The Land Of Thor Part 18

CHAPTER x.x.xVIII.

HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.

A few days after my arrival in Copenhagen I had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of Professor Andersen, of the Scandinavian Museum, a native Icelander, who very kindly showed me the chief objects of curiosity obtained from the Danish possessions in the North, consisting mostly of fish and geological specimens. The Minister of the Judiciary obligingly gave me a letter to the governor and princ.i.p.al amtmen of Iceland, and many other gentlemen of influence manifested the most friendly interest in my proposed undertaking. I was especially indebted to Captain Sodring, late owner of the _Fox_, of Arctic celebrity, for much valuable information respecting the Northern seas, as well as for his cordial hospitality and indefatigable efforts to make my sojourn in Copenhagen both agreeable and profitable. Indeed, I was delighted with the place and the people.

The Danes are exceedingly genial in their manners, distinguished alike for their simplicity and intelligence. There is no trouble to which they will not put themselves to oblige a stranger. In my rambles through the public libraries and museums I was always accompanied by some professor attached to the inst.i.tution, who took the greatest pains to explain every thing, and impress me with a favorable idea of the value of the collection. This was not a mere formal matter of duty; many of them spent hours and even days in the performance of their friendly labors, omitting nothing that might contribute to my enjoyment as a stranger. The visitor who can not spend his time agreeably in such society, surrounded by such inst.i.tutions as Thorwaldsen's Museum and the National Collection of Scandinavian Antiquities, must be difficult to please indeed. The Tivoli or the Dyrhave, an evening at Fredericksberg, or a trip to "Hamlet's Grave"

at Elsineur, would surely fill the measure of his contentment. Whether in the way of beautiful gardens, public amus.e.m.e.nts, charming excursions, or agreeable and intelligent society, I know of no European capital that can surpa.s.s Copenhagen. Our excellent minister, Mr. Wood, with whom I had the pleasure of spending an evening at Elsineur, speaks in the most complimentary terms of the Danes and their customs, and expresses some surprise, considering the general increase of European travel from our country, that so few American tourists visit Denmark.

I could not do myself the injustice to leave Copenhagen without forming the personal acquaintance of a man to whom a debt of grat.i.tude is due by the young and the old in all countries--the ramblers in fairy-land, the lovers of romance, and the friends of humanity--all who can feel the divine influence of genius, and learn, through the teachings of a kindly heart, that the inhabitants of earth are

"Kindred by one holy tie"--

the quaint, pathetic, genial Hans Christian Andersen. Not wishing to impose any obligation of courtesy on him by a letter of introduction or the obliging services of my Danish friends, I called at his house unattended, and merely sent in my name and address. Unfortunately he was out taking his morning walk, and would not be back till the afternoon. By calling at three o'clock, the servant said, I would be very likely to find him at home. I then added to my card the simple fact that I was an American traveler on my way to Iceland for the purpose of making some sketches of the country, and would take the liberty of calling at the appointed hour. It may be a matter of interest to an American reader to have some idea of the peculiar neighborhood and style of house in which a great Danish author has chosen to take up his abode. The city of Copenhagen, it should be borne in mind, is intersected by ca.n.a.ls which, during the summer months, are crowded with small trading vessels from Sweden and Jutland, and fishing-smacks from the neighboring islands and coast of Norway. The wharves bordering on these ca.n.a.ls present an exceedingly animated appearance. Peasants, sailors, traders, and fishermen, in every variety of costume, are gathered in groups, enjoying a social gossip, or interchanging their various products and wares, and strawberries from Amak and fish from the Skager-Rack mingle their odors. In the second story of a dingy and dilapidated house, fronting one of these unsavory ca.n.a.ls, a confused pile of dirty, shambling old tenements in the rear, and a curious medley of fish and fishermen, sloops and schooners, mud-scows and skiffs in front, lives the world-renowned author, Hans Christian Andersen. I say he lives there, but, properly speaking, he only lodges. It seems to be a peculiarity of his nature to move about from time to time into all the queer and uninviting places possible to be discovered within the limits of Copenhagen--not where

