O. T., A Danish Romance

CHAPTER XXVIII

“Huzza for Copenhagen and for Paris! may they both flourish!”

The Danes in Paris by HEIBERG.

Wilhelm’s cousin, Joachim, had arrived from Paris. We remember the young officer, out of whose letters Wilhelm had sent Otto a description of the struggle of the July days. As an inspired hero of liberty had he returned; struggling Poland had excited his lively interest, and he would willingly have combated in Warsaw’s ranks. His mind and his eloquence made him doubly interesting. The combat of the July days, of which he had been an eye-witness, he described to them. Joachim was handsome; he had an elegant countenance with sharp features, and was certainly rather pale—one might perhaps have called him worn with dissipation, had it not been for the brightness of his eyes, which increased in conversation. The fine dark eyebrow, and even the little mustache, gave the countenance all expression which reminded one of fine English steel-engravings. His figure was small, almost slender, but the proportions were beautiful. The animation of the Frenchman expressed itself in every motion, but at the same time there was in him a certain determination which seemed to say: “I am aware of my own intellectual superiority!”

He interested every one: Otto also listened with pleasure when Cousin Joachim related his experiences, but when all eyes were turned toward the narrator, Otto fixed his suddenly upon Sophie, and found that she could moderate his attentions. Joachim addressed his discourse to all, but at the points of interest his glance rested alone on the pretty cousin! “She interests him!” said Otto to himself. “And Cousin Joachim?” Yes, he relates well; but had we only traveled we should not be inferior to him!”

“Charles X. was a Jesuit!” said Joachim; “he strove after an unrestrained despotism, and laid violent hands on the Charter. The expedition against Algiers was only a glittering fire-work arranged to flatter the national pride—all glitter and falseness! Like Peirronnet, through an embrace he would annihilate the Charter.”

The conversation now turned from the Jesuits to the Charter and Polignac. The minute particulars, which only an eyewitness can relate, brought the struggle livingly before their eyes. They saw the last night, the extraordinary activity in the squares where the balls were showered, and in the streets where the barricades were erected. Overturned wagons and carts, barrels and stones, were heaped upon each other—even the hundred year-old trees of the Boulevards were cut down to form barricades: the struggle began, Frenchman fought against Frenchman—for liberty and country they sacrificed their life.¹⁹

And he described the victory and Louis Philippe, whom he admired and loved.

“That was a world event,” said the man of business. “It electrified both king and people. They still feel the movement. Last year was an extraordinary year!”

“For the Copenhageners also,” said Otto, “there were three colors. These things occupied the multitude with equal interest: the July Revolution, the ‘Letters of a Wandering Ghost,’ and Kellermann’s ‘Berlin Wit.’”

“Now you are bitter, Mr. Thostrup,” said the lady of the house. “The really educated did not occupy themselves with these Berlin ‘Eckensteher’ which the multitude have rendered national!”

“But they hit the right mark!” said Otto; “they met with a reception from the citizens and people in office.”

“That I can easily believe,” remarked Joachim; “that is like the people here!”

“That is like the people abroad!” said the hostess. “In Paris they pass over still more easily from a revolution, in which they themselves have taken part, to a review by Jules Janin, or to a new step of Taglioni’s, and from that to ‘une histoire scandaleuse!’”

“No, my gracious lady, of the last no one takes any notice—it belongs to the order of the day!”

“That I can easily believe!” said Miss Sophie.

The man of business now inquired after the Chamber. The cousin’s answer was quite satisfactory. The lady of the house wished to hear of the flower-markets, and of the sweet little inclosed gardens in the Places. Sophie wished to hear of Victor Hugo. She received a description of him, of his abode in the Place Royale, and of the whole Europe littéraire beside. Cousin Joachim was extremely interesting.

Otto did not pay another visit for two days.

“Where have you been for so long?” asked Sophie, when he came again.

“With my books!” replied he: there lay a gloomy expression in his eyes.

