ballet-master,
Bournonville,
who has married a Swedish lady,
a friend
of Jenny Lind,
informed me
of her arrival here
and told me
that she remembered me very kindly,
and
that now she had read my writings.
He entreated me
to go
with him
to her,
and
to employ all my persuasive art
to induce her
to take a few parts
at the Theatre Royal;
I should,
he said,
be
then quite enchanted
with
what I
should hear.
, , , , ,
I was not now received
as a stranger;
she cordially extended
to me her hand,
and spoke
of my writings and
of Miss Fredrika Bremer,
who also was her affectionate friend.
The conversation was soon turned
to her appearance
in Copenhagen,
and
of this Jenny Lind declared
that she stood
in fear.
, , , , ,
“I have never made my appearance,”
said she,
“out
of Sweden;
everybody
in my native land is so affectionate
and kind
to me,
and
if I made my appearance
in Copenhagen
and
should be hissed!
--I dare not venture
on it!”
I said,
that I,
it was true,
could not pass judgment
on her singing,
because I had never heard it,
neither did I know
how she acted,
but nevertheless,
I was convinced
that such was the disposition
at this moment
in Copenhagen,
that only a moderate voice
and some knowledge
of acting
would be successful;
I believed
that she might safely venture.
, , , , ,
Bournonville’s persuasion obtained
for the Copenhageners the greatest enjoyment
which they ever had.
, , , , ,
Jenny Lind made her first appearance
among them
as Alice
in Robert le Diable
--it was
like a new revelation
in the realms
of art,
the youthfully fresh voice forced itself
into every heart;
here reigned truth
and nature;
everything was full
of meaning
and intelligence.
At one concert Jenny Lind sang her Swedish songs;
there was something so peculiar
in this,
so bewitching;
people thought nothing
about the concert room;
the popular melodies uttered
by a being so purely feminine,
and bearing the universal stamp
of genius,
exercised their omnipotent sway
--the whole
of Copenhagen was
in raptures.
Jenny Lind was the first singer
to whom the Danish students gave a serenade:
torches blazed
around the hospitable villa
where the serenade was given:
she expressed her thanks
by again singing some Swedish songs,
and I
then saw her hasten
into the darkest corner
and weep
for emotion.
, , , , ,
“Yes,
yes,”
said she,
“I
will exert myself;
I
will endeavor,
I
will be better qualified
than I am
when I again come
to Copenhagen.”
, , , , ,
On the stage,
she was the great artiste,
who rose
above all those
around her;
at home,
in her own chamber,
a sensitive young girl
with all the humility
and piety
of a child.
, , , , ,
Her appearance
in Copenhagen made an epoch
in the history
of our opera;
it showed me art
in its sanctity
--I had beheld one
of its vestals.
She journeyed back
to Stockholm,
and
from
there Fredrika Bremer wrote
to me:
--”With regard
to Jenny Lind
as a singer,
we are both
of us perfectly agreed;
she stands
as high
as any artist
of our time
can stand;
but
as yet you do not know her
in her full greatness.
Speak
to her
about her art,
and you
will wonder
at the expansion
of her mind,
and
will see her countenance beaming
with inspiration.
Converse then
with her
of God,
and
of the holiness
of religion,
and you
will see tears
in those innocent eyes;
she is great
as an artist,
but she is still greater
in her pure human existence!”
In the following year I was
in Berlin;
the conversation
with Meyerbeer turned upon Jenny Lind;
he had heard her sing the Swedish songs,
and was transported
by them.
, , , , ,
“But
how does she act?”
asked he.
, , , , ,
I spoke
in raptures
of her acting,
and gave him
at the same time some idea
of her representation
of Alice.
He said
to me
that perhaps it might be possible
for him
to determine her
to come
to Berlin.
, , , , ,
It is sufficiently well known
that she made her appearance there,
threw every one
into astonishment
and delight,
and won
for herself
in Germany a European name.
Last autumn she came again
to Copenhagen,
and the enthusiasm was incredible;
the glory
of renown makes genius perceptible
to every one.
People bivouacked regularly
before the theatre,
to obtain a ticket.
Jenny Lind appeared still greater
than ever
in her art,
because they had an opportunity
of seeing her
in many
and such extremely different parts.
Her Norma is plastic;
every attitude might serve
as the most beautiful model
to a sculptor,
and yet people felt
that these were the inspiration
of the moment,
and had not been studied
before the glass;
Norma is no raving Italian;
she is the suffering,
sorrowing woman
--the woman possessed
of a heart
to sacrifice herself
for an unfortunate rival
--the woman
to whom,
in the violence
of the moment,
the thought may suggest itself
of murdering the children
of a faithless lover,
but
who is immediately disarmed
when she gazes
into the eyes
of the innocent ones.
, , , , ,
“Norma,
thou holy priestess,”
sings the chorus,
and Jenny Lind has comprehended
and shows
to us this holy priestess
in the aria,
Casta diva.
In Copenhagen she sang all her parts
in Swedish,
and the other singers sang theirs
in Danish,
and the two kindred languages mingled very beautifully together;
there was no jarring;
even
in the Daughter
of the Regiment
where
there is a deal
of dialogue,
the Swedish had something agreeable
--and
what acting!
nay,
the word itself is a contradiction
--it was nature;
anything
as true never
before appeared
on the stage.
She shows us perfectly the true child
of nature grown up
in the camp,
but an inborn nobility pervades every movement.
The Daughter
of the Regiment
and the Somnambule are certainly Jenny Land’s most unsurpassable parts;
no second
can take their places
in these beside her.
People laugh,
--they cry;
it does them
as much good
as going
to church;
they become better
for it.
People feel
that God is
in art;
and
where God stands
before us face
to face
there is a holy church.
, , , , ,
“There
will not
in a whole century,”
said Mendelssohn,
speaking
to me
of Jenny Lind,
“be born another being so gifted
as she;”
and his words expressed my full conviction;
one feels
as she makes her appearance
on the stage,
that she is a pure vessel,
from
which a holy draught
will be presented
to us.
, , , , ,
There is not anything which
can lessen the impression
which Jenny Lind’s greatness
on the stage makes,
except her own personal character
at home.
An intelligent
and child-like disposition exercises here its astonishing power;
she is happy;
belonging,
as it were,
no longer
to the world,
a peaceful,
quiet home,
is the object
of her thoughts
--and yet she loves art
with her whole soul,
and feels her vocation
in it.
A noble,
pious disposition
like hers cannot be spoiled
by homage.
On one occasion only did I hear her express her joy
in her talent
and her self-consciousness.
It was during her last residence
in Copenhagen.
Almost every evening she appeared either
in the opera
or
at concerts;
every hour was
in requisition.
She heard
of a society,
the object
of
which was,
to assist unfortunate children,
and
to take them out
of the hands
of their parents
by whom they were misused,
and compelled either
to beg
or steal,
and
to place them
in other
and better circumstances.
Benevolent people subscribed annually a small sum each
for their support,
nevertheless the means
for this excellent purpose were small.
, , , , ,
“But have I not still a disengaged evening?”
said she;
“let me give a night’s performance
for the benefit
of these poor children;
but we
will have double prices!”
Such a performance was given,
and returned large proceeds;
when she was informed
of this,
and,
that
by this means,
a number
of poor children
would be benefited
for several years,
her countenance beamed,
and the tears filled her eyes.
, , , , ,
“It is however beautiful,”
said she,
“that I
can sing so!”
I value her
with the whole feeling
of a brother,
and I regard myself
as happy
that I know
and understand such a spirit.
God give
to her
that peace,
that quiet happiness
which she wishes
for herself!
Through Jenny Lind I first became sensible
of the holiness
there is
in art;
through her I learned
that one must forget oneself
in the service
of the Supreme.
No books,
no men have had a better
or a more ennobling influence
on me
as the poet,
than Jenny Lind,
and I therefore have spoken
of her so long
and so warmly here.
, , , , ,
I have made the happy discovery
by experience,
that inasmuch
as art
and life are more clearly understood
by me,
so much more sunshine
from without has streamed
into my soul.
What blessings have not compensated me
for the former dark days!
Repose
and certainty have forced themselves
into my heart.
Such repose
can easily unite itself
with the changing life
of travel;
I feel myself everywhere
at home,
attach myself easily
to people,
and they give me
in return confidence
and cordiality.
, , , , ,
In the summer
of 1844 I once more visited North Germany.
An intellectual
and amiable family
in Oldenburg had invited me
in the most friendly manner
to spend some time
at their house.
Count von Rantzau-Breitenburg repeated also
in his letters
how welcome I
should be
to him.
I set out
on the journey,
and this journey was,
if not one
of my longest,
still one
of my most interesting.
, , , , ,
I saw the rich marsh-land
in its summer luxuriance,
and made
with Rantzau several interesting little excursions.
Breitenburg lies
in the middle
of woods
on the river St÷r;
the steam-voyage
to Hamburg gives animation
to the little river;
the situation is picturesque,
and life
in the castle itself is comfortable
and pleasant.
I
could devote myself perfectly
to reading
and poetry,
because I was just
as free
as the bird
in the air,
and I was
as much cared for
as
if I had been a beloved relation
of the family.
Alas it was the last time
that I came hither;
Count Rantzau had,
even then,
a presentiment
of his approaching death.
One day we met
in the garden;
he seized my hand,
pressed it warmly,
expressed his pleasure
in my talents being acknowledged abroad,
and his friendship
for me,
adding,
in conclusion,
“Yes,
my dear young friend,
God only knows
but I have the firm belief
that this year is the last time
when we two shall meet here;
my days
will soon have run out their full course.”
He looked
at me
with so grave an expression,
that it touched my heart deeply,
but I knew not what
to say.
We were near
to the chapel;
he opened a little gate
between some thick hedges,
and we stood
in a little garden,
in
which was a turfed grave
and a seat beside it.
, , , , ,
“Here you
will find me,
when you come the next time
to Breitenburg,”
said he,
and his sorrowful words were true.
He died the following winter
in Wiesbaden.
I lost
in him a friend,
a protector,
a noble excellent heart.
, , , , ,
When I,
on the first occasion,
went
to Germany,
I visited the Hartz
and the Saxon Switzerland.
Goethe was still living.
It was my most heartfelt wish
to see him.
It was not far
from the Hartz
to Weimar,
but I had no letters
of introduction
to him,
and,
at
that time,
not one line
of my writings was translated.
Many persons had described Goethe
to me
as a very proud man,
and the question arose whether indeed he
would receive me.
I doubted it,
and determined not
to go
to Weimar
until I
should have written some work
which
would convey my name
to Germany.
I succeeded
in this,
but alas,
Goethe was already dead.
, , , , ,
I had made the acquaintance
of his daughter-in-law Mrs. von Goethe,
born
at Pogwitsch,
at the house
of Mendelssohn Bartholdy,
in Leipsig,
on my return
from Constantinople;
this spirituelle lady received me
with much kindness.
She told me
that her son Walter had been my friend
for a long time;
that
as a boy he had made a whole play out
of my Improvisatore;
that this piece had been performed
in Goethe’s house;
and lastly,
that Walter,
had once wished
to go
to Copenhagen
to make my acquaintance.
I thus had now friends
in Weimar.
, , , , ,
An extraordinary desire impelled me
to see this city
where Goethe,
Schiller,
Wieland,
and Herder had lived,
and
from
which so much light had streamed forth
over the world.
I approached
that land
which had been rendered sacred
by Luther,
by the strife
of the Minnesingers
on the Wartburg,
and
by the memory
of many noble
and great events.
, , , , ,
On the 24th
of June,
the birthday
of the Grand Duke,
I arrived a stranger
in the friendly town.
Everything indicated the festivity
which was
then going forward,
and the young prince was received
with great rejoicing
in the theatre,
where a new opera was being given.
I did not think
how firmly,
the most glorious
and the best
of all those whom I here saw
around me,
would grow
into my heart;
how many
of my future friends sat
around me here
--how dear this city
would become
to me
--in Germany my second home.
I was invited
by Goethe’s worthy friend,
the excellent Chancellor Muller,
and I met
with the most cordial reception
from him.
By accident I here met
on my first call,
with the Kammerherr Beaulieu de Marconnay,
whom I had known
in Oldenburg;
he was now placed
in Weimar.
He invited me
to remove
to his house.
In the course
of a few minutes I was his stationary guest,
and I felt “it is good
to be here.”
, , , , ,
There are people whom it only requires a few days
to know and
to love;
I won
in Beaulieu,
in these few days,
a friend,
as I believe,
for my whole life.
He introduced me
into the family circle,
the amiable chancellor received me equally cordially;
and I
who had,
on my arrival,
fancied myself quite forlorn,
because Mrs. von Goethe
and her son Walter were
in Vienna,
was now known
in Weimar,
and well received
in all its circles.
, , , , ,
The reigning Grand Duke
and Duchess gave me so gracious
and kind a reception
as made a deep impression upon me.
After I had been presented,
I was invited
to dine,
and soon after received an invitation
to visit the hereditary Grand Duke
and his lady,
at the hunting seat
of Ettersburg,
which stands high,
and close
to an extensive forest.
The old fashioned furniture within the house,
and the distant views
from the park
into the Hartz mountains,
produced immediately a peculiar impression.
All the young peasants had assembled
at the castle
to celebrate the birthday
of their beloved young Duke;
climbing-poles,
from
which fluttered handkerchiefs
and ribbons,
were erected;
fiddles sounded,
and people danced merrily
under the branches
of the large
and flowering limetrees.
Sabbath splendor,
contentment
and happiness were diffused
over the whole.
, , , , ,
The young andebut new married princely pair seemed
to be united
by true heartfelt sentiment.
The heart must be able
to forget the star
on the breast under
which it beats,
if its possessor wish
to remain long free
and happy
in a court;
and such a heart,
certainly one
of the noblest
and best
which beats,
is possessed
by Karl Alexander
of Saxe-Weimar.
I had the happiness
of a sufficient length
of time
to establish this belief.
During this,
my first residence here,
I came several times
to the happy Ettersburg.
The young Duke showed me the garden
and the tree
on the trunk
of
which Goethe,
Schiller,
and Wieland had cut their names;
nay
even Jupiter himself had wished
to add his
to theirs,
for his thunder-bolt had splintered it
in one
of the branches.
