gazed among the rest. She stood by her open garret window, where a
cage hung with a little linnet, which at that time had no water-glass,
but had to content itself with a cup. Just within the window stood a
myrtle tree, that was moved a little aside, that it might not come in
the way while the old maid was leaning out to look at the balloon. And
she could perceive the aeronaut in it; she saw him let the rabbit down
in the parachute, and then, having drunk the health of the crowd
below, throw the bottle high up in the air. Little did she think that
it was just the same bottle she had seen thrown up high in honour of
herself and her lover, on a well-remembered happy day amidst the green
wood, when she was young.
The bottle had no time to think, it was so unexpectedly exalted to the
highest position it had ever attained in its life. The roofs and the
spires lay far below, and the people looked as small as pigmies.
It now descended, and that at a different rate of speed from the
rabbit. The bottle cast somersaults in the air--it felt itself so
young, so buoyant. It was half full of wine, but not long. What a trip
that was! The sun shone upon the bottle, and all the crowd looked up
at it. The balloon was soon far away, and the bottle was soon also
out of sight, for it fell upon a roof and broke in two; but the
fragments rebounded again, and leaped and rolled till they reached the
yard below, where they lay in smaller pieces; for only the neck of the
bottle escaped destruction, and it looked as if it had been cut round
by a diamond.
"It may still serve as a glass for a bird's cage," said the man in the
cellar.
But he himself had neither a bird nor a cage, and it would have cost
too much to buy these because he had found the neck of a bottle that
would answer for a glass. The old maid, however, up in the garret,
might make use of it; and so the neck of the bottle was sent up to
her. A cork was fitted to it, and, as first mentioned, after its many
changes, it was filled with fresh water, and was hung in front of the
cage of the little bird, that sang until its warbling became almost
overpowering.
"Yes, you may well sing," was what the neck of the bottle had said.
It was somewhat of a wonder, as it had been up in a balloon; but with
more of its history no one was acquainted. Now it hung as a bird's
glass, it could hear the people driving and walking in the street
below, and it could hear the old maid talking in her room to a female
friend of her youthful days. They were chatting together, but speaking
of the myrtle plant in the window, not of the neck of the bottle.
"You must not throw away two rix dollars for a wedding bouquet for
your daughter," said the old maid. "You shall have one from me full of
flowers. Look how pretty that plant is! Ah! it is a slip of the myrtle
tree you gave me the day after my betrothal, that I myself, when the
year was past, might take my wedding bouquet from it. But that day
never came. The eyes were for ever closed that were to have illumined
for me the path of happiness in this life. Away, down in the ocean's
depths, he sleeps calmly--that angel soul! The tree became an old
tree, but I have become still older; and when it died, I took its last
green branch and planted it in the earth. That slip has now grown into
a high plant, and will at last appear amidst bridal array, and form a
wedding bouquet for my friend's daughter."
And tears started to the old maid's eyes. She spoke of the lover of
her youth--of the betrothal in the wood; she thought of the toasts
that were there drunk; she thought of the first kiss, but she did not
speak of that, for she was now but an old maid. She thought of
much--much; but little did she think that outside of her window was
even then a _souvenir_ from that regretted time--the neck of the very
bottle that had been drawn when the unforgotten toasts were drunk! Nor
did the bottle-neck know her; for it had not heard all she had said,
because it had been thinking only of itself.
_The Old Bachelor's Nightcap._
There is a street in Copenhagen which bears the extraordinary name of
"Hyskenstroede." And why is it so called? and what is the meaning of
that name? It is German; but the German has been corrupted. "Haeuschen"
it ought to be called, and that signifies "small houses." Those which
stood there formerly--and, indeed, for several years--were not much
larger than the wooden booths that we see now-a-days erected at fairs.
Yes, only a little larger, and with windows; but the panes were of
horn or stretched bladder, for in these days it was too expensive to
have glass windows in all houses; but the time in question was so far
back that our grandfathers' grandfathers, when they mentioned it, also
spoke of it as "in ancient days," for it was several hundred years
ago.
