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THE TRUE STORY OF MY LIFE:
A SKETCH BY HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN...continued
 
CHAPTER
III.
When, late in the evening, I arrived at the inn in Slagelse, I asked
the hostess if there were anything remarkable in the city.
"Yes," said she, "a new English fire-engine and Pastor Bastholm's
library," and those probably were all the lions in the city. A few
officers of the Lancers composed the fine-gentleman world. Everybody
knew what was done in everybody's house, whether a scholar was
elevated
or degraded in his class, and the like. A private theatre, to which,
at
general rehearsal, the scholars of the grammar school and the maid-
servants of the town had free entrance, furnished rich material for
conversation. The place was remote from woods, and still farther from
the coast; but the great post-road went through the city, and the
post-
horn resounded from the rolling carriage.
I boarded with a respectable widow of the educated class, and had a
little chamber looking out into the garden and field. My place in the
school was in the lowest class, among little boys:--I knew indeed
nothing at all.
I was actually like a wild bird which is confined in a cage; I had the
greatest desire to learn, but for the moment I floundered about, as if
I had been thrown into the sea; the one wave followed another;
grammar,
geography, mathematics--I felt myself overpowered by them, and feared
that I should never be able to acquire all these. The rector, who took
a peculiar delight in turning everything to ridicule, did not, of
course, make an exception in my case. To me he stood then as a
divinity; I believed unconditionally every word which he spoke. One
day, when I had replied incorrectly to his question, and he said that
I
was stupid, I mentioned it to Collin, and told him my anxiety, lest I
did not deserve all that people had done for me; but he consoled me.
Occasionally, however, on some subjects of instruction, I began to
receive a good certificate, and the teachers were heartily kind to me;
yet, notwithstanding that I advanced, I still lost confidence in
myself
more and more. On one of the first examinations, however, I obtained
the praise of the rector. He wrote the same in my character-book; and,
happy in this, I went a few days afterwards to Copenhagen. Guldberg,
who saw the progress I had made, received me kindly, and commended my
zeal; and his brother in Odense furnished me the next summer with the
means of visiting the place of my birth, where I had not been since I
left it to seek adventures. I crossed the Belt, and went on foot to
Odense. When I came near enough to see the lofty old church tower, my
heart was more and more affected; I felt deeply the care of God for
me,
and I burst into tears. My mother rejoiced over me. The families of
Iversen and Guldberg received me cordially; and in the little streets
I
saw the people open their windows to look after me, for everybody knew
how remarkably well things had fared with me; nay, I fancied I
actually
stood upon the pinnacle of fortune, when one of the principal
citizens,
who had built a high tower to his house, led me up there, and I looked
out thence over the city, and the surrounding country, and some old
women in the hospital below, who had known me from childhood, pointed
up to me.
As soon, however, as I returned to Slagelse, this halo of glory
vanished, as well as every thought of it. I may freely confess that I
was industrious, and I rose, as soon as it was possible, into a higher
class; but in proportion as I rose did I feel the pressure upon me
more
strongly, and that my endeavors were not sufficiently productive. Many
an evening, when sleep overcame me, did I wash my head with cold
water,
or run about the lonely little garden, till I was again wakeful, and
could comprehend the book anew. The rector filled up a portion of his
hours of teaching with jests, nicknames, and not the happiest of
witticisms. I was as if paralyzed with anxiety when he entered the
room, and from that cause my replies often expressed the opposite of
that which I wished to say, and thereby my anxiety was all the more
increased. What was to become of me?
In a moment of ill-humor I wrote a letter to the head master, who was
one of those who was most cordially opposed to me. I said in this
letter that I regarded myself as a person so little gifted by nature,
that it was impossible for me to study, and that the people in
Copenhagen threw away the money which they spent upon me: I besought
him therefore to counsel me what I should do. The excellent man
strengthened me with mild words, and wrote to me a most friendly and
consolatory letter; he said that the rector meant kindly by me--that
it
was his custom and way of acting--that I was making all the progress
that people could expect from me, and that I need not doubt of my
abilities. He told me that he himself was a peasant youth of three and
twenty, older than I myself was, when he began his studies; the
misfortune for me was, that I ought to have been treated differently
to
the other scholars, but that this could hardly be done in a school;
but
that things were progressing, and that I stood well both with the
teachers and my fellow students.
Every Sunday we had to attend the church and hear an old preacher; the
other scholars learned their lessons in history and mathematics while
he preached; I learned my task in religion, and thought that, by so
doing, it was less sinful. The general rehearsals at the private
theatre were points of light in my school life; they took place in a
back building, where the lowing of the cows might be heard; the
street-
decoration was a picture of the marketplace of the city, by which
means
the representation had something familiar about it; it amused the
inhabitants to see their own houses.
On Sunday afternoons it was my delight to go to the castle of
Antvorskov, at that time only half ruinous, and once a monastery,
where
I pursued the excavating of the ruined cellars, as if it had been a
Pompeii. I also often rambled to the crucifix of St. Anders, which
stands upon one of the heights of Slagelse, and which is one of the
wooden crosses erected in the time of Catholicism in Denmark. St.
Anders was a priest in Slagelse, and travelled to the Holy Land; on
the
last day he remained so long praying on the holy grave, that the ship
sailed away without him. Vexed at this circumstance, he walked along
the shore, where a man met him riding on an ass, and took him up with
him. Immediately he fell asleep, and when he awoke he heard the bells
of Slagelse ringing. He lay upon the (Hvileh/i) hill of rest, where
the
cross now stands. He was at home a year and a day before the ship
returned, which had sailed away without him, and an angel had borne
him
home. The legend, and the place where he woke, were both favorites of
mine. From this spot I could see the ocean and Funen. Here I could
indulge my fancies; when at home, my sense of duty chained my thoughts
only to my books.