, , , , ,
The intellectual Mrs. von Gross
(Amalia Winter),
Chancellor von Muller,
who was able livingly
to unroll the times
of Goethe and
to explain his Faust,
and the soundly honest
and child-like minded Eckermann belonged
to the circle
at Ettersburg.
The evenings passed
like a spiritual dream;
alternately some one read aloud;
even I ventured,
for the first time
in a foreign language
to me,
to read one
of my own tales
--the Constant Tin Soldier.
, , , , ,
Chancellor von Muller accompanied me
to the princely burial-place,
where Karl August sleeps
with his glorious wife,
not
between Schiller
and Goethe,
as I believed
when I wrote
--”the prince has made
for himself a rainbow glory,
whilst he stands
between the sun
and the rushing waterfall.”
Close beside the princely pair,
who understood
and valued
that
which was great,
repose these their immortal friends.
Withered laurel garlands lay upon the simple brown coffins,
of
which the whole magnificence consists
in the immortal names
of Goethe
and Schiller.
In life the prince
and the poet walked side
by side,
in death they slumber
under the same vault.
Such a place
as this is never effaced
from the mind;
in such a spot those quiet prayers are offered,
which God alone hears.
, , , , ,
I remained
above eight days
in Weimar;
it seemed
to me
as
if I had formerly lived
in this city;
as
if it were a beloved home
which I must now leave.
As I drove out
of the city,
over the bridge
and past the mill,
and
for the last time looked back
to the city
and the castle,
a deep melancholy took hold
on my soul,
and it was
to me
as
if a beautiful portion
of my life here had its close;
I thought
that the journey,
after I had left Weimar,
could afford me no more pleasure.
How often since
that time has the carrier pigeon,
and still more frequently,
the mind,
flown over
to this place!
Sunshine has streamed forth
from Weimar upon my poet-life.
, , , , ,
From Weimar I went
to Leipzig
where a truly poetical evening awaited me
with Robert Schumann.
This great composer had a year
before surprised me
by the honor
of dedicating
to me the music
which he had composed
to four
of my songs;
the lady
of Dr. Frege whose singing,
so full
of soul,
has pleased
and enchanted so many thousands,
accompanied Clara Schumann,
and the composer
and the poet were alone the audience:
a little festive supper
and a mutual interchange
of ideas shortened the evening only too much.
I met
with the old,
cordial reception
at the house
of Mr. Brockhaus,
to which
from former visits I had
almost accustomed myself.
The circle
of my friends increased
in the German cities;
but the first heart is still that
to
which we most gladly turn again.
, , , , ,
I found
in Dresden old friends
with youthful feelings;
my gifted half-countryman Dahl,
the Norwegian,
who knows
how upon canvas
to make the waterfall rush foaming down,
and the birch-tree
to grow as
in the valleys
of Norway,
and Vogel von Vogelstein,
who did me the honor
of painting my portrait,
which was included
in the royal collection
of portraits.
The theatre intendant,
Herr von L ttichau,
provided me every evening
with a seat
in the manager’s box;
and one
of the noblest ladies,
in the first circles
of Dresden,
the worthy Baroness von Decken,
received me
as a mother
would receive her son.
In this character I was ever afterwards received
in her family and
in the amiable circle
of her friends.
, , , , ,
How bright
and beautiful is the world!
How good are human beings!
That
it is a pleasure
to live becomes ever more
and more clear
to me.
, , , , ,
Beaulieu’s younger brother Edmund,
who is an officer
in the army,
came
one day
from Tharand,
where he had spent the summer months.
I
accompanied him
to various places,
spent some happy days
among the
pleasant scenery
of the hills,
and was received
at the same time into
various families.
, , , , ,
I visited
with the Baroness Decken,
for the first time,
the celebrated
and clever painter Retsch,
who has published the bold outlines
of Goethe,
Shakspeare,
&c.
He lives a sort
of Arcadian life
among lowly vineyards
on the way
to Meissen.
Every year he makes a present
to his wife,
on her birthday,
of a new drawing,
and always one
of his best;
the collection has grown
through a course
of years
to a valuable album,
which she,
if he die
before her,
is
to publish.
Among the many glorious ideas there,
one struck me
as peculiar;
the Flight
into Egypt.
It is night;
every one sleeps
in the picture,
--Mary,
Joseph,
the flowers
and the shrubs,
nay
even the ass
which carries her
--all,
except the child Jesus,
who,
with open round countenance,
watches over
and illumines all.
I related one
of my stories
to him,
and
for this I received a lovely drawing,
--a beautiful young girl hiding herself
behind the mask
of an old woman;
thus
should the eternally youthful soul,
with its blooming loveliness,
peep forth
from
behind the old mask
of the fairy-tale.
Retsch’s pictures are rich
in thought,
full
of beauty,
and a genial spirit.
, , , , ,
I enjoyed the country-life
of Germany
with Major Serre
and his amiable wife
at their splendid residence
of Maren;
it is not possible
for any one
to exercise greater hospitality
than is done
by these two kind-hearted people.
A circle
of intelligent,
interesting individuals,
were here assembled;
I remained
among them
above eight days,
and
there became acquainted
with Kohl the traveller,
and the clever authoress,
the Countess Hahn-Hahn,
in whom I discerned a woman
by disposition
and individual character
in whom confidence may be placed.
Where one is well received
there one gladly lingers.
I found myself unspeakably happy
on this little journey
in Germany,
and became convinced
that I was
there no stranger.
It was heart
and truth
to nature
which people valued
in my writings;
and,
however excellent
and praiseworthy the exterior beauty may be,
however imposing the maxims
of this world’s wisdom,
still it is heart
and nature
which have least changed
by time,
and
which everybody is best able
to understand.
, , , , ,
I returned home
by way
of Berlin,
where I had not been
for several years;
but the dearest
of my friends there
--Chamisso,
was dead.
, , , , ,
The fair wild swan
which flew far o’er the earth,
and laid its head upon a wild-swan’s breast,
was now flown
to a more glorious hemisphere;
I saw his children,
who were now fatherless
and motherless.
From the young
who here surround me,
I discover
that I am grown older;
I feel it not
in myself.
Chamisso’s sons,
whom I saw the last time playing here
in the little garden
with bare necks,
came now
to meet me
with helmet
and sword:
they were officers
in the Prussian service.
I felt
in a moment
how the years had rolled on,
how everything was changed and
how one loses so many.
, , , , ,
Yet is it not so hard
as people deem,
to see their soul’s beloved
from them riven;
God has their dear ones,
and
in death they seem
to form a bridge
which leads them up
to heaven.
, , , , ,
I met
with the most cordial reception,
and have since
then always met
with the same,
in the house
of the Minister Savigny,
where I became acquainted
with the clever,
singularly gifted Bettina
and her lovely spiritual-minded daughter.
One hour’s conversation
with Bettina during
which she was the chief speaker,
was so rich
and full
of interest,
that I was
almost rendered dumb
by all this eloquence,
this firework
of wit.
The world knows her writings,
but another talent
which she is possessed of,
is less generally known,
namely her talent
for drawing.
Here again it is the ideas
which astonish us.
It was thus,
I observed,
she had treated
in a sketch an accident
which had occurred just before,
a young man being killed
by the fumes
of wine.
You saw him descending half-naked
into the cellar,
round
which lay the wine casks
like monsters:
Bacchanals
and Bacchantes danced
towards him,
seized their victim
and destroyed him!
I know
that Thorwaldsen,
to whom she once showed all her drawings,
was
in the highest degree astonished
by the ideas they contained.
, , , , ,
It does the heart such good
when abroad
to find a house,
where,
when immediately you enter,
eyes flash
like festal lamps,
a house
where you
can take peeps
into a quiet,
happy domestic life
--such a house is that
of Professor Weiss.
Yet
how many new acquaintance
which were found,
and old acquaintance
which were renewed,
ought I not
to mention!
I met Cornelius
from Rome,
Schelling
from Munich,
my countryman I might
almost call him;
Steffens,
the Norwegian,
and once again Tieck,
whom I had not seen
since my first visit
to Germany.
He was very much altered,
yet his gentle,
wise eyes were the same,
the shake
of his hand was the same.
I felt
that he loved me
and wished me well.
I must visit him
in Potsdam,
where he lived
in ease
and comfort.
At dinner I became acquainted
with his brother the sculptor.
, , , , ,
From Tieck I learnt
how kindly the King
and Queen
of Prussia were disposed
towards me;
that they had read my romance
of Only a Fiddler,
and inquired
from Tieck
about me.
Meantime their Majesties were absent
from Berlin.
I had arrived the evening
before their departure,
when
that abominable attempt was made upon their lives.
, , , , ,
I returned
to Copenhagen
by Stettin
in stormy weather,
full
of the joy
of life,
and again saw my dear friends,
and
in a few days set off
to Count Moltke’s
in Funen,
there
to spend a few lovely summer days.
I here received a letter
from the Minister Count Rantzau-Breitenburg,
who was
with the King
and Queen
of Denmark
at the watering-place
of F÷hr.
He wrote,
saying
that he had the pleasure
of announcing
to me the most gracious invitation
of their Majesties
to F÷hr.
This island,
as is well known,
lies
in the North Sea,
not far
from the coast
of Sleswick,
in the neighborhood
of the interesting Halligs,
those little islands
which Biernatzky described so charmingly
in his novels.
Thus,
in a manner wholly unexpected
by me,
I
should see scenery
of a very peculiar character even
in Denmark.
, , , , ,
The favor
of my king
and Queen made me happy,
and I rejoiced
to be once more
in close intimacy
with Rantzau.
Alas,
it was
for the last time!
It was just now five
and twenty years
since I,
a poor lad,
travelled alone
and helpless
to Copenhagen.
Exactly the five
and twentieth anniversary
would be celebrated
by my being
with my king
and queen,
to whom I was faithfully attached,
and whom I
at
that very time learned
to love
with my whole soul.
Everything
that surrounded me,
man
and nature,
reflected themselves imperishably
in my soul.
I felt myself,
as it were,
conducted
to a point
from
which I
could look forth more distinctly
over the past five
and twenty years,
with all the good fortune
and happiness
which they had evolved
for me.
The reality frequently surpasses the most beautiful dream.
, , , , ,
I travelled
from Funen
to Flensborg,
which,
lying
in its great bay,
is picturesque
with woods
and hills,
and
then immediately opens out
into a solitary heath.
Over this I travelled
in the bright moonlight.
The journey
across the heath was tedious;
the clouds only passed rapidly.
We went
on monotonously
through the deep sand,
and monotonous was the wail
of a bird
among the shrubby heath.
Presently we reached moorlands.
Long-continued rain had changed meadows
and cornfields
into great lakes;
the embankments along
which we drove were
like morasses;
the horses sank deeply
into them.
In many places the light carriage was obliged
to be supported
by the peasants,
that it might not fall upon the cottages below the embankment.
Several hours were consumed
over each mile
(Danish).
At length the North Sea
with its islands lay
before me.
The whole coast was an embankment,
covered
for miles
with woven straw,
against
which the waves broke.
I arrived
at high tide.
The wind was favorable,
and
in less
than an hour I reached F÷hr,
which,
after my difficult journey,
appeared
to me
like a real fairy land.
, , , , ,
The largest city,
Wyck,
in
which are the baths,
is exactly built
like a Dutch town.
The houses are only one story high,
with sloping roofs
and gables turned
to the street.
The many strangers there,
and the presence
of the court,
gave a peculiar animation
to the principal street.
Well-known faces looked out
from
almost every house;
the Danish flag waved,
and music was heard.
I was soon established
in my quarters,
and every day,
until the departure
of their Majesties,
had I the honor
of an invitation
from them
to dinner,
as well as
to pass the evening
in their circle.
On several evenings I read aloud my little stories
(M rchen)
to the king
and queen,
and both
of them were gracious
and affectionate
towards me.
It is so good
when a noble human nature
will reveal itself
where otherwise only the king’s crown
and the purple mantle might be discovered.
Few people
can be more amiable
in private life
than their present Majesties
of Denmark.
May God bless them
and give them joy,
even
as they filled my breast
with happiness
and sunshine!
I sailed
in their train
to the largest
of the Halligs,
those grassy runes
in the ocean,
which bear testimony
to a sunken country.
The violence
of the sea has changed the mainland
into islands,
has riven these again,
and buried men
and villages.
Year after year are new portions rent away,
and,
in half a century’s time,
there
will be nothing here
but sea.
The Halligs are now only low islets covered
with a dark turf,
on
which a few flocks graze.
When the sea rises these are driven
into the garrets
of the houses,
and the waves roll
over this little region,
which is miles distant
from the shore.
Oland,
which we visited,
contains a little town.
The houses stand closely side
by side,
as if,
in their sore need they
would all huddle together.
They are all erected upon a platform,
and have little windows,
as
in the cabin
of a ship.
There,
in the little room,
solitary
through half the year,
sit the wife
and her daughters spinning.
There,
however,
one always finds a little collection
of books.
I found books
in Danish,
German,
and Frieslandish.
The people read
and work,
and the sea rises round the houses,
which lie
like a wreck
in the ocean.
Sometimes,
in the night,
a ship,
having mistaken the lights,
drives
on here
and is stranded.
, , , , ,
In the year 1825,
a tempestuous tide washed away men
and houses.
The people sat
for days
and nights half naked upon the roofs,
till these gave way;
nor
from F÷hr nor the mainland
could help be sent
to them.
The church-yard is half washed away;
coffins
and corpses were frequently exposed
to view
by the breakers:
it is an appalling sight.
And yet the inhabitants
of the Halligs are attached
to their little home.
They cannot remain
on the mainland,
but are driven thence
by home sickness.
, , , , ,
We found only one man upon the island,
and he had only lately arisen
from a sick bed.
The others were out
on long voyages.
We were received
by girls
and women.
They had erected
before the church a triumphal arch
with flowers
which they had fetched
from F÷hr;
but it was so small
and low,
that one was obliged
to go round it;
nevertheless they showed
by it their good will.
The queen was deeply affected
by their having cut down their only shrub,
a rose bush,
to lay
over a marshy place
which she
would have
to cross.
The girls are pretty,
and are dressed
in a half Oriental fashion.
The people trace their descent
from Greeks.
They wear their faces half concealed,
and
beneath the strips
of linen
which lie upon the head is placed a Greek fez,
around
which the hair is wound
in plaits.
, , , , ,
On our return,
dinner was served
on board the royal steamer;
and afterwards,
as we sailed
in a glorious sunset
through this archipelago,
the deck
of the vessel was changed
to a dancing room.
