The True Story of My Life Part 10

In the spring of 1844 I had finished a dramatic tale, "The Flower of Fortune." The idea of this was, that it is not the immortal name of the artist, nor the splendor of a crown which can make man happy; but that happiness is to be found where people, satisfied with little, love and are loved again. The scene was perfectly Danish, an idyllian, sunbright life, in whose clear heaven two dark pictures are reflected as in a dream; the unfortunate Danish poet Ewald and Prince Buris, who is tragically sung of in our heroic ballads. I wished to show, in honor of our times, the middle ages to have been dark and miserable, as they were, but which many poets only represent to us in a beautiful light.

Professor Heiberg, who was appointed censor, declared himself against the reception of my piece. During the last years I had met with nothing but hostility from this party; I regarded it as personal ill-will, and this was to me still more painful than the rejection of the pieces. It was painful for me to be placed in a constrained position with regard to a poet whom I respected, and towards whom, according to my own conviction, I had done everything in order to obtain a friendly relationship. A further attempt, however, must be made. I wrote to Heiberg, expressed myself candidly, and, as I thought, cordially, and entreated him to give me explicitly the reasons for his rejection of the piece and for his ill-will towards me. He immediately paid me a visit, which I, not being at home when he called, returned on the following day, and I was received in the most friendly manner. The visit and the conversation belong certainly to the extraordinary, but they occasioned an explanation, and I hope led to a better understanding for the future.

He clearly set before me his views in the rejection of my piece. Seen from his point of sight they were unquestionably correct; but they were not mine, and thus we could not agree. He declared decidedly that he cherished no spite against me, and that he acknowledged my talent. I mentioned his various attacks upon me, for example, in the Intelligence, and that he had denied to me original invention: I imagined, however, that I had shown this in my novels; "But of these," said I, "you have read none; you, yourself have told me so."

"Yes, that is the truth," replied he; "I have not yet read them, but I will do so."

"Since then," continued I, "you have turned me and my Bazaar to ridicule in your poem called Denmark, and spoken about my fanaticism for the beautiful Dardanelles; and yet I have, precisely in that book, described the Dardanelles as not beautiful; it is the Bosphorus which I thought beautiful; you seem not to be aware of that; perhaps you have not read The Bazaar either?"

"Was it the Bosphorus?" said he, with his own peculiar smile; "yes, I had quite forgotten that, and, you see, people do not remember it either; the object in this case was only to give you a stab."

This confession sounded so natural, so like him, that I was obliged to smile. I looked into his clever eyes, thought how many beautiful things he had written, and I could not be angry with him. The conversation became more lively, more free, and he said many kind things to me; for example, he esteemed my stories very highly, and entreated me frequently to visit him. I have become more and more acquainted with his poetical temperament, and I fancy that he too will understand mine. We are very dissimilar, but we both strive after the same object. Before we separated he conducted me to his little observatory; now his dearest world. He seems now to live for poetry and now for philosophy, andufor which I fancy he is least of all calculated--for astronomy. I could almost sigh and sing,

Thou wast erewhile the star at which them gazest now!

My dramatic story came at length on the stage, and in the course of the season was performed seven times.

As people grow older, however much they may be tossed about in the world, some one place must be the true home; even the bird of pa.s.sage has one fixed spot to which it hastens; mine was and is the house of my friend Collin. Treated as a son, almost grown up with the children, I have become a member of the family; a more heartfelt connection, a better home have I never known: a link broke in this chain, and precisely in the hour of bereavement, did I feel how firmly I have been engrafted here, so that I was regarded as one of the children.

If I were to give the picture of the mistress of a family who wholly loses her own individual _I_ in her husband and children, I must name the wife of Collin; with the sympathy of a mother, she also followed me in sorrow and in gladness. In the latter years of her life she became very deaf, and besides this she had the misfortune of being nearly blind. An operation was performed on her sight, which succeeded so well, that in the course of the winter she was able to read a letter, and this was a cause of grateful joy to her. She longed in an extraordinary manner for the first green of spring, and this she saw in her little garden.

I parted from her one Sunday evening in health and joy; in the night I was awoke; a servant brought me a letter. Collin wrote, "My wife is very ill; the children are all a.s.sembled here!" I understood it, and hastened thither. She slept quietly and without pain; it was the sleep of the just; it was death which was approaching so kindly and calmly. On the third day she yet lay in that peaceful slumber: then her countenance grew pale--and she was dead!

