HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.
A few days after my arrival in Copenhagen I had the pleasure of making
the acquaintance of Professor Andersen, of the Scandinavian Museum, a
native Icelander, who very kindly showed me the chief objects of
curiosity obtained from the Danish possessions in the North,
consisting mostly of fish and geological specimens. The Minister of
the Judiciary obligingly gave me a letter to the governor and
principal amtmen of Iceland, and many other gentlemen of influence
manifested the most friendly interest in my proposed undertaking. I
was especially indebted to Captain Sodring, late owner of the _Fox_,
of Arctic celebrity, for much valuable information respecting the
Northern seas, as well as for his cordial hospitality and
indefatigable efforts to make my sojourn in Copenhagen both agreeable
and profitable. Indeed, I was delighted with the place and the people.
The Danes are exceedingly genial in their manners, distinguished alike
for their simplicity and intelligence. There is no trouble to which
they will not put themselves to oblige a stranger. In my rambles
through the public libraries and museums I was always accompanied by
some professor attached to the institution, who took the greatest
pains to explain every thing, and impress me with a favorable idea of
the value of the collection. This was not a mere formal matter of
duty; many of them spent hours and even days in the performance of
their friendly labors, omitting nothing that might contribute to my
enjoyment as a stranger. The visitor who can not spend his time
agreeably in such society, surrounded by such institutions as
Thorwaldsen's Museum and the National Collection of Scandinavian
Antiquities, must be difficult to please indeed. The Tivoli or the
Dyrhave, an evening at Fredericksberg, or a trip to "Hamlet's Grave"
at Elsineur, would surely fill the measure of his contentment. Whether
in the way of beautiful gardens, public amusements, charming
excursions, or agreeable and intelligent society, I know of no
European capital that can surpass Copenhagen. Our excellent minister,
Mr. Wood, with whom I had the pleasure of spending an evening at
Elsineur, speaks in the most complimentary terms of the Danes and
their customs, and expresses some surprise, considering the general
increase of European travel from our country, that so few American
tourists visit Denmark.
I could not do myself the injustice to leave Copenhagen without
forming the personal acquaintance of a man to whom a debt of gratitude
is due by the young and the old in all countries--the ramblers in
fairy-land, the lovers of romance, and the friends of humanity--all
who can feel the divine influence of genius, and learn, through the
teachings of a kindly heart, that the inhabitants of earth are
"Kindred by one holy tie"--
the quaint, pathetic, genial Hans Christian Andersen. Not wishing to
impose any obligation of courtesy on him by a letter of introduction
or the obliging services of my Danish friends, I called at his house
unattended, and merely sent in my name and address. Unfortunately he
was out taking his morning walk, and would not be back till the
afternoon. By calling at three o'clock, the servant said, I would be
very likely to find him at home. I then added to my card the simple
fact that I was an American traveler on my way to Iceland for the
purpose of making some sketches of the country, and would take the
liberty of calling at the appointed hour. It may be a matter of
interest to an American reader to have some idea of the peculiar
neighborhood and style of house in which a great Danish author has
chosen to take up his abode. The city of Copenhagen, it should be
borne in mind, is intersected by canals which, during the summer
months, are crowded with small trading vessels from Sweden and
Jutland, and fishing-smacks from the neighboring islands and coast of
Norway. The wharves bordering on these canals present an exceedingly
animated appearance. Peasants, sailors, traders, and fishermen, in
every variety of costume, are gathered in groups, enjoying a social
gossip, or interchanging their various products and wares, and
strawberries from Amak and fish from the Skager-Rack mingle their
odors. In the second story of a dingy and dilapidated house, fronting
one of these unsavory canals, a confused pile of dirty, shambling old
tenements in the rear, and a curious medley of fish and fishermen,
sloops and schooners, mud-scows and skiffs in front, lives the
world-renowned author, Hans Christian Andersen. I say he lives there,
but, properly speaking, he only lodges. It seems to be a peculiarity
of his nature to move about from time to time into all the queer and
uninviting places possible to be discovered within the limits of
Copenhagen--not where
"The mantling vine
Lays forth her grape and gently creeps
Luxuriant,"
but where the roughest, noisiest, busiest, and fishiest of an
amphibious population is to be found. Here it is, apparently amid the
most incongruous elements, that he draws from all around him the most
delicate traits of human nature, and matures for the great outer world
the most exquisite creations of his fancy. It is purely a labor of
love in which he spends his life. The products of his pen have
furnished him with ample means to live in elegant style, surrounded by
all the allurements of rank and fashion, but he prefers the obscurity
of a plain lodging amid the haunts of those classes whose lives and
pursuits he so well portrays. Here he cordially receives all who call
upon him, and they are not few. Pilgrims of every condition in life
and from all nations do homage to his genius, yet, valuable as his
time is, he finds enough to spare for the kindly reception of his
visitors. His only household companions appear to be two old peasant
women, whom he employs as domestics; weather-beaten and decrepit old
creatures, with faces and forms very much like a pair of antiquated
nut-crackers. He occupies only two or three rooms plainly furnished,
and apparently lives in the simplest and most abstemious style.
