Near the west end of Ansbjerg wood there is an open space, consisting of
an extensive green, entirely surrounded by old venerable beeches.
Annually, on the first afternoon of Whitsuntide, the greater part of the
inhabitants of the neighbouring parishes are accustomed to assemble at
this spot. On that day many houses stand empty, and in many are left
only the blind and the bed-ridden; for the halt and crippled, provided
they lack not the sense of seeing, must once a-year enjoy themselves
amid the new fresh verdure, and--like Noah's dove--bring home a bright
green beechen bough to their dusky dwellings.
What joy! what shoals! The Horse-Garden--so is this trysting-place
named--at this time resembles a bee-hive; incessant bustle, endless
pressing backwards and forwards, in and out: every soul bent only on
sucking in the honey of joyousness, and imbibing the exhilarating summer
air. How they hasten, how they flutter from flower to flower! greet,
meet, separate, familiarly, gaily and hastily! How many a young swain
brings or finds here the lady of his heart! At a considerable distance
from the hive may be heard its ceaseless hum and tumult.
The nearer you approach, the more varied is the joyous uproar. The
monotonous hum resolves itself into shout, song, and laughter, rattling
of leaves, sound of fiddles and flutes. Swarms pour in and out on every
side of the green wood. The lower orders in their Sunday garments, the
higher classes in elegant summer attire, cavaliers in black, ladies in
white.
"Is there dancing here?"
"Oh, yes, here is a forest ball, a dance on the elastic greensward."
"Do you see that village fiddler by the large beech yonder, towering
high above the surrounding multitude? Do you see how rapidly his bow
dances up and down amid hats adorned with flowers? And there is a
regular country dance, a real Scottish!"
"Am I in the Deer-park, in Charlottenlund?"[17] you will ask. "See what
a number of carriages, elegant equipages, coachmen in livery, horses
with plated harness, tents with cold meat and confectionery, coffee-pots
on the fire, families reclining on the grass around a basket of
eatables!"
You are in the Horse-Garden. This is Whitsuntide's evening in Lysgaard
district,--the beauteous Nature's homage-day. Thus is this holiday
celebrated till the sun goes down; but formerly it was only the common
people of two or three neighbouring parishes that assembled here, though
this innocent merry-making is, without doubt, an ancient custom, as old
as the wood itself.
Ten years after the events related in the foregoing chapters had taken
place, the summer festival was, as usual, held in the Horse-Garden. A
man from whose grandson I in my young days heard the story, gave the
following account of it:--
"It was during my first year's service as bailiff at Kjaersholm, I had my
sweetheart at Vium; she was distantly related to the clergyman there. On
the first day of Whitsuntide she agreed to meet me in the Horse-Garden,
where we arrived so early that we found ourselves the only persons in
the place. We wandered for an hour or two in the wood, until the sound
of a violin announced to us that the people were assembled. We went to
the spot as lookers on, sat down and observed the dancers. Shortly
after, I noticed that two gentlemen, with a lady and two children, were
approaching along the path leading from Ansbjerg. Being a stranger in
the neighbourhood, I inquired of my companion who they were. 'Hush,'
answered she, 'it is the family. The tall stout man is the old gentleman
who became a widower about five years since. The young one, with a scar
on his cheek, is his son-in-law, the lady his daughter, and the two
Junkers their children. Ten years ago she eloped by night with the young
gentleman. While the old lady was living, a reconciliation was not to be
thought of; but after her death, the old gentleman allowed himself to be
persuaded, and he received them into his house. At his decease they will
inherit both house and land.' The party continued standing for some
time, amusing themselves with looking at the country folks, and then
gave them something for drink. On a tree that had been levelled by the
wind, sat two elderly men, with a jug of beer between them, and each
with his pipe. On the family approaching them they rose and took the
pipes from their mouths.
"'Sit still,' I heard the young man say; and turning to the elder, 'you
are now better friends than when you struck a light for Niels' pipe by
Karup rivulet?'
"'Yes, gracious sir,' answered the person addressed with a smile; 'there
is no animal however small that will not fight for its life. It was a
bad business, yet has turned out well.' The party laughed.
"'Be careful,' said the old gentleman in going away, 'that you do not
get jammed between the branches of the deer you are riding on there.' At
this they all laughed heartily, and I could, from time to time, hear the
old man's jolly roar, that resounded far in the wood.
"'What does that allude to?' said I to my companion, 'and who are these
two old men?'
"'The one,' answered she, 'in the green frock, with the gray hat, is the
gamekeeper. The other, in the brown habit, is Mads the under-ranger, who
lives close by, and whom the young gentleman brought with him. The story
of the deer I will tell you.'
"While she was relating this and the whole history of the elopement, my
notice was attracted by a pair, who were having a dance to themselves,
while all the others stood watching them.
"'Who are they?' inquired I; 'they look a little remarkable,
particularly the youth in the long yellow skin ineffables, in that blue
jacket, and that extraordinary cap on his head?'
"'He is no youth,' answered she, 'but a married man; it is his wife he
is dancing with; he comes from Turkey, and accompanied his young master
home from the wars. He is secretary and gardener, and is both pot and
pan in the house. His wife has been long in the young lady's service,
and, they say, helped her away when she eloped from her parent's
house.'"
And now my story is ended. Many ages of man lie between then and now.
There has been ringing and singing over several generations since the
persons therein commemorated passed to eternal rest. Both the old and
the young lords of Ansbjerg have long been forgotten in the
neighbourhood, and no one now knows aught to tell of Black Mads. The
manor-house has often changed its proprietors, the lands have been sold
and divided.
Of the robber's cave alone, an obscure and confused tradition has been
preserved. On the great heath, about two miles west of Karup stream, are
some heath-covered hills, which yet bear, and ever will bear that
sinister name; but no one now thinks that there was once an asylum for
tender and steadfast love, a paradise underground.