The happiest time, however, was when, once on a Sunday, whilst the
wood
was green, I went to the city of Sor/, two (Danish) miles from
Slagelse, and which lies in the midst of woods, surrounded by lakes.
Here is an academy for the nobility, founded by the poet Holberg.
Everything lay in a conventual stillness. I visited here the poet
Ingemann, who had just married, and who held a situation as teacher;
he
had already received me kindly in Copenhagen; but here his reception
of
me was still more kind. His life in this place seemed to me like a
beautiful story; flowers and vines twined around his window; the rooms
were adorned with the portraits of distinguished poets, and other
pictures. We sailed upon the lake with an Aeolian harp made fast to
the
mast. Ingemann talked so cheerfully, and his excellent, amiable wife
treated me as if she were an elder sister:--I loved these people. Our
friendship has grown with years. I have been from that time almost
every summer a welcome guest there, and I have experienced that there
are people in whose society one is made better, as it were; that which
is bitter passes away, and the whole world appears in sunlight.
Among the pupils in the academy of nobles, there were two who made
verses; they knew that I did the same, and they attached themselves to
me. The one was Petit, who afterwards, certainly with the best
intention, but not faithfully, translated several of my books; the
other, the poet Karl Bagger, one of the most gifted of men who has
come
forward in Danish literature, but who has been unjustly judged. His
poems are full of freshness and originality; his story, "The Life of
my
Brother," is a genial book, by the critique on which the Danish
Monthly
Review of Literature has proved that it does not understand how to
give
judgment. These two academicians were very different from me: life
rushed rejoicingly through their veins; I was sensitive and childlike.
In my character-book I always received, as regarded my conduct,
"remarkably good." On one occasion, however, I only obtained the
testimony of "very good;" and so anxious and childlike was I, that I
wrote a letter to Collin on that account, and assured him in grave
earnestness, that I was perfectly innocent, although I had only
obtained a character of "very good."
The rector grew weary of his residence in Slagelse; he applied for the
vacant post of rector in the grammar-school of Helsing/r, and obtained
it. He told me of it, and added kindly, that I might write to Collin
and ask leave to accompany him thither; that I might live in his
house,
and could even now remove to his family; I should then in half a year
become a student, which could not be the case if I remained behind,
and
that then he would himself give me some private lessons in Latin and
Greek. On this same occasion he wrote also to Collin; and this letter,
which I afterwards saw, contained the greatest praise of my industry,
of the progress I had made, and of my good abilities, which last I
imagined that he thoroughly mistook, and for the want of which, I
myself had so often wept. I had no conception that he judged of me so
favorably; it would have strengthened and relieved me had I known it;
whereas, on the contrary, his perpetual blame depressed me. I, of
course, immediately received Collin's permission, and removed to the
house of the rector. But that, alas! was an unfortunate house.
I accompanied him to Helsing/r, one of the loveliest places in
Denmark,
close to the Sound, which is at this place not above a mile (Danish)
broad, and which seems like a blue, swelling river between Denmark and
Sweden. The ships of all nations sail past daily by hundreds; in
winter
the ice forms a firm bridge between the two countries, and when in
spring this breaks up, it resembles a floating glacier. The scenery
here made a lively impression upon me, but I dared only to cast stolen
glances at it. When the school hours were over, the house door was
commonly locked; I was obliged to remain in the heated school-room and
learn my Latin, or else play with the children, or sit in my little
room; I never went out to visit anybody. My life in this family
furnishes the most evil dreams to my remembrance. I was almost
overcome
by it, and my prayer to God every evening was, that he would remove
this cup from me and let me die. I possessed not an atom of confidence
in myself. I never mentioned in my letters how hard it went with me,
because the rector found his pleasure in making a jest of me, and
turning my feelings to ridicule. I never complained of any one, with
the exception of myself. I knew that they would say in Copenhagen, "He
has not the desire to do any thing; a fanciful being can do no good
with realities."
My letters to Collin, written at this time, showed such a gloomy
despairing state of mind, that they touched him deeply; but people
imagined that was not to be helped; they fancied that it was my
disposition, and not, as was the case, that it was the consequence of
outward influences. My temper of mind was thoroughly buoyant, and
susceptible of every ray of sunshine; but only on one single holiday
in
the year, when I could go to Copenhagen, was I able to enjoy it.
What a change it was to get for a few days out of the rector's rooms
into a house in Copenhagen, where all was elegance, cleanliness, and
full of the comforts of refined life! This was at Admiral Wulff's,
whose wife felt for me the kindness of a mother, and whose children
met
me with cordiality; they dwelt in a portion of the Castle of
Amalienburg, and my chamber looked out into the square. I remember the
first evening there; Aladdin's words passed through my mind, when he
looked down from his splendid castle into the square, and said, "Here
came I as a poor lad." My soul was full of gratitude.
During my whole residence in Slagelse I had scarcely written more
than
four or five poems; two of which, "The Soul," and "To my Mother," will
be found printed in my collected works. During my school-time at
Helsing/r I wrote only one single poem, "The Dying Child;" a poem
which, of all my after works, became most popular and most widely
circulated. I read it to some acquaintance in Copenhagen; some were
struck by it, but most of them only remarked my Funen dialect, which
drops the d in every word. I was commended by many; but from the
greater number I received a lecture on modesty, and that I should not
get too great ideas of myself--I who really at that time thought
nothing of myself. [Footnote: How beautifully is all this part of the
author's experience reflected in that of Antonio, the Improvisatore,
whose highly sensitive nature was too often wounded by the well-meant
lectures of patrons and common-place minds.--M. H.]
