O. T., A Danish Romance

Several of the ladies who stood near him, smiling, also offered a kind of congratulation. Sophie alone remained silent, and examined the present of another lady—a pretty pincushion in the form of a gay butterfly.

The first row now rose to examine more nearly how beautifully the Christmas tree was adorned. Sophie drew one of the ladies away with her.

“Let us look at the beautiful statues,” said she; “the Shepherd-boy and the Mercury.”

“That is not proper,” whispered the lady; “but look there at the splendid large raisins on the tree!”

Sophie stepped before Thorwaldsen’s Shepherd-boy. The lady whispered to a friend, “It looks so odd that she should examine the figures!”

“Ah!” replied the other, “she is a lover of the fine arts, as you well know. Only think! at the last exhibition she went with her brother into the great hall where all the plaster-casts stand, and looked at them!—the Hercules, as well as the other indecent figures! they were excellent, she said. That is being so natural; otherwise she is a nice girl.”

“It is a pity she is a little awry.”

Sophie approached them; both ladies made room for her, and invited her most lovingly to sit clown beside them. “Thou sweet girl!” they flatteringly exclaimed.

CHAPTER V

“Hark to trumpets and beaten gongs,Squeaking fiddles, shouts and songs.Hurra! hurra!The Doctor is here;And here the hills where fun belongs.”J. L. HEIBERG.

We will not follow the principal characters of our story step for step, but merely present the prominent moments of their lives to our readers, be these great or small; we seize on them, if they in any way contribute to make the whole picture more worthy of contemplation.

The winter was over, the birds of passage had long since returned; the woods and fields shone in the freshest green, and, what to the friends was equally interesting, they had happily passed through their examen philologicum. Wilhelm, who, immediately after its termination, had accompanied his sister home, was again returned, sang with little Jonas, reflected upon the philosophicum, and also how he would thoroughly enjoy the summer,—the summer which in the north is so beautiful, but so short. It was St. John’s Day. Families had removed from Copenhagen to their pretty country-seats on the coast, where people on horseback and in carriages rushed past, and where the highway was crowded with foot-passengers. The whole road presented a picture of life upon the Paris Boulevard. The sun was burning, the dust flew up high into the air; on which account many persons preferred the pleasanter excursion with the steamboat along the coast, from whence could be seen the traffic on the high-road without enduring the annoyance of dust and heat. Boats skimmed past; brisk sailors, by the help of vigorous strokes of the oar, strove to compete with the steam-packet, the dark smoke from which, like some demon, partly rested upon the vessel, partly floated away in the air.

Various young students, among whom were also Wilhelm and Otto, landed at Charlottenlund, the most frequented place of resort near Copenhagen. Otto was here for the first time; for the first time he should see the park.

A summer’s afternoon in Linken’s Bad, near Dresden, bears a certain resemblance to Charlottenlund, only that the Danish wood is larger; that instead of the Elbe we have the Sound, which is here three miles broad, and where often more than a hundred vessels, bearing flags of all the European nations, glide past. A band of musicians played airs out of “Preciosa;” the white tents glanced like snow or swans through the green beech-trees. Here and there was a fire-place raised of turf, over which people boiled and cooked, so that the smoke rose up among the trees. Outside the wood, waiting in long rows, were the peasants’ vehicles, called “coffee-mills,” completely answering ho the couricolo of the Neapolitan and the coucou of the Parisian, equally cheap, and overladen in the same manner with passengers, therefore forming highly picturesque groups. This scene has been humorously treated in a picture by Marstrand. Between fields and meadows, the road leads pleasantly toward the park; the friends pursued the foot-path.

“Shall I brush the gentlemen?” cried five or six boys, at the same time pressing upon the friends as they approached the entrance to the park. Without waiting for an answer, the boys commenced at once brushing the dust from their clothes and boots.

“These are Kirsten Piil’s pages,” said Wilhelm, laughing; “they take care that people show themselves tolerably smart. But now we are brushed enough!” A six-skilling-piece rejoiced these little Savoyards.

