O. T., A Danish Romance
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Hans Christian Andersen >> O. T., A Danish Romance
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"You are a happy man!" exclaimed Otto, and gazed sorrowfully
before him. "Your childhood afforded you only joy and hope! Only
think of the solitude in which mine was passed. Among the sand-hills
of the west coast my days glided away: my grandfather was gloomy
and passionate; our old preacher lived only in a past time which
I knew not, and Rosalie regarded the world through the spectacles
of sorrow. Such an environment might well cast a shadow upon my
life-joy. Even in dress, one is strangely remarkable when one comes
from afar province to the capital; first this receives another cut,
and one gradually becomes like those around one. The same thing
happens in a spiritual relation, but one's being and ideas one does
not change so quickly as one's clothes. I have only been a short
time among strangers, and who knows?" added he, with a melancholy
smile, "perhaps I shall come into equilibrium when some really
great misfortune happens to me and very much overpowers me, and
then I may show the same carelessness, the same phlegm as the
multitude."
"A really great misfortune!" repeated Wilhelm. "You do, indeed, say
something. That would be a very original means of cure, but you are
an original being. Perhaps lay this means you might really be
healed. 'Make no cable out of cobweb!' said a celebrated poet whose
name does not occur to me at this moment. But the thought is good,
you should have it embroidered upon your waistcoat, so that you
might have it before your eyes when you droop your head. Do not
look so grave; we are friends, are we not? Among all my young
acquaintance you are the dearest to me, although there are moments
when I know not how it stands with us. I could confide every secret
to you, but I am not sure that you would be equally open with me.
Do not be angry, my dear friend! There are secrets of so delicate a
nature, that one may not confide them even to the dearest friend.
So long as we preserve _our_ secret it is our prisoner; it is quite
the contrary, however, so soon as we have let it escape us. And
yet, Otto, you are so dear to me, that I believe in you as in my
own heart. This, even now, bears a secret which penetrates me with
joy and love of life! I must speak cut. But you must enter into my
joy, partake in it, or say nothing about it; you have then heard
nothing--nothing! Otto, I love! therefore am I happy, therefore is
there sunshine in my heart, life joy in my veins! I love Eva, the
beautiful lovely Eva!"
Otto pressed his hand, but preserved silence.
"No, not so!" cried Wilhelm. "Only speak a word! Do you I'm in a
conception of the world which has opened before me?"
"Eva is beautiful! very beautiful!" said Otto, slowly. "She is
innocent and good. What can one wish for more? I can imagine how
she fills your whole heart! But will she do so always? She will not
always remain young, always lovely! Has she, then, mind sufficient
to be everything to you? Will this momentary happiness which you
prepare for her and yourself be great enough to outweigh--I will
not say the sorrow, but the discontent which this union will bring
forth in your family? For God's sake, think of everything!"
"My dear fellow!" said Wilhelm, "your old preacher now really
speaks out of you! But enough: I can bear the confession. I answer,
'Yes, yes!' with all my heart, 'yes!' Wherefore will you now bring
me out of my sunshine into shade? Wherefore, in my joy over the
beauty of the rose should I be reminded that the perfume and color
will vanish, that the leaves will fall? It is the course of life!
but must one, therefore, think of the grave, of the finale, when
the act begins?"
"Love is a kind of monomania," said Otto; "it may be combated: it
depends merely upon our own will."
"Ah, you know this not at all!" said Wilhelm. "But it will come in
due time, and then you will be far more violent than others! Who
knows? perhaps this is the sorrow of which you spoke, the
misfortune which should bring your whole being into equipoise! That
was also a kind of search after the sorrowful. I will sincerely
wish that your heart may be filled with love as mine is; then will
the influence of the sand-hills vanish, and you will speak with me
as you ought to do, and as my confidence deserves!"
"That will I!" replied Otto. "You make the poor girl miserable! Now
you love Eva, but then you will no longer be able. The distance
between you and her is too great, and I cannot conceive how the
beauty of her countenance can thus fill your whole being. A
waiting-girl! yes, I repeat the name which offends your ear: a
waiting-girl! Everywhere will it be repeated. And you? No one can
respect nobility less than I do--that nobility which is only
conferred by birth; it is nothing, and a time will come when this
will not be prized at all, when the nobility of the soul will be
the only nobility. I openly say this to you, who are a nobleman
yourself. The more development of mind, the more ancestors! But Eva
has nothing, can have nothing, except a pretty face, and this is
what has enchained you; you are become the servant of a servant,
and that is degrading yourself and your nobility of mind!"