“O, you should have come half an hour earlier—our cousin was here! He was describing to me the Jardin des Plantes in Paris. O, quite excellently!”

“He is an interesting young man!” said Otto.

“The glorious garden!” pursued Sophie, without remarking the emphasis with which Otto had replied. “Do you not remember, Mr. Thostrup, how Barthélemi has spoken of it? ‘Où tout homme, qui rêve à son pays absent, Retrouve ses parfums et son air caressant.’ In it there is a whole avenue with cages, in which are wild beasts,—lions and tigers! In small court-yards, elephants and buffaloes wander about at liberty! Giraffes nibble the branches of high trees! In the middle of the garden are the courts for bears, only there is a sort of well in which the bears walk about; it is surrounded by no palisades, and you stand upon the precipitous edge! There our cousin stood!”

“But he did not precipitate himself down!” said Otto, with indifference.

“What is the matter?” asked Sophie. “Are you in your elegiac mood? You look as I imagine Victor Hugo when he has not made up his mind about the management of his tragic catastrophe!”

“That is my innate singularity!” replied Otto. “I should have pleasure in springing down among the bears of which you relate!”

“And in dying?” asked Sophie. “No, you must live. ‘C’est le bonheur de vivre Qui fait la gloire de mourir.’”

“You speak a deal of French to-day,” said Otto, with a friendliness of manner intended to soften the bitterness of the tone. “Perhaps your conversation with the lieutenant was in that language?”

“French interests me the most!” replied she. “I will ask our cousin to speak it often with me. His accent is excellent, and he is himself a very interesting man!”

“No doubt of it!” answered Otto.

“You will remain and dine with us?” said the lady of the house, who now entered.

Otto did not feel well.

“These are only whims,” said Sophie.

The ladies made merry, and Otto remained. Cousin Joachim came and was interesting—very interesting, said all. He related of Paris, spoke also of Copenhagen, and drew comparisons. The quietness of home had made an especial impression on him.

“People here,” said he, “go about as if they bore some heavy grief, or some joy, which they might not express. If one goes into a coffee-house, it is just as if one entered a house of mourning. Each one seats himself, a newspaper in his hand, in a corner. That strikes one when one comes from Paris! One naturally has the thought,—Can these few degrees further north bring so much cold into the blood? There is the same quiet in our theatre. Now I love this active life. The only boldness the public permits itself is hissing a poor author; but a wretched singer, who has neither tone nor manner, a miserable actress, will be endured, nay, applauded by good friends—an act of compassion. She is so fearful! she is so good! In Paris people hiss. The decoration master, the manager, every one there receives his share of applause or blame. Even the directors are there hissed, if they manage badly.”

“You are preaching a complete revolution in our theatrical kingdom!” said the lady of the house. “The Copenhageners cannot ever become Parisians, and neither should they.”

“The theatre is here, as well as there, the most powerful organ of the people’s life. It has the greatest influence, and ours stands high, very high, when one reflects in what different directions it must extend its influence. Our only theatre must accommodate itself, and represent, at the same time, the Theatre Français, the grand Opera, the Vaudeville, and Saint-Martin; it must comprehend all kinds of theatrical entertainments. The same actors who to-day appear in tragedy, must to-morrow show themselves in a comedy or vaudeville. We have actors who might compare themselves with the best in Paris—only one is above all ours, but, also, above all whom I have seen in Europe, and this one is Mademoiselle Mars. You will, doubtless, consider the reason extraordinary which gives this one, in my opinion, the first place. This is her age, which she so completely compels you to forget. She is still pretty; round, without being called fat. It is not through rouge, false hair, or false teeth, that she procures herself youth; it lies in her soul, and from thence it flows into every limb—every motion becomes charming! She fills you with astonishment! her eyes are full of expression, and her voice is the most sonorous which I know! It is indeed music! How can one think of age when one is affected by an immortal soul? I rave about Léontine Fay, but the old Mars has my heart. There is also a third who stands high with the Parisians—Jenny Vertprè, at the Gymnase Dramatique, but she would be soon eclipsed were the Parisians to see our Demoiselle Pätges. She possesses talent which will shine in every scene. Vertprè has her loveliness, her whims, but not her Proteus-genius, her nobility. I saw Vertprè in ‘La Reine de Seize Ans,’—a piece which we have not yet; but she was only a saucy soubrette in royal splendor—a Pernille of Holberg’s, as represented by a Parisian. We have Madame Wexschall, and we have Frydendal! Were Denmark only a larger country, these names would sound throughout Europe!”

