high stairs; this leads to a low, vaulted cell, in which Lange
Margrethe had been imprisoned, and whence she had been taken to the
place of execution. She had eaten the hearts of five children, and
believed that, could she have added two more to the number, she would
have been able to fly and to render herself invisible. In the wall
there was a small, narrow air-hole. No glass was in this rude window;
yet the sweetly-scented linden tree on the outside could not send the
slightest portion of its refreshing perfume into that close, mouldy
dungeon. There was only a miserable pallet there; but a good
conscience is a good pillow, therefore Joergen could sleep soundly.
The thick wooden door was locked, and it was further secured by an
iron bolt; but the nightmare of superstition can creep through a
key-hole in the baronial castle as in the fisherman's hut. It stole in
where Joergen was sitting and thinking upon Lange Margrethe and her
misdeeds. Her last thoughts had filled that little room the night
before her execution; he remembered all the magic that, in the olden
times, was practised when the lord of the manor, Svanwedel, lived
there; and it was well known how, even now, the chained dog that stood
on the bridge was found every morning hung over the railing in his
chain. All these tales recurred to Joergen's mind, and made him
shiver; and there was but one sun ray which shone upon him, and that
was the recollection of the blooming elder and linden trees.
He would not be kept long here; he would be removed to Ringkjoebing,
where the prison was equally strong.
These times were not like ours. It went hard with the poor then; for
then it had not come to pass that peasants found their way up to
lordly mansions, and that from these regiments coachmen and other
servants became judges in the petty courts, which were invested with
the power to condemn, for perhaps a trifling fault, the poor man to be
deprived of all his goods and chattels, or to be flogged at the
whipping-post. A few of these courts still remain; and in Jutland, far
from "the King's Copenhagen," and the enlightened and liberal
government, even now the law is not always very wisely administered:
it certainly was not so in the case of poor Joergen.
It was bitterly cold in the place where he was confined. When was this
imprisonment to be at an end? Though innocent, he had been cast into
wretchedness and solitude--that was his fate. How things had been
ordained for him in this world, he had now time to think over. Why had
he been thus treated--his portion made so hard to bear? Well, this
would be revealed "in that other life" which assuredly awaits all. In
the humble cottage that belief had been engrafted into him, which,
amidst the grandeur and brightness of his Spanish home, had never
shone upon his father's heart: _that_ now, in the midst of cold and
darkness, became his consolation, God's gift of grace, which never can
deceive.
The storms of spring were now raging; the roaring of the German Ocean
was heard far inland; but just when the tempest had lulled, it sounded
as if hundreds of heavy wagons were driving over a hard tunnelled
road. Joergen heard it even in his dungeon, and it was a change in the
monotony of his existence. No old melody could have gone more deeply
to his heart than these sounds--the rolling ocean--the free ocean--on
which one can be borne throughout the world, fly with the wind, and
wherever one went have one's own house with one, as the snail has
his--to stand always upon home's ground, even in a foreign land.
How eagerly he listened to the deep rolling! How remembrances hurried
through his mind! "Free--free--how delightful to be free, even without
soles to one's shoes, and in a coarse patched garment!" The very idea
brought the warm blood rushing into his cheeks, and he struck the wall
with his fist in his vain impatience. Weeks, months, a whole year had
elapsed, when a gipsy named Niels Tyv--"the horse-dealer," as he was
also called--was arrested, and then came better times: it was
ascertained what injustice had been done to Joergen.
To the north of Ringkjoebing Fiord, at a small country inn, on the
evening of the day previous to Joergen's leaving home, and the
committal of the murder, Niels Tyv and Morten had met each other. They
drank a little together, not enough certainly to get into any man's
head, but enough to set Morten talking too freely. He went on
chattering, as he was fond of doing, and he mentioned that he had
bought a house and some ground, and was going to be married. Niels
thereupon asked him where was the money which was to pay it, and
Morten struck his pocket pompously, exclaiming in a vaunting manner,--
"Here, where it should be!"
That foolish bragging answer cost him his life; for when he left the
little inn Niels followed him, and stabbed him in the neck with his
knife, in order to rob him of the money, which, after all, was not to
be found.
