Ганс Христиан Андерсен
The Sand-Hills of Jutland
The Child in the Grave
There was sorrow in the house, there was sorrow in the heart; for the youngest child, a little boy of four years of age, the only son, his parents' present joy and future hope, was dead. Two daughters they had, indeed, older than their boy – the eldest was almost old enough to be confirmed – amiable, sweet girls they both were; but the lost child is always the dearest, and he was the youngest, and a son. It was a heavy trial. The sisters sorrowed as young hearts sorrow, and were much afflicted by their parents' grief; the father was weighed down by the affliction; but the mother was quite overwhelmed by the terrible blow. By night and by day had she devoted herself to her sick child, watched by him, lifted him, carried him about, done everything for him herself. She had felt as if he were a part of herself: she could not bring herself to believe that he was dead – that he should be laid in a coffin, and concealed in the grave. God would not take that child from her – O no! And when he was taken, and she could no longer refuse to believe the truth, she exclaimed in her wild grief, —
"God has not ordained this! He has heartless agents here on earth. They do what they list – they hearken not to a mother's prayers!"
She dared in her woe to arraign the Most High; and then came dark thoughts, the thoughts of death – everlasting death – that human beings returned as earth to earth, and then all was over. Amidst thoughts morbid and impious as these were there could be nothing to console her, and she sank into the darkest depth of despair.
In these hours of deepest distress she could not weep. She thought not of the young daughters who were left to her; her husband's tears fell on her brow, but she did not look up at him; her thoughts were with her dead child; her whole heart and soul were wrapped up in recalling every reminiscence of the lost one – every syllable of his infantine prattle.
The day of the funeral came. She had not slept the night before, but towards morning she was overcome by fatigue, and sank for a short time into repose. During that time the coffin was removed into another apartment, and the cover was screwed down with as little noise as possible.
When she awoke she rose, and wished to see her child; then her husband, with tears in his eyes, told her, "We have closed the coffin – it had to be done!"
"When the Almighty is so hard on me," she exclaimed, "why should human beings be kinder?" and she burst into tears.
The coffin was carried to the grave. The inconsolable mother sat with her young daughters; she looked at them, but she did not see them; her thoughts had nothing more to do with home; she gave herself up to wretchedness, and it tossed her about as the sea tosses the ship which has lost its helmsman and its rudder. Thus passed the day of the funeral, and several days followed amidst the same uniform, heavy grief. With tearful eyes and melancholy looks her afflicted family gazed at her. She did not care for what comforted them. What could they say to change the current of her mournful thoughts?
It seemed as if sleep had fled from her for ever; it alone would be her best friend, strengthen her frame, and recall peace to her mind. Her family persuaded her to keep her bed, and she lay there as still as if buried in sleep. One night her husband had listened to her breathing, and believing from it that she had at length found repose and relief, he clasped his hands, prayed for her and for them all, then sank himself into peaceful slumber. While sleeping soundly he did not perceive that she rose, dressed herself, and softly left the room and the house, to go – whither her thoughts wandered by day and by night – to the grave that hid her child. She passed quietly through the garden, out to the fields, beyond which the road led outside of the town to the churchyard. No one saw her, and she saw no one.
It was a fine night; the stars were shining brightly, and the air was mild, although it was the 1st of September. She entered the churchyard, and went to the little grave; it looked like one great bouquet of sweet-scented flowers. She threw herself down, and bowed her head over the grave, as if she could through the solid earth behold her little boy, whose smile she remembered so vividly. The affectionate expression of his eyes, even upon his sick bed, was never, never to be forgotten. How speaking had not his glance been when she had bent over him, and taken the little hand he was himself too weak to raise! As she had sat by his couch, so now she sat by his grave; but here her tears might flow freely over the sod that covered him.
"Wouldst thou descend to thy child?" said a voice close by. It sounded so clear, so deep – its tones went to her heart. She looked up, and near her stood a man wrapped in a large mourning cloak, with a hood drawn over the head; but she could see the countenance under this. It was severe, and yet encouraging, his eyes were bright as those of youth.
