Part 36 (1/2)

We do not require alone from the portrait-painter that he should represent the person, but that he should represent him in his happiest moment. To the plain as well as to the inexpressive countenance must the painter give every beauty which it possesses. Every human being has moments in which something intellectual or characteristic presents itself. Nature, too, when we are presented only with the most barren landscape, has the same moments; light and shadow produce these effects.

The poet must be like the painter; he must seize upon these moments in human life as the other in nature.

If the reader were a child who lived in Odense, it would require nothing more from him than that he should say the words, ”St. Knud's fair;”

and this, illumined by the beams of the imagination of childhood, would stand before him in the most brilliant colors. Our description will be only a shadow; it will be that, perhaps, which the many will find it to be.

Already in the suburbs the crowd of people, and the outspread earthenware of the potters, which entirely covered the trottoir, announced that the fair was in full operation.

The carriage drove down from the bridge across the Odense River.

”See, how beautiful it is here!” exclaimed Wilhelm.

Between the gardens of the city and a s.p.a.ce occupied as a bleaching ground lay the river. The magnificent church of St. Knud, with its lofty tower, terminated the view.

”What red house was that?” inquired Otto, when they had lost sight of it.

”That is the nunnery!” replied Louise, knowing what thought it was which had arisen in his mind.

”There stood in the ancient times the old bishop's palace, where Beldenak lived!” said Sophie. ”Just opposite to the river is the bell-well, where a bell flew out of St. Albani's tower. The well is unfathomable. Whenever rich people in Odense die, it rings down below the water!”

”It is not a pleasant thought,” said Otto, ”that it rings in the well when they must die.”

”One must not take it in that way now!” said Sophie, laughing, and turned the subject. ”Odense has many lions,” continued she, ”from a king's garden with swans in it to a great theatre, which has this in common with La Scala and many Italian ones, that it is built upon the ruins of a convent. [Note: That of the Black Brothers.]

”In Odense, aristocracy and democracy held out the longest,” said Wilhelm, smiling; ”yet I remember, in my childhood, that when the n.o.bles and the citizens met on the king's birthday at the town-house ball, that we danced by ourselves.”

”Were not, then, the citizens strong enough to throw the giddy n.o.bles out of the window?” inquired Otto.

”You forget, Mr. Thostrup, that you yourself are n.o.ble!” said Sophie. ”I was really the G.o.ddess of fate who gave to you your genealogical tree.”

”You still remember that evening?” said Otto, with a gentle voice, and the thoughts floated as gayly in his mind as the crowd of people floated up and down in the streets through which they drove.

Somewhere about the middle of the city five streets met; and this point, which widens itself out into a little square, is called the Cross Street: here lay the hotel to which the family drove.

”Two hours and a quarter too late!” said the Kammerjunker, who came out to meet them on the steps. ”Good weather for the fair, and good horses! I have already been out at the West-gate, and have bought two magnificent mares. One of them kicked out behind, and had nearly given me a blow on the breast, so that I might have said I had had my fairing!

Jakoba is paying visits, drinking chocolate, and eating biscuits.

Mamsell is out taking a view of things. Now you know our story.”

The ladies went to their chamber, the gentlemen remained in the saloon.

”Yes, here you shall see a city and a fair, Mr. Thostrup!” said the Kammerjunker, and slapped Otto on the shoulder.

”Odense was at one time my princ.i.p.al chief-city,” said Wilhelm; ”and still St. Knud's Church is the most magnificent I know. G.o.d knows whether St. Peter's in Rome would make upon me, now that I am older, the impression which this made upon me as a child!”

”In St. Knud's Church lies the Mamsell with the cats,” said the Kammerjunker.

”The bishop's lady, you should say,” returned Wilhelm. ”The legend relates, that there was a lady of a Bishop Mus who loved her cats to that degree that she left orders that they should be laid with her in the grave. [Author's Note: The remains of the body, as well as the skeletons of the cats, are still to be seen in a chapel on the western aisle of the church.] We will afterward go and see them.”

”Yes, both the bishop's lady and the cats,” said the Kammerjunker, ”look like dried fis.h.!.+ Then you must also see the nunnery and the military library.”

”The Hospital and the House of Correction!” added Wilhelm.

The beating of a drum in the street drew them to the window. The city crier, in striped linsey-woolsey jacket and breeches, and with a yellow band across his shoulders, stood there, beat upon his drum, and proclaimed aloud from a written paper many wonderful things which were to be seen in the city.