At the house of Admiral Wulff I saw many men of the most distinguished
talent, and among them all my mind paid the greatest homage to one--
that was the poet Adam Oehlenschl ger. I heard his praise resound from
every mouth around me; I looked up to him with the most pious faith: I
was happy when one evening, in a large brilliantly-lighted drawing
room--where I deeply felt that my apparel was the shabbiest there, and
for that reason I concealed myself behind the long curtains--
Oehlenschl ger came to me and offered me his hand. I could have fallen
before him on my knees. I again saw Weyse, and heard him improvise
upon
the piano. Wulff himself read aloud his translations of Byron; and
Oehlenschl ger's young daughter Charlotte surprised me by her joyous,
merry humor.
From such a house as this, I, after a few days, returned to the
rector,
and felt the difference deeply. He also came direct from Copenhagen,
where he had heard it said that I had read in company one of my own
poems. He looked at me with a penetrating glance, and commanded me to
bring him the poem, when, if he found in it one spark of poetry, he
would forgive me. I tremblingly brought to him "The Dying Child;" he
read it, and pronounced it to be sentimentality and idle trash. He
gave
way freely to his anger. If he had believed that I wasted my time in
writing verses, or that I was of a nature which required a severe
treatment, then his intention would have been good; but he could not
pretend this. But from this day forward my situation was more
unfortunate than ever; I suffered so severely in my mind that I was
very near sinking under it. That was the darkest, the most unhappy
time
in my life.
Just then one of the masters went to Copenhagen, and related to Collin
exactly what I had to bear, and immediately he removed me from the
school and from the rector's house. When, in taking leave of him, I
thanked him for the kindness which I had received from him, the
passionate man cursed me, and ended by saying that I should never
become a student, that my verses would grow mouldy on the floor of the
bookseller's shop, and that I myself should end my days in a
mad-house.
I trembled to my innermost being, and left him.
Several years afterwards, when my writings were read, when the
Improvisatore first came out, I met him in Copenhagen; he offered me
his hand in a conciliatory manner, and said that he had erred
respecting me, and had treated me wrong; but it now was all the same
to
me. The heavy, dark days had also produced their blessing in my life.
A
young man, who afterwards became celebrated in Denmark for his zeal in
the Northern languages and in history, became my teacher. I hired a
little garret; it is described in the Fiddler; and in The Picture Book
without Pictures, people may see that I often received there visits
from the moon. I had a certain sum allowed for my support; but as
instruction was to be paid for, I had to make savings in other ways. A
few families through the week-days gave me a place at their tables. I
was a sort of boarder, as many another poor student in Copenhagen is
still: there was a variety in it; it gave an insight into the several
kinds of family life, which was not without its influence on me. I
studied industriously; in some particular branches I had considerably
distinguished myself in Helsing/r, especially in mathematics; these
were, therefore, now much more left to myself: everything tended to
assist me in my Greek and Latin studies; in one direction, however,
and
that the one in which it would least have been expected, did my
excellent teacher find much to do; namely, in religion. He closely
adhered to the literal meaning of the Bible; with this I was
acquainted, because from my first entrance in the school I had clearly
understood what was said and taught by it. I received gladly, both
with
feeling and understanding, the doctrine, that God is love: everything
which opposed this--a burning hell, therefore, whose fire endured
forever--I could not recognize. Released from the distressing
existence
of the school-bench, I now expressed myself like a free man; and my
teacher, who was one of the noblest and most amiable of human beings,
but who adhered firmly to the letter, was often quite distressed about
me. We disputed, whilst pure flames kindled within our hearts. It was
nevertheless good for me that I came to this unspoiled, highly-gifted
young man, who was possessed of a nature as peculiar as my own.
That which, on the contrary, was an error in me, and which became very
perceptible, was a pleasure which I had, not in jesting with, but in
playing with my best feelings, and in regarding the understanding as
the most important thing in the world. The rector had completely
mistaken my undisguisedly candid and sensitive character; my excitable
feelings were made ridiculous, and thrown back upon themselves; and
now, when I could freely advance upon the way to my object, this
change
showed itself in me. From severe suffering I did not rush into
libertinism, but into an erroneous endeavor to appear other than I
was.
I ridiculed feeling, and fancied that I had quite thrown it aside; and
yet I could be made wretched for a whole day, if I met with a sour
countenance where I expected a friendly one. Every poem which I had
formerly written with tears, I now parodied, or gave to it a ludicrous
refrain; one of which I called "The Lament of the Kitten," another,
"The Sick Poet." The few poems which I wrote at that time were all of
a
humorous character: a complete change had passed over me; the stunted
plant was reset, and now began to put forth new shoots.
Wulff's eldest daughter, a very clever and lively girl, understood and
encouraged the humor, which made itself evident in my few poems; she
possessed my entire confidence; she protected me like a good sister,
and had great influence over me, whilst she awoke in me a feeling for
the comic.
At this time, also, a fresh current of life was sent through the
Danish
literature; for this the people had an interest, and politics played
no
part in it.
Heiberg, who had gained the acknowledged reputation of a poet by his
excellent works, "Psyche" and "Walter the Potter," had introduced the
vaudeville upon the Danish stage; it was a Danish vaudeville, blood of
our blood, and was therefore received with acclamation, and supplanted
almost everything else. Thalia kept carnival on the Danish stage, and
Heiberg was her secretary. I made his acquaintance first at Oersted's.
Refined, eloquent, and the hero of the day, he pleased me in a high
degree; he was most kind to me, and I visited him; he considered one
of
my humorous poems worthy of a place in his most excellent weekly
paper,
"The Flying Post." Shortly before I had, after a deal of trouble, got
my poem of "The Dying Child" printed in a paper; none of the many
publishers of journals, who otherwise accept of the most lamentable
trash, had the courage to print a poem by a schoolboy. My best known
poem they printed at that time, accompanied by an excuse for it.
Heiberg saw it, and gave it in his paper an honorable place. Two
humorous poems, signed H., were truly my d but with him.