The Champs Elysées of the Parisians on a great festival day, when the theatres are opened, the swings are flying, trumpets and drums overpowering the softer music, and when the whole mass of people, like one body, moves itself between the booths and tents, present a companion piece to the spectacle which the so-called Park-hill affords. It is Naples’ “Largo dei Castello,” with its dancing apes, shrieking Bajazzoes, the whole deafening jubilee which has been transported to a northern wood. Here also, in the wooden booths, large, tawdry pictures show what delicious plays you may enjoy within. The beautiful female horse-rider stands upon the wooden balcony and cracks with her whip, whilst Harlequin blows the trumpet. Fastened to a perch, large, gay parrots nod over the heads of the multitude. Here stands a miner in his black costume, and exhibits the interior of a mine. He turns his box, and during the music dolls ascend and descend. Another shows the splendid fortress of Frederiksteen: “The whole cavalry and infantry who have endured an unspeakable deal; here a man without a weapon, there a weapon without a man; here a fellow without a bayonet, here a bayonet without a fellow; and yet they are merry and contented, for they have conquered the victory.”1 Dutch wafer-cake booths, where the handsome Dutch women, in their national costume, wait on the customers, entice old and young. Here a telescope, there a rare Danish ox, and so forth. High up, between the fresh tree boughs, the swings fly. Are those two lovers floating up there? A current of air seizes the girl’s dress and shawl, the young man flings his arm round her waist; it is for safety: there is then less danger. At the foot of the hill there is cooking and roasting going on; it seems a complete gypsy-camp. Under the tree sits the old Jew—this is precisely his fiftieth jubilee; through a whole half-century has he sung here his comical Doctor’s song. Now that we are reading this he is dead; that characteristic countenance is dust, those speaking eyes are closed, his song forgotten tones. Oehlenschläger, in his “St. John’s Eve,” has preserved his portrait for us, and it will continue to live, as Master Jakel (Punch), our Danish Thespis, will continue to live. The play and the puppets were transferred from father to son, and every quarter of an hour in the day the piece is repeated. Free nature is the place for the spectators, and after every representation the director himself goes round with the plate.

This was the first spectacle which exhibited itself to the friends. Not far off stood a juggler in peasant’s clothes, somewhat advanced in years, with a common ugly countenance. His short sleeves were rolled up, and exhibited a pair of hairy, muscular arms. The crowd, withdrawing from Master Jakel when the plate commenced its wanderings, pushed Otto and Wilhelm forward toward the low fence before the juggler’s table.

“Step nearer, my gracious gentlemen, my noble masters!” said the juggler, with an accentuation which betrayed his German birth. He opened the fence; both friends were fairly pushed in and took their places upon the bench, where they, at all events, found themselves out of the crowd.

“Will the noble gentleman hold this goblet?” said the juggler, and handed Otto one from his apparatus. Otto glanced at the man: he was occupied with his art; but Otto’s cheek and forehead were colored with a sudden crimson, which was immediately afterward supplanted by a deathly paleness: his hand trembled, but this lasted only a moment; he gathered all his strength of mind together and appeared the same as before.

“That was a very good trick!” said Wilhelm.

“Yes, certainly!” answered Otto; but he had seen nothing whatsoever. His soul was strangely affected. The man exhibited several other tricks, and then approached with the plate. Otto laid down a mark, and then rose to depart. The juggler remarked the piece of money: a smile played about his mouth; he glanced at Otto, and a strange malicious expression lay in the spiteful look which accompanied his loudly spoken thanks: “Mr. Otto Thostrup is always so gracious and good!”

“Does he know you?” asked Wilhelm.

“He has the honor!” grinned the juggler, and proceeded.

“He has exhibited his tricks in the Jutland villages, and upon my father’s estate,” whispered Otto.

“Therefore an acquaintance of your childhood?” said Wilhelm.

“Of my childhood,” repeated Otto, and they made themselves a way through the tumult.

They met with several young noblemen, relatives of Wilhelm, with the cousin who had written the verses for the Christmas tree; also several friends from the carouse, and the company increased. They intended, like many others, to pass the night in the wood, and at midnight drink out of Kirsten Piil’s well. “Only with the increasing darkness will it become thoroughly merry here,” thought they: but Otto had appointed to be in the city again toward evening. “Nothing will come out of that!” said the poet; “if you wish to escape, we shall bind you fast to one of us.”

“Then I carry him away with me on my back,” replied Otto; “and still run toward the city. What shall I do here at night in the wood?”

“Be merry!” answered Wilhelm. “Come, give us no follies, or I shall grow restive.”

Hand-organs, drums, and trumpets, roared against each other; Bajazzo growled; a couple of hoarse girls sang and twanged upon the guitar: it was comic or affecting, just as one was disposed. The evening approached, and now the crowd became greater, the joy more noisy.

“But where is Otto?” inquired Wilhelm. Otto had vanished in the crowd. Search after him would help nothing, chance must bring them together again. Had he designedly withdrawn himself? no one knew wherefore, no one could dream what had passed within his soul. It became evening. The highway and the foot-path before the park resembled two moving gay ribbons.

