“But what a great job you have done, Grandfather!” she said. “Holger the Dane and our whole old Danish coat-of-arms! I think I’ve seen that face before!”
“No, I don’t think you have,” said the old grandfather. “But I’ve seen it, and I’ve striven to carve it into the wood as I remember it. It was at the time of the Battle of Copenhagen on April 2, 1801 when we learned that we were like the Danes of old! I was on the Danmark in Steen Bille’s8 fleet, and there was a man by my side. It seemed as if the cannon balls were afraid of him! He sang old songs cheerfully and shot and fought as if he were super-human. I still remember his face, but where he came from and where he went afterwards, I don’t know. No one knows. I’ve often thought that maybe it was old Holger the Dane himself who had swum down from Kronborg to help us in our time of danger. That was my thought, and there is his image!”
The figure cast its huge shadow way up the wall, even onto the ceiling. It looked as if it were the real Holger the Dane himself standing back there because the shadow moved, but that could also be because the candle flame wasn’t burning steadily. His daughter-in-law kissed the old grandfather and led him into the big chair by the table. She and her husband, who was the old grandfather’s son and the father of the little boy in the bed, ate their supper, and the old grandfather talked about the Danish lions and hearts—about strength and gentleness, and he quite clearly explained that there was a strength other than that which lay in the sword. He pointed to the shelf where old books were lying, among them all of Holberg’s plays. They were often read because they were so entertaining, and you really felt that you knew all the characters from the old days in them.
“See, he knew how to carve too,” said the old grandfather. “He cut the wrong and rough stuff off of people the best he could.” And old grandfather nodded over at the mirror, where the calendar was hanging with a picture of the Round Tower, and then he said, “Tycho Brahe9 was another one who used the sword, not to cut flesh and bone, but to hew a clearer way through the stars in the sky. And then he whose father was of my trade, the old wood carver’s son, whom we ourselves have seen with his white hair and the strong shoulders, who’s known all over the world! Yes, he could carve. I only whittle. Holger the Dane can appear in many ways so that the whole world hears of Denmark’s strength. Let’s drink a toast to Bertel!”10
But the little boy in the bed clearly saw old Kronborg by the Øresund, and the real Holger the Dane, who sat deep down there with his beard grown fast to the marble table and dreamed about everything that happens up here. Holger the Dane also dreamed about the poor little room where the wood carver sat. He heard everything that was said and nodded in his dreams and said, “Just remember me, Danes! Keep me in your thoughts! I will come in your hour of need!”
And out at Kronborg it was a clear, sunny day, and the wind carried the sounds of the hunting horns from neighboring Sweden. The ships sailed by with their greeting “boom! boom!” and from Kronborg came the reply “boom! boom!” But Holger the Dane didn’t wake up no matter how loudly they shot since they were just saying “good day” and “many thanks.” It will take a different kind of shooting to wake him up, but he will do so, for there is plenty of courage and strength in Holger the Dane.
NOTES
1 The Danish prince Canute I became undisputed king of England in 1016, as he did of Denmark in 1016 and Norway in 1028.
2 King of Denmark from 1157 to 1182.
3 Queen of Denmark, Norway, and Sweden who lived from 1353 to 1412.
4 Daughter of King Christian IV (1621-1698); for many years she was imprisoned, for suspected treason, in the blue tower at the castle in Copenhagen. Her Jammersminde (Memory of Woe) is considered a classic of Danish autobiography.
5 Native Norwegian Ivar Huitfeldt (1665-1710) was a Danish naval hero; he sacrificed himself and his ship Dannebrog in a battle on October 4, 1710, to prevent the Swedish advance into Køge Bay.
6 Norwegian missionary to Greenland (1686-1758).
7 King of Denmark (1808-1839) and of Norway (1808-1814).
8 Danish naval officer (1751-1833).
9 Danish astronomer Tycho Brahe (1546-1601) built an observatory on the island of Hven.
10 Danish neoclassical sculptor Bertel Thorvaldsen (1770-1844).
BIRD PHOENIX
IN THE GARDEN OF Eden, under the Tree of Knowledge, stood a hedge of roses. Inside the first rose that bloomed, a bird was born. Its flight was like light, glorious its colors and splendid its song.
