“Yes, we will go to Italy. But not in any of the places where there are bandits. No, we will stick to Rome and the big highways where one is safe.”
Her daughter sighed. Oh, how much can be expressed in a sigh, and how much can one imagine is being expressed in a sigh! The young sculptor found profound depth of feeling in it. The two lovely blue eyes hid within them all the treasures of the heart and spirit. Riches far greater than all the wealth of Rome. When he left the party he was lost; he had fallen in love with the young lady.
The widow’s house was the place where you most often found Mr. Alfred. Everyone realized that it couldn’t be because of Mama that he came, although she was the one who talked to him, so it had to be because of her daughter. She was called Kala. Her name was really Karen Malene, and by adding the two names together and subtracting a few letters, her pet name, Kala, had been invented. Lovely she was, though a bit lazy, some people said, for she never got up very early.
“She is used to that from childhood,” explained her mother. “She has always been a Venus child and they tire easily. She sleeps a little late but that keeps her eyes bright.”
What power there was in those eyes! Those sea-blue eyes! Still waters run deep. The young man felt their power. After all, he had run aground in those still waters. He talked and explained, and Mama asked the questions with the same ease as she had on their first meeting.
It was a pleasure to hear Mr. Alfred talk. He described Naples. He told about the walks he had taken up Vesuvius, and showed them pictures, in color, of the volcano erupting. Mama had never head of a volcano before, nor ever imagined that such a thing could exist.
“God preserve us!” she said. “A mountain that spouts fire! Isn’t it dangerous?”
“Whole towns have been buried by it,” explained the young man, “Pompeii and Herculaneum.”
“Oh, the poor wretched people! Did you see it happen?”
“No, but I will draw you a picture of one little eruption that I did see.”
He took his sketch block and pencil and started to draw. Mama, who had just been looking at the very colorful pictures he had shown her, looked with surprise at the pale pencil drawing.
“But why is what’s shooting up from it white?” she exclaimed.
At that moment Mr. Alfred’s respect for Mama reached an all-time low. But soon, with the help of Kala, he understood that Mama just did not have much sense of color. And after all, what did that matter, when she had the best, the most beautiful thing in the whole world? She had Kala.
And Kala and Alfred became engaged, and that was not surprising. An announcement of the engagement was printed in the local newspaper, and Mama bought thirty copies of it so that she could send one to each of her friends. The young couple were very happy and so was Mama. She felt that now she was related to Thorvaldsen, the most famous Danish sculptor.
“After all, you are his successor,” she said.
And for once Mr. Alfred thought she had said something clever. Kala did not say anything at all, but her eyes were bright, and she smiled so prettily, and the movements of her body were so graceful and lovely. Oh yes, lovely she was: lovely it cannot be repeated too often.
Alfred made two busts: one of his future mother-in-law and one of Kala. They were his models and they watched him form the soft clay with his hands.
“Is it for our sake that you do the simple work yourself?” asked the widow. “You might have hired someone to throw the clay together, then your hands wouldn’t get dirty.”
“It is necessary that I form it myself from the very beginning,” said Alfred.
“I am sure that is very gallant of you,” said Mama; and Kala pressed his clay-covered hand.
While he worked he explained to them his theory of why creation gave expression to the wonder of nature. Living matter, he said, was more important than dead, plants were above minerals, animals above plants, and man above animals. Spirit and beauty could be seen in form, and the sculptor revealed the human form in its perfection.
Kala was silent, although she seemed to sway a little in time with his thoughts and ideas. His future mother-in-law confessed openly: “It is difficult to follow you! My thoughts walk a little slower, but I am holding my own and I am sure I will catch up.”
The loveliness of Kala bound the young sculptor, it touched and fascinated him; it captured him. It was not only the single parts but all of Kala that was lovely. Her body, her glance, her mouth, even the movement of her fingers. That was Mr. Alfred’s judgment; and he was a sculptor. He understood that sort of thing. He talked only about her, he thought only about her, the two of them had become one! In this manner silent Kala became talkative too, for Mr. Alfred talked enough for two, if not three.
That was the engagement, then came the wedding. There were bridemaids and gifts. Both were mentioned in the speech to the bridal couple.
Mama had put a bust of Thorvaldsen at the end of the table and draped her husband’s old dressing gown around it. She wanted the famous sculptor to be among the guests; it was her own idea. Several songs had been written for the occasion, and innumerable toasts were drunk. It was a delightful wedding with a lovely bridal couple.
“Pygmalion got his Galatea,” so ran one of the lines in one of the songs written for the occasion.
“That is mythology!” declared Mama-in-law.
The day after the wedding the young couple left for Copenhagen; there they were going to build their nest. Mama-in-law followed. She was to attend to the coarse part, she said. She was to run the household, Kala was just to sit in the doll’s house.
Everything was new, bright, and lovely! There they sat, the three of them. And how did Mr. Alfred sit? Well, to explain it, one might use an old proverb: he sat as a bishop does in a goose’s nest.
