"Who looks into the shadowy realm of my heart?" A. V. CHAMISSO.
In the former chapter we heard mention made of a young student,Otto Thostrup, a clever fellow, with nine prae caeteris, as hiscomrades said, but also of a proud spirit, of which he must bebroken. Not at the disputations, which have been already mentioned,will we make his acquaintance, although there we must be filledwith respect for the good Latin scholar; not in large companies,where his handsome exterior and his speaking, melancholy glancemust make him interesting; as little in the pit of the Operaalthough his few yet striking observations there would show him tobe a very intellectual young man; but we will seek him out for thefirst time at the house of his friend, the young Baron Wilhelm. Itis the beginning of November: we find them both with their pipes intheir mouths; upon the table lie Tibullus and Anacreon, which theyare reading together for the approaching philologicum.
In the room stands a piano-forte, with a number of music-books;upon the walls hang the portraits of Weyse and Beethoven, for ouryoung Baron is musical, nay a composer himself.
"See, here we have again this lovely, clinging mist!" said Wilhelm."Out of doors one can fairly taste it; at home it would be a realplague to me, here it only Londonizes the city."
"I like it!" said Otto. "To me it is like an old acquaintance fromVestervovov. It is as though the mist brought me greetings from thesea and sand-hills."
"I should like to see the North Sea, but the devil might livethere! What town lies nearest to your grandfather's estate?"
"Lernvig," answered Otto. "If any one wish to see the North Seaproperly, they ought to go up as far as Thisted and Hj鰎ring. Ihave travelled there, have visited the family in B鰎glum-Kloster;and, besides this, have made other small journeys. Never shall Iforget one evening; yes, it was a storm of which people in theinterior of the country can form no conception. I rode--I was thena mere boy, and a very wild lad--with one of our men. When thestorm commenced we found ourselves among the sand-hills. Ah!that you should have seen! The sand forms along the strand highbanks, which serve as dikes against the sea; these are overgrownwith sea-grass, but, if the storm bursts a single hole, the wholeis carried away. This spectacle we chanced to witness. It is a trueArabian sand-storm, and the North Sea bellowed so that it might beheard at the distance of many miles. The salt foam flew togetherwith the sand into our faces."
"That must have been splendid!" exclaimed Wilhelm, and his eyessparkled. "Jutland is certainly the most romantic part of Denmark.Since I read Steen-Blicher's novels I have felt a real interest forthat country. It seems to me that it must greatly resemble theLowlands of Scotland. And gypsies are also found there, are theynot?"
"Vagabonds, we call them," said Otto, with an involuntary motion ofthe mouth. "They correspond to the name!"
"The fishermen, also, on the coast are not much better! Do theystill from the pulpit pray for wrecks? Do they still slayshipwrecked mariners?"
"I have heard our preacher, who is an old man, relate how, in thefirst years after he had obtained his office and dignity, he wasobliged to pray in the church that, if ships stranded, they mightstrand in his district; but this I have never heard myself. Butwith regard to what is related of murdering, why, the fishermen--sea-geese, as they are called--are by no means a tender-heartedpeople; but it is not as bad as that in our days. A peasant died inthe neighborhood, of whom it was certainly related that in badweather he had bound a lantern under his horse's belly and let itwander up and down the beach, so that the strange mariner who wassailing in those seas might imagine it some cruising ship, and thusfancy himself still a considerable way from land. By this meansmany a ship is said to have been destroyed. But observe, these arestories out of the district of Thisted, and of an elder age, beforemy power of observation had developed itself; this was that goldenage when in tumble-down fishers' huts, after one of these goodshipwrecks, valuable shawls, but little damaged by the sea, mightbe found employed as bed-hangings. Boots and shoes were smearedwith the finest pomatum. If such things now reach their hands, theyknow better how to turn them into money. The Strand-commissionersare now on the watch; now it is said to be a real age of copper."
"Have you seen a vessel stranded?" inquired Wilhelm, withincreasing interest.