"The mantling vine Lays forth her grape and gently creeps Luxuriant,"

but where the roughest, noisiest, busiest, and fishiest of an amphibious population is to be found. Here it is, apparently amid the most incongruous elements, that he draws from all around him the most delicate traits of human nature, and matures for the great outer world the most exquisite creations of his fancy. It is purely a labor of love in which he spends his life. The products of his pen have furnished him with ample means to live in elegant style, surrounded by all the allurements of rank and fashion, but he prefers the obscurity of a plain lodging amid the haunts of those cla.s.ses whose lives and pursuits he so well portrays. Here he cordially receives all who call upon him, and they are not few. Pilgrims of every condition in life and from all nations do homage to his genius, yet, valuable as his time is, he finds enough to spare for the kindly reception of his visitors. His only household companions appear to be two old peasant women, whom he employs as domestics; weather-beaten and decrepit old creatures, with faces and forms very much like a pair of antiquated nut-crackers. He occupies only two or three rooms plainly furnished, and apparently lives in the simplest and most abstemious style.

When I called according to directions, one of the ancient nut-crackers merely pointed to the door, and said she thought Herr Andersen was in, but didn't know. I could knock there and try; so I knocked. Presently I heard a rapid step, and the door was thrown open. Before me stood the tall, thin, shambling, raw-boned figure of a man a little beyond the prime of life, but not yet old, with a pair of dancing gray eyes and a hatchet-face, all alive with twists, and wrinkles, and muscles; a long, lean face, upon which stood out prominently a great nose, diverted by a freak of nature a little to one side, and flanked by a tremendous pair of cheek-bones, with great hollows underneath.

Innumerable ridges and furrows swept semicircularly downward around the corners of a great mouth--a broad, deep, rugged fissure across the face, that might have been mistaken for the dreadful child-trap of an ogre but for the sunny beams of benevolence that lurked around the lips, and the genial humanity that glimmered from every nook and turn.

Neither mustache nor beard obscured the strong individuality of this remarkable face, which for the most part was of a dull granite color, a little mixed with limestone and spotted with patches of porphyry. A dented gutta-percha forehead, very prominent about the brows, and somewhat resembling in its general topography a raised map of Switzerland, sloped upward and backward to the top of the head; not a very large head, but wonderfully b.u.mped and battered by the operations of the brain, and partially covered by a mop of dark wavy hair, a little thin in front and somewhat grizzled behind; a long, bony pair of arms, with long hands on them; a long, lank body, with a long black coat on it; a long, loose pair of legs, with long boots on the feet, all in motion at the same time--all shining, and wriggling, and working with an indescribable vitality, a voice bubbling up from the vast depths below with cheery, spasmodic, and unintelligible words of welcome--this was the wonderful man that stood before me, the great Danish improvisator, the lover of little children, the gentle Caliban who dwells among fairies and holds sweet converse with fishes, and frogs, and beetles! I would have picked him out from among a thousand men at the first glance as a candidate for Congress, or the proprietor of a tavern, if I had met him any where in the United States. But the resemblance was only momentary. In the quaint awkwardness of his gestures and the simplicity of his speech there was a certain refinement not usually found among men of that cla.s.s.

Something in the spontaneous and almost childlike cordiality of his greeting; the unworldly impulsiveness of his nature, as he grasped both my hands in his, patted me affectionately on the shoulder, and bade me welcome, convinced me in a moment that this was no other, and could be no other, than Hans Christian Andersen.

"Come in! come in!" he said, in a gush of broken English; "come in and sit down. You are very welcome. Thank you--thank you very much. I am very glad to see you. It is a rare thing to meet a traveler all the way from California--quite a surprise. Sit down! Thank you!"

And then followed a variety of friendly compliments and remarks about the Americans. He liked them; he was sorry they were so unfortunate as to be engaged in a civil war, but hoped it would soon be over. Did I speak French? he asked, after a pause. Not very well. Or German? Still worse, was my answer. "What a pity!" he exclaimed; "it must trouble you to understand my English, I speak it so badly. It is only within a few years that I have learned to speak it at all." Of course I complimented him upon his English, which was really better than I had been led to expect. "Can you understand it?" he asked, looking earnestly in my face. "Certainly," I answered, "almost every word."

