“The heat-lark warbles forth his sepulchral melodies.”
S. S. BLICHER.
The peninsula of Jutland possesses nothing of the natural beauty
which Zealand and Funen present--splendid beeches and odoriferous
clover-fields in the neighborhood of the salt sea; it possesses at
once a wild and desolate nature, in the heath-covered expanses and the
far-stretching moors. East and west are different; like the green, sappy
leaf, and grayish white sea-weed on the sea shore. From the Woods of
Marselisborg to the woods south of Coldinger Fjord, is the land rich
and blooming; it is the Danish Nature in her greatness. Here rises the
Heaven Mountain, with its wilderness of coppice and heather; from here
you gaze over the rich landscape, with its woods and lakes, as far down
as the roaring Cattegat.
The western coast, on the contrary, lies without a tree, without bushes,
with nothing but white sand-hills stretching along the roaring ocean,
which scourges the melancholy coast with sand-storms and sharp winds.
Between these contrasts, which the east and west coasts present, the
Hesperides and Siberia, lies the vast heath which stretches itself from
the Lyneborg sand to the Skagen’s reef. No hedge shows here the limits
of possession. Among the crossing tracks of carriage wheels must thou
seek thy way. Crippled oaks, with whitish-green moss overgrown to the
outermost branches, twist themselves along the ground, as if fearing
storms and the sea-mist. Here, like a nomadic people, but without
flocks, do the so-called Tartar bands wander up and down, with their
peculiar language and peculiar ceremonies. Suddenly there shows itself
in the interior of the heathy wilderness a colony--another, a strange
people, German emigrants, who through industry compel the meagre country
to fruitfulness.
From Veile, Otto wished to take the road through Viborg, as the most
direct and the shortest to his grandfather’s estate, which lay between
Nisumfjord and Lemvig.
The first heath-bushes accosted him as dear friends of his childhood.
The beautiful beech-woods lay behind him, the expanse of heath began;
but the heath was dear to him: it was this landscape which formed the
basis of many dear recollections.
The country became ever higher with brown heights, beyond which nothing
was visible; houses and farms became more rare, the cherry orchards
transformed themselves into cabbage-gardens. Only single spots were free
from heather, and here grew grass, but short, and like moss or duckweed
which grows upon ponds: here birds congregated by hundreds, and
fluttered twittering into the air as the carriage drove past.
“You know where to find the green spot in the heath, and how to become
happy through it,” sighed Otto. “Could I only follow your example!”
At a greater distance rose bare hills, without ling or ploughed land;
the prickly heath looked brown and yellow on the sharp declivities. A
little boy and girl herded sheep by the way-side; the boy played the
Pandean pipe, the little girl sang a psalm,--it was the best song which
she knew how to sing to the traveller, in order to win a little present
from him.
The day was warm and beautiful, but the evening brought the cold mist
from the sea, which, however, in the interior of the country loses
something of its power.
“That is a kiss of welcome from my home,” said Otto; “the death-kiss of
the mermaid! In Funen they call it the elf maiden.”
Within the last few years a number of children have been sent from the
Orphan Asylum to the heath, in order that, instead of Copenhagen
rogues, they may become honest Jutland peasants. Otto had a boy of this
description for his coachman. The lad was very contented, and yet Otto
became low-spirited from his relation. Recollections from his own life
stirred within his breast. “Return thanks to God,” said he, and gave the
lad a considerable present; “on the heath thou hast shelter and a home;
in Copenhagen, perhaps, the sandy beach would have been thy nightly
resting-place, hunger and cold the gifts which the day would bring
thee.”
The nearer he approached the west, the more serious became his frame of
mind; it was as if the desolate scenery and cold sea-mist entered his
soul. The pictures of the gay country-seat at Funen were supplanted by
recollections of his home with his grandfather. He became more and more
low-spirited. It was only when a single mile separated him from his
home that the thought of surprising his dear friends conquered his
melancholy.
