“L’Angleterre jalouse et la Grèce homérique,
Toute l’Europe admire, et la jeune Amérique
Se lève et bat des mains du bord des océans.
Trois jours vous ont suffi pour briser vos entraves.
Vous êtes les aînés d’une race de braves,
Vous êtes les fits des géans!”
V. HUGO, Chants du Crépuscule.
“Politiken, mine Herrer!”
MORTONS’ Lystspil: den Hjemkomne Nabob
“In France there is revolution!” was the first piece of information
which Otto related. “Charles X. has flown with his family. This, they
say, is in the German papers.”
“Revolution?” repeated Rosalie, and folded her hands. “Unhappy France!
Blood has flowed there, and it again flows. There I lost my father and
my brother. I became a refugee--must seek for myself a new father-land.”
She wiped away a tear from her cheek, and sunk into deep meditation.
She knew the horrors of a revolution, and only saw in this new one a
repetition of those scenes of terror which she had experienced, and
which had driven her out into the world, up into the north, where
she struggled on, until at length she found a home with Otto’s
grandfather--a resting abode.
Everything great and beautiful powerfully affected Otto’s soul; only in
one direction had he shown no interest--in the political direction, and
it was precisely politics which had most occupied the grandfather in
his seclusion. But Otto’s soul was too vivacious, too easily moved, too
easily carried away by what lay nearest him. “One must first thoroughly
enter into life, before the affairs of the world can seize upon us!”
said he. “With the greater number of those who in their early youth
occupy themselves with politics, it is merely affectation. It is with
them like the boy who forces himself to smoke tobacco so as to appear
older than he really is.” Beyond his own country, France was the
only land which really interested Otto. Here Napoleon had ruled, and
Napoleon’s name had reached his heart--he had grown up whilst this name
passed from mouth to mouth; the name and the deeds of the hero sounded
to him, yet a boy, like a great world adventure. How often had he heard
his grandfather, shaking his head, say, “Yes, now newspaper writers have
little to tell since Napoleon is quiet.” And then he had related to
him of the hero at Arcole and among the Pyramids, of the great campaign
against Europe, of the conflagration at Moscow, and the return from
Elba.
Who has not written a play in his childhood? Otto’s sole subject was
Napoleon; the whole history of the hero, from the snow-batteries at
Brienne to the rocky island in the ocean. True, this poem was a wild
shoot; but it had sprung from an enthusiastic heart. At that time he
preserved it as a treasure. A little incident which is connected with
it, and is characteristic of Otto’s wild outbreaks of temper when a boy,
we will here introduce.
A child of one of the domestics, a little merry boy with whom Otto
associated a good deal, was playing with him in his garret. Otto was
then writing his play. The boy bantered him, pulling the paper at the
same time. Otto forbade him with the threat,--“If thou dost that again I
will throw thee out of the window!” The boy again immediately pulled at
the paper. In a moment Otto seized him by the waist, swung him toward
the open window, and would certainly have thrown him out, had not
Rosalie fortunately entered the room, and, with an exclamation of
horror, seized Otto’s arm, who now stood pale as death and trembling in
every limb.
In this manner had Napoleon awoke Otto’s interest for France. Rosalie
also spoke, next to her Switzerland, with most pleasure of this country.
The Revolution had livingly affected her, and therefore her discourse
regarding it was living. It even seemed to the old preacher as though
the Revolution were an event which he had witnessed. The Revolution and
Napoleon had often fed his thoughts and his discourse toward this land.
Otto had thus, without troubling himself the least about politics, grown
up with a kind of interest about France. The mere intelligence of this
struggle of the July days was therefore not indifferent to him. He
still only knew what the horse-dealer had related; nothing of the
congregation, or of Polignac’s ministry: but France was to him the
mighty world-crater, which glowed with its splendid eruptions, and which
he admired from a distance.
The old preacher shook his head when Otto imparted this political
intelligence to him. A king, so long as he lived, was in his eyes holy,
let him be whatever sort of a man he might. The actions of a king,
according to his opinion, resembled the words of the Bible, which man
ought not to weigh; they should be taken as they were. “All authority is
from God!” said he. “The anointed one is holy; God gives to him wisdom;
he is a light to whom we must all look up!”
“He is a man like ourselves!” answered Otto. “He is the first magistrate
of the land, and as such we owe him the highest reverence and obedience.
Birth, and not worth, gives him the high post which he fills. He ought
only to will that which is good; to exercise justice. His duties are
equally great with those of his subjects.”