In the park itself the crowd perceptibly diminished. It was now the high-road which was become the Park-hill. The carriages dashed by each other as at a race; the people shouted and sung, if not as melodiously as the barcarole of the fisher men below Lido, still with the thorough carnival joy of the south. The steamboat moved along the coasts. From the gardens surrounding the pretty country-houses arose rockets into the blue sky, the Moccoli of the north above the Carnival of the Park.

Wilhelm remained with his young friends in the wood, and there they intended, with the stroke of twelve, to drink out of Kirsten’s well. Men and women, girls and boys of the lower class, and jovial young men, meet, after this manner, to enjoy St. John’s Eve. Still sounded the music, the swings were in motion, lamps hung out, whilst the new moon shone through the thick tree boughs. Toward midnight the noise died away; only a blind peasant still scratched upon the three strings which were left on his violin; some servant-girls wandered, arm-in-arm, with their sweethearts, and sang. At twelve o’clock all assembled about the well, and drank the clear, ice-cold water. From no great distance resounded, through the still night, a chorus of four manly voices. It was as if the wood gods sang in praise of the nymph of the well.

Upon the hill all was now deserted and quiet. Bajazzo and il Padrone slept behind the thin linen partition, under a coverlid. The moon set, but the night was clear; no clear, frosty winter night has a snore beautiful starry heaven to exhibit. Wilhelm’s party was merry, quickly flew the hours away; singing in chorus, the party wandered through the wood, and down toward the strand. The day already dawned; a red streak along the horizon announced its approach.

Nature sang to them the mythos of the creation of the world, even as she had sung it to Moses, who wrote down this voice from God, interpreted by Nature. Light banished the darkness, heaven and earth were parted; at first birds showed themselves in the clear air; later rose the beasts of the field; and, last of all, appeared man.

“The morning is fairly sultry,” said Wilhelm; “the sea resembles a mirror: shall we not bathe?”

The proposal was accepted.

“There we have the Naiades already!” said one of the party, as a swarm of fishermen’s wives and daughters, with naked feet, their green petticoats tucked up, and baskets upon their backs, in which they carried fish to Copenhagen, came along the road. The gay young fellows cast toward the prettiest glances as warm and glowing as that cast by the sun himself, who, at this moment, came forth and shone over the Sound, where a splendid three-masted vessel had spread all her sails to catch each breeze. The company reached the strand.

“There is some one already swimming out yonder,” said Wilhelm. “He stands it bravely. That is an excellent swimmer!”

“Here lie his clothes,” remarked another.

“How!” exclaimed Wilhelm: “this is Otto Thostrup’s coat! But Otto cannot swim; I have never been able to persuade him to bathe. Now, we will out and make a nearer acquaintance.”

“Yes, certainly it is he,” said another; “he is now showing his skill.”

“Then he must have been all night in the wood,” exclaimed Wilhelm. “Yes, indeed, he’s a fine bird. Does he fly us? He shall pay for this. Good night in the water, or in any other improper place? To quit friends without saying a word does not appertain to the customs of civilized people. Since you, therefore, show yourself such a man of nature, we will carry away your garments; it cannot annoy you in puris naturalibus to seek us out in the wood.”

Otto raised his head, but was silent.

“Now, will you not come forth?” cried Wilhelm. “Only kneeling before each of us can you receive the separate articles of your dress, so that you may again appear as a civilized European.” And saying this he divided the clothes among the others; each one held an article in his hand.

“Leave such jokes!” cried Otto with singular earnestness. “Lay down the clothes, and retire!”

“Aye, that we will, presently,” returned Wilhelm. “You are a fine fellow! You cannot swim, you say. Now, if you should not kneel”—

“Retire!” cried Otto, “or I will swim out into the stream, and not return again!”

“That might be original enough,” answered Wilhelm. “Swim forth, or come and kneel here!”

“Wilhelm!” cried Otto, with an affecting sigh, and in a moment swam forth with quick strokes.

“There he shoots away,” said one of the party. “How he cuts the waves! He is a splendid swimmer!”

Smiling they gazed over the expanse; Otto swam even farther out.

“But where will he swim to?” exclaimed, somewhat gravely, one of the spectators. “He will certainly lose his strength before he returns the same distance.”

They unmoored the boat. Otto swam far out at sea; with quick strokes of the oars they rowed after him.

“Where is he now?” cried Wilhelm shortly afterwards; “I see him no longer.”

“Yes, there he comes up again,” said another; “but his strength is leaving him.”

“On! on!” cried Wilhelm; “he will be drowned if we do not come to his help. Only see—he sinks!”

