SKAGEN
TO Valdemar it seemed like a week, rather than just three days, since
he had bidden good-bye to his mother, Karen and Aunt Amalia, and
brought Karl with him up to the little painter's village of Skagen
on the Kattegat, where they were to spend the months of July and
August visiting Uncle Thor, who had built for himself one of the most
charming of all the pretty, long, low, vine-covered homes of the famous
Artist-Colony, of which he, as Court Painter, was by far the most
distinguished member.
Up here was Uncle Thor's summer studio, with its row of fifteen great
windows between which glorious red hollyhocks towered almost up
to the red roof-tiles. On the south, the windows overlooked a gay,
flower-massed garden where, on warm summer afternoons, the great
sculptor loved to chat with painter-friends, and serve tea under his
wind-swept old elms.
Here, in this bare and lofty studio, with its half-finished paintings
and groups in clay, and, if the day be chilly, its crackling wood
hearth-fire at the further end, throwing a flickering, rosy light over
all,--here Valdemar was to spend many hard, long hours every day under
his gifted godfather's instruction.
[Illustration: "IN THE CENTRE OF THE STUDIO STOOD THE UNFINISHED STATUE
OF THE LITTLE CROWN PRINCE"]
"In the whole of Denmark was there ever any boy half so fortunate?"
thought Valdemar to himself, as he made a mental resolution to show
Uncle Thor his appreciation by the hardest work of his life. Valdemar
could work hard, and he meant not only to prove to his uncle what
earnest toil and definite purpose could do, but also to win his
offer to send him to the Academy in the fall.
On a low platform, in the centre of the studio, stood the unfinished
statue of the little Crown Prince Olaf of Norway which Uncle Thor had
commenced in Copenhagen at the Royal Palace. Day by day it was nearing
completion.
"And here," said Valdemar's great teacher, uncovering a smaller but
similar clay figure of the same charming subject, "is work my ambitious
little pupil is to finish before he leaves Skagen. It will be hard
work, Valdemar, and it will put your ability as a young sculptor to a
fine test. But you can do it, Valdemar, and do it creditably, too!"
"Oh, Uncle Thor! Do you really think so? I'll try hard enough!"
promised the lad as he set to work in good earnest.
The long hours, which Valdemar spent daily in the studio, Karl passed
either out of doors or in reading all the fascinating books on Danish
history in Uncle Thor's library.
There were frequent letters to both boys from Fanö, the little island
in the North Sea, where Karen, her mother, and Aunt Amalia were
spending the summer. Later they were going to spend a few weeks on a
large farm, for a change.
And so the weeks passed. Finally Holme Week, with its clear, bright
evenings, came; but the midsummer sun was growing uncomfortably warm
even as far north as Skagen.
Valdemar's work on his little Prince Olaf statue was so far advanced
that Uncle Thor readily consented when the two boys begged him to let
them take the dog, Frederik, along with them, and tramp over the two
miles of mountainous sand-ridges which led to Denmark's most northern
point, Grenen, or the Gren,--a mere desolate sand-reef, the last
little tip of Jutland's mainland, which extends between the waters of
the North Sea and the Baltic.
The only signs of life the boys passed on the way, as they trudged
along together, often ankle-deep in the sand, were a few long-legged
birds, and several huge hares which shot across the road in front of
them.
"We didn't bring along more than half the sand-hills with us, did we,
Valdemar?" laughed Karl, as they threw themselves down on the beach at
Grenen, emptied the sand from their shoes, and donned their bathing
suits.
"Talking about sand, Karl, some day I must show you all that remains of
an old Gothic church tower near Skagen. One day, during a service, a
great sand-storm came up and buried the church itself so suddenly that
the only escape the people had was from the belfry. That is all that
can be seen of that church even to-day."
Frederik barked loudly and dashed back and forth after the two boys,
who were soon bubbling over with the fun and excitement of dipping
their feet first into the breakers of the Skager-Rak, and then into
the waters of the Kattegat, the warm July salt wind and spray tanning
their bare arms and faces. Then, Frederik following, Valdemar swam far
out into the sea and back again, with the utmost ease. All Danish boys
can swim well, and Valdemar wanted to give Karl a demonstration of his
ability as an expert swimmer.