Young
and old danced;
servants flew hither
and thither
with refreshments;
sailors stood upon the paddle-boxes
and took the soundings,
and their deep-toned voices might be heard giving the depth
of the water.
The moon rose round
and large,
and the promontory
of Amrom assumed the appearance
of a snow-covered chain
of Alps.
, , , , ,
I visited afterwards these desolate sand hills:
the king went
to shoot rabbits there.
Many years ago a ship was wrecked here,
on board
of
which were two rabbits,
and
from this pair Amrom is now stored
with thousands
of their descendants.
At low tide the sea recedes wholly
from
between Amrom
and F÷hr,
and
then people drive across
from one island
to another;
but still the time must be well observed
and the passage accurately known,
or else,
when the tide comes,
he
who crosses
will be inevitably lost.
It requires only a few minutes,
and
then
where dry land was large ships may sail.
We saw a whole row
of wagons driving
from F÷hr
to Amrom.
Seen upon the white sand
and
against the blue horizon,
they seem
to be twice
as large
as they really were.
All
around were spread out,
like a net,
the sheets
of water,
as
if they held firmly the extent
of sand
which belonged
to the ocean
and
which
would be soon overflowed
by it.
This promontory brings
to one’s memory the mounds
of ashes
at Vesuvius;
for here one sinks
at every step,
the wiry moor-grass not being able
to bind together the loose sand.
The sun shone burningly hot
between the white sand hills:
it was
like a journey
through the deserts
of Africa.
, , , , ,
A peculiar kind
of rose,
and the heath were
in flower
in the valleys
between the hills;
in other places
there was no vegetation whatever;
nothing
but the wet sand
on
which the waves had left their impress;
the sea had inscribed
on its receding strange hieroglyphics.
I gazed
from one
of the highest points
over the North Sea;
it was ebb-tide;
the sea had retired
above a mile;
the vessels lay
like dead fishes upon the sand,
and awaiting the returning tide.
A few sailors had clambered down
and moved about
on the sandy ground
like black points.
Where the sea itself kept the white level sand
in movement,
a long bank elevated itself,
which,
during the time
of high-water,
is concealed,
and upon
which occur many wrecks.
I saw the lofty wooden tower
which is here erected,
and
in
which a cask is always kept filled
with water,
and a basket supplied
with bread
and brandy,
that the unfortunate human beings,
who are here stranded,
may be able
in this place,
amid the swelling sea,
to preserve life
for a few days
until it is possible
to rescue them.
, , , , ,
To return
from such a scene
as this
to a royal table,
a charming court-concert,
and a little ball
in the bath-saloon,
as well as
to the promenade
by moonlight,
thronged
with guests,
a little Boulevard,
had something
in it
like a fairy tale,
--it was a singular contrast.
, , , , ,
As I sat
on the above-mentioned five-and-twentieth anniversary,
on the 5th
of September,
at the royal dinner-table,
the whole
of my former life passed
in review
before my mind.
I was obliged
to summon all my strength
to prevent myself bursting
into tears.
There are moments
of thankfulness
in which,
as it were,
we feel a desire
to press God
to our hearts.
How deeply I felt,
at this time,
my own nothingness;
how all,
all,
had come
from him.
Rantzau knew
what an interesting day this was
to me.
After dinner the king
and the queen wished me happiness,
and
that so
--graciously,
is a poor word,
--so cordially,
so sympathizingly!
The king wished me happiness
in
that
which I had endured
and won.
He asked me
about my first entrance
into the world,
and I related
to him some characteristic traits.
, , , , ,
In the course
of conversation he inquired
if I had not some certain yearly income;
I named the sum
to him.
, , , , ,
“That is not much,”
said the king.
, , , , ,
“But I do not require much,”
replied I,
“and my writings procure me something.”
, , , , ,
The king,
in the kindest manner,
inquired farther
into my circumstances,
and closed
by saying,
“If I can,
in any way,
be serviceable
to your literary labors,
then come
to me.”
, , , , ,
In the evening,
during the concert,
the conversation was renewed,
and some
of those
who stood near me reproached me
for not having made use
of my opportunity.
, , , , ,
“The king,”
said they,
“put the very words
into your mouth.”
, , , , ,
But I
could not,
I
would not have done it.
“If the king,”
I said,
“found
that I required something more,
he
could give it
to me
of his own will.”
, , , , ,
And I was not mistaken.
In the following year King Christian VIII.
increased my annual stipend,
so that
with this
and
that
which my writings bring in,
I
can live honorably
and free
from care.
My king gave it
to me out
of the pure good-will
of his own heart.
King Christian is enlightened,
clear-sighted,
with a mind enlarged
by science;
the gracious sympathy,
therefore,
which he has felt
in my fate is
to me doubly cheering
and ennobling.
, , , , ,
The 5th
of September was
to me a festival-day;
even the German visitors
at the baths honored me
by drinking my health
in the pump-room.
, , , , ,
So many flattering circumstances,
some people argue,
may easily spoil a man,
and make him vain.
But,
no;
they do not spoil him,
they make him
on the contrary
--better;
they purify his mind,
and he must thereby feel an impulse,
a wish,
to deserve all
that he enjoys.
At my parting-audience
with the queen,
she gave me a valuable ring
as a remembrance
of our residence
at F÷hr;
and the king again expressed himself full
of kindness
and noble sympathy.
God bless
and preserve this exalted pair!
The Duchess
of Augustenburg was
at this time also
at F÷hr
with her two eldest daughters.
I had daily the happiness
of being
with them,
and received repeated invitations
to take Augustenburg
on my return.
For this purpose I went
from F÷hr
to Als,
one
of the most beautiful islands
in the Baltic.
That little region resembles a blooming garden;
luxuriant corn
and clover-fields are enclosed,
with hedges
of hazels
and wild roses;
the peasants’ houses are surrounded
by large apple-orchards,
full
of fruit.
Wood
and hill alternate.
Now we see the ocean,
and now the narrow Lesser Belt,
which resembles a river.
The Castle
of Augustenburg is magnificent,
with its garden full
of flowers,
extending down
to the very shores
of the serpentine bay.
I met
with the most cordial reception,
and found the most amiable family-life
in the ducal circle.
I spent fourteen days here,
and was present
at the birth-day festivities
of the duchess,
which lasted three days;
among these festivities was racing,
and the town
and the castle were filled
with people.
, , , , ,
Happy domestic life is
like a beautiful summer’s evening;
the heart is filled
with peace;
and everything
around derives a peculiar glory.
The full heart says “it is good
to be here;”
and this I felt
at Augustenburg.
, , , , ,
CHAPTER VIII.
, , , , ,
In the spring
of 1844 I had finished a dramatic tale,
“The Flower
of Fortune.”
The idea
of this was,
that it is not the immortal name
of the artist,
nor the splendor
of a crown which
can make man happy;
but
that happiness is
to be found
where people,
satisfied
with little,
love
and are loved again.
The scene was perfectly Danish,
an idyllian,
sunbright life,
in whose clear heaven two dark pictures are reflected as
in a dream;
the unfortunate Danish poet Ewald
and Prince Buris,
who is tragically sung of
in our heroic ballads.
I wished
to show,
in honor
of our times,
the middle ages
to have been dark
and miserable,
as they were,
but
which many poets only represent
to us
in a beautiful light.
, , , , ,
Professor Heiberg,
who was appointed censor,
declared himself
against the reception
of my piece.
During the last years I had met
with nothing
but hostility
from this party;
I regarded it
as personal ill-will,
and this was
to me still more painful
than the rejection
of the pieces.
It was painful
for me
to be placed
in a constrained position
with regard
to a poet whom I respected,
and
towards whom,
according
to my own conviction,
I had done everything
in order
to obtain a friendly relationship.
A further attempt,
however,
must be made.
I wrote
to Heiberg,
expressed myself candidly,
and,
as I thought,
cordially,
and entreated him
to give me explicitly the reasons
for his rejection
of the piece
and
for his ill-will
towards me.
He immediately paid me a visit,
which I,
not being
at home
when he called,
returned
on the following day,
and I was received
in the most friendly manner.
The visit
and the conversation belong certainly
to the extraordinary,
but they occasioned an explanation,
and I hope led
to a better understanding
for the future.
, , , , ,
He clearly set
before me his views
in the rejection
of my piece.
Seen
from his point
of sight they were unquestionably correct;
but they were not mine,
and thus we
could not agree.
He declared decidedly
that he cherished no spite
against me,
and
that he acknowledged my talent.
I mentioned his various attacks upon me,
for example,
in the Intelligence,
and
that he had denied
to me original invention:
I imagined,
however,
that I had shown this
in my novels;
“But
of these,”
said I,
“you have read none;
you,
yourself have told me so.”
, , , , ,
“Yes,
that is the truth,”
replied he;
“I have not yet read them,
but I
will do so.”
, , , , ,
“Since then,”
continued I,
“you have turned me
and my Bazaar
to ridicule
in your poem called Denmark,
and spoken
about my fanaticism
for the beautiful Dardanelles;
and yet I have,
precisely
in
that book,
described the Dardanelles
as not beautiful;
it is the Bosphorus
which I thought beautiful;
you seem not
to be aware
of that;
perhaps you have not read The Bazaar either?”
, , , , ,
“Was it the Bosphorus?”
said he,
with his own peculiar smile;
“yes,
I had quite forgotten that,
and,
you see,
people do not remember it either;
the object
in this case was only
to give you a stab.”
, , , , ,
This confession sounded so natural,
so
like him,
that I was obliged
to smile.
I looked
into his clever eyes,
thought
how many beautiful things he had written,
and I
could not be angry
with him.
The conversation became more lively,
more free,
and he said many kind things
to me;
for example,
he esteemed my stories very highly,
and entreated me frequently
to visit him.
I have become more
and more acquainted
with his poetical temperament,
and I fancy
that he too
will understand mine.
We are very dissimilar,
but we both strive after the same object.
Before we separated he conducted me
to his little observatory;
now his dearest world.
He seems now
to live
for poetry
and now
for philosophy,
andùfor
which I fancy he is least
of all calculated
--for astronomy.
I
could
almost sigh
and sing,
Thou wast erewhile the star
at
which them gazest now!
My dramatic story came
at length
on the stage,
and
in the course
of the season was performed seven times.
, , , , ,
As people grow older,
however much they may be tossed about
in the
world,
some one place must be the true home;
even the bird
of passage
has one fixed spot
to
which it hastens;
mine was
and is the house
of my
friend Collin.
Treated
as a son,
almost grown up
with the children,
I have become a member
of the family;
a more heartfelt connection,
a better home have I never known:
a link broke
in this chain,
and
precisely
in the hour
of bereavement,
did I feel
how firmly I have been
engrafted here,
so
that I was regarded
as one
of the children.
, , , , ,
if I were
to give the picture
of the mistress
of a family
who wholly
loses her own individual I
in her husband
and children,
I must name
the wife
of Collin;
with the sympathy
of a mother,
she also followed me
in sorrow and
in gladness.
In the latter years
of her life she became
very deaf,
and
besides this she had the misfortune
of being nearly
blind.
An operation was performed
on her sight,
which succeeded so well,
that
in the course
of the winter she was able
to read a letter,
and
this was a cause
of grateful joy
to her.
She longed
in an extraordinary
manner
for the first green
of spring,
and this she saw
in her little
garden.
, , , , ,
I parted
from her one Sunday evening
in health
and joy;
in the night I was awoke;
a servant brought me a letter.
Collin wrote,
“My wife is very ill;
the children are all assembled here!”
I understood it,
and hastened thither.
She slept quietly
and without pain;
it was the sleep
of the just;
it was death
which was approaching so kindly
and calmly.
On the third day she yet lay
in
that peaceful slumber:
then her countenance grew pale
--and she was dead!
Thou didst
but close thine eyes
to gather in
The large amount
of all thy spiritual bliss;
We saw thy slumbers
like a little child’s.
, , , , ,
O death!
thou art all brightness
and not shadow.
, , , , ,
Never had I imagined
that the departure
from this world
could be so painless,
so blessed.
A devotion arose
in my soul;
a conviction
of God
and eternity,
which this moment elevated
to an epoch
in my life.
It was the first death-bed
at
which I had been present
since my childhood.
Children,
and children’s children were assembled.
In such moments all is holy
around us.
Her soul was love;
she went
to love and
to God!
At the end
of July,
the monument
of King Frederick VI.
was
to be uncovered
at Skanderburg,
in the middle
of Jutland.
I had,
by solicitation,
written the cantata
for the festival,
to
which Hartmann had furnished the music,
and this was
to be sung
by Danish students.
I had been invited
to the festival,
which thus was
to form the object
of my summer excursion.
, , , , ,
Skanderburg lies
in one
of the most beautiful districts
of Denmark.
Agreeable hills rise covered
with vast beech-woods,
and a large inland lake
of a pleasing form extends
among them.
On the outside
of the city,
close
by the church,
which is built upon the ruins
of an old castle,
now stands the monument,
a work
of Thorwaldsen’s.
The most beautiful moment
to me
at this festival was
in the evening,
after the unveiling
of the monument;
torches were lighted
around it,
and threw their unsteady flame
over the lake;
within the woods blazed thousands
of lights,
and music
for the dance resounded
from the tents.
Round
about upon the hills,
between the woods,
and high
above them,
bonfires were lighted
at one
and the same moment,
which burned
in the night
like red stars.
There was spread
over lake
and land a pure,
a summer fragrance
which is peculiar
to the north,
in its beautiful summer nights.
The shadows
of those
who passed
between the monument
and the church,
glided gigantically
along its red walls,
as
if they were spirits
who were taking part
in the festival.
, , , , ,
I returned home.
In this year my novel
of the Improvisatore was translated
into English,
by the well-known authoress,
Mary Howitt,
and was received
by her countrymen
with great applause.
O. T.
and the Fiddler soon followed,
and met with,
as it seemed,
the same reception.
After
that appeared a Dutch,
and lastly a Russian translation
of the Improvisatore.
That
which
should never have ventured
to have dreamed
of was accomplished;
my writings seem
to come forth
under a lucky star;
they fly
over all lands.
There is something elevating,
but
at the same time,
a something terrific
in seeing one’s thoughts spread so far,
and
among so many people;
it is indeed,
almost a fearful thing
to belong
to so many.