When I called according to directions, one of the ancient nut-crackers
merely pointed to the door, and said she thought Herr Andersen was in,
but didn't know. I could knock there and try; so I knocked. Presently
I heard a rapid step, and the door was thrown open. Before me stood
the tall, thin, shambling, raw-boned figure of a man a little beyond
the prime of life, but not yet old, with a pair of dancing gray eyes
and a hatchet-face, all alive with twists, and wrinkles, and muscles;
a long, lean face, upon which stood out prominently a great nose,
diverted by a freak of nature a little to one side, and flanked by a
tremendous pair of cheek-bones, with great hollows underneath.
Innumerable ridges and furrows swept semicircularly downward around
the corners of a great mouth--a broad, deep, rugged fissure across the
face, that might have been mistaken for the dreadful child-trap of an
ogre but for the sunny beams of benevolence that lurked around the
lips, and the genial humanity that glimmered from every nook and turn.
Neither mustache nor beard obscured the strong individuality of this
remarkable face, which for the most part was of a dull granite color,
a little mixed with limestone and spotted with patches of porphyry. A
dented gutta-percha forehead, very prominent about the brows, and
somewhat resembling in its general topography a raised map of
Switzerland, sloped upward and backward to the top of the head; not a
very large head, but wonderfully bumped and battered by the operations
of the brain, and partially covered by a mop of dark wavy hair, a
little thin in front and somewhat grizzled behind; a long, bony pair
of arms, with long hands on them; a long, lank body, with a long black
coat on it; a long, loose pair of legs, with long boots on the feet,
all in motion at the same time--all shining, and wriggling, and
working with an indescribable vitality, a voice bubbling up from the
vast depths below with cheery, spasmodic, and unintelligible words of
welcome--this was the wonderful man that stood before me, the great
Danish improvisator, the lover of little children, the gentle Caliban
who dwells among fairies and holds sweet converse with fishes, and
frogs, and beetles! I would have picked him out from among a thousand
men at the first glance as a candidate for Congress, or the
proprietor of a tavern, if I had met him any where in the United
States. But the resemblance was only momentary. In the quaint
awkwardness of his gestures and the simplicity of his speech there was
a certain refinement not usually found among men of that class.
Something in the spontaneous and almost childlike cordiality of his
greeting; the unworldly impulsiveness of his nature, as he grasped
both my hands in his, patted me affectionately on the shoulder, and
bade me welcome, convinced me in a moment that this was no other, and
could be no other, than Hans Christian Andersen.
"Come in! come in!" he said, in a gush of broken English; "come in and
sit down. You are very welcome. Thank you--thank you very much. I am
very glad to see you. It is a rare thing to meet a traveler all the
way from California--quite a surprise. Sit down! Thank you!"