"Our estate lies only half a mile from the sea. Every year aboutthis time, when the mist spreads itself out as it does to-day andthe storms begin to rage, then was it most animated. In my wildspirits, when I was a boy, and especially in the midst of ourmonotonous life, I truly yearned after it. Once, upon a journey toB鰎glum-Kloster, I experienced a storm. In the early morning; itwas quite calm, but gray, and we witnessed a kind of Fata Morgana.A ship, which had not yet risen above the horizon, showed itself inthe distance, but the rigging was turned upside down; the mastswere below, the hull above. This is called the ship of death, andwhen it is seen people are sure of bad weather and shipwreck.Later, about midday, it began to blow, and in an hour's time we hada regular tempest. The sea growled quite charmingly; we travelledon between sand-hills--they resemble hills and dales in wintertime, but here it is not snow which melts away; here never growsa single green blade; a black stake stands up here and there, andthese are rudders from wrecks, the histories of which are unknown.In the afternoon arose a storm such as I had experienced whenriding with the man between the sand-hills. We could not proceedfarther, and were obliged on this account to seek shelter in one ofthe huts which the fishermen hail erected among the white sand-hills.There we remained, and I saw the stranding of a vessel: I shall neverforget it! An American ship lay not a musket-shot from land. They cutthe mast; six or seven men clung fast to it in the waters. O, howthey rocked backward and forward in the dashing spray! The mast tooka direction toward the shore; at length only three men were leftclinging to the mast; it was dashed upon land, but the returningwaves again bore it away; it had crushed the arms and legs of theclinging wretches--ground them like worms! I dreamed of this formany nights. The waves flung the hull of the vessel up high on theshore, and drove it into the sand, where it was afterward found.Later, as we retraced our steps, were the stem and sternpost gone:you saw two strong wooden walls, between which the road took itscourse. You even still travel through the wreck!"
"Up in your country every poetical mind must become a Byron," saidWilhelm. "On my parents' estate we have only idyls; the whole ofFunen is a garden. We mutually visit each other upon our differentestates, where we lead most merry lives, dance with the peasant-girlsat the brewing-feast, hunt in the woods, and fish in the lakes. Theonly melancholy object which presents itself with us is a funeral,and the only romantic characters we possess are a little hump-backedmusician, a wise woman, and an honest schoolmaster, who still firmlybelieves, as Jeronimus did, that the earth is flat, and that, were itto turn round, we should fall, the devil knows where!"
"I love nature in Jutland!" exclaimed Otto. "The open sea, thebrown heath, and the bushy moorland. You should see the wild moorin Vendsyssel--that is an extent! Almost always wet mists floatover its unapproachable interior, which is known to no one. It isnot yet fifty years since it served as an abode for wolves. Oftenit bursts into flames, for it is impregnated with sulphuric gas,--one can see the fire for miles."
"My sister Sophie ought to hear all this!" said Wilhelm. "You wouldmake your fortune with her! The dear girl! she has the best head athome, but she loves effect. Hoffman and Victor Hugo are herfavorites. Byron rests every night under her pillow. If you relatedsuch things of the west coast of Jutland, and of heaths and moors,you might persuade her to make a journey thither. One really wouldnot believe that we possessed in our own country such romanticsituations!"
"Is she your only sister?" inquired Otto.
"No," returned Wilhelm, "I have two--the other is named Louise; sheis of quite an opposite character: I do not know of which one oughtto think most. Have you no brothers or sisters?" he asked of Otto.
"No!" returned the latter, with his former involuntary, half-melancholyexpression. "I am an only child. In my house it is solitary and silent.My grandfather alone is left alive. He is an active, strong man, butvery grave. He instructed me in mathematics, which he thoroughlyunderstands. The preacher taught me Latin, Greek, and history: twopersons, however, occupied themselves with my religious education--the preacher and my old Rosalie. She is a good soul. How often haveI teased her, been petulant, and almost angry with her! She thoughtso much of me, she was both mother and sister to me, and instructedme in religion as well as the preacher, although she is a Catholic.Since my father's childhood she has been a sort of governante in thehouse. You should have seen her melancholy smile when she heard mygeography lesson, and we read of her dear Switzerland, where she wasborn, and of the south of France, where she had travelled as a child.The west coast of Jutland may also appear very barren in comparisonwith these countries!"
"She might have made you a Catholic! But surely nothing of thisstill clings to you?"
"Rosalie was a prudent old creature; Luther himself need not havebeen ashamed of her doctrine. Whatever is holy to the heart of man,remains also holy in every religion!"
"But then, to erect altars to the Madonna!" exclaimed Wilhelm; "topray to a being; whom the Bible does not make a saint!--that israther too much. And their tricks with burning of incense andringing of bells! Yes, indeed, it would give me no little pleasureto cut off the heads of the Pope and of the whole clerical body! Topurchase indulgence!--Those must, indeed, be curious people who canplace thorough faith in such things! I will never once take off myhat before the Madonna!"