The noble
and the good
in us becomes a blessing;
but the bad,
one’s errors,
shoot forth also,
and involuntarily the thought forces itself
from us:
God!
let me never write down a word
of
which I shall not be able
to give an account
to thee.
A peculiar feeling,
a mixture
of joy
and anxiety,
fills my heart every time my good genius conveys my fictions
to a foreign people.
, , , , ,
Travelling operates
like an invigorating bath
to the mind;
like a Medea-draft
which always makes young again.
I feel once more an impulse
for it
--not
in order
to seek up material,
as a critic fancied
and said,
in speaking
of my Bazaar;
there exists a treasury
of material
in my own inner self,
and this life is too short
to mature this young existence;
but
there needs refreshment
of spirit
in order
to convey it vigorously
and maturely
to paper,
and travelling is
to me,
as I have said,
this invigorating bath,
from
which I return
as it were younger
and stronger.
, , , , ,
By prudent economy,
and the proceeds
of my writings,
I was
in a condition
to undertake several journeys during the last year.
That which
for me is the most sunbright,
is the one
in
which these pages were written.
Esteem,
perhaps over-estimation,
but especially kindness,
in short,
happiness
and pleasure have flowed
towards me
in abundant measure.
, , , , ,
I wished
to visit Italy
for the third time,
there
to spend a summer,
that I might become acquainted
with the south
in its warm season,
and probably return thence
by Spain
and France.
At the end
of October,
1845,
I left Copenhagen.
Formerly I had thought
when I set out
on a journey,
God!
what wilt thou permit
to happen
to me
on this journey!
This time my thoughts were,
God,
what
will happen
to my friends
at home during this long time!
And I felt a real anxiety.
In one year the hearse may drive up
to the door many times,
and whose name may shine upon the coffin!
The proverb says,
when one suddenly feels a cold shudder,
“now death passes
over my grave.”
The shudder is still colder
when the thoughts pass
over the graves
of our best friends.
, , , , ,
I spent a few days
at Count Moltke’s,
at Glorup;
strolling players were acting some
of my dramatic works
at one
of the nearest provincial towns.
I did not see them;
country life firmly withheld me.
There is something
in the late autumn poetically beautiful;
when the leaf is fallen
from the tree,
and the sun shines still upon the green grass,
and the bird twitters,
one may often fancy
that it is a spring-day;
thus certainly also has the old man moments
in his autumn
in
which his heart dreams
of spring.
, , , , ,
I passed only one day
in Odense
--I feel myself
there more
of a stranger than
in the great cities
of Germany.
As a child I was solitary,
and had therefore no youthful friend;
most
of the families whom I knew have died out;
a new generation passes
along the streets;
and the streets
even are altered.
The later buried have concealed the miserable graves
of my parents.
Everything is changed.
I took one
of my childhood’s rambles
to the Marian-heights
which had belonged
to the Iversen family;
but this family is dispersed;
unknown faces looked out
from the windows.
How many youthful thoughts have been here exchanged!
One
of the young girls who
at
that time sat quietly there
with beaming eyes
and listened
to my first poem,
when I came here
in the summer time
as a scholar
from Slagelse,
sits now far quieter
in noisy Copenhagen,
and has thence sent out her first writings
into the world.
Her German publisher thought
that some introductory words
from me might be useful
to them,
and I,
the stranger,
but the
almost too kindly received,
have introduced the works
of this clever girl
into Germany.
, , , , ,
It is Henriette Hanck
of whom I speak,
the authoress
of “Aunt Anna,”
and “An Author’s Daughter.”
[Footnote:
Since these pages were written,
I have received
from home the news
of her death,
in July,
1846.
She was an affectionate daughter
to her parents,
and was,
besides this,
possessed
of a deeply poetical mind.
In her I have lost a true friend
from the years
of childhood,
one
who had felt an interest
and a sisterly regard
for me,
both
in my good
and my evil days.]
I visited her birth-place
when the first little circle paid me homage
and gave me joy.
But all was strange there,
I myself a stranger.
, , , , ,
The ducal family
of Augustenburg was now
at Castle Gravenstein;
they were informed
of my arrival,
and all the favor
and the kindness
which was shown
to me
on the former occasion
at Augustenburg,
was here renewed
in rich abundance.
I remained here fourteen days,
and it was
as
if these were an announcement
of all the happiness
which
should meet me
when I arrived
in Germany.
The country
around here is
of the most picturesque description;
vast woods,
cultivated uplands
in perpetual variety,
with the winding shore
of the bay
and the many quiet inland lakes.
Even the floating mists
of autumn lent
to the landscape a some
what picturesque,
something strange
to the islander.
Everything here is
on a larger scale than
on the island.
Beautiful was it without,
glorious was it within.
I wrote here a new little story.
The Girl
with the Brimstone-matches;
the only thing
which I wrote upon this journey.
Receiving the invitation
to come often
to Gravenstein
and Augustenburg,
I left,
with a grateful heart,
a place
where I had spent such beautiful
and such happy days.
, , , , ,
Now,
no longer the traveller goes
at a snail’s pace
through the deep sand
over the heath;
the railroad conveys him
in a few hours
to Altona
and Hamburg.
The circle
of my friends
there is increased within the last years.
The greater part
of my time I spent
with my oldest friends Count Hoik,
and the resident Minister Bille,
and
with Zeise,
the excellent translator
of my stories.
Otto Speckter,
who is full
of genius,
surprised me
by his bold,
glorious drawings
for my stories;
he had made a whole collection
of them,
six only
of
which were known
to me.
The same natural freshness
which shows itself
in every one
of his works,
and makes them all little works
of art,
exhibits itself
in his whole character.
He appears
to possess a patriarchal family,
an affectionate old father,
and gifted sisters,
who love him
with their whole souls.
I wished one evening
to go
to the theatre;
it was scarcely a quarter
of an hour
before the commencement
of the opera:
Speckter accompanied me,
and
on our way we came up
to an elegant house.
, , , , ,
“We must first go
in here,
dear friend,”
said he;
“a wealthy family lives here,
friends
of mine,
and friends
of your stories;
the children
will be happy.”
, , , , ,
“But the opera,”
said I. “Only
for two minutes,”
returned he;
and drew me
into the house,
mentioned my name,
and the circle
of children collected
around me.
, , , , ,
“And now tell us a tale,”
said he;
“only one.”
, , , , ,
I told one,
and
then hastened away
to the theatre.
, , , , ,
“That was an extraordinary visit,”
said I. “An excellent one;
one entirely out
of the common way;
one entirely out
of the common way!”
said he exultingly;
“only think;
the children are full
of Andersen
and his stories;
he suddenly makes his appearance amongst them,
tells one
of them himself,
and
then is gone!
vanished!
That is
of itself
like a fairy-tale
to the children,
that
will remain vividly
in their remembrance.”
, , , , ,
I myself was amused
by it.
, , , , ,
In Oldenburg my own little room,
home-like
and comfortable,
was awaiting me.
Hofrath von Eisendecker
and his well-informed lady,
whom,
among all my foreign friends I may consider
as my most sympathizing,
expected me.
I had promised
to remain
with them a fortnight,
but I stayed much longer.
A house
where the best
and the most intellectual people
of a city meet,
is an agreeable place
of residence,
and such a one had I here.
A deal
of social intercourse prevailed
in the little city,
and the theatre,
in
which certainly either opera
or ballet was given,
is one
of the most excellent
in Germany.
The ability
of Gall,
the director,
is sufficiently known,
and unquestionably the nominationof the poet Mosen has a great
and good influence.
I have
to thank him
for enabling me
to see one
of the classic pieces
of Germany,
“Nathan the Wise,”
the principal part
in
which was played
by Kaiser,
who is
as remarkable
for his deeply studied
and excellent tragic acting,
as
for his readings.
, , , , ,
Moses,
who somewhat resembles Alexander Dumas,
with his half African countenance,
and brown sparkling eyes,
although he was suffering
in body,
was full
of life
and soul,
and we soon understood one another.
A trait
of his little son affected me.
He had listened
to me
with great devotion,
as I read one
of my stories;
and when
on the last day I was there,
I took leave,
the mother said
that he must give me his hand,
adding,
that probably a long time must pass
before he
would see me again,
the boy burst
into tears.
In the evening,
when Mosen came
into the theatre,
he said
to me,
“My little Erick has two tin soldiers;
one
of them he has given me
for you,
that you may take him
with you
on your journey.”
, , , , ,
The tin soldier has faithfully accompanied me;
he is a Turk:
probably some day he may relate his travels.
, , , , ,
Mosen wrote
in the dedication
of his “John
of Austria,”
the following lines
to me:
--
Once a little bird flew over
from the north sea’s dreary strand;
Singing,
flew unto me over,
Singing M rchen
through the land.
, , , , ,
Farewell!
yet again bring hither
Thy warm heart
and song together.
, , , , ,
Here I again met
with Mayer,
who has described Naples
and the Neapolitans so charmingly.
My little stories interested him so much
that he had written a little treaties
on them
for Germany,
Kapellmeister Pott,
and my countryman Jerndorff,
belong
to my earlier friends.
I made every day new acquaintance,
because all houses were open
to me
through the family
with whom I was staying.
Even the Grand Duke was so generous as
to have me invited
to a concert
at the palace the day after my arrival,
and later I had the honor
of being asked
to dinner.
I received
in this foreign court,
especially,
many unlooked-for favors.
At the Eisendeckers and
at the house
of the parents
of my friend Beaulieu
--the Privy-Counsellor Beaulieu,
at Oldenburg,
I heard several times my little stones read
in German.
, , , , ,
I
can read Danish very well,
as it ought
to be read,
and I
can give
to it perfectly the expression
which ought
to be given
in reading;
there is
in the Danish language a power
which cannot be transfused
into a translation;
the Danish language is peculiarly excellent
for this species
of fiction.
The stories have a something strange
to me
in German;
it is difficult
for me
in reading it
to put my Danish soul
into it;
my pronunciation
of the German also is feeble,
and
with particular words I must,
as it were,
use an effort
to bring them out
--and yet people everywhere
in Germany have had great interest
in hearing me read them aloud.
I
can very well believe
that the foreign pronunciation
in the reading
of these tales may be easily permitted,
because this foreign manner approaches,
in this instance,
to the childlike;
it gives a natural coloring
to the reading.
I saw everywhere
that the most distinguished men
and women
of the most highly cultivated minds,
listened
to me
with interest;
people entreated me
to read,
and I did so willingly.
I read
for the first time my stories
in a foreign tongue,
and
at a foreign court,
before the Grand Duke
of Oldenburg
and a little select circle.
, , , , ,
The winter soon came on;
the meadows
which lay
under water,
and
which formed large lakes
around the city,
were already covered
with thick ice;
the skaters flew
over it,
and I yet remained
in Oldenburg
among my hospitable friends.
Days
and evenings slid rapidly away;
Christmas approached,
and this season I wished
to spend
in Berlin.
But
what are distances
in our days?
--the steam-carriage goes
from Hanover
to Berlin
in one day!
I must away
from the beloved ones,
from children
and old people,
who were near,
as it were,
to my heart.
, , , , ,
I was astonished
in the highest degree
on taking leave
of the Grand Duke,
to receive
from him,
as a mark
of his favor and
as a keepsake,
a valuable ring.
I shall always preserve it,
like every other remembrance
of this country,
where I have found
and
where I possess true friends.
, , , , ,
When I was
in Berlin
on the former occasion,
I was invited,
as the author
of the Improvisatore,
to the Italian Society,
into
which only those
who have visited Italy
can be admitted.
Here I saw Rauch
for the first time,
who
with his white hair
and his powerful,
manly figure,
is not unlike Thorwaldsen.
Nobody introduced me
to him,
and I did not venture
to present myself,
and therefore walked alone
about his studio,
like the other strangers.
Afterwards I became personally acquainted
with him
at the house
of the Prussian Ambassador,
in Copenhagen;
I now hastened
to him.
, , , , ,
He was
in the highest degree captivated
by my little stories,
pressed me
to his breast,
and expressed the highest praise,
but
which was honestly meant.
Such a momentary estimation
or over-estimation
from a man
of genius erases many a dark shadow
from the mind.
I received
from Rauch my first welcome
in Berlin:
he told me
what a large circle
of friends I had
in the capital
of Prussia.
I must acknowledge
that it was so.
They were
of the noblest
in mind
as well
as the first
in rank,
in art,
and
in science.
Alexander von Humboldt,
Prince Radziwil,
Savigny,
and many others never
to be forgotten.
, , , , ,
I had already,
on the former occasion,
visited the brothers Grimm,
but I had not
at
that time made much progress
with the acquaintance.
I had not brought any letters
of introduction
to them
with me,
because people had told me,
and I myself believed it,
that
if I were known
by any body
in Berlin,
it must be the brothers Grimm.
I therefore sought out their residence.
The servant-maid asked me
with which
of the brothers I wished
to speak.
, , , , ,
“With the one
who has written the most,”
said I,
because I did not know,
at
that time,
which
of them had most interested himself
in the M rchen.
, , , , ,
“Jacob is the most learned,”
said the maidservant.
, , , , ,
“Well,
then,
take me
to him.”
, , , , ,
I entered the room,
and Jacob Grimm,
with his knowing
and strongly-marked countenance,
stood
before me.
, , , , ,
“I come
to you,”
said I,
“without letters
of introduction,
because I hope
that my name is not wholly unknown
to you.”
, , , , ,
“Who are you?”
asked he.
, , , , ,
I told him,
and Jacob Grimm said,
in a half-embarrassed voice,
“I do not remember
to have heard this name;
what have you written?”
, , , , ,
It was now my turn
to be embarrassed
in a high degree:
but I now mentioned my little stories.
, , , , ,
“I do not know them,”
said he;
“but mention
to me some other
of your writings,
because I certainly must have heard them spoken of.”
, , , , ,
I named the titles
of several;
but he shook his head.
I felt myself quite unlucky.
, , , , ,
“But
what must you think
of me,”
said I,
“that I come
to you
as a total stranger,
and enumerate myself
what I have written:
you must know me!
There has been published
in Denmark a collection
of the M rchen
of all nations,
which is dedicated
to you,
and
in it
there is
at least one story
of mine.”
, , , , ,
“No,”
said he good-humoredly,
but
as much embarrassed
as myself;
“I have not read
even that,
but it delights me
to make your acquaintance;
allow me
to conduct you
to my brother Wilhelm?”