“But more difficult, my son!” said the old man. “It is nothing, as a
flower, to adorn the garland; more difficult is it to be the hand which
weaves the garland. The ribbon must be tight as well as gently tied; it
must not cut into the stems, and yet it must not be too loose. Yes, you
young men talk according to your wisdom! Yes, you are wise! quite as
wise as the woman who kept a roasted chicken for supper. She placed it
upon a pewter plate upon the glowing coals, and went out to attend to
her affairs. When she returned the plate was melted, and the chicken lay
among the ashes. ‘What a wise cat I have!’ said she; ‘she has eaten
I the plate and left the chicken!’ See, you talk just so, and regard
things from the same foolish point of view. Do not speak like the rest
of them in the city! ‘Fear God, and honor the king!’ We have nothing
to argue with these two; they transact their business between them! The
French resemble young students; when these have made their examen artium
they imagine they are equal to the whole world: they grow restive, and
give student-feasts! The French must have a Napoleon, who can give
their something to do! If they be left to themselves they will play mad
pranks!”
“Let us first see what the papers really say,” replied Otto.
The following day a large letter arrived; it was from Wilhelm:--
“My excellent Otto,--We have all drunk to Otto Thostrup’s health. I
raised the glass, and drank the health. The friendship’s dissonance YOU
has dissolved itself into a harmonious THOU, and thou thyself hast given
the accord. All at home speak of thee; even the Kammerjunker’s Mamsell
chose lately thee, and not her work-box, as a subject of conversation.
The evening as thou drovest over the Jutland heaths I seated myself at
the piano, and played thy whole journey to my sisters. The journey over
the heath I gave them in a monotonous piece, composed of three tones,
quite dissimilar to that composed by Rousseau. My sisters were near
despair; but I told them it was not more uninteresting than the heath.
Sometimes I made a little flight, a quaver; that was the heath-larks
which flew up into the air. The introduction to the gypsy-chorus in
‘Preciosa’ signified the German gypsy-flock. Then came the thema out of
‘Jeannot and Collin’--‘O, joyous days of childhood!’--and then thou wast
at home. I thundered powerfully down in the bass; that was the North
Sea, the chorus in thy present grand’ opéra. Thou canst well imagine
that it was quite original.
“For the rest, everything at home remains in its old state. I have been
in Svendborg, and have set to music that sweet poem, ‘The Wishes,’ by
Carl Bagger. His verses seem to me a little rough; but something will
certainly come out of the fellow! Thy own wishes are they which he has
expressed. Besides this, the astonishing tidings out of France have
given us, and all good people here, an electrical shock. Yes, thou in
thy solitude hast certainly heard nothing of the brilliant July days.
The Parisians have deposed Charles X. If the former Revolution was
a blood-fruit, this one is a true passionflower, suddenly sprung up,
exciting astonishment through its beauty, and as soon as the work
is ended rolling together its leaves. My cousin Joachim, who as thou
knowest is just now at Paris, has lived through these extraordinary
days. The day before yesterday we received a long, interesting letter
from him, which gave us--of the particulars as well as of the whole--a
more complete idea than the papers can give us. People assemble in
groups round the post-houses to receive the papers as they arrive. I
have extracted from my cousin’s letter what has struck me most, and send
thee these extracts in a supplement. Thou canst thus in thy retirement
still live in the world. A thousand greetings from all here. Thou hast a
place in mamma’s heart, but not less so in mine.
“Thy friend and brother,
“WILHELM.
“P. S.--It is true! My sister Sophie begs thee to bring her a stone from
the North Sea. Perhaps thou wilt bring for me a bucket of water; but it
must not incommode thee!”
This hearty letter transported Otto into the midst of the friendly
circle in Funen. The corner of the paper where Wilhelm’s name stood he
pressed to his lips. His heart was full of noble friendship.
The extract which Wilhelm had made from his cousin’s letter was short
and descriptive. It might be compared with a beautiful poem translated
into good prose.
In the theatre we interest ourselves for struggling innocence; but we
are still more affected when the destiny of a whole nation is to be
decided. It is on this account that “Wilhelm Tell” possesses so much
interest. Not of the single individual is here the question, but of all.
Here is flesh of our flesh, and bone of our bone. Greater than the play
created by the poet was the effect which this description of the July
days produced upon Otto. This was the reality itself in which he lived.
His heart was filled with admiration for France, who fought for Liberty
the holy fight, and who, with the language of the sword, had pronounced
the anathema of the age on the enemies of enlightenment and improvement.
The old preacher folded his hands as he heard it; his eyes sparkled: but
soon he shook his head. “May men so judge the anointed ones of God? ‘He
who taketh the sword shall perish by the sword!’”
