“Yes, let us wait a little while, Ib,” replied Christina, and pressed his hand; then he kissed her on the mouth. “I trust you, Ib,” she said. “And I think that I love you! But I would like to have time to think about it.”
They parted and Ib told the bargeman that he and Christina were as good as engaged. Christina’s father was pleased and not surprised. Although he spent the night at Ib’s home, they did not talk any more about it.
A year went by. Two letters had passed between Ib and Christina, and both of them had been signed: “Yours unto death.” Then one day the bargeman arrived; he had greetings from Christina. That was easy enough to say. What followed was more difficult and he took his time saying it. Everything went well for Christina; more than well, but then she was a good girl. The innkeeper’s son had been home on a visit, he had a good job in an office in Copenhagen. He had taken a liking to Christina and she to him. His parents were not against them marrying, but Christina felt that she had given Ib her word; and therefore she was going to say no. “Even though such a marriage would be fortunate for a poor girl like herself,” concluded the bargeman.
At first, Ib did not say a word, but his face turned as white as a newly washed sheet. He shook his head and then mumbled, “I would not wish Christina to say no to good fortune for my sake.”
“Write her a few words about it,” urged the bargeman.
Ib wrote, but every time he had written a sentence he crossed it out again. All the words seemed wrong to him. Many pages he tore up, but by morning the letter to little Christina was finished. Here it is:
I have read the letter that you wrote to your father. In it you say that everything goes well for you and that you have an opportunity for bettering yourself. Ask your own heart, Christina! If you want to marry me, then remember that I am poor. Do not consider me or my feelings, but only yourself. You are not bound to me; should you feel that you have given me your “promise,” then I release you from it. May all the happiness in the world be yours, Christina. God may console my heart.
Ever your devoted friend,
Ib
The letter was sent and Christina received it.
A few months later, the banns were read in the little church on the heath and in the big church in Copenhagen. The bridegroom was too busy with his affairs to be able to travel to Jutland. Christina journeyed with her future mother-in-law to the capital, where the young people were to live. Christina had arranged to meet her father in the little village of Funder, which was on the main highway to the south; there they said good-by to each other.
Every once in a while someone would speak about Christina when Ib was present; but Ib himself never mentioned her. He had become so silent, so pensive. He often thought about the nuts that the gypsy woman had given them. Now Christina had got her carriage and all the dresses she could wish for, over across the water in the king’s city, Copenhagen. The “wishing nuts” had proven themselves. His nut had been filled with black earth, and the gypsy had said that that was best for him. Now he understood what she had meant: the dark grave was best for him.
Years went by; not many, but to Ib they seemed long. The old innkeeper and his wife died and their son inherited their wealth: several thousand silver crowns. Now certainly Christina could have her golden carriage and even more dresses than she ever could wear.
Then two years passed during which not even the bargeman received any letters from Christina. Finally one came; it was not a happy one. Poor Christina, neither she nor her husband had been able to handle the sudden richness; it had not been a blessing, for they had not earned it themselves.
The heather bloomed and withered; and many a snowstorm swept across the heath and up over the ridge that protected Ib’s little farmhouse. Spring came and Ib was plowing his meager fields. Suddenly he felt the plow shake as if it had hit a stone. Something black, shaped like a wood shaving, stuck up from the earth. Ib picked it up; it was metal and, where the plowshare had cut into it, it shone. It was a heavy arm ring of gold from heathen times.
The Viking grave had long ago been leveled. Now its treasure had been found. Ib showed it to the minister, who admired it and told him to take it to the district commissioner.
The official sent a report to Copenhagen and advised Ib to deliver the golden arm ring to the museum himself. “You have found in the earth the finest treasure, the best that could be found,” he said.
“The best!” thought Ib. “The best for me, and found in the earth. The gypsy woman was right, my wishing nut, too, has proven true.”
Ib sailed from Aarhus to the capital; and since he had never sailed before except with the bargeman up and down the river Gudenaa, it felt like an ocean journey.
In Copenhagen he received the gold value of the arm ring: six hundred silver crowns! Now Ib—who knew so well the forest and the heath—took a walk along the endless streets, lined with stone buildings, of the city.
The evening before he was to sail back, he lost his way, when he was out walking, and ended in one of the poorest quarters of the city, called Christian’s Harbor. It was late and the street was deserted. He noticed a little child coming out of one of the most dilapidated of the houses, and he asked her for directions. The little girl looked up at him; she was crying, and said nothing. He asked her what was the matter; and she answered, but he could not understand her.
They were standing under a street lamp. Ib looked down at the child; the light was shining in her face. How strange! He saw with wonder that she looked exactly as Christina had, when she was a child.
He followed the little girl into a miserable house and up the worn, rickety stairs to the garret. They entered a little room right under the roof. The air was foul and it was dark. Ib struck a match. Over in a corner stood a bed; in it lay a woman: the little girl’s mother.
“Can I help you?” asked Ib. “This little girl found me down in the street but I am a stranger to the city, myself. Can I call the neighbors?” He stepped closer to the bed and looked down at the woman: it was Christina!