I remember the first evening when the "Flying Post" appeared with my
verses in it. I was with a family who wished me well, but who regarded
my poetical talent as quite insignificant, and who found something to
censure in every line. The master of the house entered with the
"Flying
Post" in his hand.
"This evening," said he, "there are two excellent poems: they are by
Heiberg; nobody else could write anything like them." And now my poems
were received with rapture. The daughter, who was in my secret,
exclaimed, in her delight, that I was the author. They were all struck
into silence, and were vexed. That wounded me deeply.
One of our least esteemed writers, but a man of rank, who was very
hospitable, gave me one day a seat at his table. He told me that a new
year's gift would come out, and that he was applied to for a
contribution. I said that a little poem of mine, at the wish of the
publisher, would appear in the same new year's gift.
"What, then, everybody and anybody are to contribute to this book!"
said the man in vexation: "then he will need nothing from me; I
certainly can hardly give him anything."
My teacher dwelt at a considerable distance from me. I went to him
twice each day, and on the way there my thoughts were occupied with my
lessons. On my return, however, I breathed more freely, and then
bright
poetical ideas passed through my brain, but they were never committed
to paper; only five or six humorous poems were written in the course
of
the year, and these disturbed me less when they were laid to rest on
paper than if they had remained in my mind.
In September, 1828, I was a student; and when the examination was
over,
the thousand ideas and thoughts, by which I was pursued on the way to
my teacher, flew like a swarm of bees out into the world, and, indeed,
into my first work, "A Journey on Foot to Amack;" a peculiar, humorous
book, but one which fully exhibited my own individual character at
that
time, my disposition to sport with everything, and to jest in tears
over my own feelings--a fantastic, gaily-colored tapestry-work. No
publisher had the courage to bring out that little book; I therefore
ventured to do it myself, and, in a few days after its appearance, the
impression was sold. Publisher Keitzel bought from me the second
edition; after a while he had a third; and besides this, the work was
reprinted in Sweden.
Everybody read my book; I heard nothing but praise; I was "a student,"
--I had attained the highest goal of my wishes. I was in a whirl of
joy;
and in this state I wrote my first dramatic work, "Love on the
Nicholas
Tower, or, What says the Pit?" It was unsuccessful, because it
satirized that which no longer existed amongst us, namely, the shows
of
the middle ages; besides which, it rather ridiculed the enthusiasm for
the vaudeville. The subject of it was, in short, as follows:--The
watchman of the Nicholas Tower, who always spoke as a knight of the
castle, wished to give his daughter to the watchman of the neighboring
church-tower; but she loved a young tailor, who had made a journey to
the grave of Eulenspiegel, and was just now returned, as the
punch-bowl
steamed, and was to be emptied in honor of the young lady's consent
being given. The lovers escape together to the tailor's herberg, where
dancing and merriment are going forward. The watchman, however,
fetches
back his daughter; but she had lost her senses, and she assured them
that she never would recover them, unless she had her tailor. The old
watchman determines that Fate should decide the affair; but, then, who
was Fate? The idea then comes into his head that the public shall be
his Pythia, and that the public shall decide whether she should have
the tailor or the watchman. They determine, therefore, to send to one
of the youngest of the poets, and beg him to write the history in the
style of the vaudeville, a kind of writing which was the most
successful at that time, and when the piece was brought upon the
stage,
and the public either whistled or hissed, it should be in no wise
considered that the work of the young author had been unsuccessful,
but
that it should be the voice of Fate, which said, "She shall marry the
watchman." If, on the contrary, the piece was successful, it indicated
that she should have the tailor; and this last, remarked the father,
must be said in prose, in order that the public may understand it. Now
every one of the characters thought himself on the stage, where in the
epilogue the lovers besought the public for their applause, whilst the
watchman begged them either to whistle, or at least to hiss.
My fellow students received the piece with acclamation; they were
proud
of me. I was the second of their body who in this year had brought out
a piece on the Danish stage; the other was Arnesen, student at the
same
time with me, and author of a vaudeville called "The Intrigue in the
People's Theatre," a piece which had a great run. We were the two
young
authors of the October examination, two of the sixteen poets which
this
year produced, and whom people in jest divided into the four great and
the twelve small poets.
I was now a happy human being; I possessed the soul of a poet, and the
heart of youth; all houses began to be open to me; I flew from circle
to circle. Still, however, I devoted myself industriously to study, so
that in September, 1829, I passed my _Examen philologicum et
philosophicum_, and brought out the first collected edition of my
poems, which met with great praise. Life lay bright with sunshine
before me.
CHAPTER IV.
Until now I had only seen a small part of my native land, that is to
say, a few points in Funen and Zealand, as well as Moen's Klint, which
last is truly one of our most beautiful places; the beechwoods there
hang like a garland over the white chalk cliffs, from which a view is
obtained far over the Baltic. I wished, therefore, in the summer of
1830, to devote my first literary proceeds to seeing Jutland, and
making myself more thoroughly acquainted with my own Funen. I had no
idea how much solidity of mind I should derive from this summer
excursion, or what a change was about to take place in my inner life.
Jutland, which stretches between the German Ocean and the Baltic,
until
it ends at Skagen in a reef of quicksands, possesses a peculiar
character. Towards the Baltic extend immense woods and hills; towards
the North Sea, mountains and quicksands, scenery of a grand and
solitary character; and between the two, infinite expanses of brown
heath, with their wandering gipsies, their wailing birds, and their
deep solitude, which the Danish poet, Steen Blicher, has described in
his novels.
This was the first foreign scenery which I had ever seen, and the
impression, therefore, which it made upon me was very strong.
