O. T., A Danish Romance. Ганс Христиан Андерсен
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dishes for you, and of these you shall eat.” This was all said in such a good-humored tone that even a stranger could not have felt himself offended. The Kammerjunker was in the fields looking after his flax; he would soon be back. Squire Wilhelm could in the mean time conduct Mr. Thostrup about the premises: “he would otherwise have nothing to do,” said she.
No one must remain in the sitting-room; it was so gloomy there! The walls were still, as in by-gone days, covered with black leather, upon which were impressed gold flowers. No, they should go to the hall—that had been modernized since the Baroness was last there. The old chimney-piece with carved ornaments was removed, and a pretty porcelain stove had taken its place. The walls were covered with new paper from Paris. You could there contemplate all the public buildings of that city,—Notre Dame, Saint Sulpice, and the Tuileries. Long red curtains, thrown over gilt rods, hung above the high windows. All this splendor was admired.
“I prefer the antique sitting-room, after all,” said Sophie; “the old chimney-piece and the leather hangings. One fairly lives again in the days of chivalry!”
“Yes, you have always been a little foolish!” said Jakoba, but softened her words by a smile and a pressure of the hand. “No, the hall is more lively. Ah!” she suddenly exclaimed; “Tine has placed her work-box in the window! That is disorder!”
“O, is that the celebrated work-box, with its many fool’s tricks?” inquired Wilhelm, as he laughingly took it up.
“There are neither fools nor tricks in the box,” said Jakoba. “But only look in the mirror in the lid, and then you will perhaps see one of the two.”
“No rude speeches, my young lady!” said Wilhelm; “I am an academical burgher!”
The Kammerjunker now entered, attired in the same riding dress in which we made his acquaintance. He had visited his hay and oats, had seen after the people who were working at the fences, and had been also in the plantation. It had been a warm forenoon.
“Now, Miss Sophie,” said he, “do you see how I am clearing out the court? It costs me above five hundred dollars; and still they are the peasants of the estate who clear away the mud. But I shall get a delicate manure-heap, so fit and rich that it’s quite a pleasure. But, Jakoba, where is the coffee?”
“Only let it come in through the door,” said Jakoba, somewhat angrily. “You certainly ate something before you went from home. Let me attend to the affairs of the ladies, and do thou attend to the gentlemen, so that they may not stand and get weary.”
The Kammerjunker conducted the friends up the winding stone stairs into the old tower.
“All solid and good!” said he. “We no longer build in this manner. The loop-holes here, close under the roof, were walled up already in my father’s time. But only notice this timber!”
The whole loft appeared a gigantic skeleton composed of beams, one crossing the other. On either side of the loft was a small vaulted chamber, with a brick fire-place. Probably these chambers had been used as guard-rooms; a kind of warder’s walk led from these, between the beam-palisade and the broad wall.
“Yes, here,” said the Kammerjunker, “they could have had a good lookout toward the enemy. Look through my telescope. You have here the whole country from Vissenberg to Munkebobanke, the Belt, and the heights of Svendborg. Only see! The air is clear. We see both Langeland and Zealand. Here one could, in 1807, have well observed the English fleet.”
The three climbed up the narrow ladder and came past the great clock, the leaden weights of which, had they fallen, would have dashed through the stone steps, and soon the gentlemen sat on the highest point. The Kammerjunker requested the telescope, placed it and exclaimed:—
“Did I not think so? If one has not them always under one’s eyes they begin playing pranks! Yes, I see it very well! There, now, the fellows who are working at the fences have begun to romp with the girls! they do nothing! Yes, they don’t believe that I am sitting here in the tower and looking at them!”
“Then a telescope is, after all, a dangerous weapon!” exclaimed Wilhelm. “You can look at people when they least expect it. Fortunately, our seat lies hidden behind the wood: we are, at all events, safe.”
“Yes, that it is, my friend,” returned the other; “the outer sides of the garden are still bare. Did I not, last autumn, see Miss Sophie quite distinctly, when she was gathering service-berries in her little basket? And then, what tricks did she not play? She certainly did not think that I sat here and watched tier pretty gambols!”
They quitted the tower, and passed through the so-called Knight’s Hall, where immense beams, laid one on the other, supported the roof. At either end of the hall was a huge fireplace, with armorial bearings painted above: the hall was now used as a granary; they were obliged to step over a heap of corn before reaching the family pew in the little chapel, which was no longer used for divine service.
“This might become a pretty little room,” said the Kammerjunker, “but we have enough, and therefore we let this, for curiosity’s sake, remain in its old state. The moon is worth its money!” and he pointed toward the vaulted ceiling, where the moon was represented as a white disk, in which the painter, with much naïveté, had introduced a man bearing a load of coals upon his back; in faithful representation of the popular belief regarding the black spot in the moon, which supposes this to be a man whom the Lord has sent up there because he stole his neighbor’s coal. “That great picture on the right, there,” pursued he, “is Mrs. Ellen Marsviin; I purchased it at an auction. One of the peasants put up for it; I asked him what he would do with this big piece of furniture—he could never get it in through his door. But do you know what a speculation he had? It was not such a bad one, after all. See! the rain runs so beautifully off the painted canvas, he would have a pair of breeches made out of it, to wear in rainy weather behind the plough; they would keep the rain off! I thought, however, I ought to prevent the portrait of the highly honorable Mrs. Ellen Marsviin being so profaned. I bought it: now she hangs there, and looks tolerably well pleased. The peasant got a knight instead—perhaps one of my own ancestors, who was now cut up into breeches. See, that is what one gets by being painted!”
“But the cupboard in the pillar there?” inquired Otto.
“There, certainly, were Bibles and Prayer-books kept. Now I have in it what I call sweetmeats for the Chancery-counselor Thomsen: old knives of sacrifice, coins and rings, which I have found in the horse-pond and up yonder in the cairns: not a quarter of a yard below the turf we found one pot upon another; round each a little inclosure of stones—a flat stone as covering, and underneath stood the pot, with burnt giants’ bones, and a little button or the blade of a knife. The best things are already gone away to Copenhagen, and should the Counselor come, he will, God help me! carry away the rest. That may be, then, willingly, for I cannot use the stuff, after all.”
After coffee, the guests wandered through the old garden: the clearing away of the mud was more closely observed, the dairy and pig-sty visited, the new threshing-machine inspected. But now the Russian bath should be also essayed; “it was heated!” But the end of the affair was, that only the Kammerjunker himself made use of it. The dinner-table was prepared, and then he returned. “But here something is wanting!” exclaimed he; left the room, and returned immediately with two large bouquets, which he stuck into an ale-glass which he placed upon the table. “Where Miss Sophie dines, the table must be ornamented with flowers: certainly we cannot lay garlands, as you do!” He seated himself at the end of the table, and wished, as he himself said, to represent the President Lars: they had had the “Wandsbecker Boten” half a year in the house, and it would certainly please Miss Sophie if they betrayed some acquaintance with books. This Lars and the flowers, here, meant quite as much as in the south a serenade under the windows of the fair one.
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