There was a long trial and much deliberation: it is enough for us to
know that Joergen was set free at last. But what compensation was made
to him for all he had suffered that long weary year in a cold, gloomy
prison; secluded from all mankind? Why, he was assured that it was
fortunate he was innocent, and he might now go about his business! The
burgomaster gave him ten marks for his travelling expenses, and
several of the townspeople gave him ale and food. They were very good
people. Not all, then, would "skin you, and lay you on the
frying-pan!" But the best of all was that the trader Broenne from
Skagen, he to whom, a year before, Joergen intended to have hired
himself, was just at the time of his liberation on business at
Ringkjoebing. He heard the whole story; he had a heart and
understanding; and, knowing what Joergen must have suffered and felt,
he was determined to do what he could to improve his situation, and
let him see that there were some kind-hearted people in the world.
From a jail to freedom--from solitude and misery to a home which, by
comparison, might be called a heaven--to kindness and love, he now
passed. This also was to be a trial of his character. No chalice of
life is altogether wormwood. A good person would not fill such for a
child: would, then, the Almighty Father, who is all love, do so?
"Let all that has taken place be now buried and forgotten," said the
worthy Mr. Broenne. "We shall draw a thick line over last year. We
shall burn the almanac. In two days we shall start for that blessed,
peaceful, pleasant Skagen. It is said to be only a little
insignificant nook in the country; but a nice warm nook it is, with
windows open to the wide world."
That _was_ a journey--that _was_ to breathe the fresh air again--to
come from the cold, damp prison-cell out into the warm sunshine!
The heather was blooming on the moorlands; the shepherd boys sat on
the tumuli and played their flutes, which were manufactured out of the
bones of sheep; the FATA MORGANA, the beautiful mirage of the desert,
with its hanging seas and undulating woods, showed itself; and that
bright, wonderful phenomenon in the air, which is called the "Lokeman
driving his sheep."
Towards Limfiorden they passed over the Vandal's land; and towards
Skagen they journeyed where the men with the long beards,
_Langbarderne_,[1] came from. In that locality it was that, during the
famine under King Snio, all old people and young children were
ordered to be put to death; but the noble lady, Gambaruk, who was the
heiress of that part of the country, insisted that the children should
rather be sent out of the country. Joergen was learned enough to know
all about this; and, though he was not acquainted with the
Langobarders' country beyond the lofty Alps, he had a good idea what
it must be, as he had himself, when a boy, been in the south of
Europe, in Spain. Well did he remember the heaped-up piles of fruit,
the red pomegranate flowers, the din, the clamour, the tolling of
bells in the Spanish city's great hive; but all was more charming at
home, and Denmark was Joergen's home.
[Footnote 1: Langobarder, a northern tribe, which, in very ancient
times, dwelt in the north of Jutland. From thence they migrated to the
north of Germany, where, according to Tacitus, they lived bout the
period of the birth of Christ, and were a poor but brave people. Their
original name was Vinuler, or Viniler. "When these Viniler," say the
traditions, or rather fables of Scandinavia, "were at war with the
Vandals, and the latter went to Odin to beseech him to grant them the
victory, and received for answer that Odin would award the victory to
those whom he beheld first at sunrise, the warlike female, Gambaruk,
or Gunborg, who was mother to the leaders of the Viniler--Ebbe and
Aage--applied to Frigga, Odin's wife, to entreat victory for her
people. The goddess advised that the females of the tribe should let
down their long hair so as to imitate beards, and, early in the
morning, should stand with their husbands in the east, where Odin
would look out. When, at sunrise, Odin saw them, he exclaimed, 'Who
are these long-bearded people?' whereupon Frigga replied, that since
he had bestowed, a name upon them, he must also give them the victory.
This was the origin of the _Longobardi_, who, after many wanderings,
found their way into Italy, and, under ALBOIN, founded the kingdom of
Lombardy."--_Trans._]
At length they reached Vendilskaga, as Skagen is called in the old
Norse and Icelandic writings. For miles and miles, interspersed with
sand-hills and cultivated land, houses, farms, and drifting
sand-banks, stretched, and stretch still, towards Gammel-Skagen,
Wester and Osterby, out to the lighthouse near Grenen, a waste, a
desert, where the wind drives before it the loose sand, and where
sea-gulls and wild swans send forth their discordant cries in concert.
