“ ‘But where is his wife: the princess, the highborn lady?’
“ ‘Wooooh.… Waaaaah …’ pipes the wind in a high-pitched voice. ‘She is in the Blue Tower, at the back of the king’s castle. The waves of the ocean reach the slimy walls. She has been imprisoned there now for many years, in a chamber where the fireplace gives more smoke than heat, and there is only one window, high above, to let in the gray light. How far she has fallen: King Christian IV’s beloved, spoiled daughter, the elegant lady, the favorite at court. But memory can reconstruct the glory that was and change the foul walls of the prison, cover them with the splendor of her childhood and youth. She recalls her father’s mild, lovable traits, her magnificent wedding, and her years of exile in Holland, England, and on the Danish island of Bornholm.
“ ‘No suffering is so heavy that true love cannot lighten it.’
“ ‘But then she was with her husband, they had each other. Now she is alone. She does not even know where he is buried, for that no one knows.
“ ‘Loyalty to her husband was her crime.’
“She was imprisoned for twenty-two years,” said Godfather slowly. “Outside, life went on, only inside her tower had time stood still. Life always goes on, even tragedy cannot stop it; but we will pause for a moment and think of Eleanora Christine, and the words of the song about her:
“My oath to my husband I kept,
And alone tears of sorrow I wept.
“Do you see this picture?” asked Godfather. “It is winter. King Frost has made so strong a bridge between the islands of Laaland and Fyn that even an army dare cross it. Charles X of Sweden takes advantage of it. Murder and plunder follow in his footsteps; want and fear are rampant throughout Denmark.
“The Swedes have laid siege to Copenhagen; their army is outside the walls. It is bitterly cold and snow is falling. True to their king and true to themselves, the men and women of Copenhagen are ready to fight for their city and for their lives. Every artisan and his apprentices, every student at the university and his teachers are helping to man the defenses. Under the worst attack they show no fear. King Frederik III has taken an oath that he will not leave the city ‘but die in his nest.’ He rides on top of the city walls with his queen at his side. He is courageous, steadfast, and loves his country. Let the Swedes cover their uniforms with white shirts so that they cannot be seen in the snow; those white shirts will be their winding sheets.
“The Swedish army attacks, they attempt to storm the walls of the city. Logs and stones are thrown over the ramparts. Women come, bearing caldrons of pitch and tar, which are poured on the advancing enemy. During that night king and commoner are as one man protecting his city. Copenhagen is saved! In the morning the bells of the city peal for victory and prayers of thanks are offered. Truly, during that night the commoners won their patent of nobility.”
“What was the result?” asked Godfather, nodding. “Just look at the next picture. There is the wife of Bishop Svane driving in a closed carriage; but that is a privilege reserved for the ladies of the nobility. Some young, proud aristocrats stop the carriage and destroy it. The bishop’s wife must walk to church.
“Is that the whole story? … No, it is only the beginning, and much more than a carriage will be broken—the power of the haughty nobility.
“The mayor of Copenhagen, Hans Nansen, and Bishop Svane meet, shake hands, and agree that something must be done. They speak wisely and honestly; in the churches and in their homes, the people hear of the solemn accord between the bishop and the mayor. Their words become action. The harbor is closed, the gates of the city are locked. All power is given to the king who stayed in the city in the time of peril, who said that he would ‘die in his nest.’ The great bells of the church are ringing. The era of the divine right of kings has begun.
“We turn the page and by the same act we travel forward in time.
“ ‘Tallyho! Tallyho! The heather is blooming and spreading over fields where the peasant used to plow.
“ ‘Tallyho!’ Listen to the hunters’ horns and the barking dogs. There they are,” said Godfather, and pointed to the picture of a hunting scene that he had pasted on the page. “King Christian V is there among them. He is young and merry. Everywhere there is gaiety, in the castles and in the burghers’ houses.