He caught sight of the red roof of the house, saw the willow
plantations, and heard the bark of the yard-dog. Upon the hillock before
the gate stood a group of children. Otto could no longer endure the slow
driving through the deep ruts. He sprang out of the carriage, and ran
more than he walked. The children on the hillock became aware of him,
and all looked toward the side from whence he came.
The slow driving, and his being absorbed in melancholy fancies, had
relaxed his powerful frame; but now in one moment all his elasticity
returned: his cheeks glowed, and his heart beat loudly.
From the court resounded singing--it was the singing of a psalm. He
stepped through the gateway. A crowd of peasants stood with bared heads:
before the door stood a carriage, some peasants were just raising a
coffin into it. In the doorway stood the old preacher, and spoke with a
man clad in black.
“Lord Jesus! who is dead?” were Otto’s first words, and his countenance
became pale like that of a corpse.
“Otto!” all exclaimed.
“Otto!” exclaimed also the old preacher, astonished; then seized his
hand, and said gravely, “The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away;
blessed be the name of the Lord!”
“Let me see the face of the dead!” said Otto. Not a tear came to his
eye; surprise and sorrow were too great.
“Shall I take out the screws?” inquired the man who had just screwed up
the coffin.
“Let him sleep the eternal rest!” said the preacher.
Otto stared at the black coffin in which his grandfather lay. The
carriage drove away with it. Otto followed after with the preacher,
heard him throw earth upon it, heard words which he did not comprehend,
saw the last corner of the coffin, and it was then removed from his
sight. All was as a dream to him.
They returned back to the preacher’s abode; a pale figure approached
him: it was Rosalie--old Rosalie.
“We have here no abiding-place, we all hasten toward futurity!” said
the old preacher. “Strengthen yourself now with meat and drink! The body
cannot suffer like the soul. We have accompanied him to His sleeping
chamber; his bed was well prepared! I have prayed the evening prayer; he
sleeps in God, and will awaken to behold His glory. Amen!”
“Otto! thou dear Otto!” said Rosalie. “The bitterest day brings me this
joy! How have I thought of thee! Amongst strangers shouldst thou receive
the tidings of his death! with no one who could feel for thy sorrow!
where thou shouldst see no eye weep for what thou hast lost! Now thou
art here! now, when I believed thee so far distant--it is a miracle!
Thou couldst only have received the letter to-day which carried the
intelligence of thy grandfather’s death to thee!”
“I wished to surprise you,” said Otto. “A melancholy surprise awaited
me!”
“Sit down, my child!” said the preacher, and drew him toward the covered
table. “When the tree falls which gave us shade and fruit, from which
we, in our own little garden, have planted shoots and sown seeds, we may
well look on with sadness and feel our loss: but we must not forget our
own garden, must not forget to cherish that which we have won from the
fallen tree: we must not cease to live for the living! I miss, like you,
the proud tree, which rejoiced my soul and my heart, but I know that it
is planted in a better garden, where Christ is the gardener.”
The preacher’s invitation to remain with him, during his stay, in his
house, Otto declined. Already this first night he wished to establish
himself in his own little chamber in the house of mourning. Rosalie also
would return.
“We have a deal to say to each other,” said the old preacher, and laid
his hand upon Otto’s shoulder. “Next summer you will hardly press my
hand, it will be pressed by the turf.”
“To-morrow I will come to you,” said Otto, and drove back with the old
Rosalie to the house.
