A STRING OF PEARLS
A STRING OF PEARLS
THE railway in Denmark extends as yet only from Copenhagen to Kors
rit is a string of pearlssuch as Europe has abundance ofthe most costly beads there are
called ParisLondonVienna and NaplesYet many a one does not point to
these great cities as his loveliest pearlbut on the contrary to a littleunimportant townthere is the home of homesthere his dear ones liveYesoften it is
only a single farma little househidden amongst green hedgesa mere point which disappears as the train flashes past it
How many pearls are there on the string from Copenhagen to Kors
rWe will consider sixwhich most people must take notice
ofold memories
and poetry itself give these pearls a lustreso that they shine in our thoughts
Close by the hill where the castle of Frederick the Sixth liesthe home of Oehlenschl
childhoodone of the
pearls glitters in the shelter of S
ndermarken's
woodsit was calledThe Cottage of Philemon and Baucisthat is to saythe home of a lovable old coupleHere lived Rahbek with his wife
Emmahereunder their hospitable rooffor a whole generation several men
of genius came together from busy Copenhagenhere was a home of intellectand nowSay notAlashow changednoit is still a
home of intellecta
conservatory for pining plantsThe flowerbud which is not strong enough to unfold itself yet containsconcealedall the germs for leaf and seedHere the sun of intellect shines
into a carefully guarded home of intellectenlivening and giving lifeThe world round about shines through the eyes into the unfathomable
depths of the soulThe idiotshomeencompassed
with human loveis a holy
conservatory for the pining plantswhich shall at some time be transplanted and bloom in the garden of
GodHere the
weakest in intellect are now assembledwhere at one time the greatest and most powerful minds metexchanged ideasand were lifted upwardand the soul's flame still mounts
upwards inThe Cottage
of Philemon and Baucis
The town of the royal tombs beside Hroar's wellthe old Roskildelies before usThe slender spires of the cathedral
towers soar above the lowbuilt townand mirror themselves in IsefiordOne grave only will we search for hereand regard it in the sheen of the pearlit is not that of the great Queen
Margaretnowithin the churchyardclose to whose white wall we fly
pastis the gravea common stone is laid over itthe master of the organthe reviver of Danish romancelies hereThe old traditions became melodies in our soulwe learned that whereThe clear waves rolledthere dwelt a king in LeireRoskildethe burial place of kingsIn thy pearl will we look at the
simple gravewhere on the
stone is carved a lyre and the name of Weyse
Now we come to Sigersted near the town of Ringstedthe riverbed lies lowthe golden corn grows where
Hagbarth's boat put in to the banknot far from the maidenbower of SigneWho does not know the story of Hagbarthwho was hanged in the oakand Little Signe's bower which
stood in flamesthe legend of
strong love
Lovely Sor
surrounded by woodsthe quiet cloistertown peeps out between the moss-grown treeswith the glance of youth it looks
out from the academy over the lake to the world's highwayand hears the engine's dragon puff
whilst it flies through the woodSor
thou pearl of poetrywhich preserves the dust of HolbergLike a great white swan beside the
deep woodland lake lies thy palace of learningand near to it shineslike the white starwort in the woodsa little house to which our eyes turnfrom it pious psalms sound through the landwords are uttered in iteven the peasant listens to them
and learns of vanished times in DenmarkThe green wood and the song of the birds go togetherso also do the names of Sor
and Ingemann
On to the town of SlagelseWhat is reflected here in the sheen of the pearlVanished is the cloister of
Antvorskovvanished the
rich halls of the castleand even its soliary deserted wingstill one old relic remainsrenewed and again reneweda wooden cross on the hill over therewhere in legendary timesStAndrewthe priest of Slagelsewakened upborne hither in one night from
rhere wert thou bornwho gave us
Jest with earnest blended
In songs of Knud the voyager
Thou master of words and witThe decaying old ramparts of the forsaken fortress are now the last
visible witness of the home of thy childhoodwhen the sun setstheir shadows point to where thy birthplace stoodfrom these rampartslooking towards the height of Sprog
thou sawestwhen thou wast smallthe moon glide down behind the
isleand sang of
it in immortal strainsas thou since hast sung of the mountains of Switzerlandthouwho didst wander about in the la byrinth of the world and found that
Nowhere is the rose so red
And nowhere are the thorns so few
And nowhere is the couch so soft
As those our simple childhood knew
Thou lively singer of witWe weave thee a garland of woodruffand cast it in the lakeand the waves will bear it to Kielerfiordon whose coast thy dust is laidit brings a greeting from the young
generationa greeting
from the town of thy birthKors
rwhere the string of pearls is
It is indeed a string of pearls
from Copenhagen to Kors
rsaid Grandmotherwho had heard what we have just
readIt is a
string of pearls for meand it had already come to be that for me more than forty years agosaid sheWe had no steam-engines thenwe spent days on the waywhere you now only spend hoursIt was in 1815I was twentyone thenit is a delightful ageAnd yet up in the sixties is also a
delightful ageso full of
blessingsIn my young
days it was a greater event than now to get to Copenhagenthe town of all townsas we considered itMy parents wishedafter twenty yearsonce again to pay a visit to itand I was to accompany themWe had talked of the journey for