“In the halls wax candles are burning, in the courtyards, torches; and Copenhagen has got its first street lamps. Everything is so new and shiny. There is a new nobility, imported from Germany. They are called barons and counts, and their privileges and their wealth increase. At court more German than Danish is heard. Yet there is one who speaks Danish purely: Kingo, a poor weaver’s son who has risen to be bishop and who writes the most beautiful psalms.
“Another son of a commoner—his father was only a wine tapster—is codifying the law. The name of Christian V is engraved in gold on the cover of these lawbooks that will stand for generations to come. Griffenfeld, the commoner’s son, became the mightiest man in the kingdom and was rewarded with a title and enemies. The latter proved to be the stronger. His crest of nobility was broken in two; and only at the very last minute, when the executioner’s sword had already been lifted, came the reprieve: life imprisonment. He was sent to an island off the coast of Norway: Munkholm, Denmark’s St. Helena.
“In the king’s castle the festivities continued, the grandeur and the pomp. Here danced the courtiers and their ladies.”
“Now we have come to the reign of Frederik IV, the period of the great Scandinavian Wars. See those proud ships in the harbor, see the rolling waves of the sea. Yes, they can tell stories of courage and honor, of Danish victory. We remember the names Sehested and Gyldenløve! And Hvidtfeldt, who saved the Danish fleet by staying on his burning ship until the flames reached the powder kegs and blew him and his men to heaven. We recall the times, the conflicts that raged, and the heroes. The greatest of them all was Peter Torden-skjold. Torden … skjold … shield of thunder, a child from the mountains of Norway who guarded the Danish coast.
“From Greenland a milder wind blows; it carries the scent of Bethlehem. Hans Egede is preaching God’s word in those icy regions.
“You will notice,” said Godfather, “that half this page is covered with gold; the other half has the gray color of ashes, and its edges are charred, as if they had caught on fire.
“In Copenhagen the plague is raging. The streets are empty, the doors of the houses closed. On some of them a cross has been drawn with chalk; this means that the pest is within. On others there is a black cross, for everyone within is dead.
“During the night the dead are buried. The bells do not toll. The dead—and often the dying along with them—are carried out of the houses, piled on carts that rumble through the streets with their loads of corpses.
“From the taverns come boisterous singing and rowdy screams. The survivors are trying to forget their grief and fear; they would like to escape time until this terrible time ends. Yes, all things must come to an end, no matter how horrible they are. But when one misfortune ends, another may begin. This is the end of the page but not the end of Copenhagen’s misery.”
“King Frederik IV is still alive. His hair is gray. From a window in his castle he looks out over his city. It is late in the year and looks as if a storm might be on its way.
“In a small house by the western gate a little boy is playing with a ball. He throws it up, it lands in the attic. The boy takes a candle and climbs up to look for it. He sets fire to the house and within minutes the whole street is ablaze. It becomes as light as day and the flames are reflected in the clouds. The fire spreads. There is so much for it to feed upon: straw, hay, firewood piled high for use during the winter, barrels filled with tar. Everything is burning and there is chaos. Weeping and screaming mixes with the crashing sound of falling beams.
“In the midst of it all is the old king. He is on horseback giving orders to try to stem the panic. Some of the houses are blown up, in the hope that their destruction will make e
mpty places over which the flames cannot leap, but it is in vain. There is fire in the northern district of the city now. The churches are burning: St. Petri and the Church of Our Lady. Listen, the bells of one of them is playing a psalm. ‘Turn Your anger away from us, Lord of Hosts!’
“The Round Tower and the king’s castle are untouched by flames; they stand alone, surrounded by charred and smoking ruins. King Frederik IV does his best to alleviate the suffering of the people; he is the friend of the homeless. May God bless his name.”
