“Huzza for Copenhagen and for Paris! may they both flourish!”
The Danes in Paris by HEIBERG.
Wilhelm’s cousin, Joachim, had arrived from Paris. We remember the young
officer, out of whose letters Wilhelm had sent Otto a description of
the struggle of the July days. As an inspired hero of liberty had he
returned; struggling Poland had excited his lively interest, and he
would willingly have combated in Warsaw’s ranks. His mind and his
eloquence made him doubly interesting. The combat of the July days,
of which he had been an eye-witness, he described to them. Joachim was
handsome; he had an elegant countenance with sharp features, and was
certainly rather pale--one might perhaps have called him worn with
dissipation, had it not been for the brightness of his eyes, which
increased in conversation. The fine dark eyebrow, and even the little
mustache, gave the countenance all expression which reminded one of fine
English steel-engravings. His figure was small, almost slender, but the
proportions were beautiful. The animation of the Frenchman expressed
itself in every motion, but at the same time there was in him a certain
determination which seemed to say: “I am aware of my own intellectual
superiority!”
He interested every one: Otto also listened with pleasure when Cousin
Joachim related his experiences, but when all eyes were turned toward
the narrator, Otto fixed his suddenly upon Sophie, and found that she
could moderate his attentions. Joachim addressed his discourse to all,
but at the points of interest his glance rested alone on the pretty
cousin! “She interests him!” said Otto to himself. “And Cousin Joachim?”
Yes, he relates well; but had we only traveled we should not be inferior
to him!”
“Charles X. was a Jesuit!” said Joachim; “he strove after an
unrestrained despotism, and laid violent hands on the Charter. The
expedition against Algiers was only a glittering fire-work arranged to
flatter the national pride--all glitter and falseness! Like Peirronnet,
through an embrace he would annihilate the Charter.”
The conversation now turned from the Jesuits to the Charter and
Polignac. The minute particulars, which only an eyewitness can relate,
brought the struggle livingly before their eyes. They saw the last
night, the extraordinary activity in the squares where the balls
were showered, and in the streets where the barricades were erected.
Overturned wagons and carts, barrels and stones, were heaped upon each
other--even the hundred year-old trees of the Boulevards were cut
down to form barricades: the struggle began, Frenchman fought against
Frenchman--for liberty and country they sacrificed their life.
[Note:
“Ceux qui pieusement sont morts pour la patrie
Ont droit qu’à leur cerceuil la foule vienne et prie:
Entre le plus beaux noms, leur nom est le plus beau.
Toute gloire, près d’eux, passe et tombe éphèmere
Et, comme ferait une mère,
La voix d’un peuple entier les berce en leur tombeau!”
--VICTOR HUGO.]
And he described the victory and Louis Philippe, whom he admired and
loved.
“That was a world event,” said the man of business. “It electrified
both king and people. They still feel the movement. Last year was an
extraordinary year!”
“For the Copenhageners also,” said Otto, “there were three colors. These
things occupied the multitude with equal interest: the July Revolution,
the ‘Letters of a Wandering Ghost,’ and Kellermann’s ‘Berlin Wit.’”
“Now you are bitter, Mr. Thostrup,” said the lady of the house.
“The really educated did not occupy themselves with these Berlin
‘Eckensteher’ which the multitude have rendered national!”
“But they hit the right mark!” said Otto; “they met with a reception
from the citizens and people in office.”
“That I can easily believe,” remarked Joachim; “that is like the people
here!”
“That is like the people abroad!” said the hostess. “In Paris they pass
over still more easily from a revolution, in which they themselves have
taken part, to a review by Jules Janin, or to a new step of Taglioni’s,
and from that to ‘une histoire scandaleuse!’”
“No, my gracious lady, of the last no one takes any notice--it belongs
to the order of the day!”
“That I can easily believe!” said Miss Sophie.
The man of business now inquired after the Chamber. The cousin’s answer
was quite satisfactory. The lady of the house wished to hear of the
flower-markets, and of the sweet little inclosed gardens in the Places.