Otto had lost all power; his head disappeared beneath the water. The friends had nearly reached him; Wilhelm and several of the best swimmers flung from themselves boots and coats, sprang into the sea, and dived under the water. A short and noiseless moment passed. One of the swimmers appeared above water. “He is dead!” were the first words heard. Wilhelm and the three others now appeared with Otto; the boat was near oversetting as they brought him into it. Deathly pale lay he there, a beautifully formed marble statue, the picture of a young gladiator fallen in the arena.

The friends busied themselves about him, rubbing his breast and hands, whilst two others rowel toward the land.

“He breathes!” said Wilhelm.

Otto opened his eyes; his lips moved; his gaze became firmer; a deep crimson spread itself over his breast and countenance; he raised himself and Wilhelm supported him. Suddenly a deep sigh burst from his breast; he thrust Wilhelm from him, and, like a madman, seized an article of dress to cover himself with; then, with a convulsive trembling of the lips, he said to Wilhelm, who held his hand, “I HATE YOU!”

CHAPTER VI

—“Art thou Prometheus, pierced with wounds?The Vulture thou that tugs at his heart?”J. CHR. V. ZEDLITZ’S Todtenkränze.

Not half an hour after this adventure a carriage rolled toward the city—a large carriage, containing three seats, but, beside the coachman, there was only one person within. This was Otto; his lips were pale; death, it is true, had touched them. Alone he dashed forward; his last words to Wilhelm had been his only ones.

“He has lost his wits,” said one of the friends.

“It is a fit of madness,” answered another, “such as he was seized with at the examination, when he only sent in a scrap of white paper for the mathematical examination, because he felt himself offended by the inspector.”

“I could quite vex myself about my stupid joke,” said Wilhelm. “I ought to have known him better; he is of a strange, unhappy character. Give me your hands! We will mention to no one what has occurred; it would only give occasion to a deal of gossip, and wound him deeply, and he is an excellent, glorious fellow.”

They gave their hands upon it, and drove toward the city.

The same day, toward evening, we again seek Otto. We find him in his chamber. Silent, with crossed arms, he stands before a print, a copy of Horace Vernet’s representation of Mazeppa, who, naked and bound upon a wild horse, rushes through the forest. Wolves thrust forth their heads and exhibit their sharp teeth.

“My own life!” sighed Otto. “I also am bound to this careering wild horse. And no friend, not a single one! Wilhelm, I could kill thee! I could see you all lying in your blood! O, Almighty God!” He pressed his hands before his face and threw himself into a seat; his eyes, however, again directed themselves toward the picture; it exhibited a moment similar to the condition of his own mind.

The door now opened, and Wilhelm stood before him.

“How do you find yourself, Thostrup?” he inquired. “We are still friends as before?” and he wished to give his hand. Otto drew back his. “I have done nothing which could so much offend you,” said Wilhelm; “the whole was merely a joke! Give me your hand, and we will speak no more of the affair!”

“To the man whom I hate, I never reach my hand,” replied Otto and his lips were white like his cheeks.

“A second time to-day you speak these words to me,” said Wilhelm, and the blood rushed to his face. “We were friends, wherefore cannot we be so still? Have people slandered me to you? Have they told lies about me? Only tell me faithfully, and I shall be able to defend myself.”

“You must fight with me!” said Otto; and his glance became more gloomy. Wilhelm was silent; there reigned a momentary stillness. Otto suppressed a deep sigh. At length Wilhelm broke silence, and said, with a grave and agitated voice,—“I am so thoughtless, I joke so often, and regard everything from the ridiculous side. But for all that I have both heart and feeling. You must have known how much dearer you were to me than most other people. You are so still, although you offend me. At this moment your blood is in a fever; not now, but after a few days, you yourself will best see which of us is the offended party. You demand that I fight with you; I will if your honor requires this satisfaction: but you must lay before me an acceptable reason. I will know wherefore we risk our lives. Let some days pass by; weigh all with your understanding and your heart! It will still depend upon yourself whether we remain friends as before. Farewell!” And Wilhelm went.

Each of his words had penetrated to Otto’s heart. A moment he stood silent and undecided, then his limbs trembled involuntarily, tears streamed from his eyes—it was a convulsive fit of weeping; he pressed his head back. “God, how unfortunate I am!” were his only words.

So passed some minutes; he had ceased to weep, and was calm; suddenly he sprang up, shot the bolt in the door, drew down the blinds, lighted his candle, and once more looked searchingly around: the key-hole was also stopped up. He then flung his coat away from him and uncovered the upper part of his body.

CHAPTER VII

“The towers pass by, even before we perceive them.”

OEHLENSCHLÄER’S Journey to Fünen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“In white marble clothing,Hand upon the breast,Ever grief-oppressed,Looking down upon the gloomy sea,”

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

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

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

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