O. T., A Danish Romance. Ганс Христиан Андерсен
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was a prudent old creature; Luther himself need not have been 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; “to pray to a being; whom the Bible does not make a saint!—that is rather too much. And their tricks with burning of incense and ringing of bells! Yes, indeed, it would give me no little pleasure to cut off the heads of the Pope and of the whole clerical body! To purchase indulgence!—Those must, indeed, be curious people who can place thorough faith in such things! I will never once take off my hat 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: but wherefore should we not respect the mother of Christ? With regard to the ceremonials of Catholicism, indulgence, and all these additions of the priesthood, I agree with you in wishing to strike off the heads of all who, in such a manner, degrade God and the human understanding. But in many respects we are unjust: we so easily forget the first and greatest commandment, ‘Love thy neighbor as thyself!’ We are not tolerant. Among our festivals we have still one for the Three Kings—it is yet celebrated by the common people; but what have these three kings done? They knelt before the manger in which Christ lay, and on this account we honor them. On the contrary, the mother of God has no festival-day; nay, the multitude even smile at her name! If you will only quietly listen to my simple argument, we shall soon agree. You will take off your hat and bow before the Madonna. Only two things are to be considered—either Christ was entirely human, or He was, as the Bible teaches us, a divine being. I will now admit the latter. He is God Himself, who in some inexplicable manner, is born to us of the Virgin Mary. She must therefore be the purest, the most perfect feminine being, since God found her worthy to bring into the world the Son, the only one; through this she becomes as holy as any human being can, and low we must bow ourselves before the pure, the exalted one. Take it for granted that Christ was human, like ourselves, otherwise He cannot, according to my belief, call upon us to imitate Him; neither would it be great, as God, to meet a corporeal death, from which He could remove each pain. Were He only a man, born of Mary, we must doubly admire Him; we must bow in the dust before His mighty spirit, His enlightening and consoling doctrine. But can we then forget how much the mother has must have influenced the child, how sublime and profound the soul must have been which spoke to His heart? We must reverence and honor her! Everywhere in the Scriptures where she appears we see an example of care and love; with her whole soul she adheres to her Son. Think how uneasy she became, and sought for Him in the temple—think of her gentle reproaches! The words of the Son always sounded harsh in my ears. ‘Those are the powerful expressions of the East!’ said my old preacher. The Saviour was severe, severe as He must be! Already there seemed to me severity in His words! She was completely the mother; 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 upon the shoulder he added, with a smile, “you are, according to the Roman Catholic manner, near exalting the mother above the Son! Old Rosalie 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 the ears of the friends. They stepped into the adjoining room and opened the window. Three poor boys stood below in the wind and rain, and commenced the song. The tallest was, perhaps, fourteen or fifteen years old, his deep, rough voice seemed to have attained its strength and depth more through rain and bad weather than through age. The dirty wet clothes hung in rags about his body; the shoes upon the wet feet, and the hat held together with white threads, were articles of luxury. The other two boys had neither hat nor shoes, but their clothes were whole and clean. The youngest appeared six or seven years old; his silvery white hair formed a contrast with his brown face, his dark eyes and long brown eyelashes. His voice sounded like the voice of a little girl, as fine and soft, beside the voices of the others, as the breeze of an autumnal evening beside that of rude November weather.
“That is a handsome boy!” exclaimed the two friends at the same time.
“And a lovely melody!” added Otto.
“Yes, but they sing falsely!” answered Wilhelm: “one sings half a tone too low, the other half a tone too high!”
“Now, thank God that I cannot hear that!” said Otto. “It sounds sweetly, and the little one might become a singer. Poor child!” added he gravely: “bare feet, wet to the very skin; and then the elder one will certainly lead him to brandy drinking! Within a month, perhaps, the voice will be gone! Then is the nightingale dead!” He quickly threw down some skillings, wrapped in paper.
“Come up!” cried Wilhelm, and beckoned. The eldest of the boys flew up like an arrow; Wilhelm, however, said it was the youngest who was meant. The others remained standing before the door; the youngest stepped in.
“Whose son art thou?” asked Wilhelm. The boy was silent, and cast down 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—the deuce! here is a pair of boots which are too small for me; if thou dost not get drowned in them they shall be thy property: but now thou must sing.” And he seated himself at the piano-forte and struck the keys. “Now, where art thou?” he cried, rather displeased. The little one gazed upon the ground.
“How! dost thou weep; or is it the rain which hangs in thy black eyelashes?” said Otto, and raised his head: “we only wish to do thee a kindness. There—thou hast another skilling from me.”
The little one still remained somewhat laconic. All that they learned was that he was named Jonas, and that his grandmother thought so much of him.
“Here thou hast the stockings!” said Wilhelm; “and see here! a coat with a velvet collar, a much-to-be-prized keepsake! The boots! Thou canst certainly stick both legs into one boot! See! that is as good as having two pairs to change about with! Let us see!”
The boy’s eyes sparkled with joy; the boots he drew on, the stockings went into his pocket, and the bundle he took under his arm.
“But thou must sing us a little song!” said Wilhelm, and the little one commenced the old song out of the “Woman-hater,” “Cupid never can 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 been painted, and had the painter called the picture “Cupid on his Wanderings,” every one would have found the little god strikingly excellent, although he were not blind.
“Something might be made of the boy and of his voice!” said Wilhelm, when little Jonas, in a joyous mood, had left the house with the other lads.
“The poor child!” sighed Otto. “I have fairly lost my good spirits through all this. It seizes upon me so strangely when I see misery and genius mated. Once there came to our estate in Jutland a man who played the Pandean-pipes, and at the same time beat the drum and cymbals: near him stood a little girl, and struck the triangle. I was forced to weep over this spectacle; without understanding how it was, I felt the misery of the poor child. I was myself yet a mere boy.”
“He looked so comic in the big boots that I became quite merry, and not grave,” said Wilhelm. “Nevertheless what a pity it is that such gentle blood, which at the first glance one perceives he is, that such a pretty child should become a rude fellow, and his beautiful voice change into a howl, like that with which the other tall Laban saluted us. Who knows whether little Jonas might not become the first singer on the Danish stage? Yes, if he received education of mind and voice, who knows? I could really have, pleasure in attempting it, and help every one on in the world, before I myself am rightly in the way!”
“If he is born to a beggar’s estate,”