Sophie wished to hear of Victor Hugo. She received a description of him,
of his abode in the Place Royale, and of the whole Europe littéraire
beside. Cousin Joachim was extremely interesting.
Otto did not pay another visit for two days.
“Where have you been for so long?” asked Sophie, when he came again.
“With my books!” replied he: there lay a gloomy expression in his eyes.
“O, you should have come half an hour earlier--our cousin was here!
He was describing to me the Jardin des Plantes in Paris. O, quite
excellently!”
“He is an interesting young man!” said Otto.
“The glorious garden!” pursued Sophie, without remarking the emphasis
with which Otto had replied. “Do you not remember, Mr. Thostrup, how
Barthélemi has spoken of it? ‘Où tout homme, qui rêve à son pays absent,
Retrouve ses parfums et son air caressant.’ In it there is a whole
avenue with cages, in which are wild beasts,--lions and tigers! In small
court-yards, elephants and buffaloes wander about at liberty! Giraffes
nibble the branches of high trees! In the middle of the garden are the
courts for bears, only there is a sort of well in which the bears
walk about; it is surrounded by no palisades, and you stand upon the
precipitous edge! There our cousin stood!”
“But he did not precipitate himself down!” said Otto, with indifference.
“What is the matter?” asked Sophie. “Are you in your elegiac mood? You
look as I imagine Victor Hugo when he has not made up his mind about the
management of his tragic catastrophe!”
“That is my innate singularity!” replied Otto. “I should have pleasure
in springing down among the bears of which you relate!”
“And in dying?” asked Sophie. “No, you must live. ‘C’est le bonheur de
vivre Qui fait la gloire de mourir.’”
“You speak a deal of French to-day,” said Otto, with a friendliness
of manner intended to soften the bitterness of the tone. “Perhaps your
conversation with the lieutenant was in that language?”
“French interests me the most!” replied she. “I will ask our cousin to
speak it often with me. His accent is excellent, and he is himself a
very interesting man!”
“No doubt of it!” answered Otto.
“You will remain and dine with us?” said the lady of the house, who now
entered.
Otto did not feel well.
“These are only whims,” said Sophie.
The ladies made merry, and Otto remained. Cousin Joachim came and was
interesting--very interesting, said all. He related of Paris, spoke also
of Copenhagen, and drew comparisons. The quietness of home had made an
especial impression on him.
“People here,” said he, “go about as if they bore some heavy grief, or
some joy, which they might not express. If one goes into a coffee-house,
it is just as if one entered a house of mourning. Each one seats
himself, a newspaper in his hand, in a corner. That strikes one when one
comes from Paris! One naturally has the thought,--Can these few degrees
further north bring so much cold into the blood? There is the same
quiet in our theatre. Now I love this active life. The only boldness the
public permits itself is hissing a poor author; but a wretched singer,
who has neither tone nor manner, a miserable actress, will be endured,
nay, applauded by good friends--an act of compassion. She is so fearful!
she is so good! In Paris people hiss. The decoration master, the
manager, every one there receives his share of applause or blame. Even
the directors are there hissed, if they manage badly.”
“You are preaching a complete revolution in our theatrical kingdom!”
said the lady of the house. “The Copenhageners cannot ever become
Parisians, and neither should they.”
“The theatre is here, as well as there, the most powerful organ of the
people’s life. It has the greatest influence, and ours stands high, very
high, when one reflects in what different directions it must extend its
influence. Our only theatre must accommodate itself, and represent, at
the same time, the Theatre Français, the grand Opera, the Vaudeville,
and Saint-Martin; it must comprehend all kinds of theatrical
entertainments. The same actors who to-day appear in tragedy, must
to-morrow show themselves in a comedy or vaudeville. We have actors who
might compare themselves with the best in Paris--only _one_ is above all
ours, but, also, above all whom I have seen in Europe, and this one
is Mademoiselle Mars. You will, doubtless, consider the reason
extraordinary which gives this one, in my opinion, the first place. This
is her age, which she so completely compels you to forget. She is still
pretty; round, without being called fat. It is not through rouge, false
hair, or false teeth, that she procures herself youth; it lies in her
soul, and from thence it flows into every limb--every motion becomes
charming! She fills you with astonishment! her eyes are full of
expression, and her voice is the most sonorous which I know! It is
indeed music! How can one think of age when one is affected by an
immortal soul? I rave about Léontine Fay, but the old Mars has my heart.