[Footnote: This impressive and wild scenery, with its characteristic
figures, of gipsies etc., is most exquisitely introduced into the
author's novel of "O. T."; indeed it gives a coloring and tone to the
whole work, which the reader never can forget. In my opinion Andersen
never wrote anything finer in the way of description than many parts
of
this work, though as a story it is not equal to his others.--M. H.] In
the cities, where my "Journey on Foot" and my comic poems were known,
I
met with a good reception. Funen revealed her rural life to me; and,
not far from my birth-place of Odense, I passed several weeks at the
country seat of the elder Iversen as a welcome guest. Poems sprung
forth upon paper, but of the comic fewer and fewer. Sentiment, which I
had so often derided, would now be avenged. I arrived, in the course
of
my journey, at the house of a rich family in a small city; and here
suddenly a new world opened before me, an immense world, which yet
could be contained in four lines, which I wrote at that time:--
A pair of dark eyes fixed my sight,
They were my world, my home, my delight,
The soul beamed in them, and childlike peace,
And never on earth will their memory cease.
New plans of life occupied me. I would give up writing poetry,--to
what
could it lead? I would study theology, and become a preacher; I had
only one thought, and that was _she_. But it was self-delusion:
she loved another; she married him. It was not till several years
later
that I felt and acknowledged that it was best, both for her and for
myself, that things had fallen out as they were. She had no idea,
perhaps, how deep my feeling for her had been, or what an influence it
produced in me. She had become the excellent wife of a good man, and a
happy mother. God's blessing rest upon her!
In my "Journey on Foot," and in most of my writings, satire had been
the prevailing characteristic. This displeased many people, who
thought
that this bent of mind could lead to no good purpose. The critics now
blamed me precisely for that which a far deeper feeling had expelled
from my breast. A new collection of Poetry, "Fancies and Sketches,"
which was published for the new year, showed satisfactorily what my
heart suffered. A paraphrase of the history of my own heart appeared
in
a serious vaudeville, "Parting and Meeting," with this difference
only,
that here the love was mutual: the piece was not presented on the
stage
till five years later.
Among my young friends in Copenhagen at that time was Orla Lehmann,
who
afterwards rose higher in popular favor, on account of his political
efforts than any man in Denmark. Full of animation, eloquent and
undaunted, his character of mind was one which interested me also. The
German language was much studied at his father's; they had received
there Heine's poems, and they were very attractive for young Orla. He
lived in the country, in the neighborhood of the castle of
Fredericksberg. I went there to see him, and he sang as I came one of
Heine's verses, "Thalatta, Thalatta, du eviges Meer." We read Heine
together; the afternoon and the evening passed, and I was obliged to
remain there all night; but I had on this evening made the
acquaintance
of a poet, who, as it seemed to me, sang from the soul; he supplanted
Hoffman, who, as might be seen by my "Journey on Foot," had formerly
had the greatest influence on me. In my youth there were only three
authors who as it were infused themselves into my blood,--Walter
Scott,
Hoffman, and Heine.
I betrayed more and more in my writings an unhealthy turn of mind. I
felt an inclination to seek for the melancholy in life, and to linger
on the dark side of things. I became sensitive and thought rather of
the blame than the praise which was lavished on me. My late school
education, which was forced, and my impulse to become an author whilst
I was yet a student, make it evident that my first work, the "Journey
on Foot," was not without grammatical errors. Had I only paid some one
to correct the press, which was a work I was unaccustomed to, then no
charge of this kind could have been brought against me. Now, on the
contrary, people laughed at these errors, and dwelt upon them, passing
over carelessly that in the book which had merit. I know people who
only read my poems to find out errors; they noted down, for instance,
how often I used the word _beautiful,_ or some similar word. A
gentleman, now a clergyman, at that time a writer of vaudevilles and a
critic, was not ashamed, in a company where I was, to go through
several of my poems in this style; so that a little girl of six years
old, who heard with amazement that he discovered everything to be
wrong, took the book, and pointing out the conjunction _and,_
said, "There is yet a little word about which you have not scolded."
He
felt what a reproof lay in the remark of the child; he looked ashamed
and kissed the little one. All this wounded me; but I had, since my
school-days, become somewhat timid, and that caused me to take it all
quietly: I was morbidly sensitive, and I was good-natured to a fault.
Everybody knew it, and some were on that account almost cruel to me.
Everybody wished to teach me; almost everybody said that I was spoiled
by praise, and therefore they would speak the truth to me. Thus I
heard
continually of my faults, the real and the ideal weaknesses. In the
mean time, however, my feelings burst forth; and then I said that I
would become a poet whom they should see honored. But this was
regarded
only as the crowning mark of the most unbearable vanity; and from
house
to house it was repeated. I was a good man, they said, but one of the
vainest in existence; and in that very time I was often ready wholly
to
despair of my abilities, and had, as in the darkest days of my school-
life, a feeling, as if my whole talents were a self-deception. I
almost
believed so; but it was more than I could bear, to hear the same thing
said, sternly and jeeringly, by others; and if I then uttered a proud,
an inconsiderate word, it was addressed to the scourge with which I
was
smitten; and when those who smite are those we love, then do the
scourges become scorpions.
For this reason Collin thought that I should make a little journey,--
for instance, to North Germany,--in order to divert my mind and
furnish
me with new ideas.
In the spring of 1831, I left Denmark for the first time. I saw L bek
and Hamburg. Everything astonished me and occupied my mind. I saw
mountains for the first time,--the Harzgebirge. The world expanded so
astonishingly before me. My good humor returned to me, as to the bird
of passage. Sorrow is the flock of sparrows which remains behind, and
builds in the nests of the birds of passage. But I did not feel myself
wholly restored.