At home, he had not heard her name mentioned in years, because everyone knew that Ib did not like to be reminded of her. Besides, all the rumors had been unpleasant. It was said that the inherited money had made her husband lose his common sense. He had given up his good position and they had traveled in foreign countries. When they returned, they had lived high and got into debt, rather than curtail the luxuriousness of their way of life. It was the old story of the cart going down the hill so fast that it finally overturned. The many merry friends who had dined at their table when wealth decked it now felt no pity. They said he deserved his fate, he had acted like a madman. One morning the body of Christina’s husband had been found in a canal near the harbor.
Christina had been pregnant then; her child conceived in wealth was born in poverty. The baby had only lived a few weeks. Now Christina lay ill to death in a garret room more naked and bare than the one she had known as a child on the heath. And now, when she had known luxury, she could not bear her poverty, her wretchedness. The little girl, who had brought Ib to her, was her daughter, her older and only living child. Her name, too, was Christina.
“I am afraid that I am dying,” she mumbled. “What will happen to my child? Where in the world can she find a home?”
Ib lit another match and found a stump of candle; its little flame lighted up the dismal chamber.
Ib looked at the little girl and was again reminded of Christina as she had looked as a child. For her sake he would take the little girl, bring her up, and be kind to her. The dying woman looked up at him; the pupils of her eyes grew larger and larger. Did she recognize him? Ib never knew, for she never spoke again.
We are back in the forest near the River of the Gods as it is called, not far from the heath. It is fall, the western storms have started. The wind is blowing the leaves off the trees. In the bargeman’s hut strangers are living. Inside the little farmhouse, so snugly protected from the wind by the ridge, the stove is burning. It
is as warm and comfortable as if it were summer; sunshine is here, the kind that shines from a child’s eyes. Though it is October, the lark still sings in the little girl’s laughter. Here lives gaiety and winter is far away. Little Christina is sitting on Ib’s knee; he is both father and mother to her. Her real parents have disappeared, as dreams do to a grownup. The little farmhouse is cozy and neat. The girl’s mother sleeps in the churchyard for the poor in Copenhagen.
They say that Ib has a tidy sum put away, gold from the earth; he is rich and he has his little Christina.
76
Clod Hans
An old tale retold
Far out in the country there was an ancient manor house. The squire who lived in it had two sons. Both of them were so clever that they could answer more questions than anyone would care to ask them. They decided to propose to the princess; this they dared do because the princess had officially proclaimed that she would marry the man in her kingdom who spoke most wittily.
They had only a week to prepare themselves, but that was enough, for they were well educated and that is an advantage. One of them knew by heart the Latin dictionary and the town newspaper for the last three years, and that backward as well as forward. The other one had memorized all the guild laws and regulations, even the ones that most guild masters had never heard about. He felt that this enabled him to discourse on politics; besides that, he could embroider suspenders, for he was artistic.
“I will win the princess!” said both of them.
Their father gave them each a horse; the son who knew the dictionary and the newspapers by heart was given a black one; the embroiderer and expert on guild laws, one as white as milk. Now they greased their jaws with cod liver oil in order to be able to speak even faster than usually; and then they were ready to depart. All the servants were lined up to wave good-by. Just as the two brothers were mounting their horses, their younger brother came running out of the house. I haven’t mentioned him before because no one thought anything of him, and he wasn’t really considered part of the family. He was not a scholar like the other two, and that is why they called him Clod Hans.
“You are all dressed up, where are you going?” shouted Clod Hans.
“To the king’s castle, to win the princess by our wit. Haven’t you heard what the drums have announced and the herald proclaimed?” one of them asked; and the other brother told Hans of the princess’ decision to marry the man who could speak most wittily.
“Goodness me! I am going too!” declared Clod Hans while his brothers laughed and rode off.
“Father, let me have a horse!” he shouted. “I have just decided to get married. If she takes me, well and good. If she doesn’t, then I will take her.”
“Nonsense!” said the father. “I will not give you a horse; you can’t speak well; you have no wit. You’re not even presentable!”
“Well, if I can’t have a horse,” laughed Clod Hans, “then I will take the billy goat; that is mine and I can ride it.” Up he jumped on the billy goat, dug his heels into its sides, and away he rode. The goat ran as fast as it could and Clod Hans sang and shouted as loud as he could: “Here am I, here am I!”
His two brothers did not say a word to each other. They were too busy getting witty ideas. They rode so sedately you might think they were attending a funeral.
“Hello! Hello!” shouted Hans as soon as he caught up with them. “Here am I! And look what I found in the middle of the road!” He held up a dead crow for them to look at.
“Clod!” they said. “And what are you going to do with that?”
“Give it to the princess!”
“You do just that!” they laughed, and rode on a little bit faster, for they didn’t want to be seen in company with their brother.
“Hello, hello, here I am again. Look what I have found! It is not every day that one stumbles across such a treasure!”
The two brothers turned around in their saddles to see what their little brother had now. “Clod!” they said. “It is only an old wooden shoe and broken at that. Are you going to give that to the princess too?”