"Mr. Thostrup!" exclaimed Wilhelm, "you wound me! This is truly
not the first time, but now I am weary of it. I have shown too much
good nature, and that is the most unfortunate failing a man can be
cursed with!"
He seated himself at the piano, and hammered away.
Otto was silent a moment, his checks glowed, but he was soon again
calm, and in a joking tone said: "Do not expend your anger upon
that poor instrument because we disagree in our views. You are
playing only dissonances, which offend my ear more than your
anger!"
"Dissonances!" repeated Wilhelm. "Cannot you hear that they are
harmonies? There are many things for which you have a bad ear!"
Otto knew how to lead his anger to different points regarding which
they had formerly been at variance, but he spoke with such mildness
that Wilhelm's anger rather abated than increased.
They were again friends, but regarding Eva not one word more was
said.
"I should not be an honest and true friend to him, were I to let
him be swallowed up by this whirlpool!" said Otto to himself, when
he was alone. "At present he is innocent and good but at his age,
with his gay disposition!--I must warn Eva! soon! soon! The snow
which has once been trodden is no longer pure! Wilhelm will
scarcely forgive me! But I must!"
On the morrow it was impossible for him to travel to Roeskelde, but
the following day he really would and must hasten thither.
Still, in the early morning hour, Eva occupied his thoughts; she
busied Wilhelm's also, but in a different way: but they agreed in
the purity of their intentions. There was still a third, whose
blood was put in motion at the mention of her name, who said: "The
pretty Eva is a servant there! One must speak with her. The family
can make an excursion there!"
"You sweet children!" said the merchant's wife, "the autumn is
charming, far pleasanter than the whole summer! The father, should
the weather remain good, will make an excursion with us to
Lethraborg the day after to-morrow. We will then walk in the
beautiful valley of the Hertha, and pass the night at Roeskelde.
Those will be two delightful days! What an excellent father you
have! But shall we not invite Mr. Thostrup to go with us? We are so
many ladies, and it looks well to have a few young gentlemen with
us. Grethe, thou must write an invitation; thou canst write thy
father's name underneath."
CHAPTER XXV
"These poetical letters are so similar to those of Baggesen, that
we could be almost tempted to consider the news of his death as
false, although so well affirmed that we must acknowledge it."
--Monthly Journal of Literature.
"She is as slender as the poplar-willow, as fleet as the hastening
waters. A Mayflower odorous and sweet."--H. P. HOLST.
"Ah, where is the rose?"--Lulu, by GUNTELBURG.
The evening before Otto was to travel with the merchant's family to
Roeskelde he called upon the family where Miss Sophie was staying.
Her dear mamma had left three days before. Wilhelm had wished to
accompany him to Roeskelde, but the mother did not desire it.
"We have had a pleasure to-day," said Sophie, "a pleasure from
which we shall long have enjoyment. Have you seen the new book, the
'Letters of a Wandering Ghost?' It is Baggesen himself in his most
perfect beauty, a music which I never believed could have been
given in words. This is a poet! He has made July days in the poetry
of Denmark. Natural thoughts are so strikingly, and yet so simply
expressed; one has the idea that one could write such verses one's
self, they fall so lightly."
"They are like prose," said the lady, "and yet the most beautifully
perfect verse I know. You must read the book, Mr. Thostrup!"
"Perhaps you will read to us this evening?" said Sophie. "I should
very much like to hear it again."
"In a second reading one shall enter better into the individual
beauties," said the lady of the house.
"I will remain and listen," said the host.
"This must be a masterpiece!" exclaimed Otto,"--a true masterpiece,
since all are so delighted with it."
"It is Baggesen himself; and truly as he must sing in that world
where everything mortal is ennobled."
"'Meadows all fragrance, the strongholds of pleasure,
Heaven blue streamlets,
That speed through the green woods in musical measure,'"
began Otto, and the spiritual battle-piece with beauty and tone
developed itself more and more; they found themselves in the
midst of the winter camp of the Muses, where the poet with
..."lyre on his shoulder and sword at his side,
Hastened to fight with the foes of the Muses."
Otto's gloomy look won during the perusal a more animated
expression. "Excellent!" exclaimed he; "this is what I myself have
thought and felt, but, alas! have been unable to express."
