“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.” [Note: Literal translation of the real words of
a showman.] 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!”