, , , , ,
“No,
I thank you,”
said I,
only wishing now
to get away;
I had fared badly enough
with one brother.
I pressed his hand
and hurried
from the house.
, , , , ,
That same month Jacob Grimm went
to Copenhagen;
immediately
on his arrival,
and
while yet
in his travelling dress,
did the amiable kind man hasten up
to me.
He now knew me,
and he came
to me
with cordiality.
I was just
then standing
and packing my clothes
in a trunk
for a journey
to the country;
I had only a few minutes time:
by this means my reception
of him was just
as laconic
as had been his
of me
in Berlin.
, , , , ,
Now,
however,
we met
in Berlin
as old acquaintance.
Jacob Grimm is one
of those characters whom one must love
and attach oneself to.
, , , , ,
One evening,
as I was reading one
of my little stories
at the Countess Bismark-Bohlen’s,
there was
in the little circle one person
in particular
who listened
with evident fellowship
of feeling,
and
who expressed himself
in a peculiar
and sensible manner
on the subject,
--this was Jacob’s brother,
Wilhelm Grimm.
, , , , ,
“I
should have known you very well,
if you had come
to me,”
said he,
“the last time you were here.”
, , , , ,
I saw these two highly-gifted
and amiable brothers
almost daily;
the circles
into
which I was invited seemed also
to be theirs,
and it was my desire
and pleasure
that they
should listen
to my little stories,
that they
should participate
in them,
they whose names
will be always spoken
as long
as the German Volks M rchen are read.
, , , , ,
The fact
of my not being known
to Jacob Grimm
on my first visit
to Berlin,
had so disconcerted me,
that
when any one asked me whether I had been well received
in this city,
I shook my head doubtfully
and said,
“but Grimm did not know me.”
, , , , ,
I was told
that Tieck was ill
--could see no one;
I therefore only sent
in my card.
Some days afterwards I met
at a friend’s house,
where Rauch’s birth-day was being celebrated,
Tieck,
the sculptor,
who told me
that his brother had lately waited two hours
for me
at dinner.
I went
to him
and discovered
that he had sent me an invitation,
which,
however,
had been taken
to a wrong inn.
A fresh invitation was given,
and I passed some delightfully cheerful hours
with Raumer the historian,
and
with the widow
and daughter
of Steffens.
There is a music
in Tieck’s voice,
a spirituality
in his intelligent eyes,
which age cannot lessen,
but,
on the contrary,
must increase.
The Elves,
perhaps the most beautiful story
which has been conceived
in our time,
would alone be sufficient,
had Tieck written nothing else,
to make his name immortal.
As the author
of M rchen,
I bow myself
before him,
the elder
and The master,
and
who was the first German poet,
who many years
before pressed me
to his breast,
as
if it were
to consecrate me,
to walk
in the same path
with himself.
, , , , ,
The old friends had all
to be visited;
but the number
of new ones grew
with each day.
One invitation followed another.
It required considerable physical power
to support so much good-will.
I remained
in Berlin
about three weeks,
and the time seemed
to pass more rapidly
with each succeeding day.
I was,
as it were,
overcome
by kindness.
I,
at length,
had no other prospect
for repose than
to seat myself
in a railway-carriage,
and fly away out
of the country.
, , , , ,
And yet amid these social festivities,
with all the amiable zeal
and interest
that
then was felt
for me,
I had one disengaged evening;
one evening
on
which I suddenly felt solitude
in its most oppressive form;
Christmas-eve,
that very evening
of all others
on
which I
would most willingly witness something festal,
willingly stand beside a Christmas-tree,
gladdening myself
with the joy
of children,
and seeing the parents joyfully become children again.
Every one
of the many families
in
which I
in truth felt
that I was received
as a relation,
had fancied,
as I afterwards discovered,
that I must be invited out;
but I sat quite alone
in my room
at the inn,
and thought
on home.
I seated myself
at the open window,
and gazed up
to the starry heavens,
which was the Christmas-tree
that was lighted
for me.
, , , , ,
“Father
in Heaven,”
I prayed,
as the children do,
“what dost thou give
to me!”
When the friends heard
of my solitary Christmas night,
there were
on the following evening many Christmas-trees lighted,
and
on the last evening
in the year,
there was planted
for me alone,
a little tree
with its lights,
and its beautiful presents
--and
that was
by Jenny Lind.
The whole company consisted
of herself,
her attendant,
and me;
we three children
from the north were together
on Sylvester-eve,
and I was the child
for
which the Christmas-tree was lighted.
She rejoiced
with the feeling
of a sister
in my good fortune
in Berlin;
and I felt
almost pride
in the sympathy
of such a pure,
noble,
and womanly being.
Everywhere her praise resounded,
not merely
as a singer,
but also
as a woman;
the two combined awoke a real enthusiasm
for her.
, , , , ,
It does one good both
in mind
and heart
to see
that
which is glorious understood
and beloved.
In one little anecdote contributing
to her triumph I was myself made the confidant.
, , , , ,
One morning
as I looked out
of my window unter den Linden,
I saw a man
under one
of the trees,
half hidden,
and shabbily dressed,
who took a comb out
of his pocket,
smoothed his hair,
set his neckerchief straight,
and brushed his coat
with his hand;
I understood
that bashful poverty
which feels depressed
by its shabby dress.
A moment after this,
there was a knock
at my door,
and this same man entered.
It was W
--
--,
the poet
of nature,
who is only a poor tailor,
but
who has a truly poetical mind.
Rellstab
and others
in Berlin have mentioned him
with honor;
there is something healthy
in his poems,
among
which several
of a sincerely religious character may be found.
He had read
that I was
in Berlin,
and wished now
to visit me.
We sat together
on the sofa
and conversed:
there was such an amiable contentedness,
such an unspoiled
and good tone
of mind
about him,
that I was sorry not
to be rich
in order
that I might do something
for him.
I was ashamed
of offering him the little
that I
could give;
in any case I wished
to put it
in
as agreeable a form
as I could.
I asked him whether I might invite him
to hear Jenny Lind.
, , , , ,
“I have already heard her,”
said he smiling;
“I had,
it is true,
no money
to buy a ticket;
but I went
to the leader
of the supernumeraries,
and asked whether I might not act
as a supernumerary
for one evening
in Norma:
I was accepted
and habited
as a Roman soldier,
with a long sword
by my side,
and thus got
to the theatre,
where I
could hear her better
than any body else,
for I stood close
to her.
Ah,
how she sung,
how she played!
I
could not help crying;
but they were angry
at that:
the leader forbade
and
would not let me again make my appearance,
because no one must weep
on the stage.”
, , , , ,
With the exception
of the theatre,
I had very little time
to visit collections
of any kind
or institutions
of art.
The able
and amiable Olfers,
however,
the Director
of the Museum,
enabled me
to pay a rapid
but extremely interesting visit
to
that institution.
Olfers himself was my conductor;
we delayed our steps only
for the most interesting objects,
and
there are here not a few
of these;
his remarks threw light upon my mind,
--for this therefore I am infinitely obliged
to him.
, , , , ,
I had the happiness
of visiting the Princess
of Prussia many times;
the wing
of the castle
in
which she resided was so comfortable,
and yet
like a fairy palace.
The blooming winter-garden,
where the fountain splashed
among the moss
at the foot
of the statue,
was close beside the room
in
which the kind-hearted children smiled
with their soft blue eyes.
On taking leave she honored me
with a richly bound album,
in which,
beneath the picture
of the palace,
she wrote her name.
I shall guard this volume
as a treasure
of the soul;
it is not the gift
which has a value only,
but also the manner
in
which it is given.
One forenoon I read
to her several
of my little stories,
and her noble husband listened kindly:
Prince P ckler-Muskau also was present.
, , , , ,
A few days after my arrival
in Berlin,
I had the honor
to be invited
to the royal table.
As I was better acquainted
with Humboldt
than any one there,
and he it was
who had particularly interested himself
about me,
I took my place
at his side.
Not only
on account
of his high intellectual character,
and his amiable
and polite behavior,
but also
from his infinite kindness
towards me,
during the whole
of my residence
in Berlin,
is he become unchangeably dear
to me.
, , , , ,
The King received me most graciously,
and said
that during his stay
in Copenhagen he had inquired after me,
and had heard
that I was travelling.
He expressed a great interest
in my novel
of Only a Fiddler;
her Majesty the Queen also showed herself graciously
and kindly disposed
towards me.
I had afterwards the happiness
of being invited
to spend an evening
at the palace
at Potsdam;
an evening
which is full
of rich remembrance
and never
to be forgotten!
Besides the ladies
and gentlemen
in waiting,
Humboldt
and myself were only invited.
A seat was assigned
to me
at the table
of their Majesties,
exactly the place,
said the Queen,
where Oehlenschl ger had sat
and read his tragedy
of Dina.
I read four little stories,
the Fir-Tree,
the Ugly Duckling,
the Ball
and the Top,
and The Swineherd.
The King listened
with great interest,
and expressed himself most wittily
on the subject.
He said,
how beautiful he thought the natural scenery
of Denmark,
and
how excellently he had seen one
of Holberg’s comedies performed.
, , , , ,
It was so deliciously pleasant
in the royal apartment,
--gentle eyes were gazing
at me,
and I felt
that they all wished me well.
When
at night I was alone
in my chamber,
my thoughts were so occupied
with this evening,
and my mind
in such a state
of excitement,
that I
could not sleep.
Everything seemed
to me
like a fairy tale.
Through the whole night the chimes sounded
in the tower,
and the aerial music mingled itself
with my thoughts.
, , , , ,
I received still one more proof
of the favor
and kindness
of the King
of Prussia
towards me,
on the evening
before my departure
from the city.
The order
of the Red Eagle,
of the third class,
was conferred upon me.
Such a mark
of honor delights certainly every one
who receives it.
I confess candidly
that I felt myself honored
in a high degree.
I discerned
in it an evident token
of the kindness
of the noble,
enlightened King
towards me:
my heart is filled
with gratitude.
I received this mark
of honor exactly
on the birth-day
of my benefactor Collin,
the 6th
of January;
this day has now a twofold festal significance
for me.
May God fill
with gladness the mind
of the royal donor
who wished
to give me pleasure!
The last evening was spent
in a warm-hearted circle,
for the greater part,
of young people.
My health was drunk;
a poem,
Der M rchenk÷nig,
declaimed.
It was not
until late
in the night
that I reached home,
that I might set off early
in the morning
by railroad.
, , , , ,
I have here given
in part a proof
of the favor
and kindness
which was shown
to me
in Berlin:
I feel
like some one
who has received a considerable sum
for a certain object
from a large assembly,
and now
would give an account thereof.
I might still add many other names,
as well
from the learned world,
as Theodor,
M gge,
Geibel,
H ring,
etc.,
as
from the social circle;
--the reckoning is too large.
God give me strength
for
that
which I now have
to perform,
after I have,
as an earnest
of good will,
received such a richly abundant sum.
, , , , ,
After a journey
of a day
and night I was once more
in Weimar,
with my noble Hereditary Grand Duke.
What a cordial reception!
A heart rich
in goodness,
and a mind full
of noble endeavors,
live
in this young prince.
I have no words
for the infinite favor,
which,
during my residence here,
I received daily
from the family
of the Grand Duke,
but my whole heart is full
of devotion.
At the court festival,
as well as
in the familiar family circle,
I had many evidences
of the esteem
in
which I was held.
Beaulieu cared
for me
with the tenderness
of a brother.
It was
to me a month-long Sabbath festival.
Never shall I forget the quiet evenings spent
with him,
when friend spoke freely
to friend.
, , , , ,
My old friends were also unchanged;
the wise
and able Sch÷ll,
as well
as Schober,
joined them also.
Jenny Lind came
to Weimar;
I heard her
at the court concerts and
at the theatre;
I visited
with her the places
which are become sacred
through Goethe
and Schiller:
we stood together beside their coffins,
where Chancellor von Muller led us.
The Austrian poet,
Rollet,
who met us here
for the first time,
wrote
on this subject a sweet poem,
which
will serve me
as a visible remembrance
of this hour
and this place.
People lay lovely flowers
in their books,
and
as such,
I lay
in here this verse
of his:
--
Weimar,
29th January,
1846.
, , , , ,
M rchen rose,
which has so often
Charmed me
with thy fragrant breath;
where the prince,
the poets slumber,
Thou hast wreathed the hall
of death.
, , , , ,
and
with thee beside each coffin,
in the death-hushed chamber pale,
I beheld a grief-enchanted,
Sweetly dreaming nightingale.
, , , , ,
I rejoiced amid the stillness;
Gladness
through my bosom past,
that the gloomy poets’ coffins
Such a magic crowned
at last.
, , , , ,
and thy rose’s summer fragrance
Floated round
that chamber pale,
with the gentle melancholy
of the grief-hushed nightingale.
, , , , ,
It was
in the evening circle
of the intellectual Froriep
that I met,
for the first time,
with Auerbach,
who
then chanced
to be staying
in Weimar.
His “Village Tales” interested me
in the highest degree;
I regard them
as the most poetical,
most healthy,
and joyous production
of the young German literature.
He himself made the same agreeable impression upon me;
there is something so frank
and straightforward,
and yet so sagacious,
in his whole appearance,
I might
almost say,
that he looks himself
like a village tale,
healthy
to the core,
body
and soul,
and his eyes beaming
with honesty.
We soon became friends
--and I hope forever.
, , , , ,
My stay
in Weimar was prolonged;
it became ever more difficult
to tear myself away.
The Grand Duke’s birth-day occurred
at this time,
and after attending all the festivities
to
which I was invited,
I departed.
I would
and must be
in Rome
at Easter.
Once more
in the early morning,
I saw the Hereditary Grand Duke,
and,
with a heart full
of emotion,
bade him farewell.
Never,
in presence
of the world,
will I forget the high position
which his birth gives him,
but I may say,
as the very poorest subject may say
of a prince,
I love him
as one
who is dearest
to my heart.
God give him joy
and bless him
in his noble endeavors!
A generous heart beats
beneath the princely star.
, , , , ,
Beaulieu accompanied me
to Jena.
Here a hospitable home awaited me,
and filled
with beautiful memories
from the time
of Goethe,
the house
of the publisher Frommann.
It was his kind,
warm-hearted sister,
who had shown me such sympathy
in Berlin;
the brother was not here less kind.