"But that will I do, and in my heart bow myself before her!"answered Otto, gravely.
"Did I not think so? she has made you a Catholic!"
"No such thing! I am as good a Protestant as you yourself: butwherefore should we not respect the mother of Christ? With regardto the ceremonials of Catholicism, indulgence, and all theseadditions of the priesthood, I agree with you in wishing to strikeoff the heads of all who, in such a manner, degrade God and thehuman understanding. But in many respects we are unjust: we soeasily forget the first and greatest commandment, 'Love thyneighbor as thyself!' We are not tolerant. Among our festivals wehave still one for the Three Kings--it is yet celebrated by thecommon people; but what have these three kings done? They kneltbefore the manger in which Christ lay, and on this account we honorthem. On the contrary, the mother of God has no festival-day; nay,the multitude even smile at her name! If you will only quietlylisten to my simple argument, we shall soon agree. You will takeoff your hat and bow before the Madonna. Only two things are to beconsidered--either Christ was entirely human, or He was, as theBible teaches us, a divine being. I will now admit the latter. Heis God Himself, who in some inexplicable manner, is born to us ofthe Virgin Mary. She must therefore be the purest, the most perfectfeminine being, since God found her worthy to bring into the worldthe Son, the only one; through this she becomes as holy as anyhuman being can, and low we must bow ourselves before the pure, theexalted one. Take it for granted that Christ was human, likeourselves, otherwise He cannot, according to my belief, call uponus to imitate Him; neither would it be great, as God, to meet acorporeal death, from which He could remove each pain. Were He onlya man, born of Mary, we must doubly admire Him; we must bow in thedust before His mighty spirit, His enlightening and consolingdoctrine. But can we then forget how much the mother has must haveinfluenced the child, how sublime and profound the soul must havebeen which spoke to His heart? We must reverence and honor her!Everywhere in the Scriptures where she appears we see an example ofcare and love; with her whole soul she adheres to her Son. Thinkhow uneasy she became, and sought for Him in the temple--think ofher gentle reproaches! The words of the Son always sounded harsh inmy ears. 'Those are the powerful expressions of the East!' said myold preacher. The Saviour was severe, severe as He must be! Alreadythere seemed to me severity in His words! She was completely themother; she was it then, even as when she wept at Golgotha.Honor and reverence she deserves from us!"
"These she also receives!" returned Wilhelm; and striking him uponthe shoulder he added, with a smile, "you are, according to theRoman Catholic manner, near exalting the mother above the Son! OldRosalie has made a proselyte; after all, you are half a Catholic!"
"That am I not!" answered Otto, "and that will I not be!"
"See! the thunder-cloud advances!"resounded below in the court: the sweet Neapolitan song reached theears of the friends. They stepped into the adjoining room andopened the window. Three poor boys stood below in the wind andrain, and commenced the song. The tallest was, perhaps, fourteen orfifteen years old, his deep, rough voice seemed to have attainedits strength and depth more through rain and bad weather thanthrough age. The dirty wet clothes hung in rags about his body; theshoes upon the wet feet, and the hat held together with whitethreads, were articles of luxury. The other two boys had neitherhat nor shoes, but their clothes were whole and clean. The youngestappeared six or seven years old; his silvery white hair formed acontrast with his brown face, his dark eyes and long browneyelashes. His voice sounded like the voice of a little girl, asfine and soft, beside the voices of the others, as the breeze of anautumnal evening beside that of rude November weather.
"That is a handsome boy!" exclaimed the two friends at the sametime.
"And a lovely melody!" added Otto.
"Yes, but they sing falsely!" answered Wilhelm: "one sings half atone too low, the other half a tone too high!"
"Now, thank God that I cannot hear that!" said Otto. "It soundssweetly, and the little one might become a singer. Poor child!"added he gravely: "bare feet, wet to the very skin; and then theelder one will certainly lead him to brandy drinking! Within amonth, perhaps, the voice will be gone! Then is the nightingaledead!" He quickly threw down some skillings, wrapped in paper.
"Come up!" cried Wilhelm, and beckoned. The eldest of the boys flewup like an arrow; Wilhelm, however, said it was the youngest whowas meant. The others remained standing before the door; theyoungest stepped in.