“The king is for the people,” said Otto; “not the people for the king!”
“Louis XVIth’s unhappy daughter!” sighed Rosalie; “for the third time
is she driven from her father-land. Her parents and brothers killed! her
husband dishonored! She herself has a mind and heart. ‘She is the only
man among the Bourbons,’” said Napoleon.
The preacher, with his old-fashioned honesty, and a royalist from his
whole heart, regarded the affair with wavering opinion, and with fear
for the future. Rosalie thought most of those who were made unhappy of
the royal ladies and the poor children. Each followed the impulse of
their own nature, and the instinctive feeling of their age; thus did
Otto also, and therefore was his soul filled with enthusiasm. Enthusiasm
belongs to youth. His thoughts were busied with dreams of Paris; thither
flew his wishes. “Yes, I will travel!” exclaimed he; “that will give
my whole character a more decided bias: I will and must,” added he
in thought. “My sorrow will be extinguished, the recollections of my
childhood be forgotten. Abroad, no terrific figures, as here, will
present themselves to me. My father is dead, foreign earth lies upon his
coffin!”
“But the office--examination!” said the old preacher, “pass that first.
It is always good to have this in reserve, even if thou dost make no use
of it. Only make this year thy philosophicum.”
“And in the spring I shall travel,” said Otto.
“That depends upon thy guardian, my son!” said the preacher.
Several days passed, and Otto began to feel it solitary in his home--all
moved here in such a confined circle. His mind was accustomed to a wider
sphere of action. He began to grow weary, and then the hours travel with
the snail’s pace.
“...minutterna ligesom räcka og strärka sig.
Man känner behof at göre sa med.” [Note: Sketches of Every-day Life.]
He thought of his departure.
“Thou must take the road through Lemvig,” said Rosalie. “I will then
visit the family there for a few days; it will make them quite happy to
see thee, and I shall then be so much longer with thee. That thou wilt
do, wilt thou not?”
The day was fixed when they should travel.
The evening previous, Otto paid his last visit to the preacher. They
spoke together a long time about the deceased grandfather. The preacher
gave up several papers to Otto; among them also his father’s last
letter.
In honor of Otto, a bottle of wine was placed upon the table.
“To thy health, my son!” said the preacher, raising his glass. “We shall
hardly spend another evening together. Thou wilt have much to learn
before thou comest as far as I. The world has more thorn-bushes than
gold-mountains. The times look unsettled. France commences a new
description of campaign in Europe, and certainly will draw along with
it all young men: formerly it was the conquerer Napoleon who led to the
field; now it is the idea of liberty! May the Lord preserve our good
king, and then it will remain well with us! Thou, Otto, wilt fly out
into the wide world--hadst thou only first passed thy examination
for office! But when and where-ever thou mayest fly, remember on all
occasions the words of Scripture.
“We all desire to rule. Phaeton wished to drive the chariot of the
sun, but not understanding how to guide the reins, he set fire to the
countries, precipitated himself from the chariot, and broke his neck. I
have no one in the city of Copenhagen whom I can ask thee to greet for
me. All the friends of my youth are scattered to the east and to the
west. If any of them still be in the city, they will certainly have
forgotten me. But shouldst thou ever go to the Regent’s Court, and smoke
with the others a pipe under the tree, think of me. I have also sat
there when I was young like thee; when the French Revolution drove also
the blood quicker through my veins, and thoughts of freedom caused me to
carry my head more high. The dear old tree! [Author’s Note: At the end
of the last century it was felled, and two younger ones, which are now
in full growth, planted in its stead.] Yes, but one does not perceive in
it, as in me, how many years have passed since then!”
He pressed a kiss on Otto’s forehead, gave him his blessing, and they
parted.
Otto was in a melancholy mood; he felt that he had certainly seen the
old man for the last time. When he arrived at home he found Rosalie busy
hacking. The following morning, by earliest dawn, they were to travel
toward Lemvig. Otto had not been there within these two last years. In
old times the journey thither had always been to him a festival, now it
was almost indifferent to him.
He entered his little chamber; for the last time in his life he should
now sleep there. From the next morning commenced, so it seemed to him, a
new chapter in his life. Byron’s “Farewell” sounded in his ears like an
old melody:--
“Fare thee well, and if forever,
Still for ever fare thee well.”
At break of day the carriage rolled away with him and old Rosalie. Both
were silent; the carriage moved slowly along the deep ruts. Otto looked
back once more. A lark rose, singing above him.
“It will be a beautiful day!” said the coachman; his words and the song
of the lark Rosalie regarded as a good omen for Otto’s whole journey.