The magic of form had charmed him, he had looked at the beautiful decoration of the box without bothering to find out what was inside it. And that is a misfortune, a great misfortune in a marriage. When the gluing comes apart and the gilding wears off the casing, then one regrets the bargain. When you are out at a grand party, it is a horrible sensation to be aware that you have lost two of your suspender buttons and you can’t depend upon your belt because you have forgotten to put one on. But what is even worse at such a party is to be aware that both your wife and your mother-in-law say one stupidity after another, while you are not certain that you can think up witty replies to counteract their foolishness.
Often the young couple would sit, hand in hand, and he would talk; she would only say a word every now and then, and they were always the same. The same little notes from the bell, the same melodies. Her girl friend Sophie, when she came for a visit, provided a breath of fresh air, spiritually speaking.
Sophie was not beautiful. She was not misshapen, her figure was a little “crooked,” as Kala claimed. But this “crookedness” was not so great that it could be observed by anyone except Sophie’s girl friends. She was a sensible and intelligent girl who was completely unaware that she might become dangerous in such company. She was a bit of fresh air in the dollhouse, as I have said; and they needed it, this they were all aware of. A change of air was needed, so the young couple and Mama-in-law set off for Italy.
“Thank God that we are home again,” said both Mama and daughter when they returned the following year together with Mr. Alfred.
“It is not amusing to travel!” insisted Mama-in-law. “It is really very boring! Excuse me for being so frank. But I was bored a good deal of the time, even though I had my children along. And it is expensive! It is terribly expensive to travel. Then there are all the galleries and museums you have to visit. One is always running about. You have to see everything so you can answer all the questions people are going to ask when you get home. And what’s the result? Everyone tells you that you missed the most beautiful one of all. I got tired of looking at those eternal madonnas; why, you ended up looking like one yourself.”
“And the food one has to eat!” interrupted K
ala.
“One can’t get a decent bowl of soup,” agreed Mama. “Foreigners don’t know how to cook food!”
Kala was fatigued by the journey. She couldn’t get over it, and that was the worst of it. Sophie came to help in the house; and she was a help.
“I have to admit it,” said Mama-in-law. “Sophie knows how to run a house and she understands all that art business. She is what one might call educated beyond her position and fortune. And besides all that, she is really a very decent human being and very loyal.” The latter was proven when Kala lay sick and grew daily weaker.
Where the casing is all, it must survive or all is over. The casing did not last: Kala died.
“She was lovely,” said Mama. “More beautiful than all those Greeks and Romans; they were always missing their heads or arms. Beauty has to be whole, and Kala was whole!”
Alfred wept and Mama wept, and both of them dressed in black. Black was very becoming on Mama; therefore she wore it longer than Alfred. She mourned and soon had another cause for grief! Her son-in-law married again. He took Sophie, the girl who was a bit “crooked.”
“He went from one extreme to another!” said his former mother-in-law. “From the loveliest to the ugliest. He has forgotten my Kala! There is no loyalty in men. My husband was different! But then he died before me.”
“Pygmalion got his Galatea,” said Alfred. “That is a quote from a song that was written for my first wedding. And it was true, I had fallen in love with a beautiful statue, and it became alive in my arms. But that kindred soul whom heaven sends us—one of the angels, who can sympathize with us, understand our thoughts, and when we are downhearted lift us up—I have not won until now. You, Sophie! Not so beautiful, not so glorious, but pretty enough, lovelier than one deserves. You came and taught the sculptor that his works are only clay, dust; only an impression of the hidden kernel inside one, the kernel that one should seek. Poor Kala, our life together was merely a journey. If we meet up there, where all the souls meet in eternal sympathy, we will be almost strangers.”
“That was not very kind to say,” admonished Sophie. “It wasn’t very Christian. Up there where no one is to marry and all the souls meet in sympathy, as you phrased it, up there where all unfold themselves fully, her soul may ring with a sweeter and purer tone than mine. And you! You will say again, as you did when you first saw her and fell in love, ‘Lovely, lovely!’ ”
100
A Story from the Dunes
This is a story from the dunes of Jutland, but it begins far from there, in Spain. The sea connects these two distant places. Imagine yourself in Spain. It is warm and beautiful; here the scarlet pomegranate flowers bloom amid dark green laurel trees. From the mountains a cool, refreshing breeze descends into the valley, where orange trees grow; it passes through the town and enters the Moorish palaces with their golden cupolas and colorfully painted walls.
Children are walking in procession in the street; with wax candles in their hands they are following golden, embroidered banners. High above them is the great arch of clear sky with its countless stars. The sound of singing and of castanets can be heard. The young girls and boys are dancing under the flowering acacia trees. On the carved marble step sits a beggar. He is quenching his thirst with a watermelon. He has slept his life away. And truly, this world is like a dream, and all it asks is that you abandon yourself to it. That was exactly what the young married couple did. They were the children of fortune and had been given by God all that one can desire: health, a happy disposition, wealth, and worldly honor.
“We are as happy as anyone can possibly be,” they said, both of them, and they meant it from the bottom of their hearts. There was one joy that they had not yet tasted and that they would not experience before God had sent them a child, a son whose body and soul would mirror their own.