"Descend to my child!" she repeated; and there was the agony of despair in her voice.
"Darest thou follow me?" asked the figure. "I am Death!"
She bowed her assent. Then it seemed all at once as if every star in the heavens above shone with the light of the moon. She saw the many-coloured flowers on the surface of the grave move like a fluttering garment. She sank, and the figure threw his dark cloak round her. It became night – the night of death. She sank deeper than the sexton's spade could reach. The churchyard lay like a roof above her head.
The cloak that had enveloped her glided to one side. She stood in an immense hall, whose extremities were lost in the distance. It was dusk around her; but before her stood, and in one moment was clasped to her heart, her child, who smiled on her in beauty far surpassing what he had possessed before. She uttered a cry, though it was scarcely audible, for close by, and then far away, and afterwards near again, came delightful music. Never before had such glorious, such blessed sounds reached her ear. They rang from the other side of the thick curtain – black as night – that separated the hall from the boundless space of eternity.
"My sweet mother! my own mother!" she heard her child exclaim. It was his well-known, most beloved voice. And kiss followed kiss in rapturous joy. At length the child pointed to the sable curtain.
"There is nothing so charming up yonder on earth, mother. Look, mother! – look at them all! That is felicity!"
The mother saw nothing – nothing in the direction to which the child pointed, except darkness like that of night. She saw with earthly eyes. She did not see as did the child whom God had called to himself. She heard, indeed, sounds – music; but she did not understand the words that were conveyed in these exquisite tones.
"I can fly now, mother," said the child. "I can fly with all the other happy children, away, even into the presence of God. I wish so much to go; but if you cry on as you are crying now I cannot leave you, and yet I should be so glad to go. May I not? You will come back soon, will you not, dear mother?"
"Oh, stay! Oh, stay!" she cried, "only one moment more. Let me gaze on you one moment longer; let me kiss you, and hold you a moment longer in my arms."
And she kissed him, and held him fast. Then her name was called from above – the tones were those of piercing grief. What could they be?
"Hark!" said the child; "it is my father calling on you."
And again, in a few seconds, deep sobs were heard, as of children weeping.
"These are my sisters' voices," said the child. "Mother, you have surely not forgotten them?"
Then she remembered those who were left behind. A deep feeling of anxiety pervaded her mind; she gazed intently before her, and spectres seemed to hover around her; she fancied that she knew some of them; they floated through the Hall of Death, on towards the dark curtain, and there they vanished. Would her husband, her daughters, appear there? No; their lamentations were still to be heard from above. She had nearly forgotten them for the dead.
"Mother, the bells of heaven are ringing," said the child. "Now the sun is about to rise."
And an overwhelming, blinding light streamed around her. The child was gone, and she felt herself lifted up. She raised her head, and saw that she was lying in the churchyard, upon the grave of her child. But in her dream God had become a prop for her feet, and a light to her mind. She threw herself on her knees and prayed: —
"Forgive me, O Lord my God, that I wished to detain an everlasting soul from its flight into eternity, and that I forgot my duties to the living Thou hast graciously spared to me!"
And as she uttered this prayer it appeared as if her heart felt lightened of the burden that had crushed it. Then the sun broke forth in all its splendour, a little bird sang over her head, and all the church bells around began to ring the matin chimes. All seemed holy around her; her heart seemed to have drunk in faith and holiness; she acknowledged the might and the mercy of God; she remembered her duties, and felt a longing to regain her home. She hurried thither, and leaning over her still sleeping husband, she awoke him with the touch of her warm lips on his cheek. Her words were those of love and consolation, and in a tone of mild resignation she exclaimed, —
"God's will is always the best!"
Her husband and her daughters were astonished at the change in her, and her husband asked her, —
"Where did you so suddenly acquire this strength – this pious resignation?"
And she smiled on him and her daughters as she replied, —
"I derived it from God, by the grave of my child."