"Kattegat! Skager-Rak!" shouted Karl, who liked something in the sound
of the words. "Grenen's great! But, honest, Valdemar, never in my life
did I expect to bathe in both these raging seas at once! But here I
go--look now!" and he plunged out into the breakers. Frederik dashed
after him to make sure that he was safe, then came bounding back again
to Valdemar.
"Ow! ow!" cried Karl, limping back on one foot.
"Crabber?" inquired Valdemar. "Uncle Thor warned us to look out for
crabs and shrimps up here on the beach. You sit down here and rest,
Karl. I'm going to gather some of those fine sea-gull's feathers
scattered along the beach for you to take back home with you for your
collection of Danish souvenirs. It was mighty nice of Uncle Thor to
give you that letter from King Frederik!"
"And I'm going to put my shoes and stockings right back on again while
you're gone!" said Karl, surveying his painful foot with a frown.
"Oh, look, Karl!" exclaimed Valdemar, as he soon came running back, his
arms full of something. "Look what I've found for you! Sea-gulls' eggs!
All greenish, with brown peppery spots on them, and here's a lot of the
loveliest white wing-feathers, every one tipped with black! They're
all for you, Karl."
"Oh, thank you, Valdemar. Let's blow the eggs. Do you know how?"
"Yes, of course. I've got a piece of wire in my pocket. You just run
this wire straight through both ends--so! Then blow and blow!"
Together the boys had soon blown all the eggs, and tied them up with
the feathers in a piece of old fish-net they found on the beach. Then
Karl watched Valdemar while he made a hasty sketch of Skagen Fyr, the
great white lighthouse towering above the sand-hummocks near the Signal
Station, where it is said that every year seventy thousand ships are
signalled.
As they started on their two-mile tramp over the desolate sand-ridges
back to Skagen, Valdemar gave one last lingering look towards the wild,
wind-swept stretch of endless beach they were leaving, where the North
Sea and the Baltic have battled against each other for countless
ages, with one ceaseless roar. Back of them, range after range of low
shifting sand-dunes glistened in the sun, as they stretched towards the
unbroken horizon in every direction. It was a strange new world to both
boys.
"What are you thinking so long about, Valdemar?" asked Karl.
"Oh, Karl, it was off there that our noble Tordenskjold's little
frigate, _White Eagle_, pursued the great Swedish man-of-war _Ösel_,
and made her fly in terror. There's something about the very desolation
of this place that, I like," said Valdemar. "Something strange, and
picturesque, and romantic, I mean, Karl. One feels some way--up here at
the Gren--as though he had actually reached the world's end! I'd like
to come back up here often. Wouldn't you, Karl?"
"No! There's something I don't like one bit about it! I liked the
Massachusetts Cape Cod beach at home; but that was different. I'd hate
to have to live very long anywhere near here! Romantic isn't the right
word, Valdemar. It's a lonely, wild, and forsaken spot, with nothing at
all 'romantic' about it in my eyes. To me it feels like the 'jumping
off place,' all right. And I've heard, too, Valdemar, that when a great
storm is blowing, and the waves are rolling mountain high, that there
are just terrible shipwrecks up here at this dangerous point! Down
at the Skagen Hotel, the figureheads and name-boards, that they have
collected from ships of all nations, tell the tale, Valdemar."
"That's true. There was the wreck of the _Daphne_, with the lives of
eight of the brave life-saving crew lost. Sometimes there are twenty
shipwrecks a year. But, Karl, this is the sea that made Vikings! Over
these same seas, where our smoky steamers now pass, once danced _Long
Ship_, _Serpent_ and _Dragon_, with their gilded dragon-beaks gleaming
in the sunlight! Can't you see them, Karl? I can! Uncle Thor has
often told me the wonderful Viking tales. And I've read about their
marvellous courage and daring. The Eddas and Sagas of the Vikings are
rich in lore of those fiery-hearted warriors, who sailed over the
stormy seas in their fleets of light ash-wood ships, conquering far and
wide, and meeting death light-heartedly! They say some great Viking
chief is buried near here. Their cairns and barrows by thousands cover
Denmark to-day."
"Oh, I've read about them at home," answered Karl, who loved courage
and bravery as much as did any healthy American boy, but who loved also
to tease. "They were just a race of bold sea-robbers, and pirates,
always 'hatching their felonious little plans,' always ready to burn
and kill; and, according to history, some of the deaths they dealt out
to their enemies were truly 'Vikingish.'"