That happy child would be greeted with shouts of joy and be brought up with the greatest care and love. He would be given all that wealth and a famous name can give.
Like one everlasting feast did the days glide by for this young couple.
“Life is given to us by the grace of love. How incredible it is!” exclaimed the young wife. “That gift, the result of our happiness, shall live and grow, and that through all eternity. It is beyond my comprehension.”
“But maybe that is human presumption,” said her husband. “Is it not pride that makes us believe that we shall live eternally? Become like God! That was what the snake promised Eve, and he was the master of lies.”
“Do you doubt that there is a life after this?” asked the young woman, and for the first time a shadow crossed her sun-filled world.
“Our religion and the priests promise it,” he answered. “But when I feel so overpoweringly my own happiness and good fortune, I cannot help but wonder if it is not presumption to ask for more—for eternal happiness. Has not so much been given us that we ought to be satisfied?”
“Yes, we have received much,” replied his wife. “But what about the thousands for whom life has been a harsh and cruel trial? How many are destined to know only poverty, infamy, sickness, and misfortune. The blessings of life are too unequally divided. If there is no life after this one, then God would not be just.”
“The beggar may experience pleasures as great as a king’s,” smiled the young man. “And what about the poor donkey whose life is work, hunger, and beatings until it dies; do you think it knows and understands its own wretched lot? And if it does, can it not claim that it has been unjustly treated and demand another life as a more enviable creature?”
“Christ has said that in his mansion there are many rooms,” replied the young wife. “The kingdom of heaven is as unending as God’s love is. The animals, too, are His creation and I do not think that any life is ever lost; they, too, will receive the bliss, the happiness, that they need.”
“I need nothing more than this world, it is enough,” said her husband, and put his arms around his loving wife.
They sat on the open balcony. He lit a cigarillo. The cool evening air was filled with the perfume of orange blossoms and carnations. From the street came music and the sound of castanets; above in the sky a thousand stars sparkled. His young wife looked at him, and her eyes were filled with love, love as eternal as life.
“A moment like this,” he said, “is well worth being born for! To feel and appreciate it, and then, to disappear!” He smiled and his wife shook her finger at him, admonishing him playfully. The cloud that had passed between them was gone, they were happy.
Everything seemed to yield in order that this young couple should advance in honor and glory. There were changes, but only physical ones—in place, not in pleasure. The young man had been appointed by his king as ambassador to the imperial court of Russia. The position was one of honor, and by birth and education he had the right to it. Wealth he had, too, and his marriage had made him even richer. His wife was the daughter of a very wealthy respected merchant. One of the largest of his father-in-law’s ships was bound for Stockholm; orders were given that it should sail the young couple to St. Petersburg.
The cabin for the young couple was royally furnished. Everything was soft and lovely; the pillows were covered with silk and there were thick carpets on the floor.
There is a Danish folk song called “The Son of the King of England.” This tells of a prince who sailed on a magnificent ship whose anchor was inlaid with gold and whose ropes were made of silk. The ship that sailed from Spain might have reminded a Dane of that song. Here were the same splendor and the same dream as they embarked:
God, let all of us our happiness find.
The wind blew them quickly away from the Spanish coast; they had only a brief parting glance of their home. Soon they would reach the goal of their journey. The voyage should not take much more than two weeks, but they were becalmed. The ocean was as motionless as glass and, like a mirror, it reflected the stars of the heavens. Every evening there was a party in the luxurious cabin.
Still, they
wished the wind would blow, especially in the right direction. But every time the calm finally was broken the wind was always against them. Two months went by before the wind blew fair from the southwest. By then they were midway between Scotland and Jutland. The wind gathered force and blew a storm, just as in the old song about “The Son of the King of England”:
From dark clouds blew the wind,
No shelter could they find.
They let go their anchors in despair.
Toward Denmark blew the raging air.
The story we are telling took place many years ago, when Christian VII had sat but a short time on the Danish throne. Much of the countryside has changed since then; lakes and peat bogs have become fruitful meadows, and parts of the great moors of Jutland are under the plow. In the shelter of the houses, apple trees and roses grow, but they are small and crooked, for the west wind is a hard master. If one visits the west coast of Jutland, it is still easy to dream oneself back to times long before the reign of Christian VII. The great brown moorland has not changed, and it stretches for miles and miles. The grave mounds of the Viking chieftains can be seen from afar, and the sandy roads are hardly more than wheel tracks winding their way along. As one approaches the sea, the little streams and brooks broaden to form marshland, and by the time they empty themselves in the fjord they are almost rivers. At the shore rise the dunes, like a miniature mountain range; facing the sea there are clay cliffs, which the ocean year by year eats, taking giant mouthfuls each time there is a storm and changing the contours of the coast. There the scenery looks the same today as it did years ago when the two young children of fortune sailed on their splendid ship.
It was one of the last days in September: a sunny warm Sunday. Along the fjord of Nissum one could hear the church bells ringing. In this area all the churches are built of granite. Each one stands like a cliff; the sea can break against them and yet they will survive. Most of them have no tower, and the bells hang from an oaken crossbeam of a structure that stands beside the church, but looks like a gallows.