Charming
The sculptor Alfred – surely you know him? We all know him. He used to engrave gold medallions; went to Italy, and returned again. He was young then; indeed, he is young now, though about half a score of years older than he was at that time.
He returned home, and went on a visit to one of the small towns in Zealand. The whole community knew of the arrival of the stranger, and who he was. There was a party given on his account by one of the richest families in the place; every one who was anybody, or had anything, was invited; it was quite an event, and the whole town heard of it without beat of drum. A good many apprentice boys and poor people's children, with a few of their parents, ranged themselves outside, and looked at the windows with their drawn blinds, through which a blaze of light was streaming. The watchman might have fancied he had a party himself, so many people occupied his quarters in the street. They all seemed merry on the outside; and in the inside of the house everything was pleasant, for Herr Alfred, the sculptor, was there.
He talked, and he told anecdotes, and every one present listened to him with pleasure and deep attention, but no one with more eagerness than an elderly widow of good standing in society; and she was, in reference to all that Herr Alfred said, like a blank sheet of whity-brown paper, that quickly sucks the sweet things in, and is ready for more. She was very susceptible, and totally ignorant – quite a female Caspar Hauser.
"I should like to see Rome," said she. "That must be a charming town, with the numerous strangers that go there. Describe Rome to us now. How does it look as you enter the gate?"
"It is not easy to describe Rome," said the young sculptor. "It is a very large place; in the centre of it stands an obelisk, which is four thousand years old."
"An organist!" exclaimed the astonished lady, who had never before heard the word obelisk.
Many of the party could scarcely refrain from laughing, and among the rest the sculptor. But the satirical smile that was gathering round his mouth glided into one of pleasure; for he saw, close to the lady, a pair of large eyes, blue as the sea. They appertained to the daughter of the talkative dame, and when one had such a daughter one could not be altogether ridiculous. The mother was like a bubbling fountain of questions, constantly pouring forth; the daughter like the fountain's beautiful naiad, listening to its murmurs. How lovely she was! She was something worth a sculptor's while to gaze at; but not to converse with; and she said nothing, at least very little.
"Has the Pope a great family?" asked the widow.
And the young man answered as if the question might have been better worded, —
"No, he is not of a high family."
"I don't mean that," said the lady; "I mean has he a wife and children?"
"The Pope dare not marry," he replied.
"I don't approve of that," said the lady.
She could scarcely have spoken more foolishly, or asked sillier questions; but what did all that signify when her daughter looked over her shoulder with that most winning smile?
Herr Alfred talked of the brilliant skies of Italy, and its cloud-capped hills; the blue Mediterranean; the soft South; the beauty which could only be rivalled by the blue eyes of the females of the North. And this was said pointedly; but she who ought to have understood it did not allow it to be seen that she had detected any compliment in his words, and this was also charming.
"Italy!" sighed some. "Travelling!" sighed others. "Charming, charming!"
"Well, when I win the fifty-thousand-dollar prize in the lottery," said the widow, "we shall set off on our travels too – my daughter and I; and you, Herr Alfred, shall be our escort. We shall all three go, and a few other friends will go with us, I hope;" and she bowed invitingly to them all round, so that each individual might have thought, "It is I she wishes to accompany her." "Yes, we will go to Italy, but not where the robbers are; we will stay in Rome, or only go by the great high roads, where people are safe, of course."
And the daughter heaved a gentle sigh. How much can there not lie in a slight sigh, or be supposed to lie in it! The young man put a world of feeling into it; the two blue eyes that had beamed on him that evening concealed the treasure – the treasure of heart and of mind, richer far than all the glories of Rome; and when he left the party he was over head and ears in love with the widow's pretty daughter.
The widow's house became the house of all others most visited by Herr Alfred, the sculptor. People knew that it could not be for the mother's sake he sought it so often, although he and she were always the speakers; it must be for the daughter's sake he went. She was called Kala, though christened Karen Malene: the two names had been mutilated, and thrown together into the one appellation, Kala. She was very beautiful, but rather silly, some people hinted, and rather indolent. She was certainly a very late riser in the morning.