The domestics kissed the hand and coat of the young master--he wished to
prevent this; the old woman wept. Otto stepped into the room; here had
stood the corpse, on account of which the furniture had been removed,
and the void was all the more affecting. The long white mourning
curtains fluttered in tire wind before the open window. Rosalie led
him by the hand into the little sleeping-room where the grandfather had
died. Here everything yet stood as formerly--the large book case, with
the glass doors, behind which the intellectual treasure was preserved:
Wieland and Fielding, Millot’s “History of the World,” and Von der
Hagen’s “Narrenbuch,” occupied the principal place: these books had
been those most read by the old gentleman. Here was also Otto’s earliest
intellectual food, Albertus Julius, the English “Spectator,” and Evald’s
writings. Upon the wall hung pikes and pistols, and a large old sabre,
which the grandfather had once worn. Upon the table beneath the mirror
stood an hour-glass; the sand had run out. Rosalie pointed toward the
bed. “There he died,” said she, “between six and seven o’clock in the
evening. He was only ill three days; the two last he passed in delirium:
he raised himself in bed, and shook the bed posts; I was obliged to let
two strong men watch beside him. ‘To horse! to horse!’ said he; ‘the
cannons forward!’ His brain dreamed of war and battles. He also spoke of
your blessed father severely and bitterly! Every word was like the stab
of a knife; he was as severe toward him as ever!”
“And did the people understand his words?” asked Otto with a wrinkled
brow.
“No, for the uninitiated they were dark words; and even had they
possessed any meaning, the men would have believed it was the sickness
which spoke out of him. ‘There stands the mother with the two children!
The one shall fall upon the flank of the enemy and bring me honor and
joy. The mother and daughter I know not!’ That was all which I heard him
say about you and your mother and sister. By noon on the third day the
fever had spent itself; the strong, gloomy man was become as weak and
gentle as a child; I sat beside his bed. ‘If I had only Otto here!’ said
he. ‘I have been severely attacked, Rosalie, but I am now much better:
I will go to sleep; that strengthens one.’ Smilingly he closed his eyes
and lay quite still: I read my prayers, withdrew gently so as not to
wake him; he lay there unchanged when I returned. I sat a little while
beside his bed; his hands lay upon the coverlid; I touched them, they
were ice-cold. I was frightened, touched his brow, his face--he was
dead! he had died without a death-struggle!”
For a long time did they converse about the dead man; it was near
midnight when Otto ascended the narrow stairs which led to the little
chamber in the roof, where as child and boy he had slept. All stood here
as it had done the year before, only in nicer order. Upon the wall hung
the black painted target, near to the centre of which he had once shot.
His skates lay upon the chest of drawers, near to the nodding plaster
figure. The long journey, and the overpowering surprise which awaited
him on his return, had strongly affected him: he opened the window;
a large white sand-hill rose like a wall straight up before it, and
deprived him of all view. How often, when a child, had the furrows
made by rain in the sand, and the detached pieces, presented to him
pictures,--towns, towers, and whole marching armies. Now it was only a
white wall, which reminded him of a winding-sheet. A small streak of the
blue sky was visible between the house and the steep slope of the hill.
Never before had Otto felt, never before reflected, what it was to stand
alone in the world, to be lovingly bound to no one with the band of
consanguinity.
“Solitary, as in this silent night do I stand in the world! solitary in
the mighty crowd of human beings! Only ONE being can I call mine! only
ONE being press as kindred to my heart! And I shudder at the thought of
meeting with this being--I should bless the thought that she was dead!
Father! thou didst ruin one being and make three miserable. I have
never loved thee; bitterness germinated within my breast when I
became acquainted with thee! Mother! thy features have died out of my
recollection; I revere thee! Thou wast all love; to love didst thou
offer up thy life--more than life! Pray for me with thy God! Pray for
me, ye dead! if there is immortality; if the flesh is not alone born
again in grass and the worm; if the soul is not lost in floods of air!
We shall be unconscious of it: eternally shall we sleep! eternally!”
Otto supported his forehead upon the window-frame, his arm sank
languidly, “Mother! poor mother! thou didst gain by death, even if it
be merely an eternal sleep,--asleep without dreams! We have only a short
time to live, and yet we divide our days of life with sleep! My body
yearns after this short death! I will sleep--sleep like all my beloved
ones! They do not awaken!” He threw himself upon the bed. The cold air
from the sea blew through the open window. The wearied body conquered;
he sank into the death-like sleep, whilst his doubting soul, ever
active, presented him with living dreams.