yearsand now it
was really to take placeI thought that quite a new life would beginandin a waya new life really began for me
There was such sewing and packingand when it was time to departhow many good friends came to bid us good-byeIt was a big journey we had before
usIt was in the
forenoon that we drove out of Odense in my parents' carriageacquaintances nodded from the
windows all the way up the streetalmost until we were out of StGeorge's GateThe weather was lovelythe birds sangall was delightfulone forgot that it was a longdifficult road to NyborgTowards evening we came thereThe post did not arrive until late in the nightand the boat did not leave before
thatbut we went
on boardThe great
water lay before usas far as we could seeso smooth and stillWe lay down in our clothes and slept
When I wakened and came on deck in the morningnothing could be seen on either
sidethere was
such a fogI heard the
cocks crowingobserved that
the sun had risenand heard the
bells ringingWhere could
we beThe fog
liftedand we
actually were still lying just out from NyborgDuring the day a slight wind blewbut dead against uswe tacked and tackedand finally we were fortunate enough to get to Kors
a little after eleven in the eveningafter we had spent twenty-two hours in traversing the eighteen miles
It was nice to get on landbut it was darkthe lamps burned badlyand everything was so perfectly strange to mewho had never been in any town
except Odense
Looksaid my fatherhere Baggesen was bornand here Birckner livedThen it seemed to me that the old town with the little houses grew
at once brighter and largerwe also felt so glad to have firm land under usI could not sleep that night for
thinking of all that I had already seen and experienced since I left home the
day before last
We had to rise early next morningas we had before us a bad road with
very steep hills and many holesuntil we came to Slagelseand beyondon the other side of Slagelseit was not much betterand we wished to arrive early at theCrabso that we
might walk into Sor
by daylight and visit the miller's Emilas we called himyesit was your
grandfathermy late
husbandthe deanhe was a student at Sor
and had just passed his second examination
We came to theCrabin the afternoonit was a fashionable place at that timethe best inn on the whole of the
journeyand the most
charming districtyesyou must all allow it is stiff thatShe was an active hostessMrsPlambekeverything in the house was like a well-scoured tableOn the wall hung Baggesen's letter
to herframed and
under glassand well
worth seeingto me it was
something very notable
Then we went up to Sor
and there met EmilYou may suppose that he was glad to
see usand we to see
himand he was so
good and attentiveWith him we saw the church with Absalon's grave and Holberg's coffinwe saw the old monkish inscriptionsand we sailed over the lake toParnassusthe most beautiful evening I can
rememberIt seemed to
me that if one could make poetry anywhere in the worldit must be at Sor
in this peace and beauty of nature
Then in the moonlight we went along thePhilosopher's Walkas they call itthe lovelylonely path by the lake and the
streamout towards
the highroad leading to theCrabEmil stayed
to supper with usFather and
Mother thought he had grown so sensible and looked so wellHe promised us that he would be in
Copenhagen in five daysat his own home and together with usfor WhitsuntideThese hours in Sor
and theCrabbelong to my life's loveliest
Next morning we set out very earlyfor we had a long way to go before
we reached Roskildeand we must get there betimesso that the cathedral might be seenandin the
evening father could have time to visit an old friendThis was duly carried outand then we spent the night in
Roskildeand next daybut only by dinner-timefor it was the worst and most cutup road that we had yet to travelwe arrived in CopenhagenWe had spent about three days from
to Copenhagennow the same
distance is done in three hoursThe beads have not become more preciousthey could not be thatbut the string is new and
marvellousI stayed with
my parents in Copenhagen for three weeksEmil was with us the whole timeand when we travelled back to Fyenhe accompanied us all the way from Copenhagen to Kors
rthere we became engaged before we
partedSo now you
can understand that I also call from Copenhagen to Kors
a string of pearls
Afterwardswhen Emil was called to Assenswe were marriedWe often talked of the journey to
Copenhagenand about
doing it once againbut then first came your motherand after that she got brothers and sistersand there was much to look after
and to take care ofand when father was promoted and became deanof course everything was a pleasure
and a joybut to
Copenhagen we never gotI never was there againhowever often we thought and talked about itand now I am too oldI have not the strength to travel
on the railwaybut I am glad
of the railwaysIt is a
blessing that we have themWith them you come all the quicker to me
Now Odense is not much farther from
Copenhagen than it was from Nybory in my young daysYou can now fly to Italy as quickly
as we travelled to CopenhagenYesthat is
somethingall the same
I shall sit stilland let
others travellet them come
to meBut you ought
not to laugh eitherbecause I sit so stillI have a great journey before me quite different from yoursone that is much quicker than by
the railwaysWhen our
Father wills itI shall go to
join your grandfatherand when you have completed your workand enjoyed yourselves here in this dear worldI know that you will come up to usand if we talk there about our
earthly daysbelieve mechildrenI shall also say there as nowfrom Copenhagen to Kors
is indeed a string}