"I am a strange girl," said Sophie; "whenever I read a new poet of
distinguished talent, I consider that he is the greatest. It was so
with Byron and Victor Hugo. 'Cain' overwhelmed me, 'Notre Dame'
carried me away with it. Once I could imagine no greater poet than
Walter Scott, and yet I forget him over Oehlenschlager; yes, I
remember a time when Heiberg's vaudevilles took almost the first
place among my chosen favorites. Thus I know myself and my
changeable disposition, and yet I firmly believe that I shall make
an exception with this work. Other poets showed me the objects of
the outer world, this one shows me my own mind: my own thoughts, my
own being he presents before me, and therefore I shall always take
the same interest in the Ghost's Letters."
"They are true food for the mind," said Otto; "they are as words in
season; there must be movement in the lake, otherwise it will
become a bog."
"The author is severe toward those whom he has introduced," said
the lady; "but he carries, so to say, a sweet knife. A wound from a
sharp sword-blade is not so painful as that from a rusty, notched
knife."
"But who may the author be?" said Sophie.
"May we never learn!" replied Otto. "Uncertainty gives the book
something piquant. In such a small country as ours it is good for
the author to be unknown. Here we almost tread upon each other, and
look into each other's garments. Here the personal conditions of
the author have much to do with success; and then there are the
newspapers, where either friend or enemy has an assistant, whereas
the being anonymous gives it the patent of nobility. It is well
never to know an author. What does his person matter to us, if his
book is only good?
"'Crush and confound the rabble dissolute
That desecrate thy poet's grave?'"
read Otto, and the musical poem was at an end. All were enchanted
with it. Otto alone made some small objections: "The Muses ought not
to come with 'trumpets and drums,' and so many expressions similar
to 'give a blow on the chaps,' etc., ought not to appear."
"But if the poet will attack what is coarse," said Sophie, "he must
call things by their proper names. He presents us with a specimen
of the prosaic filth, but in a soap-bubble. We may see it, but not
seize upon it. I consider that you are wrong!"
"The conception of idea and form," said Otto, "does not seem to be
sufficiently presented to one; both dissolve into one. Even prose is a
form."
"But the form itself is the most important," said the lady of the
house; "with poetry as with sculpture, it is the form which gives
the meaning."
"No, pardon me!" said Otto; "poetry is like the tree which God
allows to grow. The inward power expresses itself in the form; both
are equally important, but I consider the internal as the most
holy. This is here the poet's thought. The opinion which he
expresses affects us as much as the beautiful dress in which he has
presented it."
Now commenced a contest upon form and material, such as was
afterward maintained throughout the whole of Copenhagen.
"I shall always admire the 'Letters of a Wandering Ghost,'" said
Sophie,--"always rave about these poems. To-night I shall dream of
nothing but this work of art."
How little men can do that which they desire, did this very moment
teach.
When we regard the fixed star through a telescope and lose
ourselves in contemplation, a little hair can conceal the mighty
body, a grain of dust lead us from these sublime thoughts. A letter
came for Miss Sophie; a traveller brought it from her mother: she
was already in Funen, and announced her safe arrival.
"And the news?" said the hostess.
"Mamma has hired a new maid, or, rather, she has taken to be with
her an amiable young girl--the pretty Eva in Roeskelde. Mr.
Thostrup and Wilhelm related to us this summer several things about
her which make her interesting. We saw her on our journey hither,
when mamma was prepossessed by her well-bred appearance. Upon her
return, the young girl has quite won her heart. It really were a
pity if such a pretty, respectable girl remained in a public-house.
She is very pretty; is she not, Mr. Thostrup?"
"Very pretty!" answered Otto, becoming crimson, for Sophie said
this with an emphasis which was not without meaning.
The following day, at an early hour, Otto found himself at the
merchant's.
Spite of the changeable weather of our climate, all the ladies were
in their best dresses. Three persons must sit upon each seat. Hans
Peter and the lover had their place beside the coachman. It was a
long time before the cold meat, the provision for several days, was
packed up, and the whole company were seated. At length, when they
had got out of the city, Christiane recollected that they had
forgotten the umbrellas, and that, after all, it would be good to
have them. The coachman must go back for them, and meantime the
carriage drew up before the Column of Liberty. The poor sentinel
must now become an object of Miss Grethe's interest. Several times
the soldier glanced down upon his regimentals. He was a
Krahwinkler, who had an eye to his own advantage. A man who rode
past upon a load of straw occupied a high position. That was very
interesting.
Otto endeavored to give the conversation another direction. "Have
not you seen the new poem which has just appeared, the 'Letters of
a Wandering Ghost?'" asked he, and sketched out their beauty and
tendency.