And then followed a variety of friendly compliments and remarks about
the Americans. He liked them; he was sorry they were so unfortunate as
to be engaged in a civil war, but hoped it would soon be over. Did I
speak French? he asked, after a pause. Not very well. Or German? Still
worse, was my answer. "What a pity!" he exclaimed; "it must trouble
you to understand my English, I speak it so badly. It is only within a
few years that I have learned to speak it at all." Of course I
complimented him upon his English, which was really better than I had
been led to expect. "Can you understand it?" he asked, looking
earnestly in my face. "Certainly," I answered, "almost every word."
"Oh, thank you--thank you. You are very good," he cried, grasping me
by the hand. "I am very much obliged to you for understanding me." I
naturally thanked him for being obliged to me, and we shook hands
cordially, and mutually thanked one another over again for being so
amiable. The conversation, if such it could be called, flew from
subject to subject with a rapidity that almost took my breath away.
The great improvisator dashed recklessly into every thing that he
thought would be interesting to an American traveler, but with the
difficulty of his utterance in English, and the absence of any
knowledge on his part of my name or history, it was evident he was a
little embarrassed in what way to oblige me most; and the trouble on
my side was, that I was too busy listening to find time for talking.
"Dear! dear! And you are going to Iceland!" he continued. "A long way
from California! I would like to visit America, but it is very
dangerous to travel by sea. A vessel was burned up not long since, and
many of my friends were lost. It was a dreadful affair."
From this he diverged to a trip he then had in contemplation through
Switzerland and Spain. He was sitting for his statuette, which he
desired to leave as a memento to his friends prior to his departure. A
young Danish sculptor was making it. Would I like to see it? and
forthwith I was introduced to the young Danish sculptor. The likeness
was very good, and my comments upon it elicited many additional thanks
and several squeezes of the hand--it was so kind of me to be pleased
with it! "He is a young student," said Andersen, approvingly; "a very
good young man. I want to encourage him. He will be a great artist
some day or other."
Talking of likenesses reminded me of a photograph which I had
purchased a few days before, and to which I now asked the addition of
an autograph.
[Illustration: [Signature: HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN]]
"Oh, you have a libel on me here!" cried the poet, laughing
joyously--"a very bad likeness. Wait! I have several much better; here
they are--" And he rushed into the next room, tumbled over a lot of
papers, and ransacked a number of drawers till he found the desired
package--"here's a dozen of them; take your choice; help yourself--as
many as you please!" While looking over the collection, I said the
likeness of one who had done so much to promote the happiness of some
little friends I had at home would be valued beyond measure; that I
knew at least half a dozen youngsters who were as well acquainted with
the "Little Match Girl," and the "Ugly Duck," and the "Poor Idiot
Boy," as he was himself, and his name was as familiar in California as
it was in Denmark. At this he grasped both my hands, and looking
straight in my face with a kind of ecstatic expression, said, "Oh, is
it possible? Do they really read my books in California? so far away!
Oh! I thank you very much. Some of my stories, I am aware, have been
published in New York, but I did not think they had found their way to
the Pacific Coast. Dear me! Thank you! thank you! Have you seen my
last--the--what do you call it in English?--a little animal--"
"Mouse," I suggested.
"No, not a mouse; a little animal with wings."
"Oh, a bat!"
"Nay, nay, a little animal with wings and many legs. Dear me! I forget
the name in English, but you certainly know it in America--a very
small animal!"
In vain I tried to make a selection from all the little animals of my
acquaintance with wings and many legs. The case was getting both
embarrassing and vexatious. At length a light broke upon me.
"A musquito!" I exclaimed, triumphantly.
"Nay, nay!" cried the bothered poet; "a little animal with a hard skin
on its back. Dear me, I can't remember the name!"
"Oh, I have it now," said I, really desirous of relieving his mind--"a
flea!"
At this the great improvisator scratched his head, looked at the
ceiling and then at the floor, after which he took several rapid
strides up and down the room, and struck himself repeatedly on the
forehead. Suddenly grasping up a pen, he exclaimed, somewhat
energetically, "Here! I'll draw it for you;" and forthwith he drew on
a scrap of paper a diagram, of which the accompanying engraving is a
fac-simile.
