"These poetical letters are so similar to those of Baggesen, thatwe could be almost tempted to consider the news of his death asfalse, although so well affirmed that we must acknowledge it."--Monthly Journal of Literature.
"She is as slender as the poplar-willow, as fleet as the hasteningwaters. A Mayflower odorous and sweet."--H. P. HOLST.
"Ah, where is the rose?"--Lulu, by GUNTELBURG.
The evening before Otto was to travel with the merchant's family toRoeskelde he called upon the family where Miss Sophie was staying.Her dear mamma had left three days before. Wilhelm had wished toaccompany him to Roeskelde, but the mother did not desire it.
"We have had a pleasure to-day," said Sophie, "a pleasure fromwhich we shall long have enjoyment. Have you seen the new book, the'Letters of a Wandering Ghost?' It is Baggesen himself in his mostperfect beauty, a music which I never believed could have beengiven in words. This is a poet! He has made July days in the poetryof Denmark. Natural thoughts are so strikingly, and yet so simplyexpressed; one has the idea that one could write such verses one'sself, they fall so lightly."
"They are like prose," said the lady, "and yet the most beautifullyperfect verse I know. You must read the book, Mr. Thostrup!"
"Perhaps you will read to us this evening?" said Sophie. "I shouldvery much like to hear it again."
"In a second reading one shall enter better into the individualbeauties," said the lady of the house.
"I will remain and listen," said the host.
"This must be a masterpiece!" exclaimed Otto,"--a true masterpiece,since all are so delighted with it."
"It is Baggesen himself; and truly as he must sing in that worldwhere everything mortal is ennobled."
"'Meadows all fragrance, the strongholds of pleasure, Heaven blue streamlets,That speed through the green woods in musical measure,'"
began Otto, and the spiritual battle-piece with beauty and tonedeveloped itself more and more; they found themselves in themidst of the winter camp of the Muses, where the poet with
..."lyre on his shoulder and sword at his side,Hastened to fight with the foes of the Muses."
Otto's gloomy look won during the perusal a more animatedexpression. "Excellent!" exclaimed he; "this is what I myself havethought and felt, but, alas! have been unable to express."
"I am a strange girl," said Sophie; "whenever I read a new poet ofdistinguished talent, I consider that he is the greatest. It was sowith Byron and Victor Hugo. 'Cain' overwhelmed me, 'Notre Dame'carried me away with it. Once I could imagine no greater poet thanWalter Scott, and yet I forget him over Oehlenschl鋑er; yes, Iremember a time when Heiberg's vaudevilles took almost the firstplace among my chosen favorites. Thus I know myself and mychangeable disposition, and yet I firmly believe that I shall makean exception with this work. Other poets showed me the objects ofthe outer world, this one shows me my own mind: my own thoughts, myown being he presents before me, and therefore I shall always takethe same interest in the Ghost's Letters."
"They are true food for the mind," said Otto; "they are as words inseason; there must be movement in the lake, otherwise it willbecome a bog."
"The author is severe toward those whom he has introduced," saidthe lady; "but he carries, so to say, a sweet knife. A wound from asharp sword-blade is not so painful as that from a rusty, notchedknife."
"But who may the author be?" said Sophie.
"May we never learn!" replied Otto. "Uncertainty gives the booksomething piquant. In such a small country as ours it is good forthe author to be unknown. Here we almost tread upon each other, andlook into each other's garments. Here the personal conditions ofthe author have much to do with success; and then there are thenewspapers, where either friend or enemy has an assistant, whereasthe being anonymous gives it the patent of nobility. It is wellnever to know an author. What does his person matter to us, if hisbook is only good?
"'Crush and confound the rabble dissoluteThat desecrate thy poet's grave?'"
read Otto, and the musical poem was at an end. All were enchantedwith it. Otto alone made some small objections: "The Muses ought notto come with 'trumpets and drums,' and so many expressions similarto 'give a blow on the chaps,' etc., ought not to appear."
"But if the poet will attack what is coarse," said Sophie, "he mustcall things by their proper names. He presents us with a specimenof the prosaic filth, but in a soap-bubble. We may see it, but notseize upon it. I consider that you are wrong!"
"The conception of idea and form," said Otto, "does not seem to besufficiently presented to one; both dissolve into one. Even prose is aform."
"But the form itself is the most important," said the lady of thehouse; "with poetry as with sculpture, it is the form which givesthe meaning."
"No, pardon me!" said Otto; "poetry is like the tree which Godallows to grow. The inward power expresses itself in the form; bothare equally important, but I consider the internal as the mostholy. This is here the poet's thought. The opinion which heexpresses affects us as much as the beautiful dress in which he haspresented it."
Now commenced a contest upon form and material, such as wasafterward maintained throughout the whole of Copenhagen.
"I shall always admire the 'Letters of a Wandering Ghost,'" saidSophie,--"always rave about these poems. To-night I shall dream ofnothing but this work of art."
How little men can do that which they desire, did this very momentteach.
When we regard the fixed star through a telescope and loseourselves in contemplation, a little hair can conceal the mightybody, a grain of dust lead us from these sublime thoughts. A lettercame for Miss Sophie; a traveller brought it from her mother: shewas already in Funen, and announced her safe arrival.
"And the news?" said the hostess.