"She has been accustomed to that from her childhood," said her mother. "She has always been such a little Venus that she was scarcely ever found fault with. She is not a very early riser, but to this she owes her fine clear eyes."
What power there was in these clear eyes – these swimming blue eyes! The young man felt it. He told anecdote upon anecdote, and answered question after question; and mamma always asked the same lively, sensible, pertinent questions as she had asked at first.
It was a pleasure to hear Herr Alfred speak. He described Naples, the ascent of Mount Vesuvius, and several of its eruptions; and the widow lady, who had never heard of them before, was lost in surprise.
"Mercy on us!" she exclaimed; "then it is a volcano? Does it ever do any harm to anybody?"
"It has destroyed entire towns," he replied: "Pompeii and Herculaneum."
"But the poor inhabitants! Did you see it yourself?"
"No, not either of these eruptions, but I have a sketch taken by myself of an eruption which I did witness."
Then he selected from his portfolio a sketch done with a black-lead pencil; but mamma, who delighted in highly-coloured pictures, looked at the pale sketch, and exclaimed in amazement, —
"You saw it gush out white?"
Mamma got into Herr Alfred's black books for a few minutes, and he felt profound contempt for her; but the light from Kala's eyes soon dispelled his gloom. He bethought him that her mother had no knowledge of drawing, that was all; but she had what was far better – she had the sweet, beautiful Kala.
As might have been expected, Alfred and Kala became engaged, and their betrothal was announced in the newspaper of the town. Mamma bought thirty copies of it, that she might cut the paragraphs out, and inclose them to various friends. The betrothed pair were very happy, and so was the mamma: she felt almost as proud as if her family were going to be connected with Thorwaldsen.
"You are his successor at any rate," she said; and Alfred thought that she had said something very clever. Kala said nothing, but her eyes brightened, and a lovely smile played around her well-formed mouth. Every movement of hers was graceful: she was very beautiful – that cannot be said too often.
Alfred was making busts of Kala and her mother: they sat for him, and saw how with his finger he smoothed and moulded the soft clay.
"It is a compliment to us," said his mother-in-law elect, "that you condescend to do that simple work yourself, instead of letting your men dab all that for you."
"No; it is absolutely necessary that I should do this myself in the clay," he replied.
"Oh! you are always so exceedingly gallant!" said mamma; and Kala gently pressed his hand, to which pieces of clay were sticking.
He discoursed to them about the magnificence of Nature in its creations, the superiority of the living over the dead, plants over minerals, animals over plants, human beings over mere animals; how mind and beauty manifested themselves through form, and that the sculptor sought to bestow on his forms of clay the greatest possible beauty and expression.
Kala remained silent, revolving his words. Her mother said,
"It is difficult to follow you; but though my thoughts go slowly, I hold fast what I hear."
And the power of beauty held him fast; it had subdued him – entranced and enslaved him. Kala's beauty certainly was extraordinary; it was enthroned in every feature of her face, in her whole figure, even to the points of her fingers. The sculptor was bewildered by it; he thought only of her – spoke only of her; and his fancy endowed her with all perfection.
Then came the wedding-day, with the bridal gifts and the bride's-maids; and the marriage ceremony was duly performed. His mother-in-law had placed in the room where the bridal party assembled the bust of Thorwaldsen, enveloped in a dressing-gown. "He ought to be a guest, according to her idea," she said. Songs were sung, and healths were drunk. It was a handsome wedding, and they were a handsome couple. "Pygmalion got his Galathea" was a line in one of the songs.
"That was something from mythology," remarked the widow.
The following day the young couple started for Copenhagen, where they intended to reside; and the mamma accompanied them, to give them a helping hand, she said, which meant to take charge of the house. Kala was to be a mere doll. Everything was new, bright, and charming. There they settled themselves all three; and Alfred, what can be said of him, only that he was like a bishop among a flock of geese?