In Dresden I made acquaintance with Tieck. Ingemann had given me a
letter to him. I heard him one evening read aloud one of Shakspeare's
plays. On taking leave of him, he wished me a poet's success, embraced
and kissed me; which made the deepest impression upon me. The
expression of his eyes I shall never forget. I left him with tears,
and
prayed most fervently to God for strength to enable me to pursue the
way after which my whole soul strove--strength, which should enable me
to express that which I felt in my soul; and that when I next saw
Tieck, I might be known and valued by him. It was not until several
years afterwards, when my later works were translated into German, and
well received in his country, that we saw each other again; I felt the
true hand-pressure of him who had given to me, in my second father-
land, the kiss of consecration.
In Berlin, a letter of Oersted's procured me the acquaintance of
Chamisso. That grave man, with his long locks and honest eyes, opened
the door to me himself, read the letter, and I know not how it was,
but
we understood each other immediately. I felt perfect confidence in
him,
and told him so, though it was in bad German. Chamisso understood
Danish; I gave him my poems, and he was the first who translated any
of
them, and thus introduced me into Germany. It was thus he spoke of me
at that time in the _Morgenblatt_: "Gifted with wit, fancy, humor,
and a national na vet , Andersen has still in his power tones which
awaken deeper echoes. He understands, in particular, how with perfect
ease, by a few slight but graphic touches, to call into existence
little pictures and landscapes, but which are often so peculiarly
local
as not to interest those who are unfamiliar with the home of the poet.
Perhaps that which may be translated from him, or which is so already,
may be the least calculated to give a proper idea of him."
Chamisso became a friend for my whole life. The pleasure which he had
in my later writings may be seen by the printed letters addressed to
me
in the collected edition of his works.
The little journey in Germany had great influence upon me, as my
Copenhagen friends acknowledged. The impressions of the journey were
immediately written down, and I gave them forth under the title of
"Shadow Pictures." Whether I were actually improved or not, there
still
prevailed at home the same petty pleasure in dragging out my faults,
the same perpetual schooling of me; and I was weak enough to endure it
from those who were officious meddlers. I seldom made a joke of it;
but
if I did so, it was called arrogance and vanity, and it was asserted
that I never would listen to rational people. Such an instructor once
asked me whether I wrote _Dog_ with a little _d_;--he had found
such an error of the press in my last work. I replied, jestingly,
"Yes,
because I here spoke of a little dog."
But these are small troubles, people will say. Yes, but they are drops
which wear hollows in the rock. I speak of it here; I feel a necessity
to do so; here to protest against the accusation of vanity, which,
since no other error can be discovered in my private life, is seized
upon, and even now is thrown at me like an old medal.
From the end of the year 1828, to the beginning of 1839, I maintained
myself alone by my writings. Denmark is a small country; but few books
at that time went to Sweden and Norway; and on that account the profit
could not be great. It was difficult for me to pull through,--doubly
difficult, because my dress must in some measure accord with the
circles into which I went. To produce, and always to be producing, was
destructive, nay, impossible. I translated a few pieces for the
theatre,--_La Quarantaine_, and _La Reine de seize ans_; and
as, at that time, a young composer of the name of Hartmann, a grandson
of him who composed the Danish folks-song of "King Christian stood by
the tall, tall mast," wished for text to an opera, I was of course
ready to write it. Through the writings of Hoffman, my attention had
been turned to the masked comedies of Gozzi: I read _Il Corvo_,
and finding that it was an excellent subject, I wrote, in a few weeks,
my opera-text of the Raven. It will sound strange to the ears of
countrymen when I say that I, at that time, recommended Hartmann; that
I gave my word for it, in my letter to the theatrical directors, for
his being a man of talent, who would produce something good. He now
takes the first rank among the living Danish composers.
I worked up also Walter Scott's "Bride of Lammermoor" for another
young
composer, Bredal. Both operas appeared on the stage; but I was
subjected to the most merciless criticism, as one who had stultified
the labors of foreign poets. What people had discovered to be good in
me before seemed now to be forgotten, and all talent was denied to me.
The composer Weyse, my earliest benefactor, whom I have already
mentioned, was, on the contrary, satisfied in the highest degree with
my treatment of these subjects. He told me that he had wished for a
long time to compose an opera from Walter Scott's "Kenilworth." He now
requested me to commence the joint work, and write the text. I had no
idea of the summary justice which would be dealt to me. I needed money
to live, and, what still more determined me to it, I felt flattered to
have to work with Weyse our most celebrated composer. It delighted me
that he, who had first spoken in my favor at Siboni's house, now, as
artist, sought a noble connection with me. I had scarcely half
finished
the text, when I was already blamed for having made use of a
well-known
romance. I wished to give it up; but Weyse consoled me, and encouraged
me to proceed. Afterwards, before he had finished the music, when I
was
about to travel abroad, I committed my fate, as regarded the text,
entirely to his hands. He wrote whole verses of it, and the altered
conclusion is wholly his own. It was a peculiarity of that singular
man
that he liked no book which ended sorrowfully. For that reason, Amy
must marry Leicester, and Elizabeth say, "Proud England, I am thine."
I
opposed this at the beginning; but afterwards I yielded, and the piece
was really half-created by Weyse. It was brought on the stage, but was
not printed, with the exception of the songs. To this followed
anonymous attacks: the city post brought me letters in which the
unknown writers scoffed at and derided me. That same year I published
a
new collection of poetry, "The Twelve Months of the Year;" and this
book, though it was afterwards pronounced to contain the greater part
of my best lyrical poems, was then condemned as bad.
At that time "The Monthly Review of Literature," though it is now gone
to its grave, was in its full bloom. At its first appearance, it
numbered among its co-workers some of the most distinguished names.
Its
want, however, was men who were qualified to speak ably on aesthetic
works. Unfortunately, everybody fancies himself able to give an
opinion
upon these; but people may write excellently on surgery or pedagogical
science, and may have a name in those things, and yet be dolts in
poetry: of this proofs may be seen. By degrees it became more and more
difficult for the critical bench to find a judge for poetical works.