Many rich merchants in Bremen and Lubeck carried on business in
Copenhagen. They did not, however, go there themselves--they sent
their clerks; and these persons generally resided in the wooden houses
in the "Small Houses' Street," and held sales of ale and spices. The
German ale was so excellent, and there were so many kinds--"Bremer,
Prysing, Emser ale," even "Brunswick Mumme;" also, all sorts of
spices, such as saffron, anise, ginger, and especially pepper, that
was the most valued; and from this the German commercial travellers
acquired the name in Denmark of "Pepper Swains, or Bachelors." They
entered into an agreement before they left home not to marry; and many
of them lived there to old age. They had to do entirely for
themselves, attend to all little domestic matters, even make their own
fires if they had any. Several of them became lonely old men, with
peculiar thoughts and peculiar habits. Every unmarried man who has
arrived at a certain age is now here called after them in derision,
"Pebersvend"--old bachelor. It was necessary to relate all this, in
order that our story might be understood.
People made great fun of these old bachelors; laughed at their
nightcaps, at their drawing them down over their eyes, and so retiring
to their couches.
"Saw the firewood, saw it through!
Old bachelors, there's work for you.
To bed with you your nightcaps go;
Put out your lights, and cry, 'O woe!'"
Yes, such songs were made on them. People ridiculed the old bachelor
and his nightcap, just because they knew so little about him, or it.
Alas! let no one desire such a nightcap. And why not? Listen!
Over in the "Small Houses' Street," in ancient days, there was no
pavement; people stepped from hole to hole as in a narrow, cut-up
defile; and narrow enough this was, too. The dwellings on the opposite
side of the street stood so close together, that in summer a sail was
spread across the street from one booth to another, and the whole
place was redolent of pepper, saffron, ginger, and various spices.
Behind the desks stood few young men; no, they were almost all old
fellows; and they were by no means, as we would represent them,
crowned with a peruke or a nightcap, and equipped in shaggy
pantaloons, a vest and coat buttoned tightly up. This was the costume
in which our forefathers were painted, it is true; but this community
of old bachelors could not afford to have their pictures taken. Yet it
would have been worth while now to have preserved a portrait of one of
them, as they stood behind their desks, or on festival days, when they
wended their way to church. The hat they wore was broad-brimmed, and
with a high crown; and sometimes one of the younger men would stick a
feather in his. The woollen shirt was concealed by a deep linen
collar; the tight-fitting jacket was closely buttoned, a loose cloak
over it; and the pantaloons descended almost into the square-toed
shoes, for stockings they wore none. In the belt were stuck the eating
knife and the spoon; and, moreover, a large knife as a weapon of
defence, for such was often needed in these days.
Thus was equipped, on grand occasions, old Anthon, one of the oldest
bachelors of the "small houses;" only he did not wear the high-crowned
hat, but a fur cap, and under that a knitted cap, a veritable
nightcap, to which he had so accustomed himself that it was never off
his head: he actually possessed two of the same description. He would
have made an excellent subject for a painter; he was so skinny, so
wrinkled about the mouth and the eyes; had long fingers, with such
large joints; and his grey eyebrows were so thick. A bunch of grey
hair from one of these hung over his left eye: it certainly was not
pretty, but it made him very remarkable. It was known that he came
from Bremen, at least that his master lived there; but he himself was
from Thueringen, from the town of Eisenach, close to Wartburg. Old
Anthon spoke little of his native place, but he thought of it the
more.
The old lodgers in the street did not associate much with each other.
Each remained in his own booth, which, was locked early in the
evening, and then looked very dismal; for only a glimmering light
could be seen through the horn panes of the window in the roof,
beneath which sat, most frequently on his bed, the old man with his
German psalm-book, and chanted the evening hymn, or else he went out
and strolled about at night by way of amusement; but amusement it
could hardly be called. To be a stranger in a foreign country is a
very sad situation. No notice is taken of him unless he stands in
anyone's way.
Often when it was a pitch-dark night, with pouring rain, all around
looked woefully gloomy and desolate. No lanterns were to be seen,
except the little one that hung at one end of the street, before the
image of the Virgin Mary that adorned the wall there. The water was
heard dashing and splashing against the wooden work near, out by
Slotsholm, on which the other end of the street opened. Such evenings
are always long and lonely if there be nothing to interest one. It is
not necessary every day to pack and unpack, to make up parcels, and to
polish scales; but one must have something to do, and accordingly old
Anthon industriously mended his clothes and cleaned his shoes. When at
length he retired to rest, it was his custom to keep on his nightcap.