The magic of beauty had infatuated him. He had gazed upon the case, and not thought of what was in it; and this is unfortunate, very unfortunate, in the marriage state. When the case decays, and the gilding rubs off, one then begins to repent of one's bargain. It was very mortifying to Alfred that in society neither his wife nor his mother-in-law was capable of entering into general conversation – that they said very silly things, which, with all his wittiest efforts, he could not cover.
How often the young couple sat hand in hand, and he spoke, and she dropped a word now and then, always in the same tone, like a clock striking one, two, three! It was quite a relief when Sophie, a female friend, came.
Sophie was not very pretty; she was slightly awry, Kala said; but this was not perceptible except to her female friends. Kala allowed that she was clever. It never occurred to her that her talents might make her dangerous. She came like fresh air into a close, confined puppet show; and fresh air is always pleasant. After a time the young couple and the mother-in-law went to breathe the soft air of Italy. Their wishes were fulfilled.
"Thank Heaven, we are at home again!" exclaimed both the mother and the daughter, when, the following year, they and Alfred returned to Denmark.
"There is no pleasure in travelling," said the mamma; "on the contrary, it is very fatiguing – excuse my saying so. I was excessively tired, notwithstanding that I had my children with me. And travelling is extremely expensive. What hosts of galleries you have to see! What quantities of things to be rushing after! And you are so teased with questions when you come home, as if it were possible to know everything. And then to hear that you have just forgotten to see what was most charming! I am sure I was quite tired of these everlasting Madonnas; one was almost turned into a Madonna one's self."
"And the living was so bad," said Kala.
"Not a single spoonful of honest meat soup," rejoined the mamma. "They dress the victuals so absurdly."
Kala was much fatigued after her journey. She continued very languid, and did not seem to rally – that was the worst of it. Sophie came to stay with them, and she was extremely useful.
The mother-in-law allowed that Sophie understood household affairs well, and had many accomplishments, which she, with her fortune, had no need to trouble herself about; and she confessed, also, that Sophie was very estimable and kind. She could not help seeing this when Kala was lying ill, without making the slightest exertion in any way.
If there be nothing but the case or framework, when it gives way it is all over with the case. And the case had given way. Kala died.
"She was charming!" said her mother. "She was very different from all these antiquities that are half mutilated. Kala was a perfect beauty!"
Alfred wept, and his mother-in-law wept, and they both went into mourning. The mamma went into the deepest mourning, and she wore her mourning longest. She also retained her sorrow the longest; in fact, she remained weighed down with grief until Alfred married again. He took Sophie, who had nothing to boast of in respect to outward charms.
"He has gone to the other extremity," said his mother-in-law; "passed from the most beautiful to the ugliest. He has found it possible to forget his first wife. There is no constancy in man. My husband, indeed, was different; but he died before me."
"Pygmalion got his Galathea," said Alfred. "These words were in the bridal song. I certainly did fall in love with the beautiful statue that became imbued with life in my arms. But the kindred soul, which Heaven sends us, one of those angels who can feel with us, think with us, raise us when we are sinking, I have now found and won. You have come, Sophie, not as a beautiful form, fascinating the eye, but prettier, more pleasing than was necessary. You excel in the main point. You have come and taught the sculptor that his work is but clay – dust; only a copy of the outer shell of the kernel we ought to seek. Poor Kala! her earthly life was but like a short journey. Yonder above, where those who sympathise shall be gathered together, she and I will probably be almost strangers."
"That is not a kind speech," said Sophie; "it is not a Christian one. Up yonder, where 'they neither marry nor are given in marriage,' but, as you say, where spirits shall meet in sympathy – there, where all that is beautiful shall unfold and improve, her soul may perhaps appear so glorious in its excellence that it may far outshine mine and yours. You may then again exclaim, as you did in the first excitement of your earthly admiration, 'Charming – charming!'"