, , , , ,
The Holstener Michelsen,
who has a professorship
at Jena,
assembled a number
of friends one evening,
and
in a graceful
and cordial toast
for me,
expressed his sense
of the importance
of Danish literature,
and the healthy
and natural spirit
which flourished
in it.
, , , , ,
In Michelsen’s house I also became acquainted
with Professor Hase,
who,
one evening having heard some
of my little stories,
seemed filled
with great kindness
towards me.
What he wrote
in this moment
of interest
on an album leaf expresses this sentiment:
“Schelling
--not he
who now lives
in Berlin,
but he
who lives an immortal hero
in the world
of mind
--once said:
‘Nature is the visible spirit.’
This spirit,
this unseen nature,
last evening was again rendered visible
to me
through your little tales.
If
on the one hand you penetrate deeply
into the mysteries
of nature;
know
and understand the language
of birds,
and
what are the feelings
of a fir-tree
or a daisy,
so
that each seems
to be there
on its own account,
and we
and our children sympathize
with them
in their joys
and sorrows;
yet,
on the other hand,
all is
but the image
of mind;
and the human heart
in its infinity,
trembles
and throbs throughout.
May this fountain
in the poet’s heart,
which God has lent you,
still
for a time pour forth this refreshingly,
and may these stories
in the memories
of the Germanic nations,
become the legends
of the people!”
That object,
for which
as a writer
of poetical fictions,
I must strive after,
is contained
in these last lines.
, , , , ,
It is also
to Hase
and the gifted improvisatore,
Professor Wolff
of Jena,
to whom I am most indebted
for the appearance
of a uniform German edition
of my writings.
, , , , ,
This was all arranged
on my arrival
at Leipzig:
several hours
of business were added
to my traveller’s mode
of life.
The city
of bookselling presented me
with her bouquet,
a sum
of money;
but she presented me
with
even more.
I met again
with Brockhaus,
and passed happy hours
with Mendelssohn,
that glorious man
of genius.
I heard him play again
and again;
it seemed
to me
that his eyes,
full
of soul,
looked
into the very depths
of my being.
Few men have more the stamp
of the inward fire
than he.
A gentle,
friendly wife,
and beautiful children,
make his rich,
well-appointed house,
blessed
and pleasant.
When he rallied me
about the Stork,
and its frequent appearance
in my writings,
there was something so childlike
and amiable revealed
in this great artist!
I also met again my excellent countryman Gade,
whose compositions have been so well received
in Germany.
I took him the text
for a new opera
which I had written,
and
which I hope
to see brought out
on the German stage.
Gade had written the music
to my drama
of Agnete
and the Merman,
compositions
which were very successful.
Auerbach,
whom I again found here,
introduced me
to many agreeable circles.
I met
with the composer Kalliwoda,
and
with K hne,
whose charming little son immediately won my heart.
, , , , ,
On my arrival
at Dresden I instantly hastened
to my motherly friend,
the Baroness von Decken.
That was a joyous hearty welcome!
One equally cordial I met
with
from Dahl.
I saw once more my Roman friend,
the poet
with word
and color,
Reineck,
and met the kind-hearted Bendemann.
Professor Grahl painted me.
I missed,
however,
one
among my olden friends,
the poet Brunnow.
With life
and cordiality he received me the last time
in his room,
where stood lovely flowers;
now these grew
over his grave.
It awakens a peculiar feeling,
thus
for once
to meet
on the journey
of life,
to understand
and love each other,
and then
to part
--until the journey
for both is ended.
, , , , ,
I spent,
to me,
a highly interesting evening,
with the royal family,
who received me
with extraordinary favor.
Here also the most happy domestic life appeared
to reign
--a number
of amiable children,
all belonging
to Prince Johann,
were present.
The least
of the Princesses,
a little girl,
who knew
that I had written the history
of the Fir-tree,
began very confidentially with
--”Last Christmas we also had a Fir-tree,
and it stood here
in this room!”
Afterwards,
when she was led out
before the other children,
and had bade her parents
and the King
and Queen good night,
she turned round
at the half-closed door,
and nodding
to me
in a friendly
and familiar manner,
said I was her Fairy-tale Prince.
, , , , ,
My story
of Holger Danske led the conversation
to the rich stores
of legends
which the north possesses.
I related several,
and explained the peculiar spirit
of the fine scenery
of Denmark.
Neither
in this royal palace did I feel the weight
of ceremony;
soft,
gentle eyes shone upon me.
My last morning
in Dresden was spent
with the Minister von K÷nneritz,
where I equally met
with the most friendly reception.
, , , , ,
The sun shone warm:
it was spring
who was celebrating her arrival,
as I rolled out
of the dear city.
Thought assembled
in one amount all the many
who had rendered my visits so rich
and happy:
it was spring
around me,
and spring
in my heart.
, , , , ,
In Prague I had only one acquaintance,
Professor Wiesenfeldt.
But a letter
from Dr. Carus
in Dresden opened
to me the hospitable house
of Count Thun.
The Archduke Stephan received me also
in the most gracious manner;
I found
in him a young man full
of intellect
and heart.
Besides it was a very interesting point
of time
when I left Prague.
The military,
who had been stationed
there a number
of years,
were hastening
to the railway,
to leave
for Poland,
where disturbances had broken out.
The whole city seemed
in movement
to take leave
of its military friends;
it was difficult
to get
through the streets
which led
to the railway.
Many thousand soldiers were
to be accommodated;
at length the train was set
in motion.
All
around the whole hill-side was covered
with people;
it looked
like the richest Turkey carpet woven
of men,
women
and children,
all pressed together,
head
to head,
and waving hats
and handkerchiefs.
Such a mass
of human beings I never saw before,
or
at least,
never
at one moment surveyed them:
such a spectacle
could not be painted.
, , , , ,
We travelled the whole night
through wide Bohemia:
at every town stood groups
of people;
it was
as though all the inhabitants had assembled themselves.
Their brown faces,
their ragged clothes,
the light
of their torches,
their,
to me,
unintelligible language,
gave
to the whole a stamp
of singularity.
We flew
through tunnel
and
over viaduct;
the windows rattled,
the signal whistle sounded,
the steam horses snorted
--I laid back my head
at last
in the carriage,
and fell asleep
under the protection
of the god Morpheus.
, , , , ,
At Olm tz,
where we had fresh carnages,
a voice spoke my name
--it was Walter Goethe!
We had travelled together the whole night without knowing it.
In Vienna we met often.
Noble powers,
true genius,
live
in Goethe’s grandsons,
in the composer
as well as
in the poet;
but it is
as
if the greatness
of their grandfather pressed upon them.
Liszt was
in Vienna,
and invited me
to his concert,
in
which otherwise it
would have been impossible
to find a place.
I again heard his improvising
of Robert!
I again heard him,
like a spirit
of the storm,
play
with the chords:
he is an enchanter
of sounds
who fills the imagination
with astonishment.
Ernst also was here;
when I visited him he seized the violin,
and this sang
in tears the secret
of a human heart.
, , , , ,
I saw the amiable Grillparzer again,
and was frequently
with the kindly Castelli,
who just
at this time had been made
by the King
of Denmark Knight
of the Danebrog Order.
He was full
of joy
at this,
and begged me
to tell my countrymen
that every Dane
should receive a hearty welcome
from him.
Some future summer he invited me
to visit his grand country seat.
There is something
in Castelli so open
and honorable,
mingled
with such good-natured humor,
that one must
like him:
he appears
to me the picture
of a thorough Viennese.
Under his portrait,
which he gave me,
he wrote the following little improvised verse
in the style so peculiarly his own:
This portrait shall ever
with loving eyes greet thee,
from far shall recall the smile
of thy friend;
for thou,
dearest Dane,
‘tis a pleasure
to meet thee,
Thou art one
to be loved
and esteemed
to the end.
, , , , ,
Castelli introduced me
to Seidl
and Bauernfeld.
At the Danisti ambassador’s,
Baron von L÷wenstern,
I met Zedlitz.
Most
of the shining stars
of Austrian literature I saw glide past me,
as people
on a railway see church towers;
you
can still say you have seen them;
and still retaining the simile
of the stars,
I
can say,
that
in the Concordia Society I saw the entire galaxy.
Here was a host
of young growing intellects,
and here were men
of importance.
At the house
of Count Szechenye,
who hospitably invited me,
I saw his brother
from Pest,
whose noble activity
in Hungary is known.
This short meeting I account one
of the most interesting events
of my stay
in Vienna;
the man revealed himself
in all his individuality,
and his eye said
that you must feel confidence
in him.
, , , , ,
At my departure
from Dresden her Majesty the Queen
of Saxony had asked me whether I had introductions
to any one
at the Court
of Vienna,
and
when I told her
that I had not,
the Queen was so gracious as
to write a letter
to her sister,
the Archduchess Sophia
of Austria.
Her imperial Highness summoned me one evening,
and received me
in the most gracious manner.
The dowager Empress,
the widow
of the Emperor Francis I.,
was present,
and full
of kindness
and friendship
towards me;
also Prince Wasa,
and the hereditary Archduchess
of Hesse-Darmstadt.
The remembrance
of this evening
will always remain dear
and interesting
to me.
I read several
of my little stories aloud
--when I wrote them,
I thought least
of all
that I
should some day read them aloud
in the imperial palace.
, , , , ,
Before my departure I had still another visit
to make,
and this was
to the intellectual authoress,
Frau von Weissenthurn.
She had just left a bed
of sickness
and was still suffering,
but wished
to see me.
As though she were already standing
on the threshold
of the realm
of shades,
she pressed my hand
and said this was the last time we
should ever see each other.
With a soft motherly gaze she looked
at me,
and
at parting her penetrating eye followed me
to the door.
, , , , ,
With railway
and diligence my route now led
towards Triest.
With steam the long train
of carriages flies
along the narrow rocky way,
following all the windings
of the river.
One wonders that
with all these abrupt turnings one is not dashed
against the rock,
or flung down
into the roaring stream,
and is glad
when the journey is happily accomplished.
But
in the slow diligence one wishes its more rapid journey might recommence,
and praise the powers
of the age.
, , , , ,
At length Triest
and the Adriatic sea lay
before us;
the Italian language sounded
in our ears,
but yet
for me it was not Italy,
the land
of my desire.
Meanwhile I was only a stranger here
for a few hours;
our Danish consul,
as well
as the consuls
of Prussia
and Oldenburg,
to whom I was recommended,
received me
in the best possible manner.
Several interesting acquaintances were made,
especially
with the Counts O’Donnell
and Waldstein,
the latter
for me
as a Dane having a peculiar interest,
as being the descendant
of
that unfortunate Confitz Ulfeld
and the daughter
of Christian IV.,
Eleanore,
the noblest
of all Danish women.
Their portraits hung
in his room,
and Danish memorials
of
that period were shown me.
It was the first time I had ever seen Eleanore Ulfeld’s portrait,
and the melancholy smile
on her lips seemed
to say,
“Poet,
sing
and free
from chains
which a hard age had cast upon him,
for whom
to live and
to suffer was my happiness!”
Before Oehlenschl ger wrote his Dina,
which treats
of an episode
in Ulfeld’s life,
I was
at work
on this subject,
and wished
to bring it
on the stage,
but it was
then feared this
would not be allowed,
and I gave it up
--since
then I have only written four lines
on Ulfeld:
--
Thy virtue was concealed,
not so thy failings,
Thus did the world thy greatness never know,
Yet still love’s glorious monument proclaims it,
that the best wife
from thee
would never go.
, , , , ,
On the Adriatic sea I,
in thought,
was carried back
to Ulfeld’s time
and the Danish islands.
This meeting
with Count Waldstein
and his ancestor’s portrait brought me back
to my poet’s world,
and I
almost forgot
that the following day I
could be
in the middle
of Italy.
In beautiful mild weather I went
with the steam-boat
to Ancona.
, , , , ,
It was a quiet starlight night,
too beautiful
to be spent
in sleep.
In the early morning the coast
of Italy lay
before us,
the beautiful blue mountains
with glittering snow.
The sun shone warmly,
the grass
and the trees were so splendidly green.
Last evening
in Trieste,
now
in Ancona,
in a city
of the papal states,
--that was almost
like enchantment!
Italy
in all its picturesque splendor lay once more
before me;
spring had ripened all the fruit trees so
that they had burst forth
into blossom;
every blade
of grass
in the field was filled
with sunshine,
the elm trees stood
like caryatides enwreathed
with vines,
which shot forth green leaves,
and
above the luxuriance
of foliage rose the wavelike blue mountains
with their snow covering.
In company
with Count Paar
from Vienna,
the most excellent travelling companion,
and a young nobleman
from Hungary,
I now travelled
on
with a vetturino
for five days:
solitary,
and more picturesque
than habitable inns
among the Apennines were our night’s quarters.
At length the Campagna,
with its thought-awakening desolation,
lay
before us.
, , , , ,
It was the 31st
of March,
1846,
when I again saw Rome,
and
for the third time
in my life
should reach this city
of the world.
I felt so happy,
so penetrated
with thankfulness
and joy;
how much more God had given me
than a thousand others
--nay,
than
to many thousands!
And even
in this very feeling
there is a blessing
--where joy is very great,
as
in the deepest grief,
there is only God
on whom one
can lean!
The first impression was
--I
can find no other word
for it
--adoration.
When day unrolled
for me my beloved Rome,
I felt
what I cannot express more briefly
or better
than I did
in a letter
to a friend:
“I am growing here
into the very ruins,
I live
with the petrified gods,
and the roses are always blooming,
and the church bells ringing
--and yet Rome is not the Rome it was thirteen years ago
when I first was here.
It is
as
if everything were modernized,
the ruins even,
grass
and bushes are cleared away.
Everything is made so neat;
the very life
of the people seems
to have retired;
I no longer hear the tamborines
in the streets,
no longer see the young girls dancing their Saltarella,
even
in the Campagna intelligence has entered
by invisible railroads;
the peasant no longer believes
as he used
to do.
At the Easter festival I saw great numbers
of the people
from the Campagna standing
before St. Peters whilst the Pope distributed his blessing,
just
as though they had been Protestant strangers.
This was repulsive
to my feelings,
I felt an impulse
to kneel
before the invisible saint.
When I was here thirteen years ago,
all knelt;
now reason had conquered faith.
Ten years later,
when the railways
will have brought cities still nearer
to each other,
Rome
will be yet more changed.