But when Eve picked the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge, and she and Adam were chased from the Garden of Eden, a spark fell from the avenging angel’s sword of flame into the nest and ignited it. The bird died in the flames, but from the red egg a new bird arose—the only—the always only—bird Phoenix. Legend tells that it nests in Arabia and that every hundred years it burns itself up in its nest, and from the red egg a new Phoenix flies, the only one in the world.
The bird flutters around us, swift as light, glorious in color and splendid in song. When the mother sits by her child’s cradle, it’s by the pillow and sweeps a halo around the child’s head with its wings. It flies through the rooms of frugality and brings sunshine there, where the simple cupboards waft with the scent of violets.
But bird Phoenix isn’t just Arabia’s bird. It flutters in the glow of the northern lights over the icy fields of Lapland. It leaps amongst the yellow flowers in Greenland’s short summer. Under the copper mines of Fahlun1 and in England’s coal mines, it flies like a moth with dust on its wings over the song book in the pious worker’s hand. It sails on the lotus leaf by the holy waters of the Ganges, and the eyes of the Hindu girl light up when she sees it.
Bird Phoenix! Don’t you know him? The bird of paradise, the sacred swan of song. It sat on the Thespian cart as a gossiping raven and flapped with its soiled black wings. With a swan’s red sonorous beak it glided over Iceland’s bards. It rested on Shakespeare’s shoulder as one of Odin’s ravens,2 and whispered in his ear: Immortality. It flew with the song festival through the great hall of Wartburg.3
Bird Phoenix! Don’t you know him? He sang the Marseillaise for you, and you kissed the feathers that fell from his wings. He came in the glory of paradise, and perhaps you turned away to the sparrow with gilded wings.
Bird of paradise! Renewed each century, born in flames and dying in flames. Your picture framed in gold hangs in the galleries of the rich, while you yourself often fly wildly and alone—a legend only: Bird Phoenix of Arabia.
In the Garden of Eden when you were born under the tree of knowledge, in the first blooming rose, God kissed you and gave you your right name—Poetry.
NOTES
1 Copper-mining town northwest of Stockholm.
2 In Nordic mythology, Odin has two ravens, Hugin and Munin, who fly around the world every day and then whisper everything they see and hear in Odin’s ear.
3 According to legend, Wartburg castle was the site of a minstrels’ contest in 1207 ordered by Count Herman of Thüringen.
THE FAMILY OF HEN-GRETHE
HEN-GRETHE WAS THE only resident human being in the handsome new house that was built for the hens and the ducks at the manor. It stood where the old knight’s castle had stood, with its tower, corbie-gabled roof, moat, and a drawbridge. Close by were overgrown trees and bushes. This was where the garden had been, which had stretched all the way down to a big lake that was now a swamp. Rooks, crows, and jackdaws flew screaming over the old trees—teeming flocks of birds. Shooting at them didn’t decrease their number at all, in fact, they seemed to increase. You could hear them from inside the henhouse, where Hen-Grethe sat with ducklings running across the toes of her wooden shoes. She knew every hen and every duck from the time it hatched. She was proud of her hens and ducks and proud of the fine house that had been built for them. Her little room was clean and neat. This was insisted upon by the lady of the manor to whom the henhouse belonged. She often brought fashionable and distinguished guests to show them “the barracks of the h
ens and ducks,” as she called it.
There was both a clothes closet and an easy chair. There was a chest of drawers, and on top of it was a shiny polished brass plate, engraved with the word “Grubbe.” That was the name of the old noble family that had lived in the castle. The brass plate had been found during the construction there, and the schoolteacher had said that it had no other value than as an old keepsake. The schoolteacher knew a lot about the place and about old times. He had knowledge from books, and there were so many things he had written up in his desk drawers. He had great knowledge of olden days. Maybe the oldest crow knew more about it and shouted it in his language, but that was Crocawish and the schoolmaster didn’t understand that, no matter how wise he was.