The one, however, who, through his extraordinary zeal for writing and
speaking, was ready at hand, was the historian and states-councillor
Molbeck, who played, in our time, so great a part in the history of
Danish criticism, that I must speak of him rather more fully. He is an
industrious collector, writes extremely correct Danish, and his Danish
dictionary, let him be reproached with whatever want he may, is a most
highly useful work; but, as a judge of aesthetic works, he is one-
sided, and even fanatically devoted to party spirit. He belongs,
unfortunately, to the men of science, who are only one sixty-fourth of
a poet, and who are the most incompetent judges of aesthetics. He has,
for example, by his critiques on Ingemann's romances, shown how far he
is below the poetry which he censures. He has himself published a
volume of poems, which belong to the common run of books, "A Ramble
through Denmark," written in the _fade_, flowery style of those
times, and "A Journey through Germany, France, and Italy," which seems
to be made up out of books, not out of life. He sate in his study, or
in the Royal Library, where he has a post, when suddenly he became
director of the theatre and censor of the pieces sent in. He was
sickly, one-sided in judgment, and irritable: people may imagine the
result. He spoke of my first poems very favorably; but my star soon
sank for another, who was in the ascendant, a young lyrical poet,
Paludan M ller; and, as he no longer loved, he hated me. That is the
short history; indeed, in the selfsame Monthly Review the very poems
which had formerly been praised were now condemned by the same judge,
when they appeared in a new increased edition. There is a Danish
proverb, "When the carriage drags, everybody pushes behind;" and I
proved the truth of it now.
It happened that a new star in Danish literature ascended at this
time.
Heinrich Hertz published his "Letters from the Dead" anonymously: it
was a mode of driving all the unclean things out of the temple. The
deceased Baggesen sent polemical letters from Paradise, which
resembled
in the highest degree the style of that author. They contained a sort
of apotheosis of Heiberg, and in part attacks upon Oehlenschl ger and
Hauch. The old story about my orthographical errors was again revived;
my name and my school-days in Slagelse were brought into connection
with St. Anders.
I was ridiculed, or if people will, I was chastised. Hertz's book went
through all Denmark; people spoke of nothing but him. It made it still
more piquant that the author of the work could not be discovered.
People were enraptured, and justly. Heiberg, in his "Flying Post,"
defended a few aesthetical insignificants, but not me. I felt the
wound
of the sharp knife deeply. My enemies now regarded me as entirely shut
out from the world of spirits. I however in a short time published a
little book, "Vignettes to the Danish Poets," in which I characterized
the dead and the living authors in a few lines each, but only spoke of
that which was good in them. The book excited attention; it was
regarded as one of the best of my works; it was imitated, but the
critics did not meddle with it. It was evident, on this occasion, as
had already been the case, that the critics never laid hands on those
of my works which were the most successful.
My affairs were now in their worst condition; and precisely in that
same year in which a stipend for travelling had been conferred upon
Hertz, I also had presented a petition for the same purpose. The
universal opinion was that I had reached the point of culmination, and
if I was to succeed in travelling it must be at this present time. I
felt, what since then has become an acknowledged fact, that travelling
would be the best school for me. In the mean time I was told that to
bring it under consideration I must endeavor to obtain from the most
distinguished poets and men of science a kind of recommendation;
because this very year there were so many distinguished young men who
were soliciting a stipend, that it would be difficult among these to
put in an available claim. I therefore obtained recommendations for
myself; and I am, so far as I know, the only Danish poet who was
obliged to produce recommendations to prove that he was a poet.
And here also it is remarkable, that the men who recommended me have
each one made prominent some very different qualification which gave
me
a claim: for instance, Oehlenschl ger, my lyrical power, and the
earnestness that was in me; Ingemann, my skill in depicting popular
life; Heiberg declared that, since the days of Wessel, no Danish poet
had possessed so much humor as myself; Oersted remarked, every one,
they who were against me as well as those who were for me, agreed on
one subject, and this was that I was a _true_ poet. Thiele
expressed himself warmly and enthusiastically about the power which he
had seen in me, combating against the oppression and the misery of
life. I received a stipend for travelling; Hertz a larger and I a
smaller one: and that also was quite in the order of things.
"Now be happy," said my friends, "make yourself aware of your
unbounded
good fortune! Enjoy the present moment, as it will probably be the
only
time in which you will get abroad. You shall hear what people say
about
you while you are travelling, and how we shall defend you; sometimes,
however, we shall not be able to do that."
It was painful to me to hear such things said; I felt a compulsion of
soul to be away, that I might, if possible, breathe freely; but sorrow
is firmly seated on the horse of the rider. More than one sorrow
oppressed my heart, and although I opened the chambers of my heart to
the world, one or two of them I keep locked, nevertheless. On setting
out on my journey, my prayer to God was that I might die far away from
Denmark, or return strengthened for activity, and in a condition to
produce works which should win for me and my beloved ones joy and
honor.
Precisely at the moment of setting out on my journey, the form of my
beloved arose in my heart. Among the few whom I have already named,
there are two who exercised a great influence upon my life and my
poetry, and these I must more particularly mention. A beloved mother,
an unusually liberal-minded and well educated lady, Madame L ss c, had
introduced me into her agreeable circle of friends; she often felt the
deepest sympathy with me in my troubles; she always turned my
attention
to the beautiful in nature and the poetical in the details of life,
and
as almost everyone regarded me as a poet, she elevated my mind; yes,
and if there be tenderness and purity in anything which I have
written,
they are among those things for which I have especially to be thankful
to her. Another character of great importance to me was Collin's son
Edward. Brought up under fortunate circumstances of life, he was
possessed of that courage and determination which I wanted. I felt
that
he sincerely loved me, and I full of affection, threw myself upon him
with my whole soul; he passed on calmly and practically through the
business of life. I often mistook him at the very moment when he felt
for me most deeply, and when he would gladly have infused into me a
portion of his own character,--to me who was as a reed shaken by the
wind. In the practical part of life, he, the younger, stood actively
by
my side, from the assistance which he gave in my Latin exercises, to
the arranging the business of bringing out editions of my works. He
has
always remained the same; and were I to enumerate my friends, he would
be placed by me as the first on the list. When the traveller leaves
the
mountains behind him, then for the first time he sees them in their
true form: so is it also with friends.