But
in all
that happens,
everything is
for the best;
one always must love Rome;
it is
like a story book,
one is always discovering new wonders,
and one lives
in imagination
and reality.”
, , , , ,
The first time I travelled
to Italy I had no eyes
for sculpture;
in Paris the rich pictures drew me away
from the statues;
for the first time
when I came
to Florence
and stood
before the Venus de Medicis,
I felt
as Thorwaldsen expressed,
“the snow melted away
from my eyes;”
and a new world
of art rose
before me.
And now
at my third sojourn
in Rome,
after repeated wanderings
through the Vatican,
I prize the statues far higher
than the paintings.
But
at
what other places
as
at Rome,
and
to some degree
in Naples,
does this art step forth so grandly
into life!
One is carried away
by it,
one learns
to admire nature
in the work
of art,
the beauty
of form becomes spiritual.
, , , , ,
Among the many clever
and beautiful things
which I saw exhibited
in the studios
of the young artists,
two pieces
of sculpture were
what most deeply impressed themselves
on my memory;
and these were
in the studio
of my countryman Jerichau.
I saw his group
of Hercules
and Hebe,
which had been spoken
of
with such enthusiasm
in the Allgemeine Zeitung
and other German papers,
and which,
through its antique repose,
and its glorious beauty,
powerfully seized upon me.
My imagination was filled
by it,
and yet I must place Jerichau’s later group,
the Fighting Hunter,
still higher.
It is formed after the model,
as though it had sprung
from nature.
There lies
in it a truth,
a beauty,
and a grandeur
which I am convinced
will make his name resound
through many lands!
I have known him
from the time
when he was
almost a boy.
We were both
of us born
on the same island:
he is
from the little town
of Assens.
We met
in Copenhagen.
No one,
not
even he himself,
knew
what lay within him;
and half
in jest,
half
in earnest,
he spoke
of the combat
with himself whether he
should go
to America
and become a savage,
or
to Rome
and become an artist
--painter
or sculptor;
that he did not yet know.
His pencil was meanwhile thrown away:
he modelled
in clay,
and my bust was the first
which he made.
He received no travelling stipendium
from the Academy.
As far
as I know,
it was a noble-minded woman,
an artist herself,
unprovided
with means,
who,
from the interest she felt
for the spark
of genius she observed
in him,
assisted him so far
that he reached Italy
by means
of a trading vessel.
In the beginning he worked
in Thorwaldsen’s atelier.
During a journey
of several years,
he has doubtless experienced the struggles
of genius
and the galling fetters
of want;
but now the star
of fortune shines upon him.
When I came
to Rome,
I found him physically suffering
and melancholy.
He was unable
to bear the warm summers
of Italy;
and many people said he
could not recover
unless he visited the north,
breathed the cooler air,
and took sea-baths.
His praises resounded
through the papers,
glorious works stood
in his atelier;
but man does not live
on heavenly bread alone.
There came one day a Russian Prince,
I believe,
and he gave a commission
for the Hunter.
Two other commissions followed
on the same day.
Jerichau came full
of rejoicing
and told this
to me.
A few days after he travelled
with his wife,
a highly gifted painter,
to Denmark,
from whence,
strengthened body
and soul,
he returned,
with the winter,
to Rome,
where the strokes
of his chisel
will resound so that,
I hope,
the world
will hear them.
My heart
will beat joyfully
with them!
I also met
in Rome,
Kolberg,
another Danish sculptor,
until now only known
in Denmark,
but
there very highly thought of,
a scholar
of Thorwaldsen’s
and a favorite
of
that great master.
He honored me
by making my bust.
I also sat once more
with the kindly K chler,
and saw the forms fresh
as nature spread themselves
over the canvas.
, , , , ,
I sat once again
with the Roman people
in the amusing puppet theatre,
and heard the children’s merriment.
Among the German artists,
as well
as
among the Swedes
and my own countrymen,
I met
with a hearty reception.
My birth-day was joyfully celebrated.
Frau von Goethe,
who was
in Rome,
and
who chanced
to be living
in the very house
where I brought my Improvisatore
into the world,
and made him spend his first years
of childhood,
sent me
from thence a large,
true Roman bouquet,
a fragrant mosaic.
The Swedish painter,
S÷dermark,
proposed my health
to the company whom the Danes,
Swedes,
and Norwegians had invited me
to meet.
From my friends I received some pretty pictures
and friendly keepsakes.
, , , , ,
The Hanoverian minister,
K stner,
to whose friendship I am indebted
for many pleasant hours,
is an extremely agreeable man,
possessed
of no small talent
for poetry,
music,
and painting.
At his house I really saw
for the first time flower-painting elevated
by a poetical idea.
In one
of his rooms he has introduced an arabesque
of flowers
which presents us
with the flora
of the whole year.
It commences
with the first spring flowers,
the crocus,
the snow drop,
and so on;
then come the summer flowers,
then the autumn,
and
at length the garland ends
with the red berries
and yellow-brown leaves
of December.
, , , , ,
Constantly
in motion,
always striving
to employ every moment and
to see everything,
I felt myself
at last very much affected
by the unceasing sirocco.
The Roman air did not agree
with me,
and I hastened,
therefore,
as soon
as I had seen the illumination
of the dome
and the girandola,
immediately after the Easter festival,
through Terracina
to Naples.
Count Paar travelled
with me.
We entered St. Lucia:
the sea lay
before us;
Vesuvius blazed.
Those were glorious evenings!
moonlight nights!
It was
as
if the heavens had elevated themselves above
and the stars were withdrawn.
What effect
of light!
In the north the moon scatters silver
over the water:
here it was gold.
The circulating lanterns
of the lighthouse now exhibited their dazzling light,
now were totally extinguished.
The torches
of the fishing-boats threw their obelisk-formed blaze
along the surface
of the water,
or else the boat concealed them
like a black shadow,
below
which the surface
of the water was illuminated.
One fancied one
could see
to the bottom,
where fishes
and plants were
in motion.
Along the street itself thousands
of lights were burning
in the shops
of the dealers
in fruit
and fish.
Now came a troop
of children
with lights,
and went
in procession
to the church
of St. Lucia.
Many fell down
with their lights;
but
above the whole stood,
like the hero
of this great drama
of light,
Vesuvius
with his blood-red flame
and his illumined cloud
of smoke.
, , , , ,
I visited the islands
of Capri
and Ischia once more;
and,
as the heat
of the sun
and the strong sirocco made a longer residence
in Naples oppressive
to me,
I went
to Sarrento,
Tasso’s city,
where the foliage
of the vine cast a shade,
and
where the air appears
to me lighter.
Here I wrote these pages.
In Rome,
by the bay
of Naples
and amid the Pyrenees,
I put
on paper the story
of my life.
, , , , ,
The well-known festival
of the Madonna dell’ Arco called me again
to Naples,
where I took up my quarters
at an hotel
in the middle
of the city,
near the Toledo Street,
and found an excellent host
and hostess.
I had already resided here,
but only
in the winter.
I had now
to see Naples
in its summer heat
and
with all its wild tumult,
but
in
what degree I had never imagined.
The sun shone down
with its burning heat
into the narrow streets,
in
at the balcony door.
It was necessary
to shut up every place:
not a breath
of air stirred.
Every little corner,
every spot
in the street
on
which a shadow fell was crowded
with working handicraftsmen,
who chattered loudly
and merrily;
the carriages rolled past;
the drivers screamed;
the tumult
of the people roared
like a sea
in the other streets;
the church bells sounded every minute;
my opposite neighbor,
God knows
who he was,
played the musical scale
from morning
till evening.
It was enough
to make one lose one’s senses!
The sirocco blew its boiling-hot breath
and I was perfectly overcome.
There was not another room
to be had
at St. Lucia,
and the sea-bathing seemed rather
to weaken than
to invigorate me.
I went therefore again
into the country;
but the sun burned there
with the same beams;
yet still the air
there was more elastic,
yet
for all
that it was
to me
like the poisoned mantle
of Hercules,
which,
as it were,
drew out
of me strength
and spirit.
I,
who had fancied
that I must be precisely a child
of the sun,
so firmly did my heart always cling
to the south,
was forced
to acknowledge
that the snow
of the north was
in my body,
that the snow melted,
and
that I was more
and more miserable.
, , , , ,
Most strangers felt
as I myself did
in this,
as the Neapolitans themselves said,
unusually hot summer;
the greater number went away.
I also
would have done the same,
but I was obliged
to wait several days
for a letter
of credit;
it had arrived
at the right time,
but lay forgotten
in the hands
of my banker.
Yet
there was a deal
for me
to see
in Naples;
many houses were open
to me.
I tried whether the
will were not stronger
than the Neapolitan heat,
but I fell
into such a nervous state
in consequence,
that
till the time
of my departure I was obliged
to lie quietly
in my hot room,
where the night brought no coolness.
From the morning twilight
to midnight roared the noise
of bells,
the cry
of the people,
the trampling
of horses
on the stone pavement,
and the before-mentioned practiser
of the scale
--it was
like being
on the rack;
and this caused me
to give up my journey
to Spain,
especially
as I was assured,
for my consolation,
that I
should find it just
as warm there
as here.
The physician said that,
at this season
of the year,
I
could not sustain the journey.
, , , , ,
I took a berth
in the steam-boat Castor
for Marseilles;
the vessel was full
to overflowing
with passengers;
the whole quarter-deck,
even the best place,
was occupied
by travelling carriages;
under one
of these I had my bed laid;
many people followed my example,
and the quarter-deck was soon covered
with mattresses
and carpets.
It blew strongly;
the wind increased,
and
in the second
and third night raged
to a perfect storm;
the ship rolled
from side
to side
like a cask
in the open sea;
the waves dashed
on the ship’s side
and lifted up their broad heads
above the bulwarks
as
if they
would look
in upon us.
It was
as
if the carriages under
which we lay
would crush us
to pieces,
or else
would be washed away
by the sea.
There was a lamentation,
but I lay quiet,
looked up
at the driving clouds,
and thought upon God
and my beloved.
When
at length we reached Genoa most
of the passengers went
on land:
I
should have been willing enough
to have followed their example,
that I might go
by Milan
to Switzerland,
but my letter
of credit was drawn upon Marseilles
and some Spanish sea-ports.
I was obliged
to go again
on board.
The sea was calm;
the air fresh;
it was the most glorious voyage
along the charming Sardinian coast.
Full
of strength
and new life I arrived
at Marseilles,
and,
as I here breathed more easily,
my longing
to see Spain was again renewed.
I had laid the plan
of seeing this country last,
as the bouquet
of my journey.
In the suffering state
in
which I had been I was obliged
to give it up,
but I was now better.
I regarded it therefore
as a pointing
of the finger
of heaven
that I
should be compelled
to go
to Marseilles,
and determined
to venture upon the journey.
The steam-vessel
to Barcelona had,
in the meantime,
just sailed,
and several days must pass
before another set out.
I determined therefore
to travel
by short days’ journeys
through the south
of France
across the Pyrenees.
, , , , ,
Before leaving Marseilles,
chance favored me
with a short meeting
with one
of my friends
from the North,
and this was Ole Bull!
He came
from America,
and was received
in France
with jubilees
and serenades,
of
which I was myself a witness.
At the table d’h te
in the H tel des Empereurs,
where we both lodged,
we flew
towards each other.
He told me
what I
should have expected least
of all,
that my works had also many friends
in America,
that people had inquired
from him
about me
with the greatest interest,
and
that the English translations
of my romances had been reprinted,
and spread
through the whole country
in cheap editions.
My name flown
over the great ocean!
I felt myself
at this thought quite insignificant,
but yet glad
and happy;
wherefore
should I,
in preference
to so many thousand others,
receive such happiness?
, , , , ,
I had
and still have a feeling
as though I were a poor peasant lad
over whom a royal mantle is thrown.
Yet I was
and am made happy
by all this!
Is this vanity,
or does it show itself
in these expressions
of my joy?
, , , , ,
Ole Bull went
to Algiers,
I
towards the Pyrenees.
Through Provence,
which looked
to me quite Danish,
I reached Nismes,
where the grandeur
of the splendid Roman amphitheatre
at once carried me back
to Italy.
The memorials
of antiquity
in the south
of France I have never heard praised
as their greatness
and number deserve;
the so-called Maison Quar e is still standing
in all its splendor,
like the Theseus Temple
at Athens:
Rome has nothing so well preserved.
, , , , ,
In Nismes dwells the baker Reboul,
who writes the most charming poems:
whoever may not chance
to know him
from these is,
however,
well acquainted
with him
through Lamartine’s Journey
to the East.
I found him
at the house,
stepped
into the bakehouse,
and addressed myself
to a man
in shirt sleeves
who was putting bread
into the oven;
it was Reboul himself!
A noble countenance
which expressed a manly character greeted me.
When I mentioned my name,
he was courteous enough
to say he was acquainted
with it
through the Revue de Paris,
and begged me
to visit him
in the afternoon,
when he
should be able
to entertain me better.
When I came again I found him
in a little room
which might be called
almost elegant,
adorned
with pictures,
casts
and books,
not alone French literature,
but translations
of the Greek classics.
A picture
on the wall represented his most celebrated poem,
“The Dying Child,”
from Marmier’s Chansons du Nord.
He knew I had treated the same subject,
and I told him
that this was written
in my school days.
If
in the morning I had found him the industrious baker,
he now was the poet completely;
he spoke
with animation
of the literature
of his country,
and expressed a wish
to see the north,
the scenery
and intellectual life
of
which seemed
to interest him.
With great respect I took leave
of a man whom the Muses have not meanly endowed,
and
who yet has good sense enough,
spite
of all the homage paid him,
to remain steadfast
to his honest business,
and prefer being the most remarkable baker
of Nismes
to losing himself
in Paris,
after a short triumph,
among hundreds
of other poets.
, , , , ,
By railway I now travelled
by way
of Montpelier
to Cette,
with
that rapidity
which a train possesses
in France;
you fly there
as though
for a wager
with the wild huntsman.
I involuntarily remembered that
at Basle,
at the corner
of a street
where formerly the celebrated Dance
of Death was painted,
there is written up
in large letters “Dance
of Death,”
and
on the opposite corner “Way
to the Railroad.”
This singular juxtaposition just
at the frontiers
of France,
gives play
to the fancy;
in this rushing flight it came
into my thoughts;
it seemed
as though the steam whistle gave the signal
to the dance.