After a warm summer day a fog would rise from the swamp so that it looked like a whole lake lay out behind the old trees where the rooks, crows, and jackdaws flew. That’s how it had looked when the knight, Grubbe, had lived there and the old castle stood with its thick red brick walls. At that time the watchdog’s chain reached past the gate, and you came through the tower into the stone paved hallway that led to the rooms. The windows were narrow with small panes, even in the big hall where dances were held. By the time of the last Grubbe no one could remember the last dance, and yet there was still an old kettledrum lying there, that had been used for music making. There had been an elaborately carved cabinet in which rare flower bulbs were kept because Mrs. Grubbe had been fond of planting and cultivating trees and herbs. Her husband preferred riding out to shoot wolves and wild boar, and his little daughter Marie always accompanied him. At the age of five she sat proudly on her horse and looked around bravely with big black eyes. She enjoyed cracking the whip amongst the hunting dogs, but her father would rather she had cracked it at the peasant boys who came to watch the gentry.
The farmer in the earthen house close by had a son, Søren, the same age as the little noble maiden. He was good at climbing and always had to climb up in the trees to get bird nests for her. The birds screamed as loudly as they could, and one of the largest of them pecked him right over the eye so the blood streamed out. They thought the eye was lost at first, but it had not been injured. Marie Grubbe called him my Søren. That was a great favor, and it paid off for his father, poor Jon. One day he had done something wrong and was to be punished—he had to ride the wooden horse. It stood in the courtyard with four stakes for legs, and only one narrow plank for a back. Here Jon had to sit astraddle with some heavy bricks tied to his legs so he wouldn’t sit too lightly. He grimaced in pain, and Søren cried and begged little Marie for help. She immediately ordered that Søren’s father be let down, and when they didn’t obey her, she stamped her feet on the stone bridge and pulled at her father’s sleeve so it ripped. She wanted what she wanted, and she got her way. Søren’s father was allowed to get down.
Mrs. Grubbe had come up, stroked her little daughter across her hair and looked at her with gentle eyes, but Marie didn’t understand why.
She wanted to go with the hunting dogs, and not with her mother, who went into the garden and down towards the lake where white and yellow water lilies were in bloom, and cat tails and flowering rushes waved amongst the reeds. “How lovely,” she said as she looked at the lush freshness. In the garden stood a tree that she had planted herself, a rare one at that time. It was a copper beech, and with its dark brown leaves, it stood like a kind of negro among the other trees. It needed strong sunlight, otherwise in constant shade it would turn green like the other trees and thereby lose its distinctiveness. There were many bird nests in the tall chestnuts and also in the bushes and grass. It was as if the birds knew that they were safe there where no one dared shoot off a gun.
Little Marie came into the garden with Søren one day. We know he could climb, and he collected both eggs and downy baby birds. The birds flew in fear and terror, small and big alike! The plovers in the meadow, and rooks, crows, and jackdaws from the treetops shrieked and shrieked. It’s a cry that they have to this day.
“What are you children doing?!” shouted the gentle mistress. “These are ungodly acts!”
Søren was down-hearted, and the little noble maiden also looked away a little, but then said shortly and sullenly, “I have permission from father.”
“Away! Away!” cried the big black birds and flew, but they came back the next day for that was their home.
But the quiet, gentle mistress wasn’t at home there for long. Our Lord called her to him, and there she was also more at home than at the manor. Stately church bells rang out as her body was driven to the church. Many poor men’s eyes were misty because she had been good to them.
When she was gone, no one took care of her plants, and the garden fell into decay.
It was said that Master Grubbe was a hard man, but his daughter, young as she was, could cope with him. He had to laugh, and she got her way. She was twelve years old now, big and strong, and her black eyes pierced right through people. She rode her horse like a man, and shot her gun like an experienced hunter.
One day a great and most distinguished company came to that part of the country. It was the young king and his friend and half-brother, Ulrik Frederik Gyldenløve. They were hunting wild boar and would stay at Sir Grubbe’s castle for the day and night.
Gyldenløve sat beside Marie Grubbe at the table. He turned her head and gave her a kiss, as if they were relatives, but she slapped him and said that she couldn’t stand him. Everyone laughed a lot at that, as if it were very entertaining.