"And yet, Karl, the ancient Sagas and chronicles tell that it was our
brave Vikings who first of all discovered your North America, and
founded a colony they called Vineland, near where your great Harvard
College is to-day. The Sagas say that, five hundred years before
Columbus lived, Viking Biarne sailed to America with his ship _Eyrar_,
and that, later, Lief, a son of Eric the Red, went over to America,
too."
"Yes, I know. I've read Longfellow's poem, 'The Skeleton in Armor,'
and I've seen the 'Old Mill' at Newport, which was long believed to be
a Viking relic," said Karl. "But we know differently now. Nothing has
been really proved."
The sun was sinking in the west as the two tired, but happy boys
reached the outskirts of the straggling little village of Skagen, and
trudged down the sandy road which led in and out among the fishermen's
huts, with their tarred or heavily thatched roofs, and color-washed
walls--some of them even built from wreckage.
Strings of fish, strung from pole to pole, were hung out to dry.
Groups of sturdy fish-wives, here and there, with bronzed arms bare
to the shoulder, and prettily kerchiefed heads, sat at tubs, dressing
flounders for drying; and from the doorway of one hut came a voice so
sweet and clear, crooning a quaint old Danish lullaby to the sleeping
baby in the mother's arms, that the boys paused to listen as she sang:
"_Den lille Ole, med Paraplyen
Han kender alle Smaa Folk i Byen
Hver lille Pige, hver lille Dreng,
De sover sodt i deres lille Seng._"
"That was a pretty song. Tell me what it was all about," asked Karl, as
they hurried on at a more rapid gait, for they were getting hungrier
every minute.
"Oh, it was just a little folk-song every Dane knows. She was singing
to her baby about the 'Sandman,' or _den lille Ole_, as we Danes say.
She was telling him that the 'Sandman, with his umbrella, knows all
about the little folks in town. Each little girl--each little boy--they
are all sleeping sweetly in their beds.'"
They passed an old fisherman, mackintosh-clad, and another one in
jersey and high boots, both hurrying towards the beach, where, in
the gathering twilight, they could see a dim craft, a small fishing
boat, with a few dark figures plying their trade, slowly rounding the
promontory, its lights reflecting picturesquely in the water.
"Some day we must come back earlier, when more of the fishermen are
home from their trips, and watch the crews at practice," said Valdemar.
"These Skagen fishermen are true sons of the Vikings. It is said that
there was one, once, who boasted of having saved two hundred lives."
"I hope you didn't worry about our getting home so late, Uncle Thor,"
said Valdemar, at the supper table that night.
"No, but here is a letter for you."
"Hurrah!" exclaimed Valdemar, as he finished reading it. "It's from
mother. She says that Grandmother Ingemann has invited us all to spend
Christmas with her down in Odense, and that Aage will be home for his
vacation from the Military College, and be there with us, and Uncle
Oscar, too, will be back again from America. Mother has decided that I
am not to return to school until after Christmas, for she thinks that
Karl and I are learning more by seeing our country than we could learn
in school. And, best of all, mother says that I can remain up here
studying with you, Uncle Thor, until September!"
"Hurrah!" said Karl. "No school until New Year's for me!"
"That means five more weeks up here with you, dear Uncle Thor!"
continued Valdemar. "Now I can entirely finish the task you gave me to
do, the Prince Olaf statue. I'm so glad, Uncle Thor!"
"And I'm glad, too, Valdemar, for you are doing me great credit as a
pupil. I am going to be very proud of that statue of yours, Valdemar,
when it is finished."
These last five weeks passed for Valdemar much as the first five
had--in the studio.
"Study--diligent, earnest and honest," said Uncle Thor, "will win many
honors for you when you are older, Valdemar. If you work hard, you
should some day gather some of the roses that strew the path of the
Danish artist, my boy."
"But once you said that Denmark was almost overcrowded with art
students, Uncle Thor, didn't you?"
"That is true. But many of them fail to go on with their work; they
lose courage and drop out. Others become interested in something else,
and so leave their art studies. The few who do keep on usually learn
all they can from the art schools in Denmark, and then go to Italy for
further study."
"Yes, as you did, Uncle Thor, and as Thorvaldsen did, too," said
Valdemar. "Oh, Uncle Thor! Do you think that, when I am older, I may
ever be able to study in Italy?"
"My dear little Valdemar, anything is possible for you, if you work
hard enough," was the great artist's answer.