“Now for the next page. Here comes a golden carriage. In front of and behind it are an armed escort. An iron chain crosses the square in front of the king’s castle. It is to keep the people at a distance. When a commoner enters the square he must remove his hat and proceed bareheaded. People avoid walking there. But there comes one man, his hat in hand, his head bowed, and his gaze directed toward the cobblestones. It is the greatest man of his time, Ludvig Holberg, the witty and clever playwright. The Royal Theater has been closed and called a ‘den of iniquity.’ Laughter, song, dancing, music—everything that is gay is now called immoral. A somber, dark Christianity rules the land.”
“King Frederik V is crowned. His mother called him der Dänenprinz, for she neither could nor would speak Danish. The iron chain is removed from the square in front of the castle. Old times make way for new. The sun has come out. The birds are singing. The Royal Theater is open. Danish is spoken in court again. Laughter and music are heard. After the period of fasting come days of joy. The peasants are dancing around the maypole once more. The arts are thriving. Everything is in flower and the harvest will be good. The new queen, Princess Louise of England, loves her new people. She is gentle and kind. The sun rays are singing of three great queens of Denmark: Philippa, Elisabeth, and Louise.
“Our bodies are more perishable than either our souls or our names. Again from England comes a princess, so young and yet so soon to be abandoned. Future poets will write about Queen Matilda, finding inspiration in the suffering of one so kind and lovely. The power of poetry over man and time is great. When the Castle of Copenhagen burned, an attempt was made to save the most valuable treasures within it. Two seamen had been carrying hampers filled with silverware and other valuables, when through the smoke they caught a glimpse of a bronze bust of Christian IV. They decided that it must be saved at all cost, and left the silver and gold. King Christian they knew from the poet Ewald’s songs set to Harmann’s beautiful music. Yes, there is power in poetry and music; and one day Queen Matilda, too, may be loved when a poet has told us of her tragic life.”
“Again we turn a page. The stone with the inscription to Corfits Ulfeldt still stands, telling of his shame and dishonor. In what other country in the world can you find such a monument? Now by the western gate another monument is being raised. Look at it. How many others will you find like it?
“Rays of the sun kiss the stone that is the foundation of the obelisk of freedom. The church bells are ringing, and everywhere flags are flying. The people cheer Crown Prince Frederik. Bernstorff, Revent-low, Colbjørnson: their names are on the lips of the young and the old. Gratefully, with happy hearts and shining eyes, they read the inscription:
“ ‘The king decrees the end of serfdom; henceforth, the aim of the laws of the land shall be to help the peasant so that he may be enlightened, industrious, honest, happy: an honorable citizen of the country.’
“The children of light sing: ‘The good, the true, and the beautiful are flourishing. Soon Ulfeldt’s stone of shame will disappear, but the obelisk of freedom will stand forever, trebly blessed: by God, by the king, and by the people.’ ”
“There is an old road that ends
where the world ends.
“The high seas are open to both friend and enemy; and the enemy came. Sailing up the Sound was the mighty English fleet. A great power had come to make war on a small one:
“Every man with great courage fought,
Counting the embrace of death as naught.
“To this day flags are flown on the second of April, in memory of Nelson’s attack on the Danish fleet.”
“A few years later,” Godfather said, and his face became stern. “Again a fleet of English frigates is sighted in the Sound. Is it sailing for Russia or for Denmark? No one knows, not even the officers and men aboard the ships, for they are sailing with sealed orders.
“There is a legend, a folk tale, about an English captain who was present that fateful morning, when the seal was broken and the order read aloud: the command that the Danish fleet was to be attacked. According to the legend, he stepped forward and declared, ‘I have taken an oath to fight for the English flag; and I would fight to my death in an honorable struggle. But I will not come sneaking like a thief in the night.’ And having said these words, he threw himself overboard. His body was found a few days later by Swedish fishermen.
“Without declaring war, the English troops landed and laid siege to Copenhagen. The city was in flames, surrender was inevitable, and Denmark lost its fleet. But we did not lose our courage or our faith in God. As God could humble us, so could He raise us again. Wounds that are not fatal eventually heal. Soon the sun shone on the city. New houses were built on the ruins of the old.