"Oh, thank you--thank you. You are very good," he cried, grasping me by the hand. "I am very much obliged to you for understanding me." I naturally thanked him for being obliged to me, and we shook hands cordially, and mutually thanked one another over again for being so amiable. The conversation, if such it could be called, flew from subject to subject with a rapidity that almost took my breath away.

The great improvisator dashed recklessly into every thing that he thought would be interesting to an American traveler, but with the difficulty of his utterance in English, and the absence of any knowledge on his part of my name or history, it was evident he was a little embarra.s.sed in what way to oblige me most; and the trouble on my side was, that I was too busy listening to find time for talking.

"Dear! dear! And you are going to Iceland!" he continued. "A long way from California! I would like to visit America, but it is very dangerous to travel by sea. A vessel was burned up not long since, and many of my friends were lost. It was a dreadful affair."

From this he diverged to a trip he then had in contemplation through Switzerland and Spain. He was sitting for his statuette, which he desired to leave as a memento to his friends prior to his departure. A young Danish sculptor was making it. Would I like to see it? and forthwith I was introduced to the young Danish sculptor. The likeness was very good, and my comments upon it elicited many additional thanks and several squeezes of the hand--it was so kind of me to be pleased with it! "He is a young student," said Andersen, approvingly; "a very good young man. I want to encourage him. He will be a great artist some day or other."

Talking of likenesses reminded me of a photograph which I had purchased a few days before, and to which I now asked the addition of an autograph.

[Ill.u.s.tration: [Signature: HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN]]

"Oh, you have a libel on me here!" cried the poet, laughing joyously--"a very bad likeness. Wait! I have several much better; here they are--" And he rushed into the next room, tumbled over a lot of papers, and ransacked a number of drawers till he found the desired package--"here's a dozen of them; take your choice; help yourself--as many as you please!" While looking over the collection, I said the likeness of one who had done so much to promote the happiness of some little friends I had at home would be valued beyond measure; that I knew at least half a dozen youngsters who were as well acquainted with the "Little Match Girl," and the "Ugly Duck," and the "Poor Idiot Boy," as he was himself, and his name was as familiar in California as it was in Denmark. At this he grasped both my hands, and looking straight in my face with a kind of ecstatic expression, said, "Oh, is it possible? Do they really read my books in California? so far away!

Oh! I thank you very much. Some of my stories, I am aware, have been published in New York, but I did not think they had found their way to the Pacific Coast. Dear me! Thank you! thank you! Have you seen my last--the--what do you call it in English?--a little animal--"

"Mouse," I suggested.

"No, not a mouse; a little animal with wings."

"Oh, a bat!"

"Nay, nay, a little animal with wings and many legs. Dear me! I forget the name in English, but you certainly know it in America--a very small animal!"

In vain I tried to make a selection from all the little animals of my acquaintance with wings and many legs. The case was getting both embarra.s.sing and vexatious. At length a light broke upon me.

"A musquito!" I exclaimed, triumphantly.

"Nay, nay!" cried the bothered poet; "a little animal with a hard skin on its back. Dear me, I can't remember the name!"

"Oh, I have it now," said I, really desirous of relieving his mind--"a flea!"

At this the great improvisator scratched his head, looked at the ceiling and then at the floor, after which he took several rapid strides up and down the room, and struck himself repeatedly on the forehead. Suddenly grasping up a pen, he exclaimed, somewhat energetically, "Here! I'll draw it for you;" and forthwith he drew on a sc.r.a.p of paper a diagram, of which the accompanying engraving is a fac-simile.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

"A tumble-bug!" I shouted, astonished at my former stupidity.

The poet looked puzzled and distressed. Evidently I had not yet succeeded. What could it be?

"A beetle!" I next ventured to suggest, rather disappointed at the result of my previous guess.