At first he would draw it well down, but he would soon push it up
again to look if the light were totally extinguished; nor would he be
satisfied without getting up and feeling it. He would then lie down
again, and turn on the other side, and again draw down the nightcap;
but soon the idea would cross his mind that possibly the coals might
not have become cold in the little fire-pot beneath--the fire might
not be totally out--that a spark might be kindled, fly forth, and do
mischief; and he would get out of his bed and creep down the ladder,
for it could not be called the stairs; and when, on reaching the
fire-pot, he perceived that not a spark was visible, and he might
retire to rest in peace, he would stop half way up, being seized with
the fear that the iron bolt might not be properly drawn across the
door, or the shutters properly secured; and down he would go again,
wearying his poor thin legs. By the time he crept back to his humble
couch he would be half frozen, and his teeth would be chattering in
his head with the cold. Then he would draw the covering higher up
around him, and his nightcap lower down over his eyes, and his
thoughts would wander from the business and burdens of the day; but
ah! not to soothing scenes. His reveries were never fraught with
pleasure, for then came old reminiscences, and hung their curtains up;
and sometimes they were full of pins, that pricked so severely as to
bring tears into his eyes. Such wounds old Anthon often received, and
his warm tears fell on the coverlet or the floor, sounding as if one
of sorrow's deepest strings had burst; they did not dry up, but
kindled into a flame, which cast its light for him on the panorama of
a life--a picture which never vanished from his mind. Then he would
dry his eyes with his nightcap, and chase away the tears, and
endeavour to chase away the picture with them; but it would not go,
for it was imbedded in his heart. The panorama did not follow the
exact order of events; also the saddest parts were generally most
prominent. And what were these?
"Beautiful are the beech groves in Denmark," it is said; but still
more beautiful did the beech trees in the meadows near Wartburg seem
to Anthon. Mightier and more majestic seemed to him the old oak up at
the proud baronial castle, where the swinging lantern hung over the
dark masses of rock; sweeter was the perfume of the apple blossoms
there than in the Danish land; he seemed to feel the charming scent
even now. A tear trickled down his cheeks, and he saw two little
children, a boy and a girl, playing together. The boy had rosy cheeks,
yellow waving hair, and honest blue eyes--he was the rich merchant's
son, little Anthon himself. The little girl had dark hair and eyes,
and she looked bold and clever--she was the burgomaster's daughter
Molly. The childish couple were playing with an apple. At length they
divided it in two, and each took a half. They also divided the seeds
between them, and ate them all to one; and the little girl proposed to
plant that in the ground.
"You will see what will come of this--something will come which you
can hardly fancy. An apple tree will come up, but not all at once."
And they planted the seed in a flower-pot: both of them were very
eager about it. The boy dug a hole in the mould with his finger; the
little girl placed the seed in it, and both of them filled up the hole
with earth.
"You must not pull it up to-morrow to see if it has taken root," she
said; "that should not be done. I did that with my flower: twice I
took it up to see if it was growing. I had very little sense then, and
the flower died."
The flower-pot was left in Anthon's care, and every morning, the
whole winter through, he looked at it; but nothing was to be seen
except the black earth. Then came spring; the sun shone so warmly, and
two tiny green leaves at last made their appearance in the flower-pot.
"These are Molly and me," said Anthon. "They are charming--they are
lovely."
Soon there came a third leaf. Who did that represent? And leaf after
leaf came up; while day by day, and week by week, the plant became
larger and stronger, until it grew into quite a tree. And another tear
fell again from its fountain--from old Anthon's heart.
There stretched out, near Eisenach, a range of stony hills, one of
which, round in shape, was very conspicuous: neither tree, nor bush,
nor grass grew on it. It was named Mount Venus. Therein dwelt Venus, a
goddess from the heathen ages. She was here called Fru Holle, and she
knew and could see every child in Eisenach. She had decoyed into her
power the noble knight Tannhaeuser, the minnesinger, from the musical
circle of Wartburg.
Little Molly and Anthon often went to this hill, and she one day said
to him,--
"Would you dare to knock on the side of the hill and cry, 'Fru Holle!
Fru Holle! open the gate; here is Tannhaeuser?' But Anthon dared not do
it. Molly dared, however; yet only these words--"Fru Holle! Fru
Holle!"--did she say very loudly and distinctly--the rest seemed to
die away on the wind; and she certainly did pronounce the rest of the
sentence so indistinctly, that Anthon was sure she had not really
added the other words. Yet she looked very confident--as bold as when,
in the summer evening, she and several other little girls came to play
in the garden with him, and when they all wanted to kiss him, just
because he would not be kissed, and defended himself from them, she
alone ventured to achieve the feat.
"_I_ dare to kiss him!" she used to say, with a proud toss of her
little head. Then she would take him round his neck to prove her
power, and Anthon would put up with it, and think it all right from
her. How pretty and how clever she was! Fru Holle within the hill was
also very charming, but her charms, it had been said, sprung from the
seducing beauty bestowed on her by the evil one; but still greater
beauty was to be found in the holy Elizabeth, the patron saint of the
country, the pious Thueringian princess, whose good works, known
through traditions and legends, were celebrated in so many places. A
picture of her hung in the chapel with a silver lamp before it, but
Molly did not resemble her.
The apple tree the two children had planted grew year after year; it
became so large that it had to be transferred to the garden, out in
the open air, where the dew fell and the sun shone warmly; it became
strong enough to withstand the severity of winter, and after winter's
hard trials it seemed as if rejoicing in the return of spring: it then
put forth blossoms. In August it had two apples, one for Molly and one
for Anthon: it would not have been well if it had had less.
The tree had grown rapidly, and Molly had grown as fast as the tree;
she was as fresh as an apple blossom, but she was no longer to see
that flower. Everything changes in this world. Molly's father left his
old home, and Molly went with him--far, far away. In our time it might
be only a few hours' journey by railway, but in those days it took
more than a day and a night to arrive so far east from Eisenach. It
was to the other extremity of Thueringia they had to go, to a town
which is now called Weimar.
And Molly wept, and Anthon wept. All these were now concentrated in
one single tear, and it had the happy rosy tinge of joy. Molly had
assured him that she cared much more for him than for all the grandeur
of Weimar.
One year passed on, two passed, and a third followed, and in all that
time there came only two letters. One was brought by the carrier, the
other by a traveller, who had taken a circuitous course, besides
visiting several cities and other places.
How often had not Anthon and Molly heard together the story of
Tristand and Isolde, and how often did not Anthon think of himself and
Molly as them! Although the name "Tristand" signified that he was born
to sorrow, and that did not apply to Anthon, he never thought as
Tristand did, "She has forgotten me!" But Isolde had not forgotten her
heart's dear friend; and when they were both dead and buried, one on
each side of the church, two linden trees grew out of their graves,
and, stretching over the roof of the church, met there in full bloom.
This was very delightful, thought Anthon, and yet so sad! But there
could be no sadness where he and Molly were concerned. And then he
whistled an air of the Minnesinger's "Walther von der Vogelweide,"--
"Under the lime tree by the hedge;"
and especially that favourite verse,--
"Beyond the wood, in the quiet dale,
Tandaradai,
Sang the melodious nightingale."
This song was always on his lips. He hummed it, and he whistled it on
the clear moonlight night, when, passing on horseback through the
deep ravine, he rode in haste to Weimar to visit Molly. He wished to
arrive unexpectedly, and he _did_ arrive unexpectedly.
He was well received. Wine sparkled in the goblets; there was gay
society, distinguished society. He had a comfortable room and an
excellent bed; and yet he found nothing as he had dreamt and thought
to find it. He did not understand himself; he did not understand those
about him; but we can understand all. One can be in a house, can
mingle with a family, and yet be a total stranger. One may converse,
but it is like conversing in a stage coach; may know each other as
people know each other in a stage coach; be a restraint upon each
other; wish that one were away, or that one's good neighbour were
away; and it was thus that Anthon felt.
"I will be sincere with you," said Molly to him. "Things have changed
much since we were together as children--changed within and without.
Habit and will have no power over our hearts. Anthon, I do not wish to
have an enemy in you when I am far away from this, as I soon shall be.
Believe me, I have a great regard for you; but to love you--as I now
know how one can love another human being--that I have never done. You
must put up with this. Farewell, Anthon!"
And Anthon also said farewell. No tears sprang to his eyes, but he
perceived that he was no longer Molly's friend. If we were to kiss a
burning bar of iron, or a frozen bar of iron, we should experience the
same sensation when the skin came off our lips.
Within twenty-four hours Anthon had reached Eisenach again, but the
horse he rode was ruined.
"What of that?" cried he. "I am ruined, and I will ruin all that can
remind me of her. Fru Holle! Fru Holle! Thou heathenish woman! I will
tear down and smash the apple tree, and pull it up by the roots. It
shall never blossom or bear fruit more."
But the tree was not destroyed; he himself was knocked down, and lay
long in a violent fever. What was to raise him from his sick bed? The
medicine that did it was the bitterest that could be--one that shook
the languid body and the shrinking soul. Anthon's father was no longer
the rich merchant. Days of adversity, days of trial, were close at
hand. Misfortune rushed in like overwhelming billows--it surged into
that once wealthy house. His father became a poor man, and sorrow and
calamity paralysed him. Then Anthon found that he had something else
to think of than disappointed love, or being angry with Molly. He had
now to be both father and mother in his desolate home. He had to
arrange everything, look after everything, and to go forth into the
world to work for his own and his parents' bread.
He went to Bremen. There he suffered many privations, and passed many
melancholy days; and all that he went through sometimes soured his
temper, sometimes saddened him, till strength and mind seemed failing.
How different were the world and mankind from what he had fancied them
in his childhood! What were now to him Minnesingers' poems and songs?
They were gall and wormwood. Yes, this was what he often felt; but
there were other times when the songs vibrated to his soul, and his
mind became calm and peaceful.
"What God wills is always the best," said he then. "It was well that
our Lord did not permit Molly's heart to hang on me. What could it
have led to, now that prosperity has left me and mine? She gave me up
before she knew or dreamed of this reverse from more fortunate days
which was hanging over us. It was the mercy of our Lord towards me.
Everything is ordained for the best. Yes, all happens wisely. She
could not, therefore, have acted otherwise, and yet how bitter have
not my feelings been towards her!"
Years passed on. Anthon's father was dead, and strangers dwelt in his
paternal home. Anthon, however, was to see it once more; for his
wealthy master sent him on an errand of business, which obliged him to
pass through his native town, Eisenach. The old WARTBURG stood
unchanged, high up on the hill above, with "the monk and the nun" in
unhewn stone. The mighty oak trees seemed as imposing as in his
childish days. The Venus mount looked like a grey mass frowning over
the valley. He would willingly have cried,--
"Fru Holle! Fru Holle! open the hill, and let me stay there, upon the
soil of my native home!"
It was a sinful thought, and he crossed himself. Then a little bird
sang among the bushes, and the old Minnesong came back to his
thoughts:--
"Beyond the wood, in the quiet dale,
Tandaradai!
Sang the melodious nightingale."
How remembrances rushed upon him as he approached the town where his
childhood had been spent, which he now saw through tears! His father's
house remained where it used to be, but the garden was altered; a
field footpath was made across a portion of the old garden; and the
apple tree that he had not uprooted stood there, but no longer within
the garden: it was on the opposite side of the road, though the sun
shone on it as cheerfully as of old, and the dew fell on it there. It
bore such a quantity of fruit that the branches were weighed down to
the ground.
"It thrives!" he exclaimed. "Yes, _it_ can do so."
One of its well-laden boughs was broken. Wanton hands had done this,
for the tree was now on the side of the public road.
"Its blossoms are carried off without thanks; its fruit is stolen, its
branches are broken. It may be said of a tree as of a man, 'It was not
sung at the tree's cradle that things should turn out thus.' This one
began its life so charmingly; and what has now become of it? Forsaken
and forgotten--a garden tree standing in a common field, close to a
public road, and bending over a miserable ditch! There it stood now,
unsheltered, ill-used, and disfigured! It was not, indeed, withered by
all this; but as years advanced its blossoms would become fewer--its
fruit, if it bore any, late; and so it is all over with it."