“Copenhagen’s history is filled with consolations: Hans Christian Oersted’s discoveries were building a bridge to the future. A great building was being constructed to house the sculpture of Thorvaldsen. All the people of Copenhagen, rich and poor alike, had given money to make it possible.
“You remember the great granite blocks that came sailing down on ice floes from Norway, the ones I talked about in the beginning of the book, those on which Copenhagen was first built. Some of them were used to make the museum, where you can see the beauty that Thorvaldsen’s hand has hewn in marble.
“Try to remember what I have told you. How the sandbank rose to form a harbor, on which a bishop built his castle; and later a king built a larger castle; and now a temple to beauty stands on ‘Thieves’ Island.’ The northeast wind’s curse is forgotten, and the words of the children of light have come true.
“Many storms have raged and new ones may come; but even the worst storm must end and be forgotten. Only the true, the good, and the beautiful are remembered forever.
“This is the end of the book, but not of the history of Copenhagen. Who knows what you, my child, may live to see? Often things look bad; a storm can rage, but it cannot blow the sun away. And stronger than the sun is God. He is master of more than the fate of Copenhagen.”
With these words Godfather gave me the book. He looked kindly down at me. His eyes were shining; he was so sure that everything he said was true. And I took the book from his hands as carefully and as proudly as I had taken my baby sister in my arms the first time my mother allowed me to carry her.
“You may show it to your friends,” he added. “And you may tell them that I was the one who cut out the pictures that are pasted in the book, and that I drew the others myself: the work is all mine. But you mustn’t forget to explain that I got the idea from the oil lamps, whom I heard talking on the last night they were lit, telling all that had happened in Copenhagen from their first night until the night the gaslights came.
“As I said, you may show the book to anyone you wish, as long as the expression in their eyes is friendly and kind, but should a hell-horse try to look at it, then close Godfather’s Picture Book.”
133
The Rags
Outside the paper mill was a whole mountain of rags. Each one had its own history and pleaded its own cause, but we do not have time to listen to them all. The rags had been collected from far and wide: some were natives, others were from foreign countries. Now it happened that a Danish rag lay close to a Norwegian one. Both of them were patriots: the Dane was as Danish as gooseberry porridge, the Norwegian as Norwegian as brown goat cheese; and as any sensible Dane or Norwegian would agree, this was what was amusing about them.
Each spoke his own l
anguage and yet they were able to understand each other, though the Norwegian claimed that there was as much difference between Norwegian and Danish as there was between French and Hebrew. “You have to go to Norway to hear the original language, raw and strong as the mountains. Danish is sugar-sweet. It’s like a pacifier that has been dipped in syrup: flat and insipid.”
That was the way the Norwegian rag talked, for rags are rags in any country, and are of no account except among their equals.
“I am a Norwegian,” he continued, “and when I have said that I have said everything. I am tightly woven and as solid as the Archean rock of old Norway, that country which, like the land of liberty, America, has a constitution. It tickles my threads to think who I am and to let my thoughts ring out in granite words.”
“But we have a literature,” whispered the Danish rag. “Do you understand what that word means?”
“Understand!” The Norwegian rag repeated the word very loudly. “I ought to take you who have never seen anything but a dull and flat country and deposit you on one of our mountaintops, so that the northern lights could shine through you—rag that you are. In the spring when the Norwegian sun melts the ice in the fjords, old Danish tubs sail up to Norway with butter and cheese which are quite eatable, but as ballast they carry Danish literature. We don’t need it. Why drink flat beer when there are clear springs of pure water all around you? In Norway the wells aren’t artificially drilled and then filled with European swagger, newspaper notoriety, and authors doing each other favors or telling about their precious experiences in foreign lands. I speak freely, directly from the lungs, and you, Danes, will have to get used to the language of free men. If you want to be Scandinavians, it is the proud, primeval mountains of Norway you will have to cling to.”
The Complete Fairy Tales Page 104