From Castle Garden, Halfdan made his way up through Greenwich street,
pursued by a clamorous troop of confidence men and hotel runners.
“Kommen Sie mit mir. Ich bin auch Deutsch,” cried one. “Voila, voila,
je parle Francais,” shouted another, seizing hold of his valise. “Jeg
er Dansk. Tale Dansk,” [1] roared a third, with an accent which seriously
impeached his truthfulness. In order to escape from these importunate
rascals, who were every moment getting bolder, he threw himself into the
first street-car which happened to pass; he sat down, gazed out of the
windows and soon became so thoroughly absorbed in the animated scenes
which moved as in a panorama before his eyes, that he quite forgot where
he was going. The conductor called for fares, and received an English
shilling, which, after some ineffectual expostulation, he pocketed, but
gave no change. At last after about an hour’s journey, the car stopped,
the conductor called out “Central Park,” and Halfdan woke up with
a start. He dismounted with a timid, deliberate step, stared in dim
bewilderment at the long rows of palatial residences, and a chill sense
of loneliness crept over him. The hopeless strangeness of everything
he saw, instead of filling him with rapture as he had once anticipated,
Sent a cold shiver to his heart. It is a very large affair, this world
of ours--a good deal larger than it appeared to him gazing out upon
it from his snug little corner up under the Pole; and it was as
unsympathetic as it was large; he suddenly felt what he had never been
aware of before--that he was a very small part of it and of very little
account after all. He staggered over to a bench at the entrance to the
park, and sat long watching the fine carriages as they dashed past him;
he saw the handsome women in brilliant costumes laughing and chatting
gayly; the apathetic policemen promenading in stoic dignity up and down
upon the smooth pavements; the jauntily attired nurses, whom in his
Norse innocence he took for mothers or aunts of the children, wheeling
baby-carriages which to Norse eyes seemed miracles of dainty ingenuity,
under the shady crowns of the elm-trees. He did not know how long he
had been sitting there, when a little bright-eyed girl with light kid
gloves, a small blue parasol and a blue polonaise, quite a lady of
fashion en miniature, stopped in front of him and stared at him in shy
wonder. He had always been fond of children, and often rejoiced in their
affectionate ways and confidential prattle, and now it suddenly touched
him with a warm sense of human fellowship to have this little daintily
befrilled and crisply starched beauty single him out for notice among
the hundreds who reclined in the arbors, or sauntered to and fro under
the great trees.
“What is your name, my little girl?” he asked, in a tone of friendly
interest.
“Clara,” answered the child, hesitatingly; then, having by another look
assured herself of his harmlessness, she added: “How very funny you
speak!”
“Yes,” he said, stooping down to take he tiny begloved hand. “I do not
speak as well as you do, yet; but I shall soon learn.”
Clara looked puzzled.
“How old are you?” she asked, raising her parasol, and throwing back her
head with an air of superiority.
“I am twenty-four years old.”
She began to count half aloud on her fingers: “One, two, three, four,”
but, before she reached twenty, she lost her patience.
“Twenty-four,” she exclaimed, “that is a great deal. I am only seven,
and papa gave me a pony on my birthday. Have you got a pony?”
“No; I have nothing but what is in this valise, and you know I could not
very well get a pony into it.”
Clara glanced curiously at the valise and laughed; then suddenly she
grew serious again, put her hand into her pocket and seemed to be
searching eagerly for something. Presently she hauled out a small
porcelain doll’s head, then a red-painted block with letters on it, and
at last a penny.
“Do you want them?” she said, reaching him her treasures in both hands.
“You may have them all.”
Before he had time to answer, a shrill, penetrating voice cried out:
“Why, gracious! child, what are you doing?”
And the nurse, who had been deeply absorbed in “The New York Ledger,”
came rushing up, snatched the child away, and retreated as hastily as
she had come.
Halfdan rose and wandered for hours aimlessly along the intertwining
roads and footpaths. He visited the menageries, admired the statues,
took a very light dinner, consisting of coffee, sandwiches, and ice, at
the Chinese Pavilion, and, toward evening, discovered an inviting leafy
arbor, where he could withdraw into the privacy of his own thoughts,
and ponder upon the still unsolved problem of his destiny. The little
incident with the child had taken the edge off his unhappiness and
turned him into a more conciliatory mood toward himself and the great
pitiless world, which seemed to take so little notice of him. And he,
who had come here with so warm a heart and so ardent a will to join
in the great work of human advancement--to find himself thus harshly
ignored and buffeted about, as if he were a hostile intruder! Before
him lay the huge unknown city where human life pulsated with large,
full heart-throbs, where a breathless, weird intensity, a cold, fierce
passion seemed to be hurrying everything onward in a maddening whirl,
where a gentle, warm-blooded enthusiast like himself had no place and
could expect naught but a speedy destruction. A strange, unconquerable
dread took possession of him, as if he had been caught in a swift,
strong whirlpool, from which he vainly struggled to escape. He crouched
down among the foliage and shuddered. He could not return to the city.
No, no: he never would return. He would remain here hidden and unseen
until morning, and then he would seek a vessel bound for his dear native
land, where the great mountains loomed up in serene majesty toward the
blue sky, where the pine-forests whispered their dreamily sympathetic
legends, in the long summer twilights, where human existence flowed
on in calm beauty with the modest aims, small virtues, and small vices
which were the happiness of modest, idyllic souls. He even saw himself
in spirit recounting to his astonished countrymen the wonderful things
he had heard and seen during his foreign pilgrimage, and smiled to
himself as he imagined their wonder when he should tell them about the
beautiful little girl who had been the first and only one to offer him a
friendly greeting in the strange land. During these reflections he fell
asleep, and slept soundly for two or three hours. Once, he seemed to
hear footsteps and whispers among the trees, and made an effort to rouse
himself, but weariness again overmastered him and he slept on. At last,
he felt himself seized violently by the shoulders, and a gruff voice
shouted in his ear:
“Get up, you sleepy dog.”
He rubbed his eyes, and, by the dim light of the moon, saw a Herculean
policeman lifting a stout stick over his head. His former terror came
upon him with increased violence, and his heart stood for a moment
still, then, again, hammered away as if it would burst his sides.
“Come along!” roared the policeman, shaking him vehemently by the collar
of his coat.
In his bewilderment he quite forgot where he was, and, in hurried
Norse sentences, assured his persecutor that he was a harmless, honest
traveler, and implored him to release him. But the official Hercules was
inexorable.
“My valise, my valise;” cried Halfdan. “Pray let me get my valise.”
They returned to the place where he had slept, but the valise was
nowhere to be found. Then, with dumb despair he resigned himself to his
fate, and after a brief ride on a street-car, found himself standing in
a large, low-ceiled room; he covered his face with his hands and burst
into tears.
“The grand-the happy republic,” he murmured, “spontaneous blossoming of
the soul. Alas! I have rooted up my life; I fear it will never blossom.”
All the high-flown adjectives he had employed in his parting speech in
the Students’ Union, when he paid his enthusiastic tribute to the Grand
Republic, now kept recurring to him, and in this moment the paradox
seemed cruel. The Grand Republic, what did it care for such as he? A
pair of brawny arms fit to wield the pick-axe and to steer the plow it
received with an eager welcome; for a child-like, loving heart and a
generously fantastic brain, it had but the stern greeting of the law.