To the south-west, a few miles from Grenen, lies High, or Old Skagen,
where the worthy Broenne lived, and where Joergen was also to reside.
The house was tarred, the small out-houses had each an inverted boat
for a roof. Pieces of wrecks were knocked up together to form
pigsties. Fences there were none, for there was nothing to inclose;
but upon cords, stretched in long rows one over the other, hung fish
cut open, and drying in the wind. The whole beach was covered with
heaps of putrefying herrings: nets were scarcely ever thrown into the
water, for the herrings were taken in loads on the land. There was so
vast a supply of this sort of fish, that people either threw them
back into the sea, or left them to rot on the sands.
The trader's wife and daughter--indeed, the whole household--came out
rejoicing to meet the father of the family when he returned home.
There was such a shaking of hands--such exclamations and questions!
And what a charming countenance and beautiful eyes the daughter had!
The interior of the house was large and extremely comfortable. Various
dishes of fish were placed upon the table; among others some delicious
plaice, which might have been a treat for a king; wine from Skagen's
vineyard--the vast ocean--from which the juice of the grape was
brought on shore both in casks and bottles.
When the mother and daughter afterwards heard who Joergen was, and how
harshly he had been treated, though innocent of all crime, they looked
very kindly at him; and most sympathising was the expression of the
daughter's eyes, the lovely Miss Clara. Joergen found a happy home at
Gammel-Skagen. It did his heart good, and the poor young man had
suffered much, even the bitterness of unrequited love, which either
hardens or softens the heart. Joergen's was soft enough now; there was
a vacant place within it, and he was still so young.
It was, perhaps, fortunate that in about three weeks Miss Clara was
going in one of her father's ships up to Christiansand, in Norway, to
visit an aunt, and remain there the whole winter. The Sunday before
her departure they all went to church together, intending to partake
of the sacrament. It was a large, handsome church, and had several
hundred years before been built by the Scotch and Dutch a little way
from where the town was now situated. It had become somewhat
dilapidated, was difficult of access, the way to it being through
deep, heavy sand; but the disagreeables of the road were willingly
encountered in order to enter the house of God--to pray, sing psalms,
and hear a sermon there. The sand was, as it were, banked up against,
and even higher than, the circular wall of the churchyard; but the
graves therein were kept carefully free of the drifting sand.
This was the largest church to the north of Limfiorden. The Virgin
Mary, with a crown of gold on her head, and the infant Jesus in her
arms, stood as if in life in the altar-piece; the holy apostles were
carved on the chancel; and on the walls above were to be seen the
portraits of the old burgomasters and magistrates of Skagen, with
their insignia of office: the pulpit was richly carved. The sun was
shining brightly into the church, and glancing on the crown of brass
and the little ship that hung from the roof.
Joergen felt overcome by a kind of childish feeling of awe, mingled
with reverence, such as he had experienced when as a boy he had stood
within the magnificent Spanish cathedral; but he knew that here his
feelings were shared by many. After the sermon the sacrament was
administered. Like the others, he tasted the consecrated bread and
wine, and he found that he was kneeling by the side of Miss Clara; but
he was so much absorbed in his devotions, and in the sacred rite, that
it was only when about to rise that he observed who was his immediate
neighbour, and perceived that tears were streaming down her cheeks.
Two days after this she sailed for Norway, and Joergen made himself
useful on the farm, and at the fishery, in which there was much more
done then than is now-a-days. The shoals of mackerel glittered in the
dark nights, and showed the course they were taking; the crabs gave
piteous cries when pursued, for fishes are not so mute as they are
said to be. Every Sunday when he went to church, and gazed on the
picture of the Virgin in the altar-piece, Joergen's eyes always
wandered to the spot where Clara had knelt by his side; and he thought
of her, and how kind she had been to him.