Thou didst but close thine eyes to gather in The large amount of all thy spiritual bliss; We saw thy slumbers like a little child's.

O death! thou art all brightness and not shadow.

Never had I imagined that the departure from this world could be so painless, so blessed. A devotion arose in my soul; a conviction of G.o.d and eternity, which this moment elevated to an epoch in my life. It was the first death-bed at which I had been present since my childhood.

Children, and children's children were a.s.sembled. In such moments all is holy around us. Her soul was love; she went to love and to G.o.d!

At the end of July, the monument of King Frederick VI. was to be uncovered at Skanderburg, in the middle of Jutland. I had, by solicitation, written the cantata for the festival, to which Hartmann had furnished the music, and this was to be sung by Danish students. I had been invited to the festival, which thus was to form the object of my summer excursion.

Skanderburg lies in one of the most beautiful districts of Denmark.

Agreeable hills rise covered with vast beech-woods, and a large inland lake of a pleasing form extends among them. On the outside of the city, close by the church, which is built upon the ruins of an old castle, now stands the monument, a work of Thorwaldsen's. The most beautiful moment to me at this festival was in the evening, after the unveiling of the monument; torches were lighted around it, and threw their unsteady flame over the lake; within the woods blazed thousands of lights, and music for the dance resounded from the tents. Round about upon the hills, between the woods, and high above them, bonfires were lighted at one and the same moment, which burned in the night like red stars. There was spread over lake and land a pure, a summer fragrance which is peculiar to the north, in its beautiful summer nights. The shadows of those who pa.s.sed between the monument and the church, glided gigantically along its red walls, as if they were spirits who were taking part in the festival.

I returned home. In this year my novel of the Improvisatore was translated into English, by the well-known auth.o.r.ess, Mary Howitt, and was received by her countrymen with great applause. O. T. and the Fiddler soon followed, and met with, as it seemed, the same reception.

After that appeared a Dutch, and lastly a Russian translation of the Improvisatore. That which should never have ventured to have dreamed of was accomplished; my writings seem to come forth under a lucky star; they fly over all lands. There is something elevating, but at the same time, a something terrific in seeing one's thoughts spread so far, and among so many people; it is indeed, almost a fearful thing to belong to so many. The n.o.ble and the good in us becomes a blessing; but the bad, one's errors, shoot forth also, and involuntarily the thought forces itself from us: G.o.d! let me never write down a word of which I shall not be able to give an account to thee. A peculiar feeling, a mixture of joy and anxiety, fills my heart every time my good genius conveys my fictions to a foreign people.

Travelling operates like an invigorating bath to the mind; like a Medea-draft which always makes young again. I feel once more an impulse for it--not in order to seek up material, as a critic fancied and said, in speaking of my Bazaar; there exists a treasury of material in my own inner self, and this life is too short to mature this young existence; but there needs refreshment of spirit in order to convey it vigorously and maturely to paper, and travelling is to me, as I have said, this invigorating bath, from which I return as it were younger and stronger.

By prudent economy, and the proceeds of my writings, I was in a condition to undertake several journeys during the last year. That which for me is the most sunbright, is the one in which these pages were written. Esteem, perhaps over-estimation, but especially kindness, in short, happiness and pleasure have flowed towards me in abundant measure.

I wished to visit Italy for the third time, there to spend a summer, that I might become acquainted with the south in its warm season, and probably return thence by Spain and France. At the end of October, 1845, I left Copenhagen. Formerly I had thought when I set out on a journey, G.o.d! what wilt thou permit to happen to me on this journey! This time my thoughts were, G.o.d, what will happen to my friends at home during this long time! And I felt a real anxiety. In one year the hea.r.s.e may drive up to the door many times, and whose name may shine upon the coffin! The proverb says, when one suddenly feels a cold shudder, "now death pa.s.ses over my grave." The shudder is still colder when the thoughts pa.s.s over the graves of our best friends.

I spent a few days at Count Moltke's, at Glorup; strolling players were acting some of my dramatic works at one of the nearest provincial towns.

I did not see them; country life firmly withheld me. There is something in the late autumn poetically beautiful; when the leaf is fallen from the tree, and the sun shines still upon the green gra.s.s, and the bird twitters, one may often fancy that it is a spring-day; thus certainly also has the old man moments in his autumn in which his heart dreams of spring.