“I certainly will!” declared Hans, while his brothers laughed and spurred their horses.
“Hello, hello! Here am I!” screamed Clod Hans a little while later. “It is too marvelous, just look!”
“What have you found now?” asked the brothers.
“Oh!” sighed Hans. “Can you imagine how pleased the princess will be?”
“Ugh!” exclaimed his brothers. “Why, it is only mud from a ditch.”
“Yes, that is exactly what it is,” agreed Hans, “but of the very best quality, the kind that slips right through your fingers. I have filled my pockets with it.”
This time the brothers did not laugh, they just rode as fast as they could and arrived at the city gate a whole hour before Clod Hans. Everyone who had come to propose to the princess was given a number and had to line up in a row. They stood so close together that they couldn’t move their arms; and that was fortunate, for otherwise they would have torn each other’s eyes out, just because one had got there ahead of the other.
All the other citizens of the town crowded around the castle and tried to look through the windows; they wanted to watch the princess receiving her suitors. But as each of them entered the royal hall, he seemed to lose his tongue, for all of them could only stammer and mutter.
“No good!” said the princess every time. “Out!”
The first of the brothers entered, the one who knew the Latin dictionary and the newspapers by heart; but he had forgotten every word of them while he stood in the row with the other suitors. The floor creaked as he walked across it, and the ceiling of the room was an enormous mirror that reflected everything upside down. At one of the windows stood three scribes and an alderman, who wrote down all that was said, so that it could be printed in the newspaper, which would be sold in the streets that very afternoon for twopence. And if that was not frightening enough, the heat would have made anyone uncomfortable; the stoves had red-hot potbellies.
“It is hot in here!” said the unhappy suitor.
“That is because my father is roasting roosters today,” said the princess.
“Bah!” That wasn’t what he had expected and there he stood with his mouth open. He wanted to say something witty, but he couldn’t.
“No good!” said the princess. “Out!”
And outside he had to go. Now came the second brother.
“It is terribly hot,” he said.
“Yes, we are roasting roosters,” said the princess.
“What did—What?” mumbled the poor man; and all the scribes wrote: “What did—what?”
“No good!” said the princess. “Out!”
Now came Clod Hans. He rode on his billy goat right into the royal hall. “Goodness me, it is hot in here,” he said.
“That is because I am roasting roosters today,” said the princess.
“That is fine,” said Clod Hans, “maybe I can get my crow fried as well.”
“That might be possible,” laughed the princess. “But do you have anything to fry it in? All our pots and pans are in use.”
“Sure, I have,” said Clod Hans, and held up the old wooden shoe. “Here is a pot to put it in,” and he dropped the crow into the broken shoe.
“Why, it is enough for a meal,” said the princess, “but where are you going to get the gravy?”
“I’ve got pockets full of it! So much that I have some to spare.” And Clod Hans showed her the mud.
“That is what I like!” exclaimed the princess. “Somebody who can speak up for himself. I will marry you! But do you know that every word we have said has been written down and will be printed in the newspaper? At one of the windows stand three scribes and an old alderman, and he is the worst, because he does not understand a word of what anyone says.” The princess said this to frighten Clod Hans, and the scribes neighed like horses and shook their pens, so blots of ink sprayed onto the floor.
?
??Well, if the alderman is the most important, then he deserves the best!” shouted Clod Hans, and took all the mud out of his pockets and threw it in the old man’s face.
“That was nobly done!” laughed the princess. “I couldn’t have done it, but I am sure I will learn how!”
Clod Hans married the princess and became king. He sat on a throne with a crown on his head. I got the story straight out of the alderman’s newspaper and that cannot be trusted.
77
The Thorny Path
There is an old fairy tale named “The Thorny Path.” It describes the road of trial and tribulation that a true hero must wander before he receives his reward: honor, glory, and fame. Many of us heard the tale when we were children; and when we hear it again or recall it, as adults, we cannot help reflecting on our own anonymous path of thorns, on our own trials and tribulations. The fairy tale and reality are not far apart, but the fairy tale is in harmony: earthly and time-bound. Reality has harmony too, but it can only be found in the boundless time of eternity.
The history of the world is a magic lantern show on the dark background of times past; it shows us the great men, the true benefactors of mankind, walking their thorny path.
From all ages, from all countries, are these pictures gathered; each lasts but a moment and yet tells of the struggle of a long life, of its defeats and victories. Let us look for a moment at a few men and women in this procession of martyrs, which will never end before the earth does.
We are in an amphitheater, the actors are performing Aristophanes’ The Clouds. Waves of ridicule, of sarcasm, make the audience roar with laughter. The play is mocking the spirit and person of Athens’ strangest man—the one who was the shield of the people against the tyrants, the one who on the battlefield saved Alcibiades and Xenophon—Socrates, whose spirit soared higher than the gods of antiquity. He is in the audience himself. Now he stands up so that the laughing Athenians can compare the real man with the caricature shown on the stage, and judge for themselves how much they resemble each other. He stands among them and yet so far above them.