"Doubtless, very heavy blows are dealt!" said Mr. Berger, "the man
must be witty--Baggesen to the very letter."
"The 'Copenhagen Post' is called the pump!" said Hans Peter.
"That is superb!" cried Grethe. "Who does it attack besides?"
"Folks in Soroe, and this 'Holy Andersen,' as they call him."
"Does he get something?" said Laide. "That I will grant him for his
milk and water. He was so impolite toward the ladies!"
"I like them to quarrel in this way!" said the merchant's lady.
"Heiberg will doubtless get his share also, and then he will reply
in something merry."
"Yes," said Mr. Berger, "he always knows how to twist things in
such a manner that one must laugh, and then it is all one to us
whether he is right or not."
"This book is entirely for Heiberg," said Otto. "The author is
anonymous, and a clever man."
"Good Heavens! you are not the author, Mr. Thostrup?" cried Julle,
and looked at him with a penetrating gaze. "You can manage such
things so secretly! You think so highly of Heiberg: I remember well
all the beautiful things you said of his 'Walter the Potter' and
his 'Psyche.'"
Otto assured her that he could not confess to this honor.
They reached Roeskelde in the forenoon, but Eva did not receive
them. The excursion to Lethraborg was arranged; toward evening they
should again return to the inn, and then Eva would certainly
appear.
The company walked in the garden at Lethraborg: the prospect from
the terrace was beautiful; they looked through the windows of the
castle, and at length came to the conclusion that it would be best
to go in.
"There are such beautiful paintings, people say!" remarked the
lover.
"We must see them," cried all the ladies.
"Do you often visit the picture-gallery of the Christiansborg?"
inquired Otto.
"I cannot say that we do!" returned Mrs. Berger. "You well know
that what is near one seldom sees, unless one makes a downright
earnest attempt, and that we have not yet done. Besides, not many
people go up: that wandering about the great halls is so wearying."
"There are splendid pieces by Ruysdal!" said Otto.
"Salvator Rosa's glorious 'Jonas" is well worth looking at!"
"Yes, we really must go at once, whilst our little Maja is here. It
does not cost more than the Exhibition, and we were there three
times last year. The view from the castle windows toward the canal,
as well as toward the ramparts, is so beautiful, they say."
The company now viewed the interior of Lethraborg, and then
wandered through the garden and in the wood. The trees had their
autumnal coloring, but the whole presented a variety of tints far
richer than one finds in summer. The dark fir-trees, the yellow
beeches and oaks, whose outermost branches had sent forth light
green shoots, presented a most picturesque effect, and formed a
splendid foreground to the view over old Leire, the royal city, now
a small village, and across the bay to the splendid cathedral.
"That resembles a scene in a theatre!" cried Mrs. Berger, and
immediately the company were deep in dramatic affairs.
"Such a decoration they should have in the royal theatre!" said
Hans Peter.
"Yes, they should have many such!" said Grethe. "They should have
some other pieces than those they have. I know not how it is with
our poets; they have no inventive power. Relate the droll idea
which thou hadst the other day for a new piece!" said she to her
lover, and stroked his cheeks.
"O," said he, and affected a kind of indifference, "that was only
an idea such as one has very often. But it might become a very nice
piece. When the curtain is drawn up, one should see close upon the
lamps the gable-ends of two houses. The steep roofs must go down to
the stage, so that it is only half a yard wide, and this is to
represent a watercourse between the two houses. In each garret a
poor but interesting family should dwell, and these should step
forth into the watercourse, and there the whole piece should be
played."
"But what should then happen?" asked Otto.
"Yes," said the lover, "I have not thought about that; but see,
there is the idea! I am no poet, and have too much to do at the
counting-house, otherwise one might write a little piece."
"Heavens! Heiberg ought to have the idea!" said Grethe.
"No, then it would be a vaudeville," said the lover, "and I cannot
bear them."
"O, it might be made charming!" cried Grethe. "I see the whole
piece! how they clamber about the roofs! The idea is original, thou
sweet friend!"
By evening the family were again in Roeskelde.
The merchant sought for Eva. Otto inquired after her, so did Hans
Peter also, and all three received the same answer.
"She is no longer here."
CHAPTER XXVI
"I wish I was air, that I could beat my wings, could chase the
clouds, and try to fly over the mountain summits: that would be
life."--F. RUCKERT.
