It was late when Counsellor Knapp, lost in thought about the times
of King Hans, desired to return home; and fate so ordered it that he
put on the goloshes of Fortune instead of his own, and walked out into
the East Street. Through the magic power of the goloshes, he was at
once carried back three hundred years, to the times of King Hans,
for which he had been longing when he put them on. Therefore he
immediately set his foot into the mud and mire of the street, which in
those days possessed no pavement.
"Why, this is horrible; how dreadfully dirty it is!" said the
counsellor; "and the whole pavement has vanished, and the lamps are all
out."
The moon had not yet risen high enough to penetrate the thick
foggy air, and all the objects around him were confused together in
the darkness. At the nearest corner, a lamp hung before a picture of
the Madonna; but the light it gave was almost useless, for he only
perceived it when he came quite close and his eyes fell on the painted
figures of the Mother and Child.
"That is most likely a museum of art," thought he, "and they
have forgotten to take down the sign."
Two men, in the dress of olden times, passed by him.
"What odd figures!" thought he; "they must be returning from
some masquerade."
Suddenly he heard the sound of a drum and fifes, and then a
blazing light from torches shone upon him. The counsellor stared
with astonishment as he beheld a most strange procession pass before
him. First came a whole troop of drummers, beating their drums very
cleverly; they were followed by life-guards, with longbows and
crossbows. The principal person in the procession was a
clerical-looking gentleman. The astonished counsellor asked what it
all meant, and who the gentleman might be.
"That is the bishop of Zealand."
"Good gracious!" he exclaimed; "what in the world has happened
to the bishop? what can he be thinking about?" Then he shook his
head and said, "It cannot possibly be the bishop himself."
While musing on this strange affair, and without looking to the
right or left, he walked on through East Street and over Highbridge
Place. The bridge, which he supposed led to Palace Square, was nowhere
to be found; but instead, he saw a bank and some shallow water, and
two people, who sat in a boat.
"Does the gentleman wish to be ferried over the Holm?" asked one.
"To the Holm!" exclaimed the counsellor, not knowing in what age
he was now existing; "I want to go to Christian's Haven, in Little
Turf Street." The men stared at him. "Pray tell me where the bridge
is!" said he. "It is shameful that the lamps are not lighted here, and
it is as muddy as if one were walking in a marsh." But the more he
talked with the boatmen the less they could understand each other.
"I don't understand your outlandish talk," he cried at last,
angrily turning his back upon them. He could not, however, find the
bridge nor any railings.
"What a scandalous condition this place is in," said he; never,
certainly, had he found his own times so miserable as on this evening.
"I think it will be better for me to take a coach; but where are
they?" There was not one to be seen! "I shall be obliged to go back to
the king's new market," said he, "where there are plenty of
carriages standing, or I shall never reach Christian's Haven." Then he
went towards East Street, and had nearly passed through it, when the
moon burst forth from a cloud.
"Dear me, what have they been erecting here?" he cried, as he
caught sight of the East gate, which in olden times used to stand at
the end of East Street. However, he found an opening through which
he passed, and came out upon where he expected to find the new market.
Nothing was to be seen but an open meadow, surrounded by a few bushes,
through which ran a broad canal or stream. A few miserable-looking
wooden booths, for the accommodation of Dutch watermen, stood on the
opposite shore.
"Either I behold a fata morgana, or I must be tipsy," groaned
the counsellor. "What can it be? What is the matter with me?" He
turned back in the full conviction that he must be ill. In walking
through the street this time, he examined the houses more closely;
he found that most of them were built of lath and plaster, and many
had only a thatched roof.
"I am certainly all wrong," said he, with a sigh; "and yet I only
drank one glass of punch. But I cannot bear even that, and it was very
foolish to give us punch and hot salmon; I shall speak about it to our
hostess, the agent's lady. Suppose I were to go back now and say how
ill I feel, I fear it would look so ridiculous, and it is not very
likely that I should find any one up." Then he looked for the house,
but it was not in existence.
"This is really frightful; I cannot even recognize East Street.
Not a shop to be seen; nothing but old, wretched, tumble-down
houses, just as if I were at Roeskilde or Ringstedt. Oh, I really must
be ill! It is no use to stand upon ceremony. But where in the world is
the agent's house. There is a house, but it is not his; and people
still up in it, I can hear. Oh dear! I certainly am very queer." As he
reached the half-open door, he saw a light and went in. It was a
tavern of the olden times, and seemed a kind of beershop. The room had
the appearance of a Dutch interior. A number of people, consisting
of seamen, Copenhagen citizens, and a few scholars, sat in deep
conversation over their mugs, and took very little notice of the new
comer.
"Pardon me," said the counsellor, addressing the landlady, "I do
not feel quite well, and I should be much obliged if you will send for
a fly to take me to Christian's Haven." The woman stared at him and
shook her head. Then she spoke to him in German. The counsellor
supposed from this that she did not understand Danish; he therefore
repeated his request in German. This, as well as his singular dress,
convinced the woman that he was a foreigner. She soon understood,
however, that he did not find himself quite well, and therefore
brought him a mug of water. It had something of the taste of seawater,
certainly, although it had been drawn from the well outside. Then
the counsellor leaned his head on his hand, drew a deep breath, and
pondered over all the strange things that had happened to him.