I pa.s.sed only one day in Odense--I feel myself there more of a stranger than in the great cities of Germany. As a child I was solitary, and had therefore no youthful friend; most of the families whom I knew have died out; a new generation pa.s.ses along the streets; and the streets even are altered. The later buried have concealed the miserable graves of my parents. Everything is changed. I took one of my childhood's rambles to the Marian-heights which had belonged to the Iversen family; but this family is dispersed; unknown faces looked out from the windows. How many youthful thoughts have been here exchanged!

One of the young girls who at that time sat quietly there with beaming eyes and listened to my first poem, when I came here in the summer time as a scholar from Slagelse, sits now far quieter in noisy Copenhagen, and has thence sent out her first writings into the world. Her German publisher thought that some introductory words from me might be useful to them, and I, the stranger, but the almost too kindly received, have introduced the works of this clever girl into Germany.

It is Henriette Hanck of whom I speak, the auth.o.r.ess of "Aunt Anna,"

and "An Author's Daughter." [Footnote: Since these pages were written, I have received from home the news of her death, in July, 1846. She was an affectionate daughter to her parents, and was, besides this, possessed of a deeply poetical mind. In her I have lost a true friend from the years of childhood, one who had felt an interest and a sisterly regard for me, both in my good and my evil days.] I visited her birth-place when the first little circle paid me homage and gave me joy. But all was strange there, I myself a stranger.

The ducal family of Augustenburg was now at Castle Gravenstein; they were informed of my arrival, and all the favor and the kindness which was shown to me on the former occasion at Augustenburg, was here renewed in rich abundance. I remained here fourteen days, and it was as if these were an announcement of all the happiness which should meet me when I arrived in Germany. The country around here is of the most picturesque description; vast woods, cultivated uplands in perpetual variety, with the winding sh.o.r.e of the bay and the many quiet inland lakes. Even the floating mists of autumn lent to the landscape a some what picturesque, something strange to the islander. Everything here is on a larger scale than on the island. Beautiful was it without, glorious was it within. I wrote here a new little story. The Girl with the Brimstone-matches; the only thing which I wrote upon this journey. Receiving the invitation to come often to Gravenstein and Augustenburg, I left, with a grateful heart, a place where I had spent such beautiful and such happy days.

Now, no longer the traveller goes at a snail's pace through the deep sand over the heath; the railroad conveys him in a few hours to Altona and Hamburg. The circle of my friends there is increased within the last years. The greater part of my time I spent with my oldest friends Count Hoik, and the resident Minister Bille, and with Zeise, the excellent translator of my stories. Otto Speckter, who is full of genius, surprised me by his bold, glorious drawings for my stories; he had made a whole collection of them, six only of which were known to me. The same natural freshness which shows itself in every one of his works, and makes them all little works of art, exhibits itself in his whole character. He appears to possess a patriarchal family, an affectionate old father, and gifted sisters, who love him with their whole souls. I wished one evening to go to the theatre; it was scarcely a quarter of an hour before the commencement of the opera: Speckter accompanied me, and on our way we came up to an elegant house.

"We must first go in here, dear friend," said he; "a wealthy family lives here, friends of mine, and friends of your stories; the children will be happy."

"But the opera," said I.

"Only for two minutes," returned he; and drew me into the house, mentioned my name, and the circle of children collected around me.

"And now tell us a tale," said he; "only one."

I told one, and then hastened away to the theatre.

"That was an extraordinary visit," said I.

"An excellent one; one entirely out of the common way; one entirely out of the common way!" said he exultingly; "only think; the children are full of Andersen and his stories; he suddenly makes his appearance amongst them, tells one of them himself, and then is gone! vanished!

That is of itself like a fairy-tale to the children, that will remain vividly in their remembrance."

I myself was amused by it.

In Oldenburg my own little room, home-like and comfortable, was awaiting me. Hofrath von Eisendecker and his well-informed lady, whom, among all my foreign friends I may consider as my most sympathizing, expected me. I had promised to remain with them a fortnight, but I stayed much longer. A house where the best and the most intellectual people of a city meet, is an agreeable place of residence, and such a one had I here. A deal of social intercourse prevailed in the little city, and the theatre, in which certainly either opera or ballet was given, is one of the most excellent in Germany. The ability of Gall, the director, is sufficiently known, and unquestionably the nominationof the poet Mosen has a great and good influence. I have to thank him for enabling me to see one of the cla.s.sic pieces of Germany, "Nathan the Wise," the princ.i.p.al part in which was played by Kaiser, who is as remarkable for his deeply studied and excellent tragic acting, as for his readings.