There is also a third who stands high with the Parisians--Jenny Vertprè,
at the Gymnase Dramatique, but she would be soon eclipsed were the
Parisians to see our Demoiselle Pätges. She possesses talent which will
shine in every scene. Vertprè has her loveliness, her whims, but not
her Proteus-genius, her nobility. I saw Vertprè in ‘La Reine de Seize
Ans,’--a piece which we have not yet; but she was only a saucy soubrette
in royal splendor--a Pernille of Holberg’s, as represented by a
Parisian. We have Madame Wexschall, and we have Frydendal! Were Denmark
only a larger country, these names would sound throughout Europe!”
He now described the decorations in the “Sylphide,” in “Natalia,” and in
various other ballets, the whole splendor, the whole magnificence.
“But our orchestra is excellent!” said Miss Sophie.
“It certainly contains several distinguished men,” answered Joachim;
“but must one speak of the whole? Yes, you know I am not musical, and
cannot therefore express myself in an artistical manner about music,
but certain it is that something lay in my ear, in my feeling, which, in
Paris, whispered to me, ‘That is excellent!’ Here, on the contrary, it
cries, ‘With moderation! with moderation!’ The voice is the first; she
is the lady; the instruments, on the contrary, are the cavaliers who
shall conduct the former before the public. Gently they should take her
by the hand; she must stand quite foremost; but here the instruments
thrust her aside, and it is to me as if each instrument would have the
first place, and constantly shouted, ‘Here am I! here am I!”
“That sounds very well!” said Sophie; “but one may not believe you!
You have fallen in love with foreign countries, and, therefore, at home
everything must be slighted.”
“By no means! The Danish ladies, for instance, appear the prettiest, the
most modest whom I have known.”
“Appear?” repeated Otto.
“Joachim possesses eloquence,” said the lady of the house.
“That has developed itself abroad!” answered he: “here at home there are
only two ways in which it can publicly develop itself--in the pulpit,
and at a meeting in the shooting-house. Yet it is true that now we
are going to have a Diet and a more political life. I feel already,
in anticipation, the effect; we shall only live for this life, the
newspapers will become merely political, the poets sing politics the
painters choose scenes from political life. ‘C’est un Uebergang!’
as Madame La Flèche says. [Author’s Note: Holberg’s Jean de France.]
Copenhagen is too small to be a great, and too great to be a small city.
See, there lies the fault!”
Otto felt an irresistible desire to contradict him in most things which
he said about home. But the cousin parried every bold blow with a joke.
“Copenhagen must be the Paris of the North,” said he, “and that it
certainly would become in fifty, or twice that number of years. The
situation was far more beautiful than that of the city of the Seine. The
marble church must be elevated, and become a Pantheon, adorned with the
works of Thorwaldsen and other artists; Christiansborg, a Louvre, whose
gallery you visit; Öster Street and Pedermadsen’s passage, arcades such
as are in Paris, covered with glass roofs and flagged, shops on both
sides, and in the evening, when thousands of gas-lamps burnt, here
should be the promenade; the esplanades would be the Champs Elysées,
with swings and slides, music, and mâts de cocagne. [Author’s Note:
High smooth poles, to the top of which victuals, clothes, or money are
attached. People of the lower classes then try to climb up and seize the
prizes. The best things are placed at the very top of the pole.] On
the Peblinger Lake, as on the Seine, there should be festive water
excursions made. Voilà!” exclaimed he, “that would be splendid!”
“That might be divine!” said Sophie.
Animation and thought lay in the cousin’s countenance; his fine features
became striking from their expression. Thus did his image stamp itself
in Otto’s soul, thus did it place itself beside Sophie’s image as she
stood there, with her large brown eyes, round which played thought and
smiles, whilst they rested on the cousin. The beautifully formed white
hand, with its taper fingers, played with the curls which fell over her
cheeks. Otto would not think of it.