And perhaps it was at that because five years later, when Marie had turned seventeen, a messenger brought a letter. Mr. Gyldenløve asked for the noble maiden’s hand. That was something!
“He is the most distinguished and courteous man in the kingdom,” said the squire. “This can’t be rejected.”
“I don’t care much for him,” said Marie Grubbe, but she didn’t reject the country’s most distinguished man, who sat by the side of the king.
Silver, woolens, and linens were sent by ship to Copenhagen. She made the journey by land in ten days. The trousseau met head winds or no wind, and four months passed before it arrived. When it did, Mrs. Glydenløve was gone.
“I’d rather lie on coarse canvas than in his silk bed!” she said. “I’d rather walk barefoot than drive with him in the coach!”
Late one evening in November two women came riding into Aarhus. It was Glydenløve’s wife, Marie Grubbe, and her maid. They had come from Veile, where they had arrived by ship from Copenhagen. They rode up to Sir Grubbe’s brick walled villa. He was not happy about this visit and had angry words for her, but he gave her a chamber in which to sleep. In the morning she got sweet porridge but not sweet words. She was not used to having her father’s evil temper turned towards her, but since she didn’t have a mild temperament, she gave as good as she got. She talked back to him and spoke with bitterness and hatred about her husband. She didn’t want to live with him—She was too decent and respectable for that.
A year passed, and it did not pass pleasantly. Harsh words were exchanged between father and daughter, and that should never happen. Harsh words bear harsh fruit. How would this end?
“We two can’t remain under one roof,” her father said one day. “Move out to our old castle, but bite your tongue off before you start spreading lies!”
So the two parted. She moved with her maid out to the old castle where she had been born and grown up, and where her quiet pious mother lay in the burial chamber of the church. An old cattle herder lived on the property, but he was the only servant. There were cobwebs hanging in the rooms, black and heavy with dust. The garden was growing wild. Hops vines and bindweed twisted nets between trees and bushes, and hemlock and nettles grew bigger and spread. The copper beech was overgrown and standing in shade. Its leaves were now as green as the other ordinary trees, and its days of splendor were past. Teeming flocks of rooks, crows, and jackdaws flew over the tall chestnut trees. There was screaming and shrieking as if they really had news to te
ll each other. Now she was back, the little one who, with her friend, had stolen their eggs and young ones. The thief himself, who had done the stealing, had become a sailor. He sat on the high mast and received a flogging when he didn’t behave himself.
All of this was told by the schoolmaster in our own time. He had collected and gathered it together from books and notes. It all lay hidden away in the drawer with many other writings.
“Rise and fall is the way of the world,” he said. “It’s a strange story.” And we do want to hear what happened to Marie Grubbe, but we mustn’t forget Hen-Grethe. She’s sitting in her fine henhouse in our own time. Marie Grubbe sat here in her time, but with a different disposition than old Hen-Grethe’s.
The winter passed, spring and summer too, and then the blustery autumn came again with clammy, cold fogs from the sea. It was a lonely life, a boring life there in the castle.
Marie Grubbe took her gun and went out on the heath. She shot hares and foxes and whatever birds she could hit. More than once she met the nobleman Palle Dyre from Nørrebœk, who was also out with his gun and dogs. He was big and strong, and he boasted about that when they spoke together. He could have measured up to the deceased Mr. Brockenhuus from Egeskov in Fyn, whose strength was legendary. Palle Dyre had followed his example and had had an iron chain fastened to the top of his entrance portal. It had a hunting horn attached to it, and when he rode home through the gate, he grabbed the chain and lifted himself and his horse off the ground and blew the horn.
“Come see for yourself, Mrs. Marie,” he said. “There’s fresh air at Nørrebæk!”
It’s not recorded when she moved to his manor, but engravings on the candlesticks in Nørrebœk church say they were gifts of Palle Dyre and Marie Grubbe of Nørrebœk.
Palle Dyre had a big body and brute strength. He drank like a sponge and was like a barrel that could never be filled. He snored like a whole pen full of pigs and was red and puffy looking.
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