"Whose son art thou?" asked Wilhelm. The boy was silent, and castdown his eyes in an embarrassed manner. "Now, don't be bashful!Thou art of a good family--that one can see from thy appearance!Art not thou thy mother's son? I will give thee stockings and--thedeuce! here is a pair of boots which are too small for me; if thoudost not get drowned in them they shall be thy property: but nowthou must sing." And he seated himself at the piano-forte andstruck the keys. "Now, where art thou?" he cried, ratherdispleased. The little one gazed upon the ground.
"How! dost thou weep; or is it the rain which hangs in thy blackeyelashes?" said Otto, and raised his head: "we only wish to dothee a kindness. There--thou hast another skilling from me."
The little one still remained somewhat laconic. All that theylearned was that he was named Jonas, and that his grandmotherthought so much of him.
"Here thou hast the stockings!" said Wilhelm; "and see here! a coatwith a velvet collar, a much-to-be-prized keepsake! The boots! Thoucanst certainly stick both legs into one boot! See! that is as goodas having two pairs to change about with! Let us see!"
The boy's eyes sparkled with joy; the boots he drew on, thestockings went into his pocket, and the bundle he took under hisarm.
"But thou must sing us a little song!" said Wilhelm, and the littleone commenced the old song out of the "Woman-hater," "Cupid nevercan be trusted!"
The lively expression in the dark eyes, the boy himself in his wet,wretched clothes and big boots, with the bundle under his arm; nay,the whole had something so characteristic in it, that had it beenpainted, and had the painter called the picture "Cupid on hisWanderings," every one would have found the little god strikinglyexcellent, although he were not blind.
"Something might be made of the boy and of his voice!" saidWilhelm, when little Jonas, in a joyous mood, had left the housewith the other lads.
"The poor child!" sighed Otto. "I have fairly lost my good spiritsthrough all this. It seizes upon me so strangely when I see miseryand genius mated. Once there came to our estate in Jutland a manwho played the Pandean-pipes, and at the same time beat the drumand cymbals: near him stood a little girl, and struck the triangle.I was forced to weep over this spectacle; without understanding howit was, I felt the misery of the poor child. I was myself yet amere boy."
"He looked so comic in the big boots that I became quite merry, andnot grave," said Wilhelm. "Nevertheless what a pity it is that suchgentle blood, which at the first glance one perceives he is, thatsuch a pretty child should become a rude fellow, and his beautifulvoice change into a howl, like that with which the other tall Labansaluted us. Who knows whether little Jonas might not become thefirst singer on the Danish stage? Yes, if he received education ofmind and voice, who knows? I could really have, pleasure inattempting it, and help every one on in the world, before I myselfam rightly in the way!"
"If he is born to a beggar's estate," said Otto, "let him as beggarlive and die, and learn nothing higher. That is better, that ismore to be desired!"
Wilhelm seated himself at the piano-forte, and played some of hisown compositions. "That is difficult," said he; "every one cannotplay that."
"The simpler the sweeter!" replied Otto.
"You must not speak about music!" returned the friend "upon thatyou know not how to pass judgment. Light Italian operas are notdifficult to write."
In the evening the friends separated. Whilst Otto took his hat,there was a low knock at the door. Wilhelm opened it. Without stooda poor old woman, with pale sharp features; by the hand she led alittle boy--it was Jonas: thus then it was a visit from him and hisgrandmother.
The other boys had sold the boots and shoes which had been givenhim. They ought to have a share, they maintained. This atrociousinjustice had induced the old grandmother to go immediately withlittle Jonas to the two good gentlemen, and relate how little thepoor lad had received of flint which they had assigned to himalone.
Wilhelm spoke of the boy's sweet voice, and thought that by mightmake his fortune at the theatre; but then he ought not now to beleft running about with bare feet in the wind and rain.
"But by this means he brings a skilling home," said the old woman."That's what his father and mother look to, and the skilling theycan always employ. Nevertheless she had herself already thought ofbringing him out at the theatre,--but that was to have been indancing, for they got shoes and stockings to dance in, and withthese they might also run home; and that would be an advantage."
"I will teach the boy music!" said Wilhelm; "he can come to mesometimes."
"And then he will, perhaps, get a little cast-off clothing, goodsir," said the grandmother; "a shirt, or a waistcoat, just as ithappens?"
"Become a tailor, or shoemaker," said Otto, gravely, and laid hishand upon the boy's head.
"He shall be a genius!" said Wilhelm.