Autumn came, with its hail and sleet; the water washed up to the very
town of Skagen; the sand could not absorb all the water, so that
people had to wade through it. The tempests drove vessel after vessel
on the fatal reefs; there were snow storms and sand storms; the sand
drifted against the houses, and closed up the entrances in some
places, so that people had to creep out by the chimneys; but that was
nothing remarkable up there. While all was thus bleak and wretched
without, within there were warmth and comfort. The mingled peat and
wood fires--the wood obtained from wrecked ships--crackled and blazed
cheerfully, and Mr. Broenne read aloud old chronicles and legends;
among others, the story of Prince Hamlet of Denmark, who, coming from
England, landed near Bovbjerg, and fought a battle there. His grave
was at Ramme, only a few miles from the place where the eel-man lived.
Hundreds of tumuli, the graves of the giants and heroes of old, were
still visible all over the wide heath--a great churchyard. Mr. Broenne
had himself been there, and had seen Hamlet's grave. They talked of
the olden times--of their neighbours, the English and Scotch; and
Joergen sang the ballad about "The King of England's Son"--about the
splendid ship--how it was fitted up:--
"How on the gilded panels stood
Engraved our Lord's commandments good;
* * * * *
And clasping a sweet maiden, how
The prince stood sculptured on the prow!"
Joergen sang these lines in particular with much emphasis, whilst his
dark eyes sparkled; but his eyes had always been bright from his
earliest infancy.
There were songs, and reading, and conversation, and everything to
make the winter season pass as pleasantly as possible; there was
prosperity in the house, plenty of comfort for the family, and plenty
even for the lowest animals on the property; the shelves shone with
rows of bright, well-scoured pewter plates and dishes; and from the
roof hung sausages and hams, and other winter stores in abundance.
Such may be seen even now in the many rich farm-houses on the west
coast--the same evidences of plenty, the same comfortable rooms, the
same good-humour, the same, and perhaps a little more, information.
Hospitality reigns there as in an Arab's tent.
Joergen had never before spent his time so happily since the pleasant
days of his childhood at the funeral feast; and yet Miss Clara was
absent--present only in thought and conversation.
In April a vessel was going up to Norway, and Joergen was to go in it.
He was in high spirits, and, according to Mrs. Broenne, he was so
lively and good-humoured, it was quite a pleasure to see him.
"And it is quite a pleasure to see you also," said her husband.
"Joergen has enlivened all our winter evenings, and you with them; you
have become young again, and really look quite handsome. You were
formerly the prettiest girl in Viborg, and that is saying a great
deal, for I have always thought the girls prettier there than anywhere
else."
Joergen said nothing to this. Perhaps he did not believe that the
Viborg girls were prettier than any others; at any rate, he was
thinking of one from Skagen, and he was now about to join her. The
vessel had a fair, fresh breeze; therefore he arrived at Christiansand
in half a day.
Early one morning the trader, Mr. Broenne, went out to the lighthouse
that is situated at some distance from Gammel-Skagen, and near Grenen.
The signal-lights had been extinguished for some time, for the sun had
risen tolerably high before he reached the tower. Away, to some
distance beyond the most remote point of land, stretched the
sand-banks under the water. Beyond these, again, he perceived many
ships, and among them he thought he recognised, by aid of the
spy-glass, the "Karen Broenne," as his own vessel was called; and he
was right. It was approaching the coast, and Clara and Joergen were on
board. The Skagen lighthouse and the spire of its church looked to
them like a heron and a swan upon the blue water. Clara sat by the
gunwale, and saw the sand-hills becoming little by little more and
more apparent. If the wind only held fair, in less than an hour they
would reach home; so near were they to happiness, and yet, alas! how
near to death!
A plank sprung in the ship. The water rushed in. They stopped it as
well as they could, and used the pumps vigorously. All sail was set,
and the flag of distress was hoisted. They were about a Danish mile
off. Fishing-boats were to be seen, but were far away. The wind was
fair for them. The current was also in their favour, but not strong
enough. The vessel sank. Joergen threw his right arm around Clara.
With what a speaking look did she not gaze into his eyes when,
imploring our Lord for help, he threw himself with her into the sea!