The first evening after Otto's return to Copenhagen he spent with
Sophie, and the conversation turned upon his little journey. "The
pretty Eva has vanished!" said he.
"You had rejoiced in the prospect of this meeting, had you not?"
asked Sophie.
"No, not in the least!" answered Otto.
"And you wish to make me believe that? She is really pretty, and
has something so unspeakably refined, that a young gentleman might
well be attracted by her. With my brother it is not all quite right
in this respect; but, candidly speaking, I am in great fear on your
account, Mr. Thostrup. Still waters--you know the proverb? I might
have spared you the trouble. The letter which I received a few
evenings ago informed me of her departure. Mamma has taken her with
her. It seemed to her a sin to leave that sweet, innocent girl in a
public-house. The host and hostess were born upon our estate, and
look very much up to my mother; and as Eva will certainly gain by
the change, the whole affair was soon settled. It is well that she
is come under mamma's oversight."
"The girl is almost indifferent to me!" said Otto.
"Almost!" repeated Sophie. "But this almost, how many degrees of
warmth does it contain? 'O Verite! Ou sont les autels et tes
pretres?'" added she, and smiling raised her finger.
"Time will show how much you are in error!" answered Otto with much
calmness.
The lady of the house now entered, she had made various calls;
everywhere the Ghost's Letters were the subject of conversation,
and now the conversation took the same direction.
It was often renewed. Otto was a very frequent guest at the house.
The ladies sat at their embroidery frames and embroidered splendid
pieces of work, and Otto must again read the "Letters of the
Wandering Ghost;" after this they began "Calderon," in whom Sophie
found something resembling the anonymous author. The world of
poetry afforded subjects for discourse, and every-day life
intermingled its light, gay scenes; if Wilhelm joined them, he must
give them music, and all remarked that his fantasies were become
far richer, far softer. He had gained his touch from Weyse, said
they. No one thought how much one may learn from one's own heart.
With this exception he was the same joyous youth as ever. No one
thought of him and Eva together. Since that evening when the
friends had almost quarreled, he had never mentioned her name; but
Otto had remarked how when any female figure met them, Wilhelm's
eyes flashed, and how, in society, he singled out the most
beautiful. Otto said jokingly to him, that he was getting oriental
thoughts. Oehlenschlager's "Helge," and Goethe's Italian sonnets
were now Wilhelm's favorite reading. The voluptuous spirit of these
poems agreed with the dreams which his warm feelings engendered. It
was Eva's beauty--her beauty alone which had awoke this feeling in
him; the modesty and poverty of the poor girl had captivated him
still more, and caused him to forget rank and condition. At the
moment when he would approach her, she was gone. The poison was now
in his blood. If is gay and happy spirit did not meanwhile let him
sink into melancholy and meditation; his feeling for beauty was
excited, as he himself expressed it. In thought he pressed beauty
to his heart, but only in thought--but even this is sin, says the
Gospel.
Otto, on the contrary, moved in the lists of philosophy and poetry.
Here his soul conceived beauty--inspired, he expressed it; and
Sophie's eyes flashed, and rested with pleasure on him. This
flattered him and increased his inspirations. For many years no
winter had been to him so pleasant, had passed away so rich in
change as this; he caught at the fluttering joy and yet there were
moments when the though pressed upon him--"Life is hastening away,
and I do not enjoy it." In the midst of his greatest happiness he
experienced a strange yearning after the changing life of travel.
Paris glanced before his eyes like a star of fortune.
"Out into the bustling world!" said he so often to Wilhelm, that
the same thought was excited in him. "In the spring we will
travel!" Now were plans formed; circumstances were favorable. Thus
in the coming spring, in April, the still happier days should
begin.
"We will fly to Paris!" said Wilhelm; "to joy and pleasure!"
Joy and pleasure were to be found at home, and were found: we will
introduce the evening which brought them; perhaps we shall also
find something more than joy and pleasure.
CHAPTER XXVII
"A midsummer day's entertainment--but how? In February? Yea, some
here and behold it!"--DR. BALFUNGO.
With us the students form no Burschenschafts, have no colors. The
professors do not alone in the chair come into connection with
them; the only difference is that which exists between young and
old scholars. Thus they come in contact with each other, thus they
participate in their mutual pleasures. We will spend an evening of
this kind in the Students' Club, and then see for ourselves whether
Miss Sophie were right when she wished she were a man, merely that
she might be a student and member of this club. We choose one
evening in particular, not only that we may seek a brilliant
moment, but because this evening can afford us more than a
description.
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