"A beetle! A beetle!--that's it; now I remember--a beetle!" and the delighted author of "The Beetle" patted me approvingly on the back, and chuckled gleefully at his own adroit method of explanation. "I'll give you 'The Beetle,'" he said; "you shall have the only copy in my possession. But you don't read Danish! What are we to do? There is a partial translation in French--a mere notice."

"No matter," I answered. "A specimen of the Danish language will be very acceptable, and the book will be a pleasant souvenir of my visit."

He then darted into the next room, tumbled over a dozen piles of books, then out again, ransacked the desks, and drawers, and heaps of old papers and rubbish, talking all the time in his joyous, cheery way about his books and his travels in Jutland, and his visit to Charles d.i.c.kens, and his intended journey through Spain, and his delight at meeting a traveler all the way from California, and whatever else came into his head--all in such mixed-up broken English that the meaning must have been utterly lost but for the wonderful expressiveness of his face and the striking oddity of his motions. It came to me mesmerically. He seemed like one who glowed all over with bright and happy thoughts, which permeated all around him with a new intelligence. His presence shed a light upon others like the rays that beamed from the eyes of "Little Sunshine." The book was found at last, and when he had written his name in it, with a friendly inscription, and pressed both my hands on the gift, and patted me once more on the shoulder, and promised to call at Frankfort on his return from Switzerland to see his little friends who knew all about the "Ugly Duck" and the "Little Match Girl," I took my leave, more delighted, if possible, with the author than I had ever before been with his books.

Such a man, the brightest, happiest, simplest, most genial of human beings, is Hans Christian Andersen.

The steamer _Arcturus_ was advertised to sail for Reykjavik on the 4th of June, so it behooved me to be laying in some sort of an outfit for the voyage during the few days that intervened. A knapsack, containing a change of linen and my sketching materials, was all I possessed.

This would have been sufficient but for the probability of rain and cold weather. I wanted a sailor's monkey-jacket and an overall. My friend Captain Sodring would not hear of my buying any thing in that way. He had enough on hand from his old whaling voyages, he said, to fit out a dozen men of my pattern. Just come up to the house and take a look at them, and if there wasn't too much oil on them, I was welcome to the whole lot; but the oil, he thought, would be an advantage--it would keep out the water. In vain I protested--it was no use--the captain was an old whaler, and so was I, and when two old whalers met, it was a pity if they couldn't act like shipmates on the voyage of life. There was no resisting this appeal, so I agreed to accept the old clothes. When we arrived at the captain's house he disappeared in the garret, but presently returned bearing a terrific pile of rubbish on his shoulders, and accompanied by a stout servant-girl also heavily laden with marine curiosities. There were sou'westers, and tarpaulins, and skull-caps; frieze jackets, and overalls, and hickory shirts; tarpaulin coats, and heavy sea-boots, and duck blouses with old bunches of oak.u.m sticking out of the pockets; there were coils of rope-yarn well tarred, and jack-knives in leather cases, still black with whale-gurry: and a few telescopes and log-gla.s.ses. "Take 'em all," said the captain. "They smell a little fishy, but no matter. It's all the better for a voyage to Iceland.

You'll be used to the smell before you get to Reykjavik; and it's wholesome--very wholesome! Nothing makes a man so fat." I made a small selection--a rough jacket and a few other essential articles.

"Nonsense, man!" roared the captain, "take 'em all! You'll find them useful; and if you don't, you can heave them overboard or give them to the sailors." And thus was I fitted out for the voyage.

CHAPTER x.x.xIX.

VOYAGE TO SCOTLAND.

The _Arcturus_ is a small screw steamer owned by Messrs. Koch and Henderson, and now some six years on the route between Copenhagen and Reykjavik. The Danish government pays them an annual sum for carrying the mails, and they control a considerable trade in fish and wool.