She uttered one shriek, but she was safe. He would not let her slip
from his grasp. The words of the old ballad,--
"And, clasping a sweet maiden, how
The prince stood sculptured on the prow,"
were now carried into effect by Joergen in that agonising hour of
danger and deep anxiety. He felt the advantage of being a good
swimmer, and exerted himself to the utmost with his feet and one hand;
the other was holding fast the young girl. Every possible effort he
made to keep up his strength in order to reach the land. He heard
Clara sigh, and perceived that a kind of convulsive shuddering had
seized her; and he held her the tighter. A single heavy wave broke
over them--the current lifted them. The water was so clear, though
deep, that Joergen thought for a moment he could see the shoals of
mackerel beneath; or was it Leviathan himself who was waiting to
swallow them? The clouds cast a shadow over the water, then again came
the dancing sunbeams; harshly-screaming birds, in flocks, wheeled over
him; and the wild ducks that, heavy and sleepy, allow themselves to
drive on with the waves, flew up in alarm from before the swimmer. He
felt that his strength was failing; but the shore was close at hand,
and help was coming, for a boat was near. Just then he saw distinctly
under the water a white, staring figure; a wave lifted him, the figure
came nearer, he felt a violent blow, it became night before his
eyes--all had disappeared for him.
There lay, partially imbedded in the sand-bank, the wreck of a ship;
the sea rolled over it, but the white figure-head was supported by an
anchor, the sharp iron of which stuck up almost to the surface of the
water. It was against this that Joergen had struck himself when the
current had driven him forward with sudden force. Stunned and
fainting, he sank with his burden, but the succeeding wave threw him
and the young girl up again.
The fishermen had now reached them, and they were taken into the boat.
Blood was streaming over Joergen's face; he looked as if he were dead,
but he still held the girl in so tight a grasp that it was with the
utmost difficulty she could be wrenched from his encircling arm. As
pale as death, and quite insensible, she lay at full length at the
bottom of the boat, which steered towards Skagen.
All possible means were tried to restore Clara to animation, but in
vain--the poor young woman was dead. Long had Joergen been buffeting
the waves with a corpse--exerting his utmost strength and straining
every nerve for a dead body.
Joergen still breathed; he was carried to the nearest house on the
inner side of the sand-hills. A sort of army surgeon who happened to
be at the place, who also acted in the capacities of smith and
huckster, attended him until the next day, when a physician from
Hjoerring, who had been sent for, arrived.
The patient was severely wounded in the head, and suffering from a
brain fever. For a time he uttered fearful shrieks, but on the third
day he sank into a state of drowsiness, and his life seemed to hang
upon a thread: that it might snap, the physician said, was the best
that could be wished for Joergen.
"Let us pray our Lord that he may be taken; he will never more be a
rational man."
But he was not taken; the thread of life would not break, though
memory was swept away, and all the powers and faculties of his mind
were gone. It was a frightful change. A living body was left--a body
that was to regain health and go about again.
Joergen remained in the trader Broenne's house.
"He was brought into this lamentable condition by his efforts to save
our child," said the old man; "he is now our son."
Joergen was called "an idiot;" but that was a term not exactly
applicable to him. He was like a musical instrument, the strings of
which are loose, and can no longer, therefore, be made to sound. Only
once, for a few minutes, they seemed to resume their elasticity, and
they vibrated again. Old melodies were played, and played in time. Old
images seemed to start up before him. They vanished--all glimmering of
reason vanished, and he sat again staring vacantly around, without
thought, without mind. It was to be hoped that he did not suffer
anything. His dark eyes had lost their intelligence; they looked only
like black glass that could move about.
Everybody was sorry for the poor idiot Joergen.
It was he who, before he saw the light of day, was destined to a
career of earthly prosperity, of wealth and happiness, so great that
it was "_frightful pride, overweening arrogance_," to wish for, or to
believe in, a future life! All the high powers of his soul were
wasted. Nothing but hardships, sufferings, and disappointments had
been dealt out to him. A valuable bulb he was, torn up from his rich
native soil, and cast upon distant sands to rot and perish. Was that
being, made in the image of God, worth nothing more? Was he but the
sport of accidents or of chance? No! The God of infinite love would
give him a portion in another life for what he had suffered and been
deprived of here.
"The Lord is good to all: and His tender mercies are over all His
works."
These consolatory words, from one of the Psalms of David, were
repeated in devout faith by the pious old wife of the trader Broenne;
and her heartfelt prayer was, that our Lord would soon release the
poor benighted being, and receive him into God's gift of
grace--everlasting life.
* * * * *