"Is that to-day's number of the Day?" he asked, quite
mechanically, as he saw the woman putting by a large piece of paper.
She did not understand what he meant, but she handed him the sheet; it
was a woodcut, representing a meteor, which had appeared in the town
of Cologne.
"That is very old," said the counsellor, becoming quite cheerful
at the sight of this antique drawing. "Where did you get this singular
sheet? It is very interesting, although the whole affair is a fable.
Meteors are easily explained in these days; they are northern
lights, which are often seen, and are no doubt caused by electricity."
Those who sat near him, and heard what he said, looked at him in
great astonishment, and one of them rose, took off his hat
respectfully, and said in a very serious manner, "You must certainly
be a very learned man, monsieur."
"Oh no," replied the counsellor; "I can only discourse on topics
which every one should understand."
"Modestia is a beautiful virtue," said the man. "Moreover, I
must add to your speech mihi secus videtur; yet in this case I would
suspend my judicium."
"May I ask to whom I have the pleasure of speaking?"
"I am a Bachelor of Divinity," said the man. This answer satisfied
the counsellor. The title agreed with the dress.
"This is surely," thought he, "an old village schoolmaster, a
perfect original, such as one meets with sometimes even in Jutland."
"This is not certainly a locus docendi," began the man; "still I
must beg you to continue the conversation. You must be well read in
ancient lore."
"Oh yes," replied the counsellor; "I am very fond of reading
useful old books, and modern ones as well, with the exception of
every-day stories, of which we really have more than enough.
"Every-day stories?" asked the bachelor.
"Yes, I mean the new novels that we have at the present day."
"Oh," replied the man, with a smile; "and yet they are very witty,
and are much read at Court. The king likes especially the romance of
Messeurs Iffven and Gaudian, which describes King Arthur and his
knights of the round table. He has joked about it with the gentlemen
of his Court."
"Well, I have certainly not read that," replied the counsellor. "I
suppose it is quite new, and published by Heiberg."
"No," answered the man, "it is not by Heiberg; Godfred von
Gehman brought it out."
"Oh, is he the publisher? That is a very old name," said the
counsellor; "was it not the name of the first publisher in Denmark?"
"Yes; and he is our first printer and publisher now," replied
the scholar.
So far all had passed off very well; but now one of the citizens
began to speak of a terrible pestilence which had been raging a few
years before, meaning the plague of 1484. The counsellor thought he
referred to the cholera, and they could discuss this without finding
out the mistake. The war in 1490 was spoken of as quite recent. The
English pirates had taken some ships in the Channel in 1801, and the
counsellor, supposing they referred to these, agreed with them in
finding fault with the English. The rest of the talk, however, was not
so agreeable; every moment one contradicted the other. The good
bachelor appeared very ignorant, for the simplest remark of the
counsellor seemed to him either too bold or too fantastic. They stared
at each other, and when it became worse the bachelor spoke in Latin,
in the hope of being better understood; but it was all useless.
"How are you now?" asked the landlady, pulling the counsellor's
sleeve.
Then his recollection returned to him. In the course of
conversation he had forgotten all that had happened previously.
"Goodness me! where am I?" said he. It bewildered him as he
thought of it.
"We will have some claret, or mead, or Bremen beer," said one of
the guests; "will you drink with us?"
Two maids came in. One of them had a cap on her head of two
colors. They poured out the wine, bowed their heads, and withdrew.
The counsellor felt a cold shiver run all over him. "What is this?
what does it mean?" said he; but he was obliged to drink with them,
for they overpowered the good man with their politeness. He became
at last desperate; and when one of them said he was tipsy, he did
not doubt the man's word in the least--only begged them to get a
droschky; and then they thought he was speaking the Muscovite
language. Never before had he been in such rough and vulgar company.
"One might believe that the country was going back to heathenism,"
he observed. "This is the most terrible moment of my life."
Just then it came into his mind that he would stoop under the
table, and so creep to the door. He tried it; but before he reached
the entry, the rest discovered what he was about, and seized him by
the feet, when, luckily for him, off came the goloshes, and with
them vanished the whole enchantment. The counsellor now saw quite
plainly a lamp, and a large building behind it; everything looked
familiar and beautiful. He was in East Street, as it now appears; he
lay with his legs turned towards a porch, and just by him sat the
watchman asleep.
"Is it possible that I have been lying here in the street
dreaming?" said he. "Yes, this is East Street; how beautifully
bright and gay it looks! It is quite shocking that one glass of
punch should have upset me like this."
Two minutes afterwards he sat in a droschky, which was to drive
him to Christian's Haven. He thought of all the terror and anxiety
which he had undergone, and felt thankful from his heart for the
reality and comfort of modern times, which, with all their errors,
were far better than those in which he so lately found himself.