This vessel makes six trips every year, touching at a port in Scotland both on the outer and return voyage. At first she made Leith her stopping-place; but, owing to superior facilities for her business at Grangemouth, she now stops at that port. The cost of pa.s.sage is extremely moderate--only 45 Danish dollars, about $28 American, living on board 75 cents a day, and a small fee to the steward, making for the voyage out or back, which usually occupies about eleven days, inclusive of stoppages, something less than $40. I mention this for the benefit of my friends at home, who may think proper to make a very interesting trip at a very small expense; though, as will hereafter appear, the most considerable part of the expenditure occurs in Iceland. Captain Andersen (they are all Andersens, or Jonasens, or Hansens, or Petersens in Denmark), a very active and obliging little Dane, commands the _Arcturus_. He speaks English fluently, and is an experienced seaman; and if the tourist is not unusually fastidious about accommodations, there will be no difficulty in making an agreeable voyage. I found every thing on board excellent; the fare abundant and wholesome, and the sleeping-quarters not more like coffins than they usually are on board small steamers. A few inches cut off the pa.s.sengers' legs or added to the length of the berths, and a few extra handspikes in the lee scuppers to steady the vessel, would be an improvement; but then one can't have every thing to suit him.

Some grumbling took place, to be sure, after our departure from Scotland. A young Scotchman wanted a berth for a big dog in the same cabin with the rest of his friends, which the captain would not permit; an Englishman was disgusted with the "beastly fare;" and an old Danish merchant would persist in shaving himself at the public table every day--all of which caused an under-current of dissatisfaction during the early part of the voyage. Sea-sickness, however, put an end to it before long, and things went on all right after that.

But I must not antic.i.p.ate my narrative. The scene upon leaving the wharf at Copenhagen was amusing and characteristic. For some hours before our departure the decks were crowded with the friends of the pa.s.sengers. Every person had to kiss and hug every other person, and shake hands, and laugh and cry a little, and then hug and kiss again, without regard to age and not much distinction of s.e.x. Some natural tears, of course, must always be shed on occasions of this kind. It was rather a melancholy reflection, as I stood aloof looking on at all these demonstrations of affection, that there was n.o.body present to grieve over my departure--not even a lapdog to bestow upon me a parting kiss. Waving of handkerchiefs, messages to friends in Iceland, and parting benedictions, took place long before we left the wharf. At length the last bells were rung, the lingering loved ones were handed ash.o.r.e, and the inexorable voice of the captain was heard ordering the sailors to cast loose the ropes. We were fairly off for Iceland!

In a few hours we pa.s.sed, near Elsineur, the fine old Castle of Kronberg, built in the time of Tycho Brahe, once the prison of the unfortunate Caroline Matilda, queen of Christian VII., and in the great vaults of which it is said the Danish Roland, Holger Dansk, still lives, his long white beard grown fast to a stone table. We were soon out of the Sound, plowing our way toward the famous Skager-Rack.

The weather had been showery and threatening for some time. It now began to rain and blow in good earnest.

We had on board only thirteen pa.s.sengers, chiefly Danes and Icelanders. Among them was a newly-appointed amtman for the district of Reykjaness, with a very accomplished young wife. He was going to spend the honey-moon amid the glaciers and lava-fjelds of Iceland. It seemed a dreary prospect for so young and tender a bride, but she was cheerful and happy, except when the inevitable hour of sea-sickness came. Love, I suppose, can make the wilderness blossom as the rose, and shed a warmth over ice-covered mountains and a pleasant verdure over deserts of lava. A very agreeable and intelligent young man, Mr.

Jonasen, son of the governor, was also on board. I saw but little of him during the pa.s.sage--only his head over the side of his berth; but I heard from him frequently after the weather became rough. If there was any inside left in that young man by the time we arrived at Reykjavik, it must have been badly strained. As a son of Iona he completely reversed the scriptural order of things; for, instead of being swallowed by a great fish, and remaining in the belly thereof three days and nights, he swallowed numerous sprats and sardines himself, yet would never allow them internal accommodations for the s.p.a.ce of three minutes. My room-mate was a young Icelandic student, who had been to the college at Copenhagen, and was now returning to his native land to die. There was something very sad in his case. He had left home a few years before with the brightest prospects of success. Ambitious and talented, he had devoted himself with unwearied a.s.siduity to his studies, but the activity of his mind was too much for a naturally feeble const.i.tution. Consumption set its seal upon him. Given up by the physicians in Copenhagen, he was returning to breathe his last in the arms of a loving mother.