He now described the decorations in the “Sylphide,” in “Natalia,” and in various other ballets, the whole splendor, the whole magnificence.

“But our orchestra is excellent!” said Miss Sophie.

“It certainly contains several distinguished men,” answered Joachim; “but must one speak of the whole? Yes, you know I am not musical, and cannot therefore express myself in an artistical manner about music, but certain it is that something lay in my ear, in my feeling, which, in Paris, whispered to me, ‘That is excellent!’ Here, on the contrary, it cries, ‘With moderation! with moderation!’ The voice is the first; she is the lady; the instruments, on the contrary, are the cavaliers who shall conduct the former before the public. Gently they should take her by the hand; she must stand quite foremost; but here the instruments thrust her aside, and it is to me as if each instrument would have the first place, and constantly shouted, ‘Here am I! here am I!”

“That sounds very well!” said Sophie; “but one may not believe you! You have fallen in love with foreign countries, and, therefore, at home everything must be slighted.”

“By no means! The Danish ladies, for instance, appear the prettiest, the most modest whom I have known.”

“Appear?” repeated Otto.

“Joachim possesses eloquence,” said the lady of the house.

“That has developed itself abroad!” answered he: “here at home there are only two ways in which it can publicly develop itself—in the pulpit, and at a meeting in the shooting-house. Yet it is true that now we are going to have a Diet and a more political life. I feel already, in anticipation, the effect; we shall only live for this life, the newspapers will become merely political, the poets sing politics the painters choose scenes from political life. ‘C’est un Uebergang!’ as Madame La Flèche says.²⁰ Copenhagen is too small to be a great, and too great to be a small city. See, there lies the fault!”

Otto felt an irresistible desire to contradict him in most things which he said about home. But the cousin parried every bold blow with a joke.

“Copenhagen must be the Paris of the North,” said he, “and that it certainly would become in fifty, or twice that number of years. The situation was far more beautiful than that of the city of the Seine. The marble church must be elevated, and become a Pantheon, adorned with the works of Thorwaldsen and other artists; Christiansborg, a Louvre, whose gallery you visit; Öster Street and Pedermadsen’s passage, arcades such as are in Paris, covered with glass roofs and flagged, shops on both sides, and in the evening, when thousands of gas-lamps burnt, here should be the promenade; the esplanades would be the Champs Elysées, with swings and slides, music, and mâts de cocagne.²¹ On the Peblinger Lake, as on the Seine, there should be festive water excursions made. Voilà!” exclaimed he, “that would be splendid!”

“That might be divine!” said Sophie.

Animation and thought lay in the cousin’s countenance; his fine features became striking from their expression. Thus did his image stamp itself in Otto’s soul, thus did it place itself beside Sophie’s image as she stood there, with her large brown eyes, round which played thought and smiles, whilst they rested on the cousin. The beautifully formed white hand, with its taper fingers, played with the curls which fell over her cheeks. Otto would not think of it.

CHAPTER XXIX

“And if I have wept alone, it is my own sorrow.”—GOETHE

Latterly Otto had been but seldom at Mr. Berger’s. He had no interest about the merchant’s home. The family showed him every politeness and mark of confidence; but his visits became every week more rare. Business matters, however, led him one day there.

Chance or fate, as we call it, if the shadow of a consequence shows itself, caused Maren to pass through the anteroom when Otto was about taking his departure. She was the only one of the ladies at home. In three weeks she would return to Lemvig. She said that she could not boast of having enjoyed Mr. Thostrup’s society too often.

