The world was widening out. It was not only home and the houses of my
different grandparents, and the clan of my uncles, aunts, and cousins;
it grew larger.
I realized this at the homecoming of the troops. They came home twice.
The impression they produced the first time was certainly a great,
though not a deep one. It was purely external, and indistinctly merged
together: garlands on the houses and across the streets, the dense
throng of people, the flower-decked soldiers, marching in step to the
music under a constant shower of flowers from every window, and looking
up smiling. The second time, long afterwards, I took things in in much
greater detail. The wounded, who went in front and were greeted with a
sort of tenderness; the officers on horseback, saluting with their
swords, on which were piled wreath over wreath; the bearded soldiers,
with tiny wreaths round their bayonets, while big boys carried their
rifles for them. And all the time the music of _Den tapre Landsoldat_,
when not the turn of _Danmark dejligst_ or _Vift stolt!_ [Footnote:
Three favourite Danish tunes: "The Brave Soldier," "Fairest Denmark,"
and "Proudly Wave." ]
But the second time I was not wholly absorbed by the sight, for I was
tormented by remorse. My aunt had presented me the day before with
three little wreaths to throw at the soldiers; the one I was to keep
myself, and I was to give each of my two small brothers one of the
others; I had promised faithfully to do so. And I had kept them all
three, intending to throw them all myself. I knew it was wrong and
deceitful; I was suffering for it, but the delight of throwing all the
wreaths myself was too great. I flung them down. A soldier caught one
on his bayonet; the others fell to the ground. I was thoroughly ashamed
of myself, and have never forgotten my shame.