Moses, who somewhat resembles Alexander Dumas, with his half African countenance, and brown sparkling eyes, although he was suffering in body, was full of life and soul, and we soon understood one another. A trait of his little son affected me. He had listened to me with great devotion, as I read one of my stories; and when on the last day I was there, I took leave, the mother said that he must give me his hand, adding, that probably a long time must pa.s.s before he would see me again, the boy burst into tears. In the evening, when Mosen came into the theatre, he said to me, "My little Erick has two tin soldiers; one of them he has given me for you, that you may take him with you on your journey."

The tin soldier has faithfully accompanied me; he is a Turk: probably some day he may relate his travels.

Mosen wrote in the dedication of his "John of Austria," the following lines to me:--

Once a little bird flew over From the north sea's dreary strand; Singing, flew unto me over, Singing M rchen through the land.

Farewell! yet again bring hither Thy warm heart and song together.

Here I again met with Mayer, who has described Naples and the Neapolitans so charmingly. My little stories interested him so much that he had written a little treaties on them for Germany, Kapellmeister Pott, and my countryman Jerndorff, belong to my earlier friends. I made every day new acquaintance, because all houses were open to me through the family with whom I was staying. Even the Grand Duke was so generous as to have me invited to a concert at the palace the day after my arrival, and later I had the honor of being asked to dinner. I received in this foreign court, especially, many unlooked-for favors. At the Eisendeckers and at the house of the parents of my friend Beaulieu--the Privy-Counsellor Beaulieu, at Oldenburg, I heard several times my little stones read in German.

I can read Danish very well, as it ought to be read, and I can give to it perfectly the expression which ought to be given in reading; there is in the Danish language a power which cannot be transfused into a translation; the Danish language is peculiarly excellent for this species of fiction. The stories have a something strange to me in German; it is difficult for me in reading it to put my Danish soul into it; my p.r.o.nunciation of the German also is feeble, and with particular words I must, as it were, use an effort to bring them out--and yet people everywhere in Germany have had great interest in hearing me read them aloud. I can very well believe that the foreign p.r.o.nunciation in the reading of these tales may be easily permitted, because this foreign manner approaches, in this instance, to the childlike; it gives a natural coloring to the reading. I saw everywhere that the most distinguished men and women of the most highly cultivated minds, listened to me with interest; people entreated me to read, and I did so willingly. I read for the first time my stories in a foreign tongue, and at a foreign court, before the Grand Duke of Oldenburg and a little select circle.

The winter soon came on; the meadows which lay under water, and which formed large lakes around the city, were already covered with thick ice; the skaters flew over it, and I yet remained in Oldenburg among my hospitable friends. Days and evenings slid rapidly away; Christmas approached, and this season I wished to spend in Berlin. But what are distances in our days?--the steam-carriage goes from Hanover to Berlin in one day! I must away from the beloved ones, from children and old people, who were near, as it were, to my heart.

I was astonished in the highest degree on taking leave of the Grand Duke, to receive from him, as a mark of his favor and as a keepsake, a valuable ring. I shall always preserve it, like every other remembrance of this country, where I have found and where I possess true friends.

When I was in Berlin on the former occasion, I was invited, as the author of the Improvisatore, to the Italian Society, into which only those who have visited Italy can be admitted. Here I saw Rauch for the first time, who with his white hair and his powerful, manly figure, is not unlike Thorwaldsen. n.o.body introduced me to him, and I did not venture to present myself, and therefore walked alone about his studio, like the other strangers. Afterwards I became personally acquainted with him at the house of the Prussian Amba.s.sador, in Copenhagen; I now hastened to him.

He was in the highest degree captivated by my little stories, pressed me to his breast, and expressed the highest praise, but which was honestly meant. Such a momentary estimation or over-estimation from a man of genius erases many a dark shadow from the mind. I received from Rauch my first welcome in Berlin: he told me what a large circle of friends I had in the capital of Prussia. I must acknowledge that it was so. They were of the n.o.blest in mind as well as the first in rank, in art, and in science. Alexander von Humboldt, Prince Radziwil, Savigny, and many others never to be forgotten.

I had already, on the former occasion, visited the brothers Grimm, but I had not at that time made much progress with the acquaintance. I had not brought any letters of introduction to them with me, because people had told me, and I myself believed it, that if I were known by any body in Berlin, it must be the brothers Grimm. I therefore sought out their residence. The servant-maid asked me with which of the brothers I wished to speak.