“Your old friends interest you no longer!” added she, somewhat gravely. With this exception she had amused herself very well in the city, had seen everything but the stuffed birds, and these she should see to-morrow. She had been seven times in the theatre, and had seen the “Somnambule” twice. However, she had not seen “Der Frieschütz,” and she had an especial desire to see this on account of the wolf-glen. At Aarhuus there was a place in the wood, said she, called the wolf-glen; this she knew, and now wished to see whether it resembled the one on the stage.

“May I then greet Rosalie from you?” she asked at length.

“You will still remain three weeks here,” said Otto: “it is too soon to speak of leave-taking.”

“But you scarcely ever come here,” returned she. “You have better places to go to! The Baron’s sister certainly sees you oftener; she is said to be a pretty and very clever girl: perhaps one may soon offer one’s congratulations?”

Otto became crimson.

“In spring you will travel abroad,” pursued she; “we shall not then see you in Jutland: yes, perhaps you will never go there again! That will make old Rosalie sad: she thinks so incredibly much of you. In all the letters which I have received here there were greetings to Mr. Thostrup. Yes, I have quite a multitude of them for you; but you do not come to receive them, and I dare not pay a visit to such a young gentleman. For the sake of old friendship let me, at least, be the first who can relate at home of the betrothal!”

“How can you have got such a thought?” replied Otto. “I go to so many houses where there are young ladies; if my heart had anything to do with it, I should have a bad prospect. I have great esteem for Miss Sophie; I speak with her as with you, that is all. I perceive that the air of Copenhagen has affected you; here in the city they are always betrothing people. This comes from the ladies in the house here. How could you believe such stories?”

Maren also joked about it, but after they had parted she seated herself in a corner, drew her little apron over her head and wept; perhaps because she should soon leave the lively city, where she had been seven times to the theatre, and yet had not seen the wolf-glen.

“Betrothed!” repeated Otto to himself, and thought of Sophie, of the cousin, and of his own childhood, which hung like a storm-cloud in his heaven. Many thoughts passed through his mind: he recollected the Christmas Eve on which he had seen Sophie for the first time, when she, as one of the Fates, gave him the number. He had 33, she 34; they were united by the numbers following each other. He received the pedigree, and was raised to her nobility. The whole joke had for him a signification. He read the verse again which had accompanied it. The conclusion sounded again and again in his ears:—“From this hour forth thy soul high rank hath won her, Nor will forget thy knighthood and thy honor!”

“O Sophie!” he exclaimed aloud, and the fire which had long smouldered in his blood now burst forth in flames. “Sophie! thee must I press to my heart!” He lost himself in dreams. Dark shapes disturbed them. “Can she then be happy? Can I? The picture which she received where the covering of ice was broken and the faithful dog watched in vain, is also significant. That is the fulfillment of hopes. I sink, and shall never return!”

The image of the cousin mingled in his dreams. That refined countenance with the little mustache looked forth saucily and loquaciously; and Sophie’s eyes he saw rest upon the cousin, whilst her white hand played with the brown curls which fell over her cheek.

“O Sophie!” sighed Otto, and fell asleep.

CHAPTER XXX

 
…”We live through others,
We think we are others; we seem
Others to be… And so think others of us.”
 

SCHEFER.

When the buds burst forth we will burst forth also! had Otto and Wilhelm often said. Their plan was, in the spring to travel immediately to Paris, but on their way to visit the Rhine, and to sail from Cologne to Strasburg.

“Yes, one must see the Rhine first!” said Cousin Joachim; “when one has seen Switzerland and Italy, it does not strike one nearly as much. That must be your first sight; but you should not see it in spring, but toward autumn. When the vines have their full variety of tint, and the heavy grapes hang from the stems, see, it is then the old ruins stand forth. These are the gardens of the Rhine! Another advantage which you have in going there in autumn is that you then enter Paris in winter, and that one must do; then one does not come post festum; then is the heyday of gayety—the theatre, the soirées, and everything which can interest the beau monde.”