On German railways one does not have such wild fancies.
, , , , ,
The islander loves the sea
as the mountaineer loves his mountains!
Every sea-port town,
however small it may be,
receives
in my eyes a peculiar charm
from the sea.
Was it the sea,
in connexion perhaps
with the Danish tongue,
which sounded
in my ears
in two houses
in Cette,
that made this town so homelike
to me?
I know not,
but I felt more
in Denmark than
in the south
of France.
When far
from your country you enter a house
where all,
from the master
and mistress
to the servants,
speak your own language,
as was here the case,
these home tones have a real power
of enchantment:
like the mantle
of Faust,
in a moment they transport you,
house
and all,
into your own land.
Here,
however,
there was no northern summer,
but the hot sun
of Naples;
it might
even have burnt Faust’s cap.
The sun’s rays destroyed all strength.
For many years
there had not been such a summer,
even here;
and
from the country round
about arrived accounts
of people
who had died
from the heat:
the very nights were hot.
I was told beforehand I
should be unable
to bear the journey
in Spain.
I felt this myself,
but
then Spain was
to be the bouquet
of my journey.
I already saw the Pyrenees;
the blue mountains enticed me
--and one morning early I found myself
on the steam-boat.
The sun rose higher;
it burnt above,
it burnt
from the expanse
of waters,
myriads
of jelly-like medusas filled the river;
it was
as though the sun’s rays had changed the whole sea
into a heaving world
of animal life;
I had never
before seen anything
like it.
In the Languedoc canal we had all
to get
into a large boat
which had been constructed more
for goods than
for passengers.
The deck was coveted
with boxes
and trunks,
and these again occupied
by people
who sought shade
under umbrellas.
It was impossible
to move;
no railing surrounded this pile
of boxes
and people,
which was drawn along
by three
or four horses attached
by long ropes.
Beneath
in the cabins it was
as crowded;
people sat close
to each other,
like flies
in a cup
of sugar.
A lady
who had fainted
from the heat
and tobacco smoke,
was carried
in
and laid upon the only unoccupied spot
on the floor;
she was brought here
for air,
but here
there was none,
spite
of the number
of fans
in motion;
there were no refreshments
to be had,
not
even a drink
of water,
except the warm,
yellow water
which the canal afforded.
Over the cabin windows hung booted legs,
which
at the same time
that they deprived the cabin
of light,
seemed
to give a substance
to the oppressive air.
Shut up
in this place one had also the torment
of being forced
to listen
to a man
who was always trying
to say something witty;
the stream
of words played
about his lips
as the canal water
about the boat.
I made myself a way
through boxes,
people,
and umbrellas,
and stood
in a boiling hot air;
on either side the prospect was eternally the same,
green grass,
a green tree,
flood-gates
--green grass,
a green tree,
flood-gates
--and
then again the same;
it was enough
to drive one insane.
, , , , ,
At the distance
of a half-hour’s journey
from Beziers we were put
on land;
I felt
almost ready
to faint,
and
there was no carriage here,
for the omnibus had not expected us so early;
the sun burnt infernally.
People say the south
of France is a portion
of Paradise;
under the present circumstances it seemed
to me a portion
of hell
with all its heat.
In Beziers the diligence was waiting,
but all the best places were already taken;
and I here
for the first,
and I hope
for the last time,
got
into the hinder part
of such a conveyance.
An ugly woman
in slippers,
and
with a head-dress a yard high,
which she hung up,
took her seat beside me;
and now came a singing sailor
who had certainly drunk too many healths;
then a couple
of dirty fellows,
whose first manoeuvre was
to pull off their boots
and coats
and sit upon them,
hot
and dirty,
whilst the thick clouds
of dust whirled
into the vehicle,
and the sun burnt
and blinded me.
It was impossible
to endure this farther
than Narbonne;
sick
and suffering,
I sought rest,
but
then came gensdarmes
and demanded my passport,
and
then just
as night began,
a fire must needs break out
in the neighboring village;
the fire alarm resounded,
the fire-engines rolled along,
it was just
as though all manner
of tormenting spirits were let loose.
From here
as far
as the Pyrenees
there followed repeated demands
for your passport,
so wearisome
that you know nothing
like it even
in Italy:
they gave you
as a reason,
the nearness
to the Spanish frontiers,
the number
of fugitives
from thence,
and several murders
which had taken place
in the neighborhood:
all conduced
to make the journey
in my
then state
of health a real torment.
, , , , ,
I reached Perpignan.
The sun had here also swept the streets
of people,
it was only
when night came
that they came forth,
but
then it was
like a roaring stream,
as though a real tumult were about
to destroy the town.
The human crowd moved
in waves
beneath my windows,
a loud shout resounded;
it pierced
through my sick frame.
What was that?
--what did it mean?
“Good evening,
Mr. Arago!”
resounded
from the strongest voices,
thousands repeated it,
and music sounded;
it was the celebrated Arago,
who was staying
in the room next
to mine:
the people gave him a serenade.
Now this was the third I had witnessed
on my journey.
Arago addressed them
from the balcony,
the shouts
of the people filled the streets.
There are few evenings
in my life
when I have felt so ill as
on this one,
the tumult went
through my nerves;
the beautiful singing
which followed
could not refresh me.
Ill
as I was,
I gave up every thought
of travelling
into Spain;
I felt it
would be impossible
for me.
Ah,
if I
could only recover strength enough
to reach Switzerland!
I was filled
with horror
at the idea
of the journey back.
I was advised
to hasten
as quickly
as possible
to the Pyrenees,
and
there breathe the strengthening mountain air:
the baths
of Vernet were recommended
as cool
and excellent,
and I had a letter
of introduction
to the head
of the establishment there.
After an exhausting journey
of a night
and some hours
in the morning,
I have reached this place,
from whence I sent these last sheets.
The air is so cool,
so strengthening,
such
as I have not breathed
for months.
A few days here have entirely restored me,
my pen flies again
over the paper,
and my thoughts towards
that wonderful Spain.
I stand
like Moses
and see the land
before me,
yet may not tread upon it.
But
if God so wills it,
I will
at some future time
in the winter fly
from the north hither
into this rich beautiful land,
from
which the sun
with his sword
of flame now holds me back.
, , , , ,
Vernet
as yet is not one
of the well-known bathing places,
although it possesses the peculiarity
of being visited all the year round.
The most celebrated visitor last winter was Ibrahim Pacha;
his name still lives
on the lips
of the hostess
and waiter
as the greatest glory
of the establishment;
his rooms were shown first
as a curiosity.
Among the anecdotes current
about him is the story
of his two French words,
merci
and tr s bien,
which he pronounced
in a perfectly wrong manner.
, , , , ,
In every respect,
Vernet
among baths is
as yet
in a state
of innocence;
it is only
in point
of great bills
that the Commandant has been able
to raise it
on a level
with the first
in Europe.
As
for the rest,
you live here
in a solitude,
and separated
from the world as
in no other bathing place:
for the amusement
of the guests nothing
in the least has been done;
this must be sought
in wanderings
on foot or
on donkey-back
among the mountains;
but here all is so peculiar
and full
of variety,
that the want
of artificial pleasures is the less felt.
It is here
as though the most opposite natural productions had been mingled together,
--northern
and southern,
mountain
and valley vegetation.
From one point you
will look
over vineyards,
and up
to a mountain
which appears a sample card
of corn fields
and green meadows,
where the hay stands
in cocks;
from another you
will only see the naked,
metallic rocks
with strange crags jutting forth
from them,
long
and narrow
as though they were broken statues
or pillars;
now you walk
under poplar trees,
through small meadows,
where the balm-mint grows,
as thoroughly Danish a production
as though it were cut out
of Zealand;
now you stand
under shelter
of the rock,
where cypresses
and figs spring forth
among vine leaves,
and see a piece
of Italy.
But the soul
of the whole,
the pulses
which beat audibly
in millions
through the mountain chain,
are the springs.
There is a life,
a babbling
in the ever-rushing waters!
It springs forth everywhere,
murmurs
in the moss,
rushes
over the great stones.
There is a movement,
a life
which it is impossible
for words
to give;
you hear a constant rushing chorus
of a million strings;
above
and below you,
and all around,
you hear the babbling
of the river nymphs.
, , , , ,
High
on the cliff,
at the edge
of a steep precipice,
lie the remains
of a Moorish castle;
the clouds hang
where hung the balcony;
the path along
which the ass now goes,
leads
through the hall.
From here you
can enjoy the view
over the whole valley,
which,
long
and narrow,
seems
like a river
of trees,
which winds
among the red scorched rocks;
and
in the middle
of this green valley rises terrace-like
on a hill,
the little town
of Vernet,
which only wants minarets
to look
like a Bulgarian town.
A miserable church
with two long holes
as windows,
and close
to it a ruined tower,
form the upper portion,
then come the dark brown roofs,
and the dirty grey houses
with opened shutters instead
of windows
--but picturesque it certainly is.
, , , , ,
But
if you enter the town itself
--where the apothecary’s shop is,
is also the bookseller’s
--poverty is the only impression.
Almost all the houses are built
of unhewn stones,
piled one upon another,
and two
or three gloomy holes form door
and windows through
which the swallows fly out
and in.
Wherever I entered,
I saw
through the worn floor
of the first story down
into a chaotic gloom beneath.
On the wall hangs generally a bit
of fat meat
with the hairy skin attached;
it was explained
to me
that this was used
to rub their shoes with.
The sleeping-room is painted
in the most glaring manner
with saints,
angels,
garlands,
and crowns al fresco,
as
if done
when the art
of painting was
in its greatest state
of imperfection.
, , , , ,
The people are unusually ugly;
the very children are real gnomes;
the expression
of childhood does not soften the clumsy features.
But a few hours’ journey
on the other side
of the mountains,
on the Spanish side,
there blooms beauty,
there flash merry brown eyes.
The only poetical picture I retain
of Vernet was this.
In the market-place,
under a splendidly large tree,
a wandering pedlar had spread out all his wares,
--handkerchiefs,
books
and pictures,
--a whole bazaar,
but the earth was his table;
all the ugly children
of the town,
burnt through
by the sun,
stood assembled round these splendid things;
several old women looked out
from their open shops;
on horses
and asses the visitors
to the bath,
ladies
and gentlemen,
rode by
in long procession,
whilst two little children,
half hid
behind a heap
of planks;
played
at being cocks,
and shouted all the time,
“kekkeriki!”
Far more
of a town,
habitable
and well-appointed,
is the garrison town
of Villefranche,
with its castle
of the age
of Louis XIV.,
which lies a few hours’ journey
from this place.
The road
by Olette
to Spain passes
through it,
and
there is also some business;
many houses attract your eye
by their beautiful Moorish windows carved
in marble.
The church is built half
in the Moorish style,
the altars are such
as are seen
in Spanish churches,
and the Virgin stands there
with the Child,
all dressed
in gold
and silver.
I visited Villefranche one
of the first days
of my sojourn here;
all the visitors made the excursion
with me,
to
which end all the horses
and asses far
and near were brought together;
horses were put
into the Commandant’s venerable coach,
and it was occupied
by people within
and without,
just
as though it had been a French public vehicle.
A most amiable Holsteiner,
the best rider
of the company,
the well-known painter Dauzats,
a friend
of Alexander Dumas’s,
led the train.
The forts,
the barracks,
and the caves were seen;
the little town
of Cornelia also,
with its interesting church,
was not passed over.
Everywhere were found traces
of the power
and art
of the Moors;
everything
in this neighborhood speaks more
of Spain
than France,
the very language wavers
between the two.
, , , , ,
And here
in this fresh mountain nature,
on the frontiers
of a land whose beauty
and defects I am not yet
to become acquainted with,
I
will close these pages,
which
will make
in my life a frontier
to coming years,
with their beauty
and defects.
Before I leave the Pyrenees these written pages
will fly
to Germany,
a great section
of my life;
I myself shall follow,
and a new
and unknown section
will begin.
--What may it unfold?
--I know not,
but thankfully,
hopefully,
I look forward.
My whole life,
the bright
as well
as the gloomy days,
led
to the best.
It is
like a voyage
to some known point,
--I stand
at the rudder,
I have chosen my path,
--but God rules the storm
and the sea.
He may direct it otherwise;
and then,
happen
what may,
it
will be the best
for me.
This faith is firmly planted
in my breast,
and makes me happy.
, , , , ,
The story
of my life,
up
to the present hour,
lies unrolled
before me,
so rich
and beautiful
that I
could not have invented it.
I feel
that I am a child
of good fortune;
almost every one meets me full
of love
and candor,
and seldom has my confidence
in human nature been deceived.
From the prince
to the poorest peasant I have felt the noble human heart beat.
It is a joy
to live and
to believe
in God
and man.
Openly
and full
of confidence,
as
if I sat
among dear friends,
I have here related the story
of my life,
have spoken both
of my sorrows
and joys,
and have expressed my pleasure
at each mark
of applause
and recognition,
as I believe I might
even express it
before God himself.
But then,
whether this may be vanity?
I know not:
my heart was affected
and humble
at the same time,
my thought was gratitude
to God.
That I have related it is not alone
because such a biographical sketch
as this was desired
from me
for the collected edition
of my works,
but because,
as has been already said,
the history
of my life
will be the best commentary
to all my works.
, , , , ,
In a few days I shall say farewell
to the Pyrenees,
and return
through Switzerland
to dear,
kind Germany,
where so much joy has flowed
into my life,
where I possess so many sympathizing friends,
where my writings have been so kindly
and encouragingly received,
and
where also these sheets
will be gently criticized,
When the Christmas-tree is lighted,
--when,
as people say,
the white bees swarm,
--I shall be,
God willing,
again
in Denmark
with my dear ones,
my heart filled
with the flowers
of travel,
and strengthened both
in body
and mind:
then
will new works grow upon paper;
may God lay his blessing upon them!
He
will do so.
A star
of good fortune shines upon me;
there are thousands
who deserve it far more
than I;
I often myself cannot conceive
why I,
in preference
to numberless others,
should receive so much joy:
may it continue
to shine!
But
should it set,
perhaps whilst I conclude these lines,
still it has shone,
I have received my rich portion;
let it set!
From this also the best
will spring.
To God
and men my thanks,
my love!
Vernet
(Department
of the East Pyrenees),
July,
1846.
, , , , ,
H. C. ANDERSEN.
, , , , ,