I arrived at Paris by way of Cassel and the Rhine. I retained a vivid
impression of all that I saw. The idea for a poem fixed itself firmer
and firmer in my mind; and I hoped, as it became more clearly worked
out, to propitiate by it my enemies. There is an old Danish folks-song
of Agnete and the Merman, which bore an affinity to my own state of
mind, and to the treatment of which I felt an inward impulse. The song
tells that Agnete wandered solitarily along the shore, when a merman
rose up from the waves and decoyed her by his speeches. She followed
him to the bottom of the sea, remained there seven years, and bore him
seven children. One day, as she sat by the cradle, she heard the
church
bells sounding down to her in the depths of the sea, and a longing
seized her heart to go to church. By her prayers and tears she induced
the merman to conduct her to the upper world again, promising soon to
return. He prayed her not to forget his children, more especially the
little one in the cradle; stopped up her ears and her mouth, and then
led her upwards to the sea-shore. When, however, she entered the
church, all the holy images, as soon as they saw her, a daughter of
sin
and from the depths of the sea, turned themselves round to the walls.
She was affrighted, and would not return, although the little ones in
her home below were weeping.
I treated this subject freely, in a lyrical and dramatic manner. I
will
venture to say that the whole grew out of my heart; all the
recollections of our beechwoods and the open sea were blended in it.
In the midst of the excitement of Paris I lived in the spirit of the
Danish folks-songs. The most heartfelt gratitude to God filled my
soul,
because I felt that all which I had, I had received through his mercy;
yet at the same time I took a lively interest in all that surrounded
me. I was present at one of the July festivals, in their first
freshness; it was in the year 1833. I saw the unveiling of Napoleon's
pillar. I gazed on the world-experienced King Louis Philippe, who is
evidently defended by Providence. I saw the Duke of Orleans, full of
health and the enjoyment of life, dancing at the gay people's ball, in
the gay Maison de Ville. Accident led in Paris to my first meeting
with
Heine, the poet, who at that time occupied the throne in my poetical
world. When I told him how happy this meeting and his kind words made
me, he said that this could not very well be the case, else I should
have sought him out. I replied, that I had not done so precisely
because I estimated him so highly. I should have feared that he might
have thought it ridiculous in me, an unknown Danish poet, to seek him
out; "and," added I, "your sarcastic smile would deeply have wounded
me." In reply, he said something friendly.
Several years afterwards, when we again met in Paris, he gave me a
cordial reception, and I had a view into the brightly poetical portion
of his soul.
Paul D port met me with equal kindness. Victor Hugo also received me.
During my journey to Paris, and the whole month that I spent there, I
heard not a single word from home. Could my friends perhaps have
nothing agreeable to tell me? At length, however, a letter arrived; a
large letter, which cost a large sum in postage. My heart beat with
joy
and yearning impatience; it was, indeed, my first letter. I opened it,
but I discovered not a single written word, nothing but a Copenhagen
newspaper, containing a lampoon upon me, and that was sent to me all
that distance with postage unpaid, probably by the anonymous writer
himself. This abominable malice wounded me deeply. I have never
discovered who the author was, perhaps he was one of those who
afterwards called me friend, and pressed my hand. Some men have base
thoughts: I also have mine.
It is a weakness of my country-people, that commonly, when abroad,
during their residence in large cities, they almost live exclusively
in
company together; they must dine together, meet at the theatre, and
see
all the lions of the place in company. Letters are read by each other;
news of home is received and talked over, and at last they hardly know
whether they are in a foreign land or their own. I had given way to
the
same weakness in Paris; and in leaving it, therefore, determined for
one month to board myself in some quiet place in Switzerland, and live
only among the French, so as to be compelled to speak their language,
which was necessary to me in the highest degree.
In the little city of Lodi, in a valley of the Jura mountains, where
the snow fell in August, and the clouds floated below us, was I
received by the amiable family of a wealthy watchmaker. They would not
hear a word about payment. I lived among them and their friends as a
relation, and when we parted the children wept. We had become friends,
although I could not understand their patois; they shouted loudly into
my ear, because they fancied I must be deaf, as I could not understand
them. In the evenings, in that elevated region, there was a repose and
a stillness in nature, and the sound of the evening bells ascended to
us from the French frontier. At some distance from the city, stood a
solitary house, painted white and clean; on descending through two
cellars, the noise of a millwheel was heard, and the rushing waters of
a river which flowed on here, hidden from the world. I often visited
this place in my solitary rambles, and here I finished my poem of
"Agnete and the Merman," which I had begun in Paris.
I sent home this poem from Lodi; and never, with my earlier or my
later
works, were my hopes so high as they were now. But it was received
coldly. People said I had done it in imitation of Oehlenschl ger, who
at one time sent home masterpieces. Within the last few years, I
fancy,
this poem has been somewhat more read, and has met with its friends.
It
was, however, a step forwards, and it decided, as it were,
unconsciously to me, my pure lyrical phasis. It has been also of late
critically adjudged in Denmark, that, notwithstanding that on its
first appearance it excited far less attention than some of my earlier
and less successful works, still that in this the poetry is of a
deeper, fuller, and more powerful character than anything which I had
hitherto produced.
This poem closes one portion of my life.
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