Although Otto did not generally consider the cousin’s words of much weight, he this time entered wonderfully into his views. “It would certainly be the most prudent to commence their journey toward autumn,” he thought: “there could be no harm in preparing themselves a little more for it!”

“That is always good!” said Joachim; “but, what is far more advantageous abroad than all the preparations you can make at home, is said in a few words—give up all intercourse with your own country-people! Nowadays every one travels! Paris is not now further from us than Hamburg was some thirty years ago. When I was in Paris I found there sixteen or seventeen of my countrymen. O, how they kept together! Eleven of them dwelt in the same hôtel: they drank coffee together, walked out together, went to the restaurateur’s together, and took together half a bench in the theatre. That is the most foolish thing a person can do! I consider travelling useful for every one, from the prince to the travelling journeyman. But we allow too many people to travel! We are not rich, therefore restrictions should be made. The creative artist, the poet, the engineer, and the physician must travel; but God knows why theologians should go forth. They can become mad enough at home! They come into Catholic countries, and then there is an end of them! Wherefore should book-worms go forth? They shut themselves up in the diligence and in their chambers, rummage a little in the libraries, but not so much as a pinch of snuff do they do us any good when they return! Those who cost the most generally are of the least use, and bring the country the least honor! I, thank God! paid for my journey myself, and am therefore free to speak my opinion!”

We will now hear what Miss Sophie said, and therefore advance a few days.

“We keep you then with us till August!” said she, once when she was alone with Otto. “That is wise! You can spend some time with us in Funen, and gather strength for your journey. Yes, the journey will do you good!”

“I hope so!” answered Otto. “I am perhaps able to become as interesting as your cousin, as amiable!”

“That would be requiring too much from you!” said Sophie, bantering him. “You will never have his humor, his facility in catching up character. You will only preach against the depravity of the Parisians; you will only be able to appreciate the melancholy grandeur of Switzerland and the solitude of the Hungarian forests.”

“You would make a misanthrope of me, which I by no means am.”

“But you have an innate talent for this character!” answered Sophie. “Something will certainly be polished away by this journey, and it is on account of this change that I rejoice.”

“Must one, then, have a light, fickle mood to please you?” asked Otto.

“Yes, certainly!” answered Sophie, ironically.

“Then it is true what your cousin told me!” said Otto. “If one will be fortunate with the ladies, one must at least be somewhat frivolous, fond of pleasure, and fickle,—that makes one interesting. Yes, he has made himself acquainted with the world, he has experience in everything!”

“Yes, perfectly!” said Sophie, and laughed aloud.

Otto was silent, with contracted brow.

“I wish you sunshine!” said Sophie, and smiling raised her finger. Otto remained unchanged—he wrinkled his brow.

“You must change very much!” said she, half gravely; and danced out of the room.

Three weeks passed by, rich in great events in the kingdom of the heart; it was still a diplomatic secret: the eyes betrayed it by their pantomimic language, the mouth alone was silent, and it is after all the deciding power.

Otto visited the merchant’s family. Maren had departed just the day before. In vain had she awaited his visit throughout the three weeks.

“You quite forget your true friends!” said the ladies. “Believe us, Maja was a little angry with you, and yet we have messages. Now she is sailing over the salt sea.”

This was not precisely the case; she was already on land, and just at this moment was driving over the brown heath, thinking of Copenhagen and the pleasures there, and of the sorrow also—it is so sad to be forgotten by a friend of childhood! Otto was so handsome, so clever—she did not dream at all how handsome and clever she herself would appear at home. Beauty and cleverness they had discovered in her before she left; now she had been in the capital, and that gives relief.

The little birds fluttered round the carriage; perhaps they sang to her what should happen in two years: “Thou wilt be a bride, the secretary’s lovely little bride; thou shalt have both him and the musical-box! Thou wilt be the grandest lady in the town, and yet the most excellent mother. Thy first daughter shall be called Maja—that is a pretty name, and reminds thee of past days!”