[Illustration]
"A tumble-bug!" I shouted, astonished at my former stupidity.
The poet looked puzzled and distressed. Evidently I had not yet
succeeded. What could it be?
"A beetle!" I next ventured to suggest, rather disappointed at the
result of my previous guess.
"A beetle! A beetle!--that's it; now I remember--a beetle!" and the
delighted author of "The Beetle" patted me approvingly on the back,
and chuckled gleefully at his own adroit method of explanation. "I'll
give you 'The Beetle,'" he said; "you shall have the only copy in my
possession. But you don't read Danish! What are we to do? There is a
partial translation in French--a mere notice."
"No matter," I answered. "A specimen of the Danish language will be
very acceptable, and the book will be a pleasant souvenir of my
visit."
He then darted into the next room, tumbled over a dozen piles of
books, then out again, ransacked the desks, and drawers, and heaps of
old papers and rubbish, talking all the time in his joyous, cheery way
about his books and his travels in Jutland, and his visit to Charles
Dickens, and his intended journey through Spain, and his delight at
meeting a traveler all the way from California, and whatever else came
into his head--all in such mixed-up broken English that the meaning
must have been utterly lost but for the wonderful expressiveness of
his face and the striking oddity of his motions. It came to me
mesmerically. He seemed like one who glowed all over with bright and
happy thoughts, which permeated all around him with a new
intelligence. His presence shed a light upon others like the rays that
beamed from the eyes of "Little Sunshine." The book was found at last,
and when he had written his name in it, with a friendly inscription,
and pressed both my hands on the gift, and patted me once more on the
shoulder, and promised to call at Frankfort on his return from
Switzerland to see his little friends who knew all about the "Ugly
Duck" and the "Little Match Girl," I took my leave, more delighted, if
possible, with the author than I had ever before been with his books.
Such a man, the brightest, happiest, simplest, most genial of human
beings, is Hans Christian Andersen.
The steamer _Arcturus_ was advertised to sail for Reykjavik on the 4th
of June, so it behooved me to be laying in some sort of an outfit for
the voyage during the few days that intervened. A knapsack, containing
a change of linen and my sketching materials, was all I possessed.
This would have been sufficient but for the probability of rain and
cold weather. I wanted a sailor's monkey-jacket and an overall. My
friend Captain Sodring would not hear of my buying any thing in that
way. He had enough on hand from his old whaling voyages, he said, to
fit out a dozen men of my pattern. Just come up to the house and take
a look at them, and if there wasn't too much oil on them, I was
welcome to the whole lot; but the oil, he thought, would be an
advantage--it would keep out the water. In vain I protested--it was no
use--the captain was an old whaler, and so was I, and when two old
whalers met, it was a pity if they couldn't act like shipmates on the
voyage of life. There was no resisting this appeal, so I agreed to
accept the old clothes. When we arrived at the captain's house he
disappeared in the garret, but presently returned bearing a terrific
pile of rubbish on his shoulders, and accompanied by a stout
servant-girl also heavily laden with marine curiosities. There were
sou'westers, and tarpaulins, and skull-caps; frieze jackets, and
overalls, and hickory shirts; tarpaulin coats, and heavy sea-boots,
and duck blouses with old bunches of oakum sticking out of the
pockets; there were coils of rope-yarn well tarred, and jack-knives in
leather cases, still black with whale-gurry: and a few telescopes and
log-glasses. "Take 'em all," said the captain. "They smell a little
fishy, but no matter. It's all the better for a voyage to Iceland.
You'll be used to the smell before you get to Reykjavik; and it's
wholesome--very wholesome! Nothing makes a man so fat." I made a small
selection--a rough jacket and a few other essential articles.
"Nonsense, man!" roared the captain, "take 'em all! You'll find them
useful; and if you don't, you can heave them overboard or give them to
the sailors." And thus was I fitted out for the voyage.