"Mamma has hired a new maid, or, rather, she has taken to be withher an amiable young girl--the pretty Eva in Roeskelde. Mr.Thostrup and Wilhelm related to us this summer several things abouther which make her interesting. We saw her on our journey hither,when mamma was prepossessed by her well-bred appearance. Upon herreturn, the young girl has quite won her heart. It really were apity if such a pretty, respectable girl remained in a public-house.She is very pretty; is she not, Mr. Thostrup?"
"Very pretty!" answered Otto, becoming crimson, for Sophie saidthis with an emphasis which was not without meaning.
The following day, at an early hour, Otto found himself at themerchant's.
Spite of the changeable weather of our climate, all the ladies werein their best dresses. Three persons must sit upon each seat. HansPeter and the lover had their place beside the coachman. It was along time before the cold meat, the provision for several days, waspacked up, and the whole company were seated. At length, when theyhad got out of the city, Christiane recollected that they hadforgotten the umbrellas, and that, after all, it would be good tohave them. The coachman must go back for them, and meantime thecarriage drew up before the Column of Liberty. The poor sentinelmust now become an object of Miss Grethe's interest. Several timesthe soldier glanced down upon his regimentals. He was aKr鋒winkler, who had an eye to his own advantage. A man who rodepast upon a load of straw occupied a high position. That was veryinteresting.
Otto endeavored to give the conversation another direction. "Havenot you seen the new poem which has just appeared, the 'Letters ofa Wandering Ghost?'" asked he, and sketched out their beauty andtendency.
"Doubtless, very heavy blows are dealt!" said Mr. Berger, "the manmust be witty--Baggesen to the very letter."
"The 'Copenhagen Post' is called the pump!" said Hans Peter.
"That is superb!" cried Grethe. "Who does it attack besides?"
"Folks in Soroe, and this 'Holy Andersen,' as they call him."
"Does he get something?" said Laide. "That I will grant him for hismilk and water. He was so impolite toward the ladies!"
"I like them to quarrel in this way!" said the merchant's lady."Heiberg will doubtless get his share also, and then he will replyin something merry."
"Yes," said Mr. Berger, "he always knows how to twist things insuch a manner that one must laugh, and then it is all one to uswhether he is right or not."
"This book is entirely for Heiberg," said Otto. "The author isanonymous, and a clever man."
"Good Heavens! you are not the author, Mr. Thostrup?" cried Julle,and looked at him with a penetrating gaze. "You can manage suchthings so secretly! You think so highly of Heiberg: I remember wellall the beautiful things you said of his 'Walter the Potter' andhis 'Psyche.'"
Otto assured her that he could not confess to this honor.
They reached Roeskelde in the forenoon, but Eva did not receivethem. The excursion to Lethraborg was arranged; toward evening theyshould again return to the inn, and then Eva would certainlyappear.
The company walked in the garden at Lethraborg: the prospect fromthe terrace was beautiful; they looked through the windows of thecastle, and at length came to the conclusion that it would be bestto go in.
"There are such beautiful paintings, people say!" remarked thelover.
"We must see them," cried all the ladies.
"Do you often visit the picture-gallery of the Christiansborg?"inquired Otto.
"I cannot say that we do!" returned Mrs. Berger. "You well knowthat what is near one seldom sees, unless one makes a downrightearnest attempt, and that we have not yet done. Besides, not manypeople go up: that wandering about the great halls is so wearying."
"There are splendid pieces by Ruysdal!" said Otto.
"Salvator Rosa's glorious 'Jonas" is well worth looking at!"
"Yes, we really must go at once, whilst our little Maja is here. Itdoes not cost more than the Exhibition, and we were there threetimes last year. The view from the castle windows toward the canal,as well as toward the ramparts, is so beautiful, they say."
The company now viewed the interior of Lethraborg, and thenwandered through the garden and in the wood. The trees had theirautumnal coloring, but the whole presented a variety of tints farricher than one finds in summer. The dark fir-trees, the yellowbeeches and oaks, whose outermost branches had sent forth lightgreen shoots, presented a most picturesque effect, and formed asplendid foreground to the view over old Leire, the royal city, nowa small village, and across the bay to the splendid cathedral.
"That resembles a scene in a theatre!" cried Mrs. Berger, andimmediately the company were deep in dramatic affairs.
"Such a decoration they should have in the royal theatre!" saidHans Peter.
"Yes, they should have many such!" said Grethe. "They should havesome other pieces than those they have. I know not how it is withour poets; they have no inventive power. Relate the droll ideawhich thou hadst the other day for a new piece!" said she to herlover, and stroked his cheeks.
"O," said he, and affected a kind of indifference, "that was onlyan idea such as one has very often. But it might become a very nicepiece. When the curtain is drawn up, one should see close upon thelamps the gable-ends of two houses. The steep roofs must go down tothe stage, so that it is only half a yard wide, and this is torepresent a watercourse between the two houses. In each garret apoor but interesting family should dwell, and these should stepforth into the watercourse, and there the whole piece should beplayed."
"But what should then happen?" asked Otto.
"Yes," said the lover, "I have not thought about that; but see,there is the idea! I am no poet, and have too much to do at thecounting-house, otherwise one might write a little piece."
"Heavens! Heiberg ought to have the idea!" said Grethe.
"No, then it would be a vaudeville," said the lover, "and I cannotbear them."
"O, it might be made charming!" cried Grethe. "I see the wholepiece! how they clamber about the roofs! The idea is original, thousweet friend!"
By evening the family were again in Roeskelde.
The merchant sought for Eva. Otto inquired after her, so did HansPeter also, and all three received the same answer.
"She is no longer here."