frightful hills and many valleys, till we reached Slagelse; and beyond
it, on the other side, it was but little better; therefore we were
anxious to get to Krebsehuset, that we might early next day go on to
Soroe, and visit Moellers Emil, as we called him. He was your
grandfather, my worthy husband, the dean. He was then a student at
Soroe, and very busy about his second examination.
"Well, we arrived about noon at Krebsehuset. It was a gay little town
then, and had the best inn on the road, and the prettiest country
round it: you must all admit that it is pretty still. She was a very
active landlady, Madame Plambek, and everything in her house was as
clean as a new pin. There hung up on her wall a letter from Baggesen
to her. It was framed, and had a glass over it; it was a very
interesting object to look at, and to me it was quite a curiosity. We
then went into Soroe, and found Emil there. You may believe he was very
glad to see us, and we were very glad to see him--he was so good and
so attentive. We went with him to see the church, with Absolon's grave
and Holberg's coffin. We saw the old monkish inscriptions, and we
sailed over the lake to Parnasset--the sweetest evening I remember. I
recollect well that I thought, if one could write poetry anywhere in
the world, it would be at Soroe, amidst those charming, peaceful
scenes, where nature reigns in all her beauty. Afterwards we visited
by moonlight the 'Philosopher's Walk,' as it was called--the
beautiful, lonely path by the lake and the moor that leads towards the
highway to Krebsehuset. Emil remained to supper with us, and my father
and mother thought he had become very clever and very good-looking. He
promised us that he would be in Copenhagen within a few days, and
would join us there: it was then Whitsuntide. We were going to stay
with his family. These hours at Soroe and Krebsehuset, may they not be
deemed the most beautiful pearls of my life?
"The next morning we commenced our journey at a very early hour, for
we had a long way to go to reach Roeskilde, and we were anxious to get
there in time to see the church. In the evening my father wished to
visit an old friend, so we stopped at Roeskilde that night, and the
next day we arrived at Copenhagen. It took us three days to go from
Korsoer to Copenhagen; now the journey is made in three hours. The
pearls have not become more valuable--that they could not be--but they
are strung together in a new and wonderful manner. I remained three
weeks with my parents in Copenhagen, and Emil was with us there for a
fortnight. When we returned to Fyen, he accompanied us as far as
Korsoer. There, before parting, we were betrothed; so you can well
believe that _I_ call from Copenhagen to Korsoer a row of pearls.
"Afterwards, when Emil and I were married, we often spoke of the
journey to Copenhagen, and of undertaking it once more. But then came
first your mother, then she had brothers and sisters, and there was a
great deal to do; so the journey was put off. And when your
grandfather got preferment, and was made dean, all was thankfulness
and joy; but we never got to Copenhagen. No, never have I set foot in
it again, as often as we thought of it and projected going. Now I am
too old, and I could not stand travelling by a railroad; but I am very
glad that there are railroads--they are a blessing to many. You can
come more speedily to me; and Odense is now not farther from
Copenhagen than in my young days it was from Nyborg. You could now go
in almost the same space of time to Italy as it took us to travel to
Copenhagen. Yes, that is something!
"Nevertheless, I shall stay in one place, and let others travel and
come to me if they please. But you should not laugh at me for keeping
so quiet; I have a greater journey before me than any by the railroad.
When it shall please our Lord, I have to travel up to your
grandfather; and when you have finished your appointed time on earth,
and enjoyed the blessings bestowed here by the Almighty, then I trust
that you will ascend to us; and if we then revert to our earthly days,
believe me, children, I shall say then as now, 'From Copenhagen to
Korsoer is indeed A ROW OF PEARLS.'"
_The Pen and the Inkstand._
The following remark was made in a poet's room, as the speaker looked
at the inkstand that stood upon his table:--
"It is astonishing all that can come out of that inkstand! What will
it produce next? Yes, it is wonderful!"
"So it is!" exclaimed the inkstand. "It is incomprehensible! That is
what I always say." It was thus the inkstand addressed itself to the
pen, and to everything else that could hear it on the table. "It is
really astonishing all that can come from me! It is almost incredible!
I positively do not know myself what the next production may be, when
a person begins to dip into me. One drop of me serves for half a side
of paper; and what may not then appear upon it? I am certainly
something extraordinary. From me proceed all the works of the poets.
These animated beings, whom people think they recognise--these deep
feelings, that gay humour, these charming descriptions of nature--I do
not understand them myself, for I know nothing about nature; but still
it is all in me. From me have gone forth, and still go forth, these
warrior hosts, these lovely maidens, these bold knights on snorting
steeds, those droll characters in humbler life. The fact is, however,
that I do not know anything about them myself. I assure you they are
not my ideas."
"You are right there," replied the pen. "You have few ideas, and do
not trouble yourself much with thinking. If you _did_ exert yourself
to think, you would perceive that you ought to give something that was
not dry. You supply me with the means of committing to paper what I
have in me; I write with that. It is the pen that writes. Mankind do
not doubt that; and most men have about as much genius for poetry as
an old inkstand."
"You have but little experience," said the inkstand. "You have
scarcely been a week in use, and you are already half worn out. Do you
fancy that you are a poet? You are only a servant; and I have had many
of your kind before you came--many of the goose family, and of English
manufacture. I know both quill pens and steel pens. I have had a great
many in my service, and I shall have many more still, when he, the man
who stirs me up, comes and puts down what he takes from me. I should
like very much to know what will be the next thing he will take from
me."
Late in the evening the poet returned home. He had been at a concert,
had heard a celebrated violin player, and was quite enchanted with his
wonderful performance. It had been a complete gush of melody that he
had drawn from the instrument. Sometimes it seemed like the gentle
murmur of a rippling stream, sometimes like the singing of birds,
sometimes like the tempest sweeping through the mighty pine forests.
He fancied he heard his own heart weep, but in the sweet tones that
can be heard in a woman's charming voice. It seemed as if not only the
strings of the violin made music, but its bridge, its pegs, and its
sounding-board. It was astonishing! The piece had been a most
difficult one; but it seemed like play--as if the bow were but
wandering capriciously over the strings. Such was the appearance of
facility, that every one might have supposed he could do it. The
violin seemed to sound of itself, the bow to play of itself. These two
seemed to do it all. One forgot the master who guided them, who gave
them life and soul. Yes, they forgot the master; but the poet thought
of him. He named him, and wrote down his thoughts as follows:
"How foolish it would be of the violin and the bow, were they to be
vain of their performance! And yet this is what so often we of the
human species are. Poets, artists, those who make discoveries in
science, military and naval commanders--we are all proud of ourselves;
and yet we are all only the instruments in our Lord's hands. To Him
alone be the glory! We have nothing to arrogate to ourselves."
This was what the poet wrote; and he headed it with, "The Master and
the Instruments." When the inkstand and the pen were again alone, the
latter said,--
"Well, madam, you heard him read aloud what I had written."
"Yes, what I gave you to write," said the inkstand. "It was a hit at
you for your conceit. Strange that you cannot see that people make a
fool of you! I gave you that hit pretty cleverly. I confess, though,
it was rather malicious."
"Ink-holder!" cried the pen.
"Writing-stick!" cried the inkstand.
They both felt assured that they had answered well; and it is a
pleasant reflection that one has made a smart reply--one sleeps
comfortably after it. And they both went to sleep; but the poet could
not sleep. His thoughts welled forth like the tones from the violin,
murmuring like a pearly rivulet, rushing like a storm through the
forest. He recognised the feelings of his own heart--he perceived the
gleam from the everlasting Master.
To Him alone be the glory!
_The Child in the Grave._
There was sorrow in the house, there was sorrow in the heart; for the
youngest child, a little boy of four years of age, the only son, his
parents' present joy and future hope, was dead. Two daughters they
had, indeed, older than their boy--the eldest was almost old enough to
be confirmed--amiable, sweet girls they both were; but the lost child
is always the dearest, and he was the youngest, and a son. It was a
heavy trial. The sisters sorrowed as young hearts sorrow, and were
much afflicted by their parents' grief; the father was weighed down by
the affliction; but the mother was quite overwhelmed by the terrible
blow. By night and by day had she devoted herself to her sick child,
watched by him, lifted him, carried him about, done everything for him
herself. She had felt as if he were a part of herself: she could not
bring herself to believe that he was dead--that he should be laid in a
coffin, and concealed in the grave. God would not take that child from
her--O no! And when he was taken, and she could no longer refuse to
believe the truth, she exclaimed in her wild grief,--
"God has not ordained this! He has heartless agents here on earth.
They do what they list--they hearken not to a mother's prayers!"
She dared in her woe to arraign the Most High; and then came dark
thoughts, the thoughts of death--everlasting death--that human beings
returned as earth to earth, and then all was over. Amidst thoughts
morbid and impious as these were there could be nothing to console
her, and she sank into the darkest depth of despair.
In these hours of deepest distress she could not weep. She thought not
of the young daughters who were left to her; her husband's tears fell
on her brow, but she did not look up at him; her thoughts were with
her dead child; her whole heart and soul were wrapped up in recalling
every reminiscence of the lost one--every syllable of his infantine
prattle.
The day of the funeral came. She had not slept the night before, but
towards morning she was overcome by fatigue, and sank for a short time
into repose. During that time the coffin was removed into another
apartment, and the cover was screwed down with as little noise as
possible.
When she awoke she rose, and wished to see her child; then her
husband, with tears in his eyes, told her, "We have closed the
coffin--it had to be done!"
"When the Almighty is so hard on me," she exclaimed, "why should human
beings be kinder?" and she burst into tears.
The coffin was carried to the grave. The inconsolable mother sat with
her young daughters; she looked at them, but she did not see them;
her thoughts had nothing more to do with home; she gave herself up to
wretchedness, and it tossed her about as the sea tosses the ship which
has lost its helmsman and its rudder. Thus passed the day of the
funeral, and several days followed amidst the same uniform, heavy
grief. With tearful eyes and melancholy looks her afflicted family
gazed at her. She did not care for what comforted them. What could
they say to change the current of her mournful thoughts?
It seemed as if sleep had fled from her for ever; it alone would be
her best friend, strengthen her frame, and recall peace to her mind.
Her family persuaded her to keep her bed, and she lay there as still
as if buried in sleep. One night her husband had listened to her
breathing, and believing from it that she had at length found repose
and relief, he clasped his hands, prayed for her and for them all,
then sank himself into peaceful slumber. While sleeping soundly he did
not perceive that she rose, dressed herself, and softly left the room
and the house, to go--whither her thoughts wandered by day and by
night--to the grave that hid her child. She passed quietly through the
garden, out to the fields, beyond which the road led outside of the
town to the churchyard. No one saw her, and she saw no one.
It was a fine night; the stars were shining brightly, and the air was
mild, although it was the 1st of September. She entered the
churchyard, and went to the little grave; it looked like one great
bouquet of sweet-scented flowers. She threw herself down, and bowed
her head over the grave, as if she could through the solid earth
behold her little boy, whose smile she remembered so vividly. The
affectionate expression of his eyes, even upon his sick bed, was
never, never to be forgotten. How speaking had not his glance been
when she had bent over him, and taken the little hand he was himself
too weak to raise! As she had sat by his couch, so now she sat by his
grave; but here her tears might flow freely over the sod that covered
him.
"Wouldst thou descend to thy child?" said a voice close by. It sounded
so clear, so deep--its tones went to her heart. She looked up, and
near her stood a man wrapped in a large mourning cloak, with a hood
drawn over the head; but she could see the countenance under this. It
was severe, and yet encouraging, his eyes were bright as those of
youth.
"Descend to my child!" she repeated; and there was the agony of
despair in her voice.
"Darest thou follow me?" asked the figure. "I am Death!"
She bowed her assent. Then it seemed all at once as if every star in
the heavens above shone with the light of the moon. She saw the
many-coloured flowers on the surface of the grave move like a
fluttering garment. She sank, and the figure threw his dark cloak
round her. It became night--the night of death. She sank deeper than
the sexton's spade could reach. The churchyard lay like a roof above
her head.
The cloak that had enveloped her glided to one side. She stood in an
immense hall, whose extremities were lost in the distance. It was dusk
around her; but before her stood, and in one moment was clasped to her
heart, her child, who smiled on her in beauty far surpassing what he
had possessed before. She uttered a cry, though it was scarcely
audible, for close by, and then far away, and afterwards near again,
came delightful music. Never before had such glorious, such blessed
sounds reached her ear. They rang from the other side of the thick
curtain--black as night--that separated the hall from the boundless
space of eternity.
"My sweet mother! my own mother!" she heard her child exclaim. It was
his well-known, most beloved voice. And kiss followed kiss in
rapturous joy. At length the child pointed to the sable curtain.
"There is nothing so charming up yonder on earth, mother. Look,
mother!--look at them all! That is felicity!"
The mother saw nothing--nothing in the direction to which the child
pointed, except darkness like that of night. _She_ saw with earthly
eyes. She did not see as did the child whom God had called to himself.
She heard, indeed, sounds--music; but she did not understand the words
that were conveyed in these exquisite tones.
"I can fly now, mother," said the child. "I can fly with all the other
happy children, away, even into the presence of God. I wish so much to
go; but if you cry on as you are crying now I cannot leave you, and
yet I should be so glad to go. May I not? You will come back soon,
will you not, dear mother?"
"Oh, stay! Oh, stay!" she cried, "only one moment more. Let me gaze on
you one moment longer; let me kiss you, and hold you a moment longer
in my arms."
And she kissed him, and held him fast. Then her name was called from
above--the tones were those of piercing grief. What could they be?
"Hark!" said the child; "it is my father calling on you."
And again, in a few seconds, deep sobs were heard, as of children
weeping.
"These are my sisters' voices," said the child. "Mother, you have
surely not forgotten them?"
Then she remembered those who were left behind. A deep feeling of
anxiety pervaded her mind; she gazed intently before her, and spectres
seemed to hover around her; she fancied that she knew some of them;
they floated through the Hall of Death, on towards the dark curtain,
and there they vanished. Would her husband, her daughters, appear
there? No; their lamentations were still to be heard from above. She
had nearly forgotten them for the dead.
"Mother, the bells of heaven are ringing," said the child. "Now the
sun is about to rise."
And an overwhelming, blinding light streamed around her. The child was
gone, and she felt herself lifted up. She raised her head, and saw
that she was lying in the churchyard, upon the grave of her child. But
in her dream God had become a prop for her feet, and a light to her
mind. She threw herself on her knees and prayed:--
"Forgive me, O Lord my God, that I wished to detain an everlasting
soul from its flight into eternity, and that I forgot my duties to the
living Thou hast graciously spared to me!"
And as she uttered this prayer it appeared as if her heart felt
lightened of the burden that had crushed it. Then the sun broke forth
in all its splendour, a little bird sang over her head, and all the
church bells around began to ring the matin chimes. All seemed holy
around her; her heart seemed to have drunk in faith and holiness; she
acknowledged the might and the mercy of God; she remembered her
duties, and felt a longing to regain her home. She hurried thither,
and leaning over her still sleeping husband, she awoke him with the
touch of her warm lips on his cheek. Her words were those of love and
consolation, and in a tone of mild resignation she exclaimed,--
"God's will is always the best!"
Her husband and her daughters were astonished at the change in her,
and her husband asked her,--
"Where did you so suddenly acquire this strength--this pious
resignation?"
And she smiled on him and her daughters as she replied,--
"I derived it from God, by the grave of my child."
_Charming._
The sculptor Alfred--surely you know him? We all know him. He used to
engrave gold medallions; went to Italy, and returned again. He was
young then; indeed, he is young now, though about half a score of
years older than he was at that time.
He returned home, and went on a visit to one of the small towns in
Zealand. The whole community knew of the arrival of the stranger, and
who he was. There was a party given on his account by one of the
richest families in the place; every one who was anybody, or had
anything, was invited; it was quite an event, and the whole town heard
of it without beat of drum. A good many apprentice boys and poor
people's children, with a few of their parents, ranged themselves
outside, and looked at the windows with their drawn blinds, through
which a blaze of light was streaming. The watchman might have fancied
he had a party himself, so many people occupied his quarters in the
street. They all seemed merry on the outside; and in the inside of the
house everything was pleasant, for Herr Alfred, the sculptor, was
there.
He talked, and he told anecdotes, and every one present listened to
him with pleasure and deep attention, but no one with more eagerness
than an elderly widow of good standing in society; and she was, in
reference to all that Herr Alfred said, like a blank sheet of
whity-brown paper, that quickly sucks the sweet things in, and is
ready for more. She was very susceptible, and totally ignorant--quite
a female Caspar Hauser.
"I should like to see Rome," said she. "That must be a charming town,
with the numerous strangers that go there. Describe Rome to us now.
How does it look as you enter the gate?"
"It is not easy to describe Rome," said the young sculptor. "It is a
very large place; in the centre of it stands an obelisk, which is four
thousand years old."
"An organist!" exclaimed the astonished lady, who had never before
heard the word _obelisk_.
Many of the party could scarcely refrain from laughing, and among the
rest the sculptor. But the satirical smile that was gathering round
his mouth glided into one of pleasure; for he saw, close to the lady,
a pair of large eyes, blue as the sea. They appertained to the
daughter of the talkative dame, and when one had such a daughter one
could not be altogether ridiculous. The mother was like a bubbling
fountain of questions, constantly pouring forth; the daughter like the
fountain's beautiful naiad, listening to its murmurs. How lovely she
was! She was something worth a sculptor's while to gaze at; but not to
converse with; and she said nothing, at least very little.
"Has the Pope a great family?" asked the widow.
And the young man answered as if the question might have been better
worded,--
"No, he is not of a high family."
"I don't mean that," said the lady; "I mean has he a wife and
children?"
"The Pope dare not marry," he replied.
"I don't approve of that," said the lady.
She could scarcely have spoken more foolishly, or asked sillier
questions; but what did all that signify when her daughter looked over
her shoulder with that most winning smile?
Herr Alfred talked of the brilliant skies of Italy, and its
cloud-capped hills; the blue Mediterranean; the soft South; the beauty
which could only be rivalled by the blue eyes of the females of the
North. And this was said pointedly; but she who ought to have
understood it did not allow it to be seen that she had detected any
compliment in his words, and this was also charming.
"Italy!" sighed some. "Travelling!" sighed others. "Charming,
charming!"
"Well, when I win the fifty-thousand-dollar prize in the lottery,"
said the widow, "we shall set off on our travels too--my daughter and
I; and you, Herr Alfred, shall be our escort. We shall all three go,
and a few other friends will go with us, I hope;" and she bowed
invitingly to them all round, so that each individual might have
thought, "It is I she wishes to accompany her." "Yes, we will go to
Italy, but not where the robbers are; we will stay in Rome, or only go
by the great high roads, where people are safe, of course."
And the daughter heaved a gentle sigh. How much can there not lie in
a slight sigh, or be supposed to lie in it! The young man put a world
of feeling into it; the two blue eyes that had beamed on him that
evening concealed the treasure--the treasure of heart and of mind,
richer far than all the glories of Rome; and when he left the party he
was over head and ears in love with the widow's pretty daughter.
The widow's house became the house of all others most visited by Herr
Alfred, the sculptor. People knew that it could not be for the
mother's sake he sought it so often, although he and she were always
the speakers; it must be for the daughter's sake he went. She was
called Kala, though christened Karen Malene: the two names had been
mutilated, and thrown together into the one appellation, _Kala_. She
was very beautiful, but rather silly, some people hinted, and rather
indolent. She was certainly a very late riser in the morning.
"She has been accustomed to that from her childhood," said her mother.
"She has always been such a little Venus that she was scarcely ever
found fault with. She is not a very early riser, but to this she owes
her fine clear eyes."
What power there was in these clear eyes--these swimming blue eyes!
The young man felt it. He told anecdote upon anecdote, and answered
question after question; and mamma always asked the same lively,
sensible, pertinent questions as she had asked at first.
It was a pleasure to hear Herr Alfred speak. He described Naples, the
ascent of Mount Vesuvius, and several of its eruptions; and the widow
lady, who had never heard of them before, was lost in surprise.
"Mercy on us!" she exclaimed